Every December, I make personalized Christmas cards. I love doing a little family photo shoot and choosing the best picture. I love uploading the winner to Vistaprint and I pouring over backgrounds. I love debating what the best family message to include should be.

Once the Christmas cards have been ordered, I wait eagerly for the package to come in the mail, choose the right moment to savour opening the fat envelope and marvel over how our digital image has magically come to life through the heft of cardstock. Then comes the stage of thinking who we should send the cards to: Who we’ve become closer to this year and who we don’t see very often but still feel connected to. I make a spreadsheet with the recipients and their addresses and it’s always a bit of a life assessment—how have our relationships changed over the year? Who are new friends that get added? Who have we grown closer to? Who has drifted away?

As much as I love making and writing and sending customized Christmas cards, I also dislike doing Christmassy things in November, or worse, anytime earlier than that. I like keeping November relatively empty—a breather between Halloween and Christmas. A month when there aren’t witch or ghost or holly or stocking gel stickies on the windows and the mantel is covered with the usual clutter rather than holiday-themed clutter. I’ll buy some stocking stuffers in November but most of the presents I buy in December. Because well, it’s fun and it feels festive to Christmas shop that time of year. November is a wet and dreary month, not a seasonal one. It’s a time for Halloween recovery, Remembrance Day and soaked soccer practices.

Card making isn’t the only holiday tradition I enjoy. I like choosing wrapping paper from Winners and little gift labels from the Papery. I like making a list of who I’m getting presents for and what will go in the stocking. I like making shortbread cookies (because if you don’t make them at Christmas, when do you make them?). I like making photo albums for the grandparents or at least finding a couple of good pictures of them with my daughter to print out.

I like all these Christmas traditions, they’re meaningful. They prompt reflection and connection. They make a cold and dark time of year more exciting. Yet, they also happen at the same time as the school Christmas concert, the gymnastics medal ceremony, the “deciding who will host Christmas dinner and when,” the planning our annual New Year’s Day hike and pot luck…

On their own, each of these Christmas traditions is a treat. If the only task was making Christmas cards and sending them, that would be enjoyable. Christmas shopping by itself is enjoyable. Hosting dinner can even be enjoyable—if you have the time to plan and clean and defrost a turkey. But all of them at once? And under a strict timeline? The time pressure and multitasking turn fun activities into panic-induced chores. Half of me likes sending the cards, the satisfying feeling of a stack of envelopes getting dropped into a letter box, while the other half of me starts to simmer: “No one sends us cards anyways! They’d better appreciate this.”

A friend of mine says that she does all her Christmas preparations in November: “I feel way less stressed now that I do everything early, I’d really recommend it.” To which I give her an imaginary middle finger: “Thanks tips.”

This is, of course, the most obvious solution to manage the mayhem but I am truly not the type who has a spreadsheet for anything other than Christmas cards. The idea of a type-B person like me pulling off all the Christmas prep by November 30 is laughable.

Have I learned from my frenzied Christmases past? Does the ghost of last year’s midnight present wrapping or pre-Christmas party insomnia inform my Christmas present? Not really.

I have learned to take a few extra days off leading up to Christmas, favourite a few good photos in November, keep an eye open for cute angels for grandma’s collection whenever I’m shopping. But I still always get stumped on my brother and pull something together last-minute. I still don’t even take the photo that will end up on our cards until early December. Our cards often end up with a “Happy New Year” note scribbled on the envelope. But hey, they get there in the end.

What’s Christmas without a little overwhelm? And who am I without my aversion to November Christmas prep? Maybe one day I’ll learn…but not this year.

Could you imagine, back then when you tracked all your newborn daughter’s naps in the app and weighed your baby weekly, that everything would be fine?

Could you imagine a world where you slept through the night and woke up to morning cuddles in bed while your seven-year-old watched Meekah and Blippi on your phone? Could you imagine a night without interruption, a morning without crying? Could you imagine that words like “purple crying” and “diaper rash” and “sleep pressure” are no longer reference points? Can you imagine a bathroom cupboard without Baby Gaia, D-drops and diaper cream?

