Now you are three.

It’s hard to believe how fast this past year with you flew by. It seems like only yesterday we were blowing out the candles on your cake together as we geared up for your very first visit to the cottage.

So many firsts. So many blurred memories. So much learned.

Our first family all-inclusive beach vacation. You LOVED playing in the ocean waves and chasing your dear friend Quincy around everywhere.

Your first monster jam truck rally. It was a life altering experience for you, and all you wanted to do was re-create the event again and again on the living room floor every night.

Your first full sentences. The first time you made me REALLY laugh because you “told a joke” (even though you didn’t necessary realize it was a joke); the first time you paid me a compliment (“mom, I really like your earrings today”), the first time you offered me some criticism (“mom, your hair looks like butter; I don’t like the strings”)

The first time you peed all by yourself, after a solid week of me doubting myself about this whole potty-training thing: had we pushed you to potty train too soon? Will I seriously have to give you stickers every single time you make a bowel movement until I send you off to college?

Your first day of preschool. You didn’t shed a tear or miss a beat and you were SO excited for your routine, new friends, new TOYS. I was so proud of you.

Your first cousin.

Our first totally public, totally confined epic toddler melt down (inside an airplane, for approximately 20 minutes).

The longest time you and I have been apart in 3 years, and the longest distance by thousands of miles. That was a long 9 days away from you and Dubai is a very very far ways away.

Your first time requesting a specific song to be played (Footloose. It’s always Footloose)

The first time you sang…..like REALLY SANG…a full song in its entirety! You started with ABC and as we moved through your second year, row row row your boat, the Robo Car Poli theme song (thanks, Netflix), and Twinkle Twinkle, have all been added to your rotation.

Your first time truly saying good-bye, to our amazing nanny, Amber.

The first time you saw that I was crying, and recognized and understood that I was upset, when a dear friends’ daughter left this world way too soon. I struggled to find a simple way of explaining the tragedy to you.

Your first time sleeping in a “big boy bed”.

Your first time taking off your shoes, socks, hat, and coat…all by yourself.

Your first time becoming our in-home barista, mastering the art of the Nespresso Coffee.

Your first organized sport, playing soccer with Little kickers.

Your first sleepover, which involved actually sleeping in the SAME ROOM as another toddler! Winning!

The first time you demanded independence.

The first time you refused to hold my hand.

The first time you negotiated with us.

The first time you tried to articulate your feelings with words.

The first time you “read” (memorized) a book. First favorite = The Giving Tree

The first time you swam in Clear Lake.

Your first ice cream, scooter ride, balance bike-ride, ride in an excavator and flight outside of North America.

And yet, within a flurry of firsts, there were also so many last times….these I find so hard to pinpoint. When was the last time I picked you up without worrying about my back? When did you stop calling me ‘mama’ and instead start calling me “mum”? When did I stop singing the “good morning” song to you each day? The past year is starting to melt together with the year prior. Those small, precious memories are already slipping into the back of my memory bank — this is the most difficult part about accepting that you are now another year older.

But, do you want to know something? It keeps getting better. That first year with you….boy…..I wasn’t so sure.

I wasn’t sure it was ever going to get better. There were some tough days, weeks and months.

But, now you are 3.

I love the boy that you are becoming. I love to laugh with you, play with you and sing with you. I love to watch your curious mind working at 5,000 miles an hour. I love to sneak in and tuck you in and give you a kiss good-night before resting my head on the pillow after a long day. I love reading to you…your attention span is unbelievable.

I love to watch you grow.

I love you more today than yesterday. But not as much as tomorrow.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Saying Farewell to our First Home.

August 31, 2016September 12, 20161 Comment

Today is the day we officially close a foundational chapter in our lives as “Christian & Melissa”.

Christian and I purchased our first home in summer of 2009. We were 3 months engaged, eager home-buyers looking for that “potential-unlocking” fixer-upper. The up-and-coming neighbourhood of Leslieville still had the grit of the city, but was showing signs of a changing landscape. New restaurants were popping up, families were moving in, and the residents had successfully fended off the terror that is Wal-Mart just one year prior. Movement was afoot.

