Things I Was Wrong About

Image by Clarice Tudor

An incomplete list of things I have been wrong about: 

Bluey: I guess I initially mixed up Bluey with Blue's Clues? They both feature blue cartoon dogs and are intended for children. How different could they really be? And why would I be interested in either? Well, it turns out I will cry from much-needed parenting catharsis watching Bluey, which is not something I think it ever occurred to Blue's Clues to offer. I love the Heeler family so dang much, along with the sprawling cast of characters that includes everyone from a street busker (Irish terrier) to a mother of eight (dalmatian). I love Bluey's hippie school, and how hard the parents try, and how they mostly succeed but everyone sometimes fails. Despite the fact that it is about blue cartoon dogs, I am steadfast in my devotion to Bluey: I think this is one of the very few truly all-ages shows, and I recommend it highly. 

Single parenting: Well before we split up, I had considered what it would be like to be a single parent. I had, in fact, already been one: my ex and I lived apart for two years, and while he did join us on weekends, I was largely on my own with my kiddo between the ages of two and four—an era not known, in parenting circles, for its ease. I was reluctant to return to all-child-all-the-time, because it had been heavy. And it remains heavy: my kiddo has anxiety, and good golly, it would be nice to be able to have someone spell me off from time to time—my parents, who are very present, still do not do the school run or the bedtime negotiations—but the simplicity of always being where the buck stops has grown on me. I love watching my kid grow up. "Buy land," advised Mark Twain. "They're not making any more of it." But ol' Mark got it wrong: the most precious commodity is your own kid's childhood. It's time. You never get that back. And if I have to do it on my own, that is a choice I'm happy to make. 

Exercise: I am pained to admit that exercise works. I am less stressed, stronger, and more mobile than I was before I restarted my movement routine, which includes walking, weightlifting, dancing, and thinking about (but not doing) yoga. I am sadly at an age where I tweak things with nearly every workout—right now, my shoulder is complaining, and I did give up jogging because I developed shin splints—but I can see how modifications, not abandonment, will allow me to heal, grow, and age. Dammit. 

Dave Eggers: On paper, Dave Eggers is someone I should have loved the whole way along. He wrote a much-hyped memoir when he was 30, about starting a magazine and raising his younger brother; I read it and was mad that it was so good. I avoided his writing after that—there was something about reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius that made it clear that Dave Eggers is a best-in-small-doses guy—but I loved his literacy initiatives and admired his work with young people. But still: avoided reading. I am a contrarian! However, recently, in a fit of audiobook browsing, I downloaded his 2024 Newbery Award-winning middle-grade novel The Eyes and the Impossible, narrated perfectly by Ethan Hawke, and am enjoying it a lot. I may dip my toe into Lake Eggers more fully in 2026; stay tuned.  

Facebook: Baby, Facebook has changed. I hate to be like, "Back in the good old days of 2011," but honestly, Facebook used to be relevant and useful. Back then, the content you were shown came from humans you actually knew—your actual friends, or party pals, or university classmates. Pictures were posted. Events were created. Pokes were delivered. It felt like Facebook was a useful tool to support our social lives: online connection bolstered IRL relationships, and vice versa. But a few years ago, an insidious cycle started up: Facebook started serving content that was less relevant, and then entirely irrelevant; actual users, in turn, abandoned the platform because it became a stream of garbage nonsense. (I don't follow Nashville radio stations or the Hamilton police, and yet I regularly see posts from both.) This is the tragedy of the modern internet. You can take a good platform and make it bad, and chumps like me will still log on, hoping to catch some tidbits from friends; instead, we get collectively smacked in the face with the wet eel of late-stage capitalistic tech optimization algorithms. I am wrong to continue using Facebook—it serves me nothing but trash—but it's hard to give up a place that has, in the past, felt like a digital home. 

Dates: I did not grow up in a particularly crunchy household. My parents didn't buy the sugar cereals (or, when they did, my mother would mix them into the health flakes, thus diluting both the benefits and the joy), but we regularly ate ice cream, cakes, and cookies. In modern times, a conscientious parent might trade white sugar for agave, but I was born in the 1980s, so we didn't fuck with that. In any case, I grew up not knowing what a date was; when I first encountered them at a babysitting client's home, I was equal parts terrified and grossed out. Dates look like the dried husk of a large insect. They look like a mid-sized poop. The children I sat for, who were very much in a crunchy household, would clamour for the dates; I was like, "have all you want, you disgusting little weirdos." When I got a job that included carrot-orange-date smoothies, I remained horrified until the head chef bullied me into trying one. Did I know they were sweeter than Lucky Charms? I do now! Chopped dates and bananas on peanut butter toast is an excellent breakfast; three dates and some cashews are a great snack. Dates are great! 