Can you imagine that one day you’ll go to Costco, and your list will contain chicken pot pie, Chicago Mix, coffee, bread, panda cookies, mini-wheats and smoked salmon, but no diapers or baby wipes? Did you ever think when you shopped at Costco with a baby on your front in a carrier, dripping with sweat and getting directed to the first aid room to nurse when she lost her cool in front of the cashier, that she would not only graduate to sitting in the cart but eventually become a useful sidekick, grabbing the coffee for you and placing boxes of mini wheats underneath?

Could you imagine bumping into a friend at a store, and your daughter and “Dance Kendall” running along together on their cereal-fetching mission? Could you imagine that she would help unload the car and that you would pass her two giant bags of Chicago Mix and she would know to put one in the cupboard and set the other by the door for grandma? Did you ever think she would pick out flowers for you and you would divide the bouquets into five small vases—one for the kitchen table, two for each bathroom, one for your office and the last one into a fox-shaped vase for her room?

Did you ever even think she would talk? That you wouldn’t just be stuck guessing what the different cries meant? Is she hungry? Hot? Cold? Surely it couldn’t be another dirty diaper. How infuriating that you were stuck in an endless math equation of: How long since the last feed? How long since the last diaper change? How long until the next nap?”

Did you think back then, when your Facebook feed was full of ads for lactation cookies and tips on baby-led weaning that you could one day just serve the family all the same meal—that except for salad and curry, she’d eat the same thing as everyone else? Did you ever think you could just throw a couple granola bars in your purse instead of pre-chopping strawberry bits in a Tupperware that would no doubt get forgotten in the car until the “fur” had grown into an unwieldy science experiment?

Did you ever think your baby would go on to perform a Toy Story song at the Farquhar for her dance recital and that you’d be putting blush and lipstick on her to counter the stage lights? Could you imagine a summer where she decided to wear her costume every day to science camp? That she would visit the bug zoo dressed like Jessie the cowgirl and make purple coloured slime?

Did you ever imagine this? I don’t know if you could, back in the fog of sleep deprivation and constant breast feeding and your back hurting from baby wearing. But you sure did hope for it. It’s hard to imagine, now, having a seven-year-old, what future self she will turn into. What music will play at the living room dance parties? When will she get tired of fetching mini wheats at Costco? When will she graduate from stage makeup to everyday makeup? It’s so hard to imagine what type of mother you’ll need to be. What the pre-teen version of “purple crying” is. What the teenage version of “sticker club” will be. What the young-adult equivalent of braiding hair at recess is.

She’s already shed her baby-self, her toddler-self, her kindergarten-self. And you’ve shed your shell-shocked new mom version of yourself and your “…but I thought we’d gotten the sleep schedule down!” toddler-mom self and your “overwhelmed by PAC emails” kindergarten-mom self.

It’s hard to imagine what the future holds. What type of older kid and pre-teen and teenager she’ll become. Who you will become to her.

For now, you can only imagine.

It’s hard to believe that five years have passed since COVID abruptly upended our lives. Since then, there’s been war, inflation, wildfires and a whole lot of “global instability,” as the euphemism goes. Little did we know that the “unprecedented times” would just keep going.

COVID, and the lockdown period, was an incredibly challenging time. Yet sometimes I look back at the silver linings: the unscheduled family time, the regular calls to family abroad, the pancakes on weekdays. The pandemic also brought us some coping strategies. These strategies are still useful, but some have fallen by the wayside as life’s stressors have shifted from panicking about toilet paper to being terrified of Trump.

Here are a few lessons from COVID that can help us as we move into the continually unpredictable future:

Go outside

Do you remember huddling around a backyard firepit in a puffy jacket during the cold spring days? Going on socially distanced walks to catch up with friends? During lockdown, my life revolved around the weather and which parks I could visit. I discovered new local gems in my efforts to find “beauty spots” without many visitors.

I recently took my daughter to the optometrist. She recommended that kids spend two hours everyday outside. Apparently, our eyes need to be exposed to bright lights that only exist in nature. I feel like the two hours outside rule is a good one for life, not just our eyes. Whether it’s walking, going to the playground or paddleboarding—time outside nourishes us.

Check in with your people

Remember at the beginning of the pandemic when all anyone would do was FaceTime each other before we got sick of screens? When one person would make sure everyone in the family got groceries? When we all asked, “How are you doing?” and talked about how strange everything was. Everything is still strange but now we’re busy again. I find myself assuming that friends are talking to someone else about how they’re doing. We’re back out in the world again—but is anyone okay now that the regular “coffee break” calls have stopped?