We put in our bid just before the August long weekend and went to the nearby McDonald’s to assess what we had just done. I distinctly remember the acute need to throw up. Not from the smell of the aforementioned McDonald’s, but from the sheer panic about the decision we had just made. In just a few moments, we made the decision to incur the biggest debt we had ever seen, all hanging on the small nest egg that my uber-responsible husband had scrounged and saved into RRSP’s during the previous few years. Me? I had nothing but additional student loans to throw into the mix. We were betting it all on a desperately sad-looking fixer-upper.

But boy, did we have gumption. That, and a strong sense of purpose: we were going to turn that tiny sum of money into a home, and a life together. Throw in some major DIY skills from Christian and my early exposure to all things design (as a child, we didn’t go to the zoo….we went to Living Lighting and the Kitchen Cabinet store. Not kidding. I could tell you what wainscotting was by age 8) and we could NOT be stopped.

It was, by most respects, the ugliest house on the street. But it was OURS. We were going to turn it into our future.

I will never forget the day we got the keys. We drove to our new home and opened the door. The smell of mould, must and rotten fish was still strong…but it didn’t matter. We were home. We wandered down Queen Street East, bought some fish n’ chips served in styrofoam as our celebratory meal, and popped the mini bottle of bubbly that I had bought just for the occasion.

At 7am the next morning, we would begin.

And so unfolded four years of nearly never-ending renovations. Weekend after weekend after weekend of work. 14 hour days. Aching backs. Bloody knuckles. Loss of sleep. Living in dust and dirt. Saying no to most social events because we had to “work on the house”. Avoiding trips and costly outings because that money could go to a sink or a fixture or some other coveted item at Home Depot. Always the house. Room by room and space by space, we slowly made it our own. Together. I’ve often said that renovating a house with your spouse is like marriage counselling 101. The joy, the tears; pushing you to the brink and then just a little but further. Yelling. Fighting. Laughing. Crying.

“It’s your fault we got into this in the first place!!” I would exclaim to my tireless worker of a husband.

And here I am, 7 years later, writing an ode to that place.

I’ll never forget our first Christmas together at Larchmount Ave. It was early December, and we were scrambling to finish a few final touches on our first (of many) rounds of renovations. Not only was it Christian’s birthday celebration, it was also our first Huggett Christmas Party (which is now an annual ‘do, 7 years later), and a big open house to welcome our friends and family to come see what we had been tirelessly been working on for months on end (and why we had been so darned anti-social). The debutant ball for our home.

It’s 11pm and we are racing to finish in preparation for the party the following day.

“We have to put up the tree”, I said. “It’s the best part…we can’t have a Christmas party in our new home without a Christmas tree!”

I had lovingly picked out ornaments and determined a colour scheme for our very first Christmas tree. We put on Mariah Carey’s Christmas album (what else?), made Bailey’s and hot chocolate, and got to it. At approximately midnight, we were ready to move onto to final part: ornaments!!

I excitedly unwrapped all of our new, sparkling, ornaments from their packaging, only to realize that I had forgotten to buy ornament hangers. It was a real pine Christmas tree, and the ornaments simply would not stay on the tree without hangers.

My eyes welled with tears and my lip trembled.

It wasn’t about the tree, the ornaments, or even Christmas. It was about the fact that we had reached that moment of the JOY of decorating together, in our first home, after months of painstaking renovations, only to realize that we couldn’t finish.

Christian looked at my face and knew that we had to complete the tree.

He ran out back to where our growing junk pile of renovation debris was, and came back with an arm-load of old electrical wire that we had removed from the house. Without missing a beat, he pulled out his wire cutters, pried back the plastic casing, and started fashioning copper-based Christmas ornament hooks from the electrical wire.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I realized what he was doing, and broke into a huge smile. We hung all our ornaments that night with those quirky, mis-matched copper-wire & plastic hand-made ornament hangers.

Still to this day, we proudly point out the remaining copper-wire ornament hangers on our Christmas tree and tell that story. It’s just one reminder of all the experiences we shared together in those years at Larchmount.

The truth is, I could write for hours about that house.