Magazines: I love magazines. The design, the content, the snapshots of time and place, culture and values? Impeccable. I collect them—previously, I would say hoarded, but I've tried to become more curatorial about it—and I love taking out old issues of Martha Stewart Kids or a DWF-era Harper's and leafing through them. It's fun to read an old Bon Appetit and be like, man, we really had to learn about poke bowls, eh? I'm not wrong about magazines as a concept—I will stand by that forever—but magazines as an industry have been gasping on the gurney for a while now. Why do I stick with things that are clearly dying (see also: Facebook)? I was a teen in an age of David LaChapelle covers for Rolling Stone, of Nylon interviewing the Beastie Boys about their uniforms (where sartorial meets janitorial), of Rosie O'Donnell holding up a bandaged hand on the cover of her own magazine (with the cover line "Staph! It's no laugh!", copy that will haunt me to my grave). It was a glorious, excessive, Cambrian-explosion-of-print era...and then then internet happened and magazine had a mass extinction. They still exist now, of course, but they are more serious, more expensive, less fun. I was wrong to believe that magazines would continue, unchanged. Everything good fades away. Thank god for my personal archives.

Small cities: There is nothing worse than being where you're from when you're a teen. As a child, I lived in a lot of different types of places—rural, residential neighbourhoods in mid-sized cities, actual metropolis—but at the beginning of ninth grade, my family moved to the small city of Stratford and stayed for the next 19 years. By the time I moved to Toronto in 2002, I was ready. Stratford was peanuts, old hat, backwater, boring; Toronto was shiny and exciting. Despite a false start or two, I eventually did settle down in Toronto, and lived there for 15 years. Slowly, my world there expanded past the University of Toronto campus, into the far reaches of the Junction and Riverdale, up to the Stockyards on St Clair and the playgrounds of Liberty Village. But by the time I left, I was wrung out. I needed things in walking distance, which our immediate neighbourhood offered little of. I needed friends the next street over, which was challenging in our far-flung constellation. I needed to root down, which was impossible in our perpetual tenants' churn. When I came back to Stratford in 2018, it was culture shock: the streets are too quiet at night; there is only one library; there were fewer fashionistas and a lot more hockey moms. But a small city was a revelation as an adult: I spent less time in transit, worried less about money, and made more friends. Instead of being somewhere I wanted to flee, it was somewhere to finally settle down. 

Dungeons & Dragons & Me

Illustration I used to inspire my D&D ranger character, by Yael Nathan

About ten years ago, I had a question: did Dungeons and Dragons really have to be like that? 

By like that, I meant: did it have to be orcish, dragon-centric, focused on fighting, looting and pillaging, with trudges through the wilderness, and with esoteric and frankly incomprehensible spellcasting and points to bring it all together? From the outside, Dungeons and Dragons seemed like a complex system of math (help) married to the agonies of improv (yikes), against a backdrop of endless play (oh no).  

It also, against all odds, had started to seem incredibly fun.

Dungeons and Dragons occupied a strange social space when I was younger. In the late '90s and early 2000s, it was firmly for the boys—no self-respecting girl would have been caught dead with a D20—and it was for the nerdiest boys: the type who grew unfortunate goatees in the tenth grade, who ran the tech board for the theatre club, and whose girlfriends, if any, were band nerds or theatre kids. This is stereotypical, of course; it's possible that the guys who started fight clubs in their basements while drunk on ill-gotten whiskey also played D&D, but somehow I doubt it. 

This suspicion, this rejection of D&D as something weird, was probably tied to the cultural baggage it carried. Invented in the mid-1970s, D&D kicked off a boom of what is known as table-top role play games (TTRPGS), so called to differentiate them from video games and live-action role playing (which is, if possible, even nerdier). The game started off complicated, with magic, hit points, experience points, improvisation, role-playing, a variety of dice, and myriad enemies, allies and passers-by to interact with. D&D has seen various updates to its game play and mechanics over the years, some more popular than others—I was once pinioned at a party by a man who had very strong feelings about something called "5e," a concept with which I am only vaguely familiar—but overall, the basic recipe of characters + randomization + role-playing has held strong. This formula has not always been popular, as evidenced by the moral panic it produced in the 1980s over its so-called Satanist themes, but over the years, it has remained a steady element of pop culture, occupying shelf space next to Grateful Dead or Phish tour followers, anime fans, or American Girl doll collectors: a bit strange from the outside, but ultimately benign. 