Everyone has a story

Remember the kids throwing tantrums in Zoom calls and cats popping their heads up during staff meetings? Remember how you never knew who your colleagues lived with before COVID? It was nice to see our coworkers transform from a cog in the machine to a multifaceted human being. Linda in HR went from the neurotic emailer to the gardener with a backyard sanctuary. Zoe in accounting ducked out of meetings to help her mother-in-law who was suffering from dementia. During COVID, the importance of staying home, getting vaccinated and washing your hands was also a stark reminder of how we’re all interconnected. How we rely on each other not only to live—but to thrive.

Change it up

Those first couple months of COVID felt like an eternity. Yet, looking back, I couldn’t remember what happened when. Did nana come by and sing a song outside our balcony during the first lockdown or a subsequent one? When did we first discover Music with Drew on YouTube?

In retrospect, so much is a blur—making cookies, the balcony visits, singing “She’ll be Coming Around the Mountain” in grandpa’s backyard… It was all wash, rinse, repeat until grandma was allowed to visit from Vancouver, and we spent the day at the beach building sandcastles. I remember that day because it was different. Routine is important, but everything is a blur when we do the same thing day-in and day-out.

Thinking back to the early days of lockdown, I can’t believe we lived through it. There was a time when we didn’t know whether we could hug people again, didn’t know if it was safe for grandparents to see grandkids, didn’t know when we could board a plane. There was a time when our “bubbles” were so small, when we missed sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by strangers, when we realized that Netflix isn’t a replacement for having a social life.

Be grateful

There is much to be thankful for now that the pandemic has receded. Let’s enjoy the simple things like indoor birthday parties, regular school days, sitting in a Dairy Queen with a Blizzard. We’ve come a long way, but it’s still worth reminding ourselves that when the going gets tough, sitting by the ocean with a friend helps, texting grandma helps, seeing each other as multifaceted people helps. I’m glad the “learning experience” of COVID is largely behind us—even if there are other challenges.

It’s time to make some memories again.

The other day, someone approached me at the pool: “Are you Julia?” she asked.

I knew by the way she asked that she was someone etched in my memory but looking at her face I couldn’t place her. “What’s your name?” I ventured, hoping to jog my memory. “Mariam.”

It immediately fell into place. “Oh yeah, we went to elementary school together.” We chatted while my six-year-old got bored and periodically asked for me to play with her.

Mariam’s eight-year-old approached us with a twirl, “watch me mom!”

“I’m having a conversation right now,” Mariam responded. “But you have to watch me, you’re my mom!” the eight-year-old insisted.

Mariam just chuckled. “Can you imagine if I ever said that to my parents, with how strict they were?”

Could I imagine? Until that point in the conversation, I had only remembered her on a peripheral level—she was in French immersion, friends with Natalie and Sofie. Until that point, when she’d spoken as if I were in her inner circle, I had forgotten that we had hung out quite a lot—that I’d even been to her house several times. A few images flashed back: sitting at her dining room table while her dad served us kebabs, religious paintings on the walls, rowdy big brothers who always picked on her, her mom watching the news on TV, hanging out in Mariam’s bedroom. There was nothing in these memories that reminded me of her family being strict as she implied, but of course, I was only a visitor swooping in and seeing a snippet of her life.

Now that my daughter has started having playdates, I’ve realized what a privilege it is to be invited into someone’s home, what a leap they are taking when they let you in. Let you in to see the intimate day-to-day life of their family.

When my daughter started kindergarten, she asked if her friend Maia could come over. I frantically cleaned—not because it was too messy for my liking, but because I didn’t want Maia going to school the next day saying, “her house was so gross.” I could just imagine the shame if she told her classmates, “I saw her mom’s underwear on the bathroom floor. Eww!”

Seeing a playmate’s home is a window into another life. What’s that person really like? What’s their life outside of school? What are the house rules? Are they allowed jalapeño poppers and pizza pockets for after-school snack? Or does their mom present soccer oranges and kale chips? Can we eat in the bedroom? Do I feel safe or do the parents seem weird? Do they let us watch TV?