The creak of the floorboards. The sound of kids playing across street at the school. Getting ready for our wedding in the living room with my sister, mom and closet friends. Sitting in the backyard with friends on hot summer nights. Warding off raccoons. My sister’s “injury incident” on our back steps. Welcoming our first basement tenants. Meeting our amazing neighbours. Watching Leslieville grow and evolve. Welcoming friends into our home for parties, dinners, drinks. Hosting the Larchmount-Caroline laneway sale. Countless Pho dinners at Hainoi. Leaking ceilings, shattered glass tables, halloween haunted “porches”, laughing, crying. So much life. So much love.

[Photo Credit: Claudia Hung Weddings]

Although we moved out nearly three years ago into our new home, a part of us always remained there. Our renters took care of it as though it were there own, and in one of those amazing circumstances in life where things just simply fall into place, they are now the official new owners of our very first home on Larchmount Ave, and we couldn’t be happier.

(Bonus: its actually my colleague, so we get to continue to see the evolution of little Larchmount Ave as they create their own memories and home).

It’s the easiest way for me to say goodbye to a place that meant to much to Christian and I.

Growing up in a family where moving was essentially a hobby, I was surprised by how much that home meant to me. I cried the day we moved out, looking back at our empty living room and family room, and thinking back to all those moments we shared together. I could still see the renovation debris all over the floor from the first demo. I could still see that first quirky Christmas Tree in the corner. Our first hideous Craigslist couches in the living room.

So now we look forward to new places, new moments and new memories together…and all with our son, Harrison. 4 years felt like a lifetime in the midst of those renovations, but it’s just a blip in the history of the Happy Healthy Huggetts!

So…cheers to you, Larchmount Ave. We toast in your honour tonight. May you continue to provide life, love and happiness to your very lucky new owners.

A Wrinkle in Time.

May 1, 2016May 1, 20164 Comments

Today is baby H’s birthday. Tomorrow, I start back at work full-time after one year off.

Although I’ve been working one day a week since February, tomorrow still feels like the true beginning. I’ve been thinking of May as my “New Year”. My re-introduction. My debutante ball, if you will.

It’s also the end of my wrinkle in time.

That’s what maternity leave has felt like. A wrinkle in time. During this past year, it has almost felt like time stood still, while simultaneously, time has moved far too quickly. I don’t know how else to explain it.

All at once, in taking time off from my career to raise our son, I set aside a massive part of my life and my passion. I actually didn’t realize just how much impact my work had on me as a person until I went on leave. The absence of my career in my life has been a significant adjustment over this past year. I felt like I had lost a part of me.

If that weren’t enough, on top of “hanging up” my computer, emails, business cards, strategy discussions, meetings, clients, and sometimes, it felt like, “hanging up” my brain, I had to learn how to become a mother. And unlike your career, there’s no on-boarding plan or orientation guide for becoming a mother.

Just as I felt bringing our little bundle home for the very first time one year ago, my return to work leaves me excited and sad all at the same time. Mourning the loss of one chapter and celebrating the beginning of a new one. It’s transitions like this that truly cover the full spectrum of emotion.

I crave so much in my full-time return to work:

Stimulating adult conversation on the regular.

Being challenged to problem solve.

Creating.

Encouraging and supporting others on my team.

Helping clients.

Walking around without a stroller.

Popping out for lunch or a coffee on my own time.

Being a part of something that’s growing faster than we expected.

Jokes, laughs and fun with great people every day.

Not feeling obligated to do all the cooking and laundry “because I’m at home”.

Learning. Growing. Evolving.

Freedom.

But then, it’s all the things I will miss. All the little moments that I will now need to cram into just evenings and weekends with my son:

The thump-thump-thump of his arm, foot or head on the rail of his crib when he’s up from his nap.

The absolutely hilarious noises he makes at meal time because he’s just so darned excited about food.

Our daily walks around the neighborhood, in search of doggies, buses and delicious coffee.

Quiet mornings playing together in the family room before we get a start on our day.

4pm coffee chats with my neighbor across the street.

Giving my husband the full run down of what new little thing baby H learned or did today.