More recently, though, there has been a social shift. Shows like Critical Role, which debuted in 2015, and Dimension 20, which came along in 2018, have done much to complicate and broaden what Dungeons and Dragons can be. I've watched six seasons of Dimension 20, and on paper, it sounds so simple: the actors, mostly comedians and improv folks, gather in a small group to role-play as their characters (sometimes with miniature figures representing them on a table-sized game field, often not), while the dungeon master, or DM, guides them through social encounters and battles with adversaries. The parties are usually a mix of fighter types and magic users, so a fight scene might include someone who lands a kung fu-style flurry of blows on an enemy, while a fellow adventurer follows it up with a literal bolt of lightning. It does not sound like it would be compelling entertainment, but it is. Live shows have sold out Madison Square Gardens, with tickets selling for more than Taylor Swift tickets on the aftermarket. 

Dungeons & Dragons has also become a bona fide community-builder. Studies have shown that playing the game can boost agency and self-efficacy (no wonder those high school nerds were so weirdly confident), and it's become a relatively routine activity at youth community centres, libraries, and even in therapists' offices. Seems like having a creative outlet is good for us! And if we can get over the math and the improv of it all, and we can find a willing guide, getting started is not so tough after all. 

My own foray into D&D started about ten years ago, when I mused on Facebook about if there was such a thing as "femme" D&D. In the game, many of the characters are barbarians or rogues, warlocks or monks. It's not guaranteed that the resultant characters (and the people playing them) are male, but it's certainly a statistical probability. Why, I wondered, could there not be the character class of midwife? Or of knitter? Or perhaps crone? My supportive and game-minded friend Emmett guided us through some introductory sessions, and then we evolved into a regular online game over the pandemic. I played a ranger who loved to drink in bars and who was scared to shoot the first arrow. (Myself; I have to admit I played myself.)

Of course, the player experience is very different from the game master experience. While Emmett was drawing up new plans for adventure each week, all I had to do was show up and remember if I was wounded or not. I was certainly aware of the work he was putting in, but I didn't really have a sense of what that all meant until I started watching Dimension 20. Each season has had its own flavour, point of view, and raison d'etre, all of it spinning around the centre of the show, GM Brennan Lee Mulligan. He is masterminding the story, responding to improvised developments, managing the outcomes of dice rolls, and remembering which accent belongs to each of the literal dozens of characters he embodies in any given episode. It is nearly magical; it is definitely genius at work. But it's also a masterclass in how to respond to the game and to the players, to develop gaming instinct, to have the confidence to become robustly silly. Gulping down one episode after another, it became clear that he was having the most fun. 

So, when my child turned ten and proposed a Stranger Things-themed birthday party, I had an amendment: how about a little D&D? The library had just acquired a Stranger Things-themed version of the game specifically designed for beginners, so I didn't even have to come up with a story. I could just open the box, toss out the character cards, and play. 

I mean, I could. What I actually did was meticulously go through the monsters, the characters, the story (multiple times), the exit strategies if the campaign was a flop (and it could have been—one young friend declared himself "bored" immediately and moped at the game table instead of playing). Preparation is exhausting, but it also make the actual moment flow more smoothly. 

The DMing experience was weirdly exhilarating. Six fourth graders gathered around a table, and I kicked us off by pretending to be a goblin—OMG, mom, so cringe. But rather quickly, they got into it. I had a stock Cockney accent to deploy for the gnolls, a chance to improvise a magical-weapon scene, and soon enough, the party's two little girls were happily ruining a demogorgon's day. Everyone took home a set of dice as a party favour, and I put myself to bed, absolutely shell-shocked at how much energy it took to deliver even a beginner's session that had been prepared for me. 

Would I DM again? Emphatic yes. The rush of on-the-fly problem solving, combined with the opportunity to get weird (and to find out exactly what a gnoll is) somehow overrides my perfectionist tendencies. I don't need to memorize book's worth of information to run a session; I just need to figure out what toys I'm putting in the sandbox this week. And feeling competent and confident—both as myself and the characters I play—is empowering as hell. I claim my place among the D&D nerds with pride. 