During one playdate, a little girl asked about a picture on the wall. It was a framed photo of my husband’s religious leader. I had a moment of panic. I remembered being at friends’ houses seeing pictures of Christ on the cross and thinking how strange that seemed to me, coming from an atheist household. How different that family seemed. It didn’t occur to me that now my multi-faith family might seem “weird” for another kid. That we might be the odd ones out. Just as I started to explain the significance of the picture to the little girl, she moved onto my daughter’s “special drawer” and started examining her favourite rocks and prizes from trips to the dentist.

I thought back to Mariam’s house from an adult lens. How hard it must have been being one of the few racialized kids in a white suburban neighbourhood. How this was one of the few townhouses I had been in as a privileged kid. How Mariam might have been self-conscious that her dad was serving kebabs instead of Kraft Dinner. I wondered what had been happening geopolitically in the ’90s that led her immigrant mom to be constantly watching the news. How the family handled moving to Canada with three kids.

Last year, my daughter had a friendship that turned south. When she lost her friend and we fell out with the family, I thought, “Oh no, they’ve seen everything. They know so much about me. They know that we have toys out of bins and an overbearing grandma and sports bras that are out drying on the rack. They’ve seen it all and now I don’t know if I can trust them. Will the entire class know that our house has spiders in the basement? Will this kid tell all the others about my patterned sports bra?”

How will my daughter’s classmates remember our home when they are grown up and run into her at the pool? Will Maia look back and think, “those parents were always on their computers, or they always gave us tasty Costco quiches, or they promised me mac and cheese and the water took forever to boil and I was so hungry?” Will she make the type of friends who like us despite our mess? Because of it?

Will they think back and remember “that home had a nice atmosphere, or her parents seemed like they really cared about her, or that was such a warm environment to be in?”

I hope so. Or maybe they will just block it out completely. Not wonder at all. After all, it’s just another playdate. Just another home.

Just another mom trying her best.

When I was looking for work after mat leave, I had an interview that I thought went really well. I ended up knowing one of the panelists, the hiring manager was friendly and enthused about me having a baby. She asked lots of follow-up questions and the job was almost directly related to my degree.

Around the same time, I had another interview that felt awkward and stilted. I left thinking, “Oh boy, I did not put my best foot forward. I’m glad that’s over.”

To my surprise, I got the job from the interview I thought I flopped and didn’t get the one that had gone well. After that I thought to myself, “I can only control what I put out into the world. I can’t control what comes back.” I had no idea what happened behind the scenes that led to me getting a job I felt less qualified for and not getting the one where I thought I aced the interview.

I’ve taken this attitude into parenting to try to keep myself from going mad from the illogical randomness of children. Sometimes parenting feels like firing off resumès into an algorithm that’s skipping over your key words.

“Say please. Did you say please? What’s the magic word?” It can be so hard to know if you’re getting through. If they’re picking up what you’re putting down. So hard to know if your efforts are paying off. Is she healthier from those cucumber slices I lay beside the grilled cheese? Is the $80 a month for gymnastics leading to better strength and coordination? Was the tantrum from cutting her off from that last Bluey episode truly worth whatever benefits having eight minutes less screentime makes?

But then there are times that surprise you in a good way. When they’ve really picked up what you, or school, or grandma has been putting down.

We were driving to gymnastics in silence when my daughter piped up out of nowhere, “Whenever I think about that girl who couldn’t wear her orange shirt and had to go to sleep-away school, I think how sad that is.”

I was awakened from my daydreaming as I prepared to make a right turn.

“But I’m glad we have Orange Shirt Day now. I’m glad our teachers tell us about Orange Shirt Day and Terry Fox and stuff like that.”

This was late October–about a month after Truth and Reconciliation Day and even longer since the Terry Fox run. I didn’t know how much she had picked up from the school assemblies and our discussions at home.

I tried to elicit more information without being too obvious–like avoiding eye contact with a deer: “Why are you glad they teach you about that stuff, sweetie?”

My six-year-old suddenly turned into a self-conscious teenager with her reaction, “I dunno. ‘Cause it’s important” she retorted as if I had just accused her of something. I went into a monologue about how she’s right and even though some topics aren’t fun or happy they’re still important to learn about.

I must have still been thinking over my daughter’s reflection because I missed my turn and ended up overshooting and doing a huge loop to get to the gymnastics studio. When I got there, I looked at the clock, “Oh no! We’re 10 minutes late, I thought we were just a couple minutes behind!”