My 9:30am daily workouts during naptime.

Friday Funday with my two neighbors and their kids

His smile that just lights up his entire face.

Looking out the front window and waiting for daddy to come home.

Singing together in music class.

Virtually unlimited cuddles, tickles and giggles.

Picking him up from his crib and commenting, for the millionth time, on “how big he’s getting”

Teaching him something new and watching his face light up once he figures it out.

Learning. Growing. Evolving.

Freedom.

It’s the same…only different. In this year I have learned and grown more as a person than ever before in my life. No career path will teach me what I have gained, and will continue to gain, throughout this journey as a mother.

And so, as I pack up my bag tonight, pick out my stylish clothes, wash and style my hair, do my make-up tomorrow morning and get ready to head to work, I will think about my wrinkle in time.

My year with my son.

The hours, minutes and seconds that I have had the privilege of spending with him every single day. I will think about the days where time stood still, when time couldn’t seem to pass fast enough, when I longed for this day to finally arrive because I couldn’t take it anymore, and when I considered what life would be like to stay at home full-time. And everything else in between.

Tonight is my New Years’ Eve. Tonight I reflect and celebrate the most challenging and rewarding year of my life.

Tonight I toast to my wrinkle in time.

[Above Photo Credit: Sweet Grace Photography]

It takes a village to raise a mother.

February 18, 2016March 20, 20161 Comment

I remember first hearing the term “the village” back in my mid 20s when I was working in corporate sales for the first time. A colleague of mine, who had twin girls around 6 years old, used to joke about how she would be lost without her “village”: mothers, fathers, caregivers, friends who lived in her community that all contributed in some way to the upbringing of her children. I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time, but it always stuck with me.

Fast forward nearly 10 years later and here I am, planning for my return to work after spending 10 months off with baby H. I have just started part-time work, easing into full time by early May. I’m so excited to get back into it, however, this past month has been overwhelming and stressful as I research, interview and learn as much as I can about childcare options in Toronto (more on this in a future post!).

It slowly dawned on me yesterday: Christian and I are only starting to build Harrison’s village now. This year has been about building MY village as a new mother. And let me tell you, it takes a VILLAGE to raise a mother.

Last week, I enjoyed a night out with 7 amazing women. As I sipped my wine and looked around the table, I realized that I did not know anyone sitting with me just one short year ago. They were strangers on my street, nameless neighbors that I might pass by en route home after a long day at work or nod to while driving by on an errand. Now, they are part of my village, and I call them my friends.

It would take me thousands of words to honor each member of my village…but I would like to at least try to illustrate the diversity of people who have touched my life throughout my motherhood journey so far. The most incredible part, to me, is that support and encouragement can come from everywhere: you just need to accept it.

It’s the new mom across the street who, although I barely knew her, gave me confidence right before I was reluctantly induced into labor as she shared her birth story with me. We were basically strangers. Now we get together at least once a week for coffee chats and walks. She constantly brings us food and goodies. I recently attended her daughters first birthday and felt like an extension of her family.

It’s my uber-prepared friend who researched EVERYTHING to do with pregnancy, baby, child-rearing, car seat safety, weaning, airplane travel and RESPs. She had her baby first, and then passed down each and every tid-bit of information (and baby stuff!) she could possibly think of. She has been and continues to be an amazing resource, and is the reason that we made the decision to put H in cloth diapers (when I vowed I would NEVER use cloth diapers. Never say never).

It’s my own mum, who flew from Vancouver one week after Harrison was born and moved in with us for an entire MONTH. My husband was a bit skeptical about having his mother-in-law move in for that long, but we were all sad to see her leave by the end. She was amazing at keeping me on track and helping me figure out a routine. Every morning by 10am she would say to me (in her precious Irish accent): “Right…what’s for dinner tonight?”. Dinner!? I haven’t even showered yet! But she helped start a habit that has since evolved into regular weekly meal planning for our family.

It’s the free-spirited woman down the street who was out walking with her daughter, saw me walking Harrison at barely a month old, and literally doubled back out of her way to introduce herself. Although she claims to be an introvert, she made the first move to say “hi” and we’ve had many a play date ever since. Her daughter has a grin that makes my heart melt.