Your Winter Hildascopes

 

"You are Special" David Shrigley (2019)

AS ALWAYS: All horoscopes are for every sign. Read them to your partner, kid, parent, boss, favourite barista, taxi driver, caseworker, branch manager, lover, teacher, and friends. Do not read them to your favourite AI agent. Share widely; read often; take whatever meaning feels most helpful. Leave the rest behind. 

Aries: One of the bigger joys of parenting is when your kid starts making jokes. My kid is now ten, and is evolving into someone who understands comedic timing, unexpected punchlines, and wordplay—some of the basics of making other people laugh. While my kid can crack the booger jokes you might expect of a tween, they can also be unexpectedly pithy, which is delightful. One of the things that pleases me most is that my mom is my most reliable comedic audience; she genuinely thinks I'm hysterical, which is extremely good for morale. I anticipate that I can provide the same service for my kid, and golly, what a pleasure. 
And also: Who laughs the most at your jokes?

Taurus: I go through phases in which I'm creatively juicy and creatively withered, and right now, I'm on the cusp. I've welcoming knitting back after a long hiatus; on the other hand, writing still feels like a stuffy room that I can't quite bear to be in. I am, fondly, a dilettante: I dabble in paper-cutting, collage, stained glass, zine-making, block printing, sewing, air dry clay, landing on each like a bumble bee before futzing away again. While every one brings me pleasure, I don't stay anywhere long enough to gain deep competence. But then again—is that a bad thing? I love my garden of hobbies, each one blooming in its own time. 
And also: Which of your hobbies feels nourishing? Which need a break?

Gemini: Being a human being is so embarrassing. We just finished watching Life On Our Planet, which presents evolution on a time frame measured in billions of years. At the very end of the last episode, humans emerge: first represented as hunter-gatherers, and then as an explosive montage of industry, production lines, factories, breakdancing, and natural destruction. As Morgan Freeman warns us, we've set off another mass extinction event (the previous ones were prompted by things like changes volcanic eruption and meteor impact). The previous episodes show, in unflinching detail and stunning beauty, the marvels of life on Earth; the last few minutes show our dedication to destroying it all in the name of free shipping and AI. God, we could just be so much better. 
And also: What in your life creates a sense of embarrassment?

Cancer: I have an irrational...not hatred, exactly, but let's say skepticism of Timothee Chalamet. Like, this guy? This is the guy? I find him zero percent attractive—there is a reason he was considered the vanguard of the admittedly problematic "hot rodent boyfriend" cohort of actors—and mid as an actor. Am I just old and grouchy? I have no idea (but also yes). I suspect that Chalamet is mostly a product of a Hollywood marketing machine that is desperate for saleable young men—Garfield and Pascal are getting older, Momoa is too unpredictable, Depp is yucky, and Pratt is spiritually oppressive—but good lord, the whole Chalamet project gives me the ick. 
And also: Where do you differ from the popular opinion?

Leo: I've been playing Dungeons and Dragons, off and on, since 2018. I've never felt super confident as a player—I'm often like "Oh no!" when instructed to roll for initiative, because in my female-socialized head, I'm like, "Oh shit, fighting is bad!"—but I generally have a good time. At its heart, D&D is about getting together with friends to pretend you are a bunch of dwarf clerics. Tomorrow, I'll be leading my first session, which I'm equal parts nervous and excited about. It's all laid out beautifully, but in my head I'm like, "Oh shit, I hope I'm good!" Which is what I'm thinking the rest of the time, too, so, y'know. Wish me luck, and wish me story-supporting rolls.  
And also: What activities stretch your abilities in fun ways?

Virgo: I've been playing a game lately! It's called "Is this perimenopause, or am I dying?" It includes lines of inquiry like "am I suddenly allergic to my own skin?" and "do all my friends hate me or am I just two days away from my period?" and "did I just hear my own knees?", all of which are just a hoot, as you can imagine. I feel like this stage of my life is peppered with small indignities, like nonsensical ovulation crushes, or farting when I squat down, and layered on top of the small indignities is the rather larger one of getting older as a woman in a culture that mocks young women and ignores older ones. I didn't say this was a fun game, Virgo. 
And also: How do you care for yourself in times of uncertainty?

Libra: Sometimes I think about going to art school. Like I told Taurus, I'm a bit of a dabbler, which causes me no real grief, but I do think about what it would be like to go be in an environment that is designed and duty-bound to force me towards creative dedication. I don't even know what I would study—OCAD courses range from the expected (Art History!) to the very much not (er, Experimental Animation). I'll also admit that art school feels irrelevant to me, a full-time single mom who works in the non-profit ecosystem. What, exactly, am I looking for when I yearn for art school? The chance to make work? Artistic community? Productivity? Or just a chance to express myself in unflappable new ways? 
And also: Which parts of yourself feel neglected? Which parts need to be seen?