“That’s okay” my daughter responded, throwing off her shoes and running down the stairs to join her classmates on the long tramp.

“It is okay,” I thought. “It is okay that we’re late and it is way more than okay that my daughter was thinking about Orange Shirt Day a month after it happened.”

Trying our best is all we can really do as parents. We try to put down what we hope they will pick up. Then try again–and who knows–they might surprise us. They might just remember what’s important.

These days, you recite a French poem at the dinner table about a dog who doesn’t like cats or bunnies or chickens. I don’t understand it. But I understand that you think you’re telling a silly story, while your teacher thinks she’s teaching you French grammar and negative sentence structures.

These days, you wiggle your front tooth with your tongue, and I wince as it flaps about. These days are the days before your toothless grin, before a gap in your smile, before a new toothy smile filled with adult teeth. These are the days you hope you’ll lose the wiggly tooth at school so you can get a plastic toy chest from the office. We’re in the days when I learn they’re called “bell teeth.” We’re still years away from your molars falling out, just past your first cavity, a few weeks shy of the first lipstick you’ll wear at your first dance recital.

We’re in the days when you can spell “love” and “Mama” and “Dada” and “to” but still need help spelling “from” and “Grandma” and “Grandpa.” I know you could spell “Nanna” if you tried—but you always ask me anyway.

We’re in the days of your first Scholastic book fair when you call the catalogue a magazine and say. “We don’t need it anyway because I know what I want.” And I know what you want too. You want Bluey’s Vacation and I know I’ll buy it for you because your Bluey stage will run its course soon and then I won’t be able to watch cartoons about a dog mom who just can’t relax on vacation as hard as she tries.

We’re in the days of an H-shaped band aid over the stitches you got from a skating accident and before the days when we know what the healed scar will look like. We’re in the days of palms covered with popped blisters from the monkey bars and Dada explaining what calluses are. We’re in the days of being able to skip monkey bars but “only on the moving ones.” We’re in the days of “did you get blisters when you were a kid, Mama?”

We’re in the days of hot lunches, of mac and cheese and banana smoothies. We’re passed the days when I didn’t know I was supposed to pack a fork. Passed the days when I arrived at 12:10pm instead of 12pm to volunteer to put out the lunches. We’re in the days of Grandma and Grandpa feeding you Annie’s pasta and Nanna feeding you frozen Amy’s lasagnas. We’re in the days of Oikos lime yogurt and chopped up sausage and koala cookies from Costco. We’re in the days where I still pack carrot sticks even though they always come back uneaten.

These days, I try not to think of the days when you won’t call me Mama anymore and no longer ask “What do you like better: Spaghetti or lasagna? Unicorns or horses?” The days when girls teasing won’t just be sticking out tongues. The days when you won’t give me running hugs and crawl into our bed for Cocomelon in the morning. These days, I worry I won’t remember whether you preferred Blippi or Meekah.

I wonder what will happen to the drawings in that bank box I meant to do something with. I wonder about the boys in your class and if one day I’ll have to avoid eye contact with their moms when we run into each other in the pool change room. I wonder who you’ll be once soccer teams have try-outs. I wonder what life will be like when the pancakes I make aren’t purple from the sprinkles you put in. I wonder about the days beyond riding pretend unicorns to school. The days when we no longer read “Schtoompa the Funny Austrian” and “Glip and Glop, the Greek Painters.”

Will I ask, “Do you remember when you called excavators snorts?”

“Do you remember how I had to explain Taylor Swift to you?”

“Do you remember that poem about dogs who didn’t like cats or bunnies or chickens?”

“Do you remember your negative French sentence structure?”

Is that what I’ll ask? Or will I just ask, “Do you remember how much I love you?”

I held onto the railing as I walked down the steep stairs, balancing a bag of beach toys in my hand and a toddler on my hip. When I let my daughter down, she ran off toward the tidal pools like a spring suddenly released—bouncing back once the pressure lets up.

Those were the days when I would sit on the beach and watch her run around mostly naked, covering herself with wet sand, clad only in training underwear. She loved that beach with its warm tidepools, the crabs under rocks and sand-castle conducive sand. I loved it because the trek down the stairs, although arduous, made it seem otherworldly and like our own private oasis.