Through her I met another amazing woman, who makes the best darned macchiato anyone could ask for. And let’s be serious: coffee IS the way to a mothers heart. The first time we got together we talked and talked like old friends. She is kind and generous and makes me LAUGH.

It’s my mother-in-law, who will drive 1.5 hours just to spend an afternoon with her grandson. We have had many a lunch date, cups of tea, chats and great visits – I will miss this quality time with “nana” once I’m back to work full-time! Her texts, emails and words of encouragement have helped to build up my confidence as a mom.

It’s my husbands’ cousin, who I now know at such a more meaningful level than I ever did before. She is a mother of two and is in the process of building a coaching business targeted towards new mothers. Her wisdom, encouragement, and ability to challenge has forced me to continue to carve out time to be MELISSA. Not mother. Not wife. Not employee. ME.

There’s the woman with school-aged kids who runs a part-time home daycare down the street. Her 6-year old daughter loves children so much you just know she got it from her mom! There is something so comforting about knowing that just down the street you have someone who will take care of your child as though they were her own. She currently looks after Harrison one day a week while I begin my transition back to work.

And across the street, another mother of two who has boundless stories and tips to share. She has loaned me books on baby-led weaning, sent me links, recipes, left zucchini chocolate cake on my doorstep when I had a rough day (yes! on my doorstep!). And she has this incredible aura that I can’t describe: I feel calm when I’m around her.

It’s my “Innovation Girls” who I met at a conference a few years ago. 6 weeks post-partum, they arrived at our home, took over our kitchen, and made us the most glorious home-made pasta dish. It was the BEST gift. (Ok, so maybe coffee AND pasta are the way to a mothers heart).

It’s my father-in-law and “Bonus mom” (as I refer to his partner!) – they have stepped into the grandparent role with so much zeal. Finding excuses to pop by, bring gifts, food, get together’s, babysitting…anything for more quality time with H! The joy that they show when they see him is nothing short of heart-warming. If we haven’t seen them in a few weeks, I can expect a call or email asking for the next “Harrison fix”.

It’s my bonus-mom’s co-worker, whom I have NEVER met, who offered us all the hand-me-downs from her children. My in-laws literally showed up with bins upon bins of clothes for H. He’s set until age 2.

It’s my friend who is a mother of two and trained sleep coach, who worked with me in the summer to move baby H towards a regular daytime and nighttime sleep schedule. She has incredible advice and is extremely passionate about constantly evolving as a mother – she researches, attends workshops, and does all she can to continually improve – it’s very inspiring. (More on sleep training in a future post as well – I owe this woman my mental sanity).

It’s my sister, who visited in the summer to spend a week with her new nephew. She sang, and sang and sang and sang some more. He loved to listen to her sing. Kokamo has become an instant classic in our home after her visit.

It’s my hometown mom friends: I may not see them often, but our messenger chat group is constant: support, frustrations, questions, bitching, hilarious photos, videos and comics. I’m so thankful for these virtual touch points. And there is power in threes! If one of us is having a rough day, chances are at least 1 out of the other 2 is having a good day and can help offer encouragement. Or at least a virtual photo of a glass of wine.

It’s my church: the overwhelming support, love, messages, cards, gifts and advice. So much mom and family wisdom in my church community. I’m basically covered until H heads to college.

Finally: my husband. Of course he’s part of my village. Having a child together changed our marriage more than we could ever have imagined. We had our ups and downs. And believe me, there were moments when we wanted to kick each other OUT of the village all together. But we didn’t. We figured it out together. Christian has encouraged me and supported me as best as he could while concurrently determining his “new normal” as a husband and father.

And it doesn’t end there. I could go on and on and on. The smiles. The encouragement. The freezer meals. The sharing. The texts. The advice. The gifts. The support. How incredibly lucky am I to have been building my own village on top of such a rock-solid foundation.

Whether your village is 2 people or 20, young or old, near or far, it doesn’t matter. Build it. Because becoming a mother is crazy journey, and you’re going to need all the help you can get. It takes a village to raise a mother.