Scorpio: Lately I've felt like fleeing the scene. It's a combination of things: winter this year has been brutal, just a never-ending series of indoor days and despair about the snow, the temperature, or both. I've been inactive—I'm fighting hard not to put the words "shockingly" or "disgustingly" in front of "inactive"—and my body feels creaky and upset. I crave movement, and lots of it, and running feels like it might actually answer my body's question: fight? or flight? I have been a runner, a lifetime ago, and for a short time (I prefer other ways of going fast, like cycling), but lately I've been thinking about the next time I can put on sneakers and just...go. 
And also: What stress responses feel productive? What responses make you feel stuck?

Sagittarius: When I was younger, I used to admire the women who were well accessorized. I was convinced that it was the secret to great style: a ring, a necklace, a belt, could tip the scales from "clothing" to "ensemble." And even though I wanted to accessorize more, I didn't...until recently. I started buying little rings at the thrift store, the kind I could stack up and lose with impunity. I made embroidery-floss bracelets that didn't scrape across my computer keyboard. I got necklaces from trusted friends, wallet chains that evoked 1990s raves, flower crowns, classic-looking belts. Now, I think the secret to looking put together might be styled hair and a bit of makeup—the goalposts move again—but at least I am adorned while I quest. 
And also: What areas of your life always feel unfinished? How do you interact with them?

Capricorn: In 2019 I mapped out all the playgrounds in Stratford, because I suspected we were living in a playground desert. I was right: our relatively central home was at least 800 meters as the crow flies from any playground, and more than two kilometers from the big playground; many of the local options are little pocket parks with no real roaming area. I find this head-shakingly sad, since Toronto has so many beautiful, innovative and accessible playgrounds. My favourite was the playground at Grange Park, behind the AGO: it's wildly fun, with real stakes (heights! fast slides!). I love Stratford: I want us to have beautiful, electrifying playgrounds. 
And also: What is missing from your home base? How can you add it? 

Aquarius: I'm going to keep speaking on playgrounds—imagine me cornering you and Capricorn at a party, slightly manic, sloshy drink in hand—because this isn't really about playgrounds. It's actually about who we value as citizens. It is so easy to dismiss the needs of children, or pay attention only when they feed adult priorities (see: school rankings based on student performance; see: education norms in general), but children deserve to access to play. Unstructured, structured, social, independent: we don't organize our societies around the idea that children are people, and that developmentally, they need play. Instead, we squeeze them into desks and routines. What a bummer. Children deserve better. (Slosh.)
And also: How do you care for the childlike parts of yourself? How do you care for the real-life children in your life?

Pisces: My all-time favourite source of horoscopes (aside from myself, of course) is Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology. My ex and I used to grab print issues of Now Magazine from their ubiquitous green newspaper boxes, and after the concert listings and the movie reviews, and before Savage Love on the last page, we would read each other's horoscopes aloud. They were usually little prose-poems, an offbeat insight into some previously unexamined part of our personality. They were funny, blunt, caring: exactly what you want in a horoscope. I loved them because they were exactly as meaningful as I wanted them to be. Sometimes, very much so; sometimes, not at all. 
And also: What are your most meaningful sources of information? Why do you trust them? 

Ten Years

Card by People I've Loved

I don't know how to start this one. I didn't know how to start then, if I'm being honest. Ten years ago, I had a baby, and I didn't know what I was doing. Truthfully, I mostly still don't. 

Let's start at the beginning, which is right now: my child is ten. Ten feels weighty. A decade old. A decade ago, Obama was still president, I still lived in Toronto, and I had been married for barely a year. My dad was recently recovered from brain surgery, sent home a month before I delivered. My sister had just moved back to Ontario after living out west. My brother was in his early 20s. And then: baby. A baby! A new person. I was one of the first of my friend group to get pregnant, and it felt like I was moving to an entirely new land, a continent I had seen on the maps, labelled Mother. Full jungle, documentary crews eaten. 