I had never been to that beach before the COVID-19 lockdown, when I suddenly found myself Googling “parks in Victoria without playgrounds” and texting my mom for recommendations of hidden gems. During lockdown, my two-year-old and I had a routine of going to a park or beach every morning and staying out as long as we could until we raced home for a washroom and lunch.

That spring, we discovered some gems: Francis King Park, Gowland Todd, Arbutus Cove, Finnerty Cove and Telegraph Beach, among others. Often, we’d just sit on the beach singing the songs from the YouTube list that was the soundtrack to our family’s lockdown, blasting “She’ll be coming around the mountain” at the top of our lungs while the other families in the distance chuckled from the other side of the beach.

Even with the lockdown, the social restrictions and the looming existential crisis around us—those are some of my best family memories. It somehow seemed so simple—being in nature, not worrying about a packed schedule, keeping up with social engagements or rushing to activities. There was just us and the only option for entertainment was nature.

Now with a school-aged kid and the pandemic lifted, I find myself feeling stifled by schedules. There’s gymnastics on Wednesday, Sunday morning soccer, dance recitals, school fundraisers, birthday parties and playdates. Then of course there are work deadlines, workouts to keep up with and aging parents to think about. What’s more, I can’t set the agenda anymore—my daughter now has opinions on what she wants to do and a social circle of her own.

The other day after ballet and our ritual of post-ballet coffee (me) and ice cream (her), I suggested we go to a “beauty spot.” With playgrounds open again, the term “park” has come to mean playground for my daughter. My suggestion of visiting a “beauty spot” rather than a park was met with a six-year-old going on 16 pout of “I don’t want to.” Often, I’ll give in, but this time I stuck to my guns and insisted we go to a beach afterwards. “I don’t like beauty spots!”

When we pulled up to our “beauty spot” and looked out over the beach and the ocean, we saw a regatta of sailboats with colourful spinnakers up. At first, my daughter climbed onto the car door, peering out at the boats with fascination. Eventually, we wandered over to the beach. She stuck her hand on the rocky beach and spotted a small spire shaped shell.

“You didn’t tell me there were mermaid shells mommy!” she gasped. She kept raking her fingers through the beach “and sea glass!”

“Mama, can we bring this pretty rock home? Can you put this in your pocket? Mama, you found one that looks like a heart! Let’s make Dada a collection too!”

She filled my pockets with tiny gems, a collection for each family member, and bounced across the beach to the rocky outlook. “Look, purple flowers! A secret path! Can we follow it mommy?” “Sure” I smiled. “I thought you’d like it here.”

During COVID, exploring nature kept our spirits up when everything was uncertain. Now, with the pandemic behind us, we are firmly in the era of booking summer camps at 6:30am and hardly having a weekend without a birthday party. These days, our nature adventures are a way to explore without a schedule, without a plan, without expectation. I knew she’d like the “beauty spot” but I had no idea she’d pretend the driftwood was a balance beam, the rocks were a stage and the park bench was a restaurant.

After our outings in nature, I feel so full—my shoulders lower, my breath deepens and picking up a birthday present for the next party suddenly seems less urgent. Exploring outdoors was the medicine I needed during lockdown and it’s the taste of freedom I need now.

“I’ll hold your hand mommy. It can be scary to walk across the net. Try not to look down.”

I bend over sideways to hold my five-year-old’s hand and awkwardly walk across a net 100 feet in the air, all while staring at the sky so as to avoid height-induced vertigo.

“We’re almost at the other side mommy! Good job!”

My husband took my daughter to the Malahat Skywalk for a Pro-D Day and she came back bouncing up and down.

“The slide is so fun! I was sad you weren’t there.”

So, we went again, as a family, so she could show me the cute wooden bear in the forest below the pathway, the amazing view of the Salish Sea, the aforementioned “adventure net” at the top of the structure and, of course, the 20-metre twisty slide she raved about. I heard about the Skywalk slide. The slide she loved was one of the reasons I hadn’t visited the attraction yet. Heights and adrenaline are not exactly… my thing.

When we arrived, I saw that the slide started halfway down the structure.

“Oh that doesn’t look so bad,” I thought. Until we walked to the top, did several five-year-old-designed “challenges” across the net and waited in the long-weekend-sized line up listening to people scream as they went down the “so fun” slide.