Thank you to my village.

[Photo credit: Sweet Grace Photography]

A Good Mother.

January 15, 2016February 18, 201610 Comments

This is not exactly my typical type of post, but I needed to get something off my chest. That’s what blogging is about, right?

Today marked a milestone in my life as a mother. Nope, not a tooth or a first food. Not a birthday or a first step. Not a smile or a word.

Today was the first time I experienced extreme judgement from a complete stranger, all because of the actions of a child.

It’s Friday afternoon and a dear friend and I got together for lunch. It’s dreary, it’s January. It’s miserable. We had both had tough weeks with our little ones. We enjoyed coffee and a chat and fed our babies lunch. Words such as “we’re surviving” and “its fine” came up. It was refreshing to get together and discuss the good, bad and ugly. And besides, we made it to Friday, so it can’t be all that bad, right?

As we started packing up to go, my friends’ little one starting fussing. The fussing turned into crying, and by the time he was strapped into his stroller, the crying had escalated into full-on screaming.

We soldier on and make a hasty dash towards the exit. We are both holding our breath as we take those last few steps to the freedom of open air where the screams don’t seem quite as loud.

And at that very moment, that “I-just-need-to-make-it-to-the-door” final push, a miserable-looking woman stares my friend straight in the eye and says:

“You’re a terrible mother. You should have never had children. My children never cried like that”.

You’re. A. Terrible. Mother.

Read that sentence one more time. Do it.

It took every ounce of self-restraint in me to not march back in there, stand up for my friend, and retaliate. But do you know what? It wouldn’t have made any difference. That woman had made her judgement as soon as that little guy started crying, and no explanation or reasoning would have changed her mind.

So what is it that makes a mother so terrible that a complete stranger would feel compelled to say such a thing?

I don’t have the answer. But I do know that I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently, especially as I round the bend of my maternity leave. My days are filled with researching full time childcare options for my son.

I’m leaving my son in the care of someone else, 5 days a week, so that I can further my career.

Does that make me a terrible mother?

My husband and I had our first overnight away from our son in December. It was a big milestone for us, for our son, and for nana and papa who looked after him. Many friends suggested that I “try not to miss him too much”.

I didn’t miss him. I enjoyed every minute of it and look forward to booking the next night away.

Does that make me a terrible mother?

We made the decision to sleep train. Early. Like, before 3 months old, early. Our son has slept soundly for 12 hours a night since he was 3 months old. He has slept in his crib in the nursery starting at week 2.

Does that make me a terrible mother?

I let him fall. I let him shove too much food in his mouth. I had to perform the Heimlich maneuver a few weeks ago because of said food. I let anyone and everyone hold him. I don’t pick him up as soon as he cries. I breastfeed him pretty much anywhere. I let him watch TV and play with my iPhone. I started him on solids at four months old. I give him baby formula rather than breast milk when I go out because I am sick of pumping. I throw my hands up in the air in the middle of Starbucks and proclaim: “I have no idea why you are crying!!!”

Does that make me a terrible mother?

NO.

I am a GOOD mother. I am AMAZING mother. I am SUPER-FRICKIN-woman. And I will remind myself of this every. single. day.

Every day that my son looks at me with his huge smile and love in his eyes and I give him the same love back. That’s all it takes to be a good mother: love. Love is all you need.

So I challenge you: remind yourself how awesome you are. Look that screaming child of yours in the eye and tell him how much you love him. Look at your tear-streaked face in the mirror and tell yourself how amazing you are. Look at the other mothers in your community and tell them they are GOOD MOTHERS and that they are doing an AMAZING JOB.

Say those words to someone today. Because we don’t always know how long it takes for the sting of negative words to wear off.

YOU are an amazing mother. YOU are LOVED.

happy healthy huggetts

a lifestyle blog for those looking for a bit more "happy" in their life.

Tag: life

Now you are three.

Saying Farewell to our First Home.

A Wrinkle in Time.

It takes a village to raise a mother.

A Good Mother.

Photo Credit: Little SugarPlum Photography, Vancouver