Saturday morning I saw my neighbours – a younger couple with no children – loading up their vehicle to go hiking in the mountains. I felt odd, like I was viewing some strange yet familiar ritual from another country that I used to inhabit. My husband and I used to head out nearly every weekend to the mountains, with our hiking boots and backpacks filled with extra clothes, water, and a lunch. We would choose a hike from a guidebook, and it would usually be around 10 km in length, and after that we would stop in a pub on the way home for a beer and dinner. It was a part of our lives, the lives we had before children.

We took the kids and the dog to the mountains for a “hike” this summer. I wore sandals, and we walked a total of less than one kilometer.

I knew a number of people who, while pregnant, were firm in the belief that the impending baby was not going to change their lives. Not at all. They would still travel to exotic destinations, work slave-like hours at their jobs, maintain rigorous levels of athleticism, and do all the same things on weekends that they did before. Their lives would be exactly the same, but there would be a baby with them to live those lives.

To me, this way of thinking indicates either extreme fear of the unknown or extreme stupidity. Things change. To imply that a person, a baby no less, will not have any impact on your life is disrespectful. I read a beautiful piece by the lovely Beck, who said, “…we change and our hearts change right along with us”. That resonated with me as I do feel like my heart has changed, it has opened in a way that it couldn’t before. I won’t be that girl with the hiking boots and guidebook again, and although sometimes I think her with longing, I wouldn’t change places with her for anything.

I’m having one of those “It’s already Wednesday?” type of Wednesdays. Because, in addition to mooning about Jake’s birth, there is his actual birthday to prepare for, which is in six days, but also not one but TWO birthday parties this weekend, one of which involves eight children aged five and under and a clown, and also there are cupcakes to make and a cake to order and sugar cookie dough to prepare and groceries to shop for and sugar cookies to bake and decorate, and we all know that decorating things is not my forte, and volunteer committee meetings, already, and a movie screening to attend. Did I mention that I was an extra in a movie? Well, that movie is being screened this weekend, right after the clown leaves our house and (I can only imagine) the children will collapse from their sugar high, but I may never be in a movie again so to the screening I must go.

So that outlines my next six days.

The birthday party thing is the bane of my existence. It all stems from my complete incompetence with cake decorating and my lack of creativity and imagination, which leads to canvassing people for ideas and trolling the internet at all hours. I have a new friend, who is amazing with birthday party ideas, and uses words like “fondant” and “royal icing” whilst I use words like “cake mix” and “creamy deluxe versus whipped”. Just saying.

Also, and this has nothing to do with birthday parties or the many, many volunteer committees I’m suddenly on, but I almost broke my nose yesterday! It was a lovely Calgary day with winds gusting 70 km/hour, I was parked on a slight angle, I was opening the car door and a wasp flew in my face. I brushed it away while letting go of the car door and smash! Door in my face. Fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, which took the brunt of it. I don’t even have a black eye, which I think would have made me look like the tough mom in the neighbourhood, and would have probably circumvented my appearance on any more volunteer committees.

Mark and I were reading on the couch, and talking about superheroes and villains. “Of course, this is just a story,” I said, “Sandman is not real.”

“Just like Santa Claus,” Mark replied.

Startled, I looked down at him and he smiled his angelic, gap-toothed smile. I went back to reading about Spiderman and Sandman.

I have a feeling this is not unrelated to the loss of his two bottom teeth. When they fell out, I told him that we could put them under the pillow and the tooth fairy would come.

The fallout from that was tremendous. “TOOTH FAIRY? I don’t want the TOOTH FAIRY to come! I don’t even want a fairy in my ROOM. PLEASE don’t make the TOOTH FAIRY come here!” I looked at my husband a little helplessly. His inspired answer? “Don’t worry, Mark. The tooth fairy is really just Mom and Dad, and we’ll give you money for your tooth.”

Mark was instantly relieved. I, however, was a bit anxious he would shatter everyone else’s tooth fairy dreams, although this has not yet happened. I’m all for being truthful, but is five too young for abject cynicism?

Today was Mark’s first day of kindergarten, signifying the end of summer vacation, the return of actual summer-like weather notwithstanding. I thought I’d be spending the last of vacation doing fun, outdoorsy things, but instead I spent it taking care of the boys who alternated between being lethargically, feverishly ill and incredibly rambunctiously healthy, but neither at the same time. I also spent some time pondering which would be easier, two simultaneously sick children, or a longer bout of illness with only one child sick at a time, before concluding that the former is definitely preferable in my mind.

Futile ponderings aside, I was startled at how quickly and how enjoyably the summer passed. Back in February or March, I fretted a bit about the summer and activity planning, and would I go crazy without the 7.5 hours/ week of personal time I was now accustomed to? Then in the spring I was at a playground with a friend and her younger children, and she was speaking about her oldest daughter, who was in Grade One. “She has friends I don’t know and I don’t know their parents. She’s gone all day and she has her own life, completely separate from me.” It would be hard to overestimate the impact those words had on me. I could practically see the leaves of a page-a-day calendar rapidly tearing themselves off and fluttering away. I drove home with the feeling of one who has made a firm resolution: I was going to enjoy the summer with the children, dammit. We were GOING TO HAVE A GREAT TIME.

I did what I always do in the face of uncertainty, and that is to make lists and schedules. Oh yes, I am nothing if not rigid and rules-oriented. For fun, I took an Oprah quiz – Find the (Diet) Plan That Fits You – and my result was the one entitled “Restrictive”, for people who thrive on organization. I was a bit depressed at my own lameness. Anyway, I made lists of things I wanted to do and tried to schedule at least one fun place to visit per week – the zoo, playground, Science Centre – and we really did have a great time.