My husband offered to hold our spot in line while we headed down to the playground, a welcome distraction and a chance to release a nervous pee. The mood at the bottom of the Skywalk was festive: there was a band, a campfire, hot dogs and ice cream for sale.

My daughter had a great time climbing on the beams on the playground. Then I got the text from my husband that it was almost our turn, and we ran up, my daughter giddy with excitement and my heart pounding.

I looked over to the sign “If you are uncomfortable in confined spaces or rapid tilting, you should not participate in the spiral slide.” The words “YOU WILL SLIDE AT HIGH SPEEDS!” were highlighted in all caps. I couldn’t exactly plead ignorance now.

I asked to go first to get it over with. My daughter coached me saying “this is amazing yay yay yay!”

I practiced my mantra in line. “This is amazing yay yay yay. This is amazing yay yay yay.”

“Okay,” I thought to myself, “If I say that line, I’ll be down by the time the phrase is complete. It’s only supposed to take eight to 10 seconds.”

I sat down at the mouth of the metal tunnel, placed my feet in the mat, and scooted myself down the descent as my daughter cheered from behind “Go mommy!”

As I sped down the slide, I repeated her mantra. “thisisamazingyayyayyay, thisisamazingyayyayyay, thisisamazingyayyayyay.” I was still not down. How many times would I have to repeat this phrase? “…thisisamazingyayyayyay, thisisama..”

The light opened above me, and I looked up relieved at the attendant beside me.

I had done it. I made it down the slide. I hopped out and pulled out my iPhone, ready to capture my daughter eight to 10 seconds after my exit. I caught her exhilarated smile as she hopped out and gave me a hug.

“That was so fun! You did it mommy!”

“Let’s film dada now,” I suggested.

We both crouched down at the base of the slide and turned on video mode to record dada’s “whoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoao” all the way down.

“Ice cream!” my daughter yelled as she ran off to the concession. And my husband and I trailed behind at our glacial adult pace.

“Yeah, next time I’m walking down,” I muttered under my breath.

Sometimes it’s hard to know what lessons to teach our kids. Should I have taught her to listen to your gut and not have tried the slide? To follow directions by obeying the sign and its warning that it was not meant for people like me? Was I right to show her that going outside your comfort zone is sometimes worthwhile?

That day, I decided to put on my big girl pants, take a deep breath and join in my daughter’s excitement. To do something I never would have done without her insistence and kindergarten-aged coaching. I took the leap and slid into fun.

When my daughter was a newborn, I went to a baby group for new moms every Monday. Each week there would be a different theme and facilitators would ask us about our experiences and encourage us to compare notes on the various trials and tribulations of new motherhood: nap schedules, teething, introducing solids.

I looked forward to it all week and following the session, the stories from the other moms stayed with me–how one woman described her little girl as “baby Jesus” since her pregnancy was so unlikely, another woman expressed disappointment at how her friends responded to her newborn struggles with “but I thought this is what you wanted,” a single mom whose dad flew in from France for her delivery. It was nice to be surrounded by people at the same stage of life, saying things that made so much sense to me but didn’t resonate with my own immediate circle. I also loved that it was on Monday mornings, when it felt like the rest of the world would disappear after the weekend to the “more important” things they had to do while I was home again in a blur of feed, nap, get groceries, change diapers, repeat. If it wasn’t for my baby group routine, every day would run into the next.

Now my daughter is in Kindergarten and I’ve felt a wave of unsettledness come over me again. Not because I need help with the basics of keeping her alive like I did when she was a newborn, but because this is the part of parenthood where everyone told me it would get easier. Now she’s not a little kid anymore, she’s not as exhausting as a toddler or needy as a baby–but I thought I would be closer to my pre-kid self by now. From a practical perspective, she is less dependent on me, but I’ve grown more attached to her, and I don’t want to upset my delicate balance of work and family time by taking on any more “me” things. What’s more, there’s a whole new host of parenting challenges to contend with: fights with friends, the logistics of playdates, whole summers off school, kids pushing in line. Only now, the other moms are all working and don’t have time to sit around for an hour sharing survival tricks.

