Around our house, we have great fun celebrating Christmas. This year was also fantastic, with one exception. Nagging at me all day was how baby boy was breathing. Not good.

At 7:30pm I couldn’t take it anymore and made the trip down to the hospital. Before getting admitted, they put us in the trauma room to get him on some oxygen and begin other treatments.

I was sitting there holding a ventolin mask over his screaming face, telling myself that the situation sucked. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, and a lot sorry for my baby boy. It was no way for my little man to spend his first Christmas, thought I.

Then I had a quick reality check. The guy on the other side of the curtain, who seemed to be getting treatment for pain of sorts, started speaking:

Guy: “Nurse? I kinda feel like killing myself”

Nurse: “Hmmm, what are you thinking about doing?”

Guy: “I dunno, maybe cut my wrists, find a gun or take some pills”

Nurse: “Do you have a gun?”

Guy: “No”

Nurse: “OK, we can have a chat with the Doctor about all this”

I looked down at my wheezing boy and thought about the guy on the other side of the curtain. What was his first Christmas like? How would his mother feel if, on his first Christmas, she knew that in about 40 more years he’d feel like killing himself on Christmas Day?

I gave my baby boy an extra squeezy hug and decided my Christmas didn’t suck after all.

I’m not a fun person. Let me qualify that – I’m not fun in the traditional sense.

I don’t dress up for Hallowe’en and I have never met an April Fools Day prank that I didn’t think was stupid. When people send me funny jokes by e-mail, the joke gets deleted immediately and the sender receives a message requesting removal from the group list since I have no time for such nonsense. There is a long list of things that prove that I’m not a fun person.

So imagine the surprise my neighbours got this Hallowe’en when I was trick or treating with the kiddos while carrying the baby in the sling – they’d ask to have a peek at wee Finian so I’d pull down the sling to expose this:

OK, so maybe I’m not fun – just a little weird. But mamas can go a bit crazy on Hallowe’en too. This is my friend Astrid when she was expecting her daughter. I’m happy to report that baby Harper is much cuter than the alien shown here:

Last week on October 15th, many mamas were lighting candles in remembrance. That day has been designated as National Pregnancy Loss & Infant Loss Awareness Day.

I had a miscarriage soon after my first child was born. My loss was accompanied with some guilt too – finding out I was pregnant while having a newborn left me horrified. I quickly adjusted to the thought of my “Irish Twins” and was devastated when I miscarried. Then came the guilt – how could I have initially greeted this pregnancy with such little enthusiasm? Guilt and being a mama – a match made in hell.

Almost 10 years has passed since that time but there are two occasions when I am particularly reminded about it:

1) When I see my friend who had a similar due date. Her little girl will be turning nine-years-old next month. I should have someone turning nine next month.
2) When filling out the paperwork in subsequent pregnancies, you are required to record how many live births you have had, and also how many pregnancies. My numbers don’t match. I get shivers thinking about the mamas out there whose numbers REALLY don’t add up, and by a long shot. Just can’t imagine having to write down: pregnancies: 8 / live births: 0

I often think about the mamas who have lost full-term babies or babies during the first year of life. I wonder what happens when they are innocently asked “so, how many kids do you have?”

I think that must be a torturous question – the answer could either make you feel you are not acknowledging your lost child, or alternatively, you have to explain the painful experience to every stranger who is making small talk.

I had a teacher in high school who was raising two daughters, five years apart in age. She had lost her middle daughter, who was severely disabled, after several years of caring for her three girls. She often had people comment to her: “two kids, five years apart in age – what an easy way to do it!”

Little did they know.

I hope that this Day of Remembrance tells the world that mama is entitled to her grief – no matter what form it takes or how long it lasts, which is often a lifetime. So, on this day let us remember our losses. In some ways for many mamas, it is a day like no other – a day that we love and miss our children.

I have this friend Steve who was recently on a flight. Across the aisle was a new mama with her babe and a very elderly man, who from here on in shall be called ‘old dude’.

As the airplane was taking off, mama started breastfeeding babe. As any travelling mama knows, it’s good if you can get babe to feed on the way up and the way down to relieve any ear pain due to changing air pressure.

As she is feeding, old dude is shuffling around, mumbling under his breath, clearing his throat and basically looking uncomfortable with the breastfeeding situation that is going down beside him.

It was a short flight so before long decent had started and mama sensibly put babe back on breast. Old dude could not contain himself any longer and said “this is clearly making me uncomfortable and yet you continue to breastfeed that child.”

At that point, old dude should have been happy he was not sitting next to me. I feed anywhere, anytime and in front of anyone. If someone feels uncomfortable, they are welcome to leave. Indeed if that sentence had fallen on my ears I likely would have experienced something very close to rage.

Old dude had the good fortune of sitting beside a very gracious mama who very politely and respectfully explained why it helps baby to feed when there is change in air pressure. Old dude seemed satisfied and quite pleased that he had learned something new that day.

The plane landed and old dude was shuffling around looking for his cane and belongings when he turned and looked at my friend Steve and with a quiet smurk said:

“Huh, and to think for all these years I’ve been chewing gum”.

Since most parents are not particularly fond of whining, “you get what you get and you don’t get upset” is a common mantra in many households. It is most often heard immediately following annoying requests such as “but I wanted to sit in THAT chair” or “no, not the blue plate, the RED one!”

The adult version of “you get what you get” is when you have a baby. Not a lot of social engineering is involved so you can’t exactly order a baby of a particular gender or personality type. You can’t even count on baby being healthy so parents everywhere have to take what we get.

When my son was diagnosed with autism, I was pretty darn sad. I quickly realized that it was time to look myself in the mirror and scream the mantra. Being upset was not going to help me and it certainly was not going to contribute to my son’s development.

My SIL had to say the mantra to herself a few years ago upon discovering she was pregnant for the third time. She had two little boys already but being pregnant again was not the issue. Indeed, she had decided to quickly squeak in one more baby, preferably a girl, before changing her mind on going for a third child altogether. You can likely predict the ending – instead of that little girl, she got identical twin boys landing her in the glamorous position of being a mama to four boys under four.

Despite our reproductive plans going a bit pear-shaped, both my SIL and I have survived our adventures with laughs and a lot of love. Strangely, we’ve experienced some disapproval from those on the outside. While pregnant with the twins, my SIL had to listen to comments such as “oh, how awful!” when announcing she was having two more boys. People have expressed that I must be crazy to have more kids considering my risk of having another child with autism. I get that raising a kid with autism or having babies two at a time may not be on everyone’s “bucket list” of things to do before dying, but I can think of worse things.

So we grown-ups get what we get, and as you have probably figured out for yourself – getting upset is pretty much pointless. I can’t imagine a world without my boy and I can assure you that my SIL wouldn’t trade in “Thing One” and “Thing Two” for the most adorable girlie pink princess up for offer.