So what about the first day of kindergarten? The class was only one hour long, and the parents were called in to listen to the teacher read “The Kissing Hand” after which each child gave their parent a paper heart to put in their hand. I was just so proud of my big kid, who was so proud of himself at the new big kid school; although at that moment, all I could see were the calendar pages that were flying away from me.

And no, I’m not talking about my ladies’ holidays.

No, I brought the curse on myself. Last night, I said to Rob, “Isn’t it great, we haven’t really been sick since March? I mean, no one has really had a cold or anything. ISN’T THAT AMAZING???”

Right after I said that, I immediately regretted it. I am very superstitious. Despite my mathematical leanings, I truly believe in the accuracy of zodiac signs in predicting personality traits. I would never have married my husband if he was something like a Sagittarius, or maybe an Aquarius, because that would not have been compatible with my Taurean personality. I have been known to instantly translate a new acquaintance’s birthday into their zodiac sign and then feel like I know them intimately. If it wasn’t for my distaste for pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, I would have totally rocked the dating world in the ’70’s.

I am also superstitious about saying or thinking negative thoughts about someone else’s children, or bragging about my own, feeling that big old karma will come back to haunt me. Chickens to roost, or something. It’s like the woman I know who bragged to everyone about her daughter being completely potty trained at 18 months, and what is everyone talking about, it’s not difficult, just use underwear and praise and voila, children will be potty trained. Then her son came along and was trained at age four.

So back to the story at hand. We’ve all done it. We’ve all marvelled at the fact that our children have gone a period of time with no illness. That’s what I did last night. 9:30 this morning, Jake complained of a headache and being tired. He has been running a high fever all day, and he hasn’t even been interested in watching TV, which is a sign to me that something is WRONG. I’m crossing my fingers and hoping the fever breaks soon. Meanwhile, I’m kicking myself for bringing on the curse.

I accidentally stumbled on a documentary about the “Octomom”. I lasted all of three minutes watching eight crying infants, a few tantruming toddlers, and some surly school-aged children. Hoo boy! That sure was awesome.

His own shoes. This is one of a number.

The inside of Jake’s laundry basket, with a single pair of socks. There are about eight of these pictures.

The train table, with both Sir Topham Hatt and the guy running the Sodor crane plunged to their deaths.

And, of course, my personal favourite:

That was supposed to be a picture of the dog.

When I was an undergrad, I attended a presentation by David Foot, who, for anyone not particularly interested in economics or demographics (which I realize is probably a large portion of the population) is an economics professor and author of the book “Boom, Bust, and Echo”. He extensively studies changes in demographics and writes about how such shifts might impact social and economic issues.

Anyone still reading this?

Anyway, I picked up the Maclean’s issue with “The Case Against Having Kids” screaming across the front cover because, hey, although it’s a bit too late for me, I was still intrigued by the topic. And there was a quotation from David Foot! I was all like Buddy the Elf when he finds out Santa’s coming to the department store. “David Foot? I KNOW HIM!! I KNOW HIM!!!” Although clearly, I do not. But still. I was at a presentation by him, so it’s pretty much the same thing. My brush with celebrity. Have I mentioned that I met Jim Cuddy? I have? Oh.

Where is this going, you may be asking? How much coffee has Nicole had to drink today? Answer to the latter: a lot. Answer to the former: the Maclean’s article was actually very interesting and provided a lot of food for thought. I plan on writing a few posts about this article because a) the kids are in day camp this week and I actually have a bit of time to myself and b) I’m really bored of writing boring posts relating to my limited activities due to the hideous weather and how I wish I could live somewhere where the summer is greater than three days and the winter is less than nine months.

A LOT of coffee.

So anyway, the quote from David Foot is one well known in economics circles, “The higher the education a woman has, the greater likelihood she won’t have children”. This, of course, refers in large part to developing nations and the introduction of birth control to better women’s lives. In other words, if a girl is able to go to school, she may not concede to having eleven children in eleven years and suffering the subsequent health issues. Women’s issues in economics were a passion of mine in university; in fact my thesis was actually entitled “Gender Differences in the Effects of Alcohol on Labour Market Indicators”, which of course has nothing to do with any social or policy implications but hey, it was catchy.

It doesn’t take an economist to figure out that women who have children statistically make less money than women with children, while children have no effect on male earnings. That’s obvious. After childbirth, women typically work less hours and thus earn less. It is also something that I used to rail against in my grad-school days. I also had a poster of a fish on a bicycle and a copy of the feminist manifesto in my office. Which makes the fact that I am now a stay-at-home mom who bakes a whole lot of banana bread a little ironic.

Here’s the thing: if a woman chooses not to have children for any reason, I think that’s great. Our generation, in this area of the world, is blessed with choice. I celebrate our choices and our freedom to make choices. My choices are not any better or worse than someone else’s, and that is why it always hurts my feelings a little when I am repeatedly asked why I am not returning to work. One acquaintance in particular continually asks me why I would give up my career and essentially waste my education to be a stay-at-home mom. And I do not have a good, or calculated, answer to that other than “I want to.”

It’s not like I didn’t have occasional pangs of envy when women I worked with moved around the world and headed up their own teams of people and achieved high levels of success. I just knew that I wouldn’t be returning, and I was okay with that. I guess I just became a statistic.