The early days were hard. I had a rough delivery, and it took me a long time to recover. Breastfeeding was surprisingly tough—I needed a few sessions with the lactation consultant, and plenty of coaching and trial-and-error. I was wracked with anxiety and intrusive thoughts, and resentful of the fact that it wasn't romantic and glowy. I had hot flashes when I nursed, and a new shape to my belly. The first night we were home, I had a nightmare about rolling over in bed and crushing our newborn, and I woke gasping and adrenaline-wrecked. NS didn't sleep well at all, and all the granola-mom advice about co-sleeping and sleep-nursing and relaxing were not applicable: the baby only slept on the move, which meant swinging the carseat like an enormous pendulum, or babywearing as I walked or bobbed, or pushing the stroller endlessly, both inside and out. It was constant, exhausting, tedious, and distinctly un-fun. 

Babyhood made me realize what a bill of goods we get sold, as parents. The idea that it will be easy is a lie: most of us are struggling with something, most of the time. Maybe it's the constant daycare sickness cycle, or night wakings, or a screaming-crying-throwing-up temperament, or sibling discord, or picky eating, or the work-life "balance," or sensory overload, or mom-guilt, or the constant demand of caring for someone who is very sweet but who cannot fill our cups in most ways. That first "I love you" lands hard because we've been pouring ourselves into this little vessel for years, and we have to wonder: is this working? Is any of this landing? 

But then we arrive at this moment: once, as a toddler, one of NS's tiny friends bit them in a fit of rage. After the other mother pulled her son way, I checked in with my small kiddo, who looked musingly out the window and said, "I'm going to bite Arthur." When I replied that, even when we're frustrated, even when they've done it first, we can't bite our friends, NS nodded understandingly and then said, after a moment, "I'm going to kick Arthur." And that is a kid I can really get behind, you know?  

My child has turned out weird and funny, brave and tender. NS uses gender-neutral pronouns now, a decision made several years ago and with surprising confidence. (Will it stick? Who knows. But it's who they are today, which we can honour.) School friendships seem to consist mostly of wrestling and talking about forbidden-at-home video games. At home, they bellow and gallop and shriek, and also lie on the floor and daintily assemble Lego for hours. We go through long media fixations on Cars, Pinky Malinky, Moana, Transformers, the Storybots, Mark Rober, and watch them on a loop, but if they are watching TV and catch sight of the neighbour kids out the window, they will dash out the door with "I'm going outside to play with my friends!" trailing behind them like a flag, TV immediately forgotten. They love and fear their skateboard. They chat with adults at church. They can be hideously rude and meltingly sweet, often in the same whiplash-inducing conversation. 

I separated from NS's dad two years ago, and I worry every day that I've done irreparable harm in doing so. It took a lot to work up the ability to leave. I worry that what NS saw during our married days will have ruined them for future relationships; I worry also that coming from a so-called broken home will have made them permanently sad. I read once that Kurt Cobain, whose parents divorced when he was seven, never got over it. What hope could I possibly have? 

On the other hand, we recently had a snow day that included several rounds of the card game Sleeping Queens, a romp in the drifts, a session of banana muffin-making, and a movie. It was just the two of us, and it felt like a victory that this normal day unfolded in front of us, scaffolded by nothing except our own habits and personalities, aligned, somehow, and perfectly in sync. There are days when parenting doesn't feel endless in a bad way—it feels expansive, light, and easy, like an endless day at the beach, or a morning reading quietly in bed. It feels beautiful.

I have spent a large part of my adult life terrified, and yet I find that I've also accomplished quite a lot. I single parented for two years in NS's toddlerhood, and then starting again when they turned seven. I've been a single parent for four of their ten years, and that math feels strange. I didn't expect to be a single mom. It has meant grappling with a double shadow: the dark parts of myself that show up in them, deserving of love but so crazy-making; as well as the behaviours and mannerisms that remind me of my ex, their dad, which makes me internally exasperated and forces external gentleness. NS adores and idolizes their dad, which is a dynamic that I find...frustrating. But I love them, so I try to make do in these strange waters.

Ten years of a person, ten years of parenting. I could share a million little stories, a mosaic of a life that is only just starting. Holding hands on the subway, babywearing in the kitchen, first days of school, midnight bed invasions, vaccine bravery, instant friends on the playground, weeping at storytime, clutching at bedtime. An endless flow of moments: parenting, childhood, living. 

When they were younger, I used to ask them, "What do you remember about being born?" And they would answer, "I pooped inside of you," and giggle maniacally, looking at me for a reaction, which I would always give—ew, yuck! And then they would say, quietly, "And then there was a big light."

And then there was a big light. 

Happy birthday, my sweet kiddo. I love you forever, to the edge of the galaxy, in every mood and every way. You are my red red robin, my wild thing, my sunshine, and my whole heart.