When my daughter was a newborn, someone told me “It doesn’t get easier, it just gets different.” I was so annoyed by this “advice” that I could have thrown my breast pump in their face. And yet, although many things are easier now, it also seems like every time I find a new routine, something in the mix changes and I’m scrambling to find my stride again.

When I look at parents with small kids, I almost feel like I’m getting off easy. I’m still mom-ing but I don’t need to carry Baby Mum-Mums, a bottle, a change of clothes and a muslin with me all the time. I’m not sleep deprived anymore, only sleepy. Bursting into tears is no longer a regular event. My child is taken care of, for free, most of the workday. It is not as all-encompassing as the early years. And yet, sometimes I still wish a nice public health nurse would call me and say: “There are people who get it, there are people who are waiting to talk to you about after-school snacks and playdate etiquette and whether to make your kid stick with extracurriculars they don’t like. You are not the only one who finds this hard.”

I think of what I loved about that mom group: feeling understood, having people around who were genuinely interested in listening to my parenting troubles, being in an open-minded group of peers, having a routine and something to look forward to. Perhaps the people I’m looking for are at drop-off in the morning or parenting my daughter’s big buddy or doing plies beside me at Barre class. Perhaps I need to recreate this group in a different form–Baby Group 2.0 could take place in a book club, at the PTA, with mom friends at the office. Maybe I can find another space where I’m surrounded by people at the same stage of life who say things that make sense to me.

But for now, I sure do miss that baby group.

Dear Little One: I wonder what you will remember about this time. What will become part of you and what won’t. Which one of my precious memories will slip away as you become different versions of yourself over and over again.

I love this five-year-old version of you with soft skin that I stroke during our “Five-minute sleep with me” time before bed. How you always say “too tight mommy” when I wrap my arm around your waist. I love the version of you who insists on putting jewels on your face the day after Halloween. And how you ask if we can leave the pumpkins out “for just a little bit longer.” I love the version of you that runs amok trick-or-treating and says over and over “this is so much fun!”. I love the version of you whose entire body jumps and whose smile cracks wide open when I tell you Nanna is coming. It’s adorable how you decide your doll, “Dancing Lucas,” is your brother one day, a dad another day and a classmate the next. I love hearing you talk about your big buddy and watching you pack the friendship bracelet and card you made for her. It was amazing seeing the shock on your face when I surprised you on hot lunch day.

What I Remember At Your Age

I think back to what I remember at your age—walking to school with Meredith Clark. Fighting with Meredith over who could partner with Oliver Shumer when we were asked to walk two-by-two from our portable to the gym. Seeing my name above my coat hanger in the cloakroom and feeling like it was a secret spot just for me. I remember my teacher telling us we had to ask to go to the bathroom in French and teaching me “ou sont les ciseaux?” I remember sitting in circle time and singing the alphabet. But there is a lot I don’t remember—I don’t remember who picked me up from school, what I had for lunch, even what we did on the weekends. I only remember my lopsided smile and freckles because of my school photo. And sometimes I wonder, if that story about me naming the cat, the one I called “lover because I love her so much” is my own memory or one I made up from hearing the family lore so often. I do remember my mom rubbing my back when I was upset and making me eggs every morning. I remember my dad making roast and Yorkshire puddings on special occasions and fishing for compliments the whole time. But there are vast swaths of childhood that this version of myself hasn’t retained.

My Memories

When I think back to kindergarten, my most vivid memories are about school and friends. But, surprisingly few memories of my parents. This is of course, a bit disconcerting from my current vantage point as a mom. What if you don’t remember our family outing in the snow to the Forestry Museum last Christmas? What if your memories of daddy-daughter Costco trips, where you pick out a bouquet of flowers for me, disappear? And what if you never remember the little fox vase beside your bed that I fill with gerbers. But also, what if you remember how I snapped at you for trying to “help me” by pulling out a flower by its head instead of the stem, crushing the petals as you tried to yank the brightest flower for yourself? What if you remember seeing me crying on the toilet during Covid? How I bad mouthed Nanna after she cut your bangs?

Your Memories

But of course, I can’t control what you keep as your memories, good or bad. I only have my own mom-memories to treasure: looking at you, not being you. As a parent, I try to create memories for you. Taking you to see mall Santa, visiting your cousins overseas, stopping to see the full moon on the drive back from Grandpa’s. Memories, in many ways, are our legacy as parents. Once you’ve grown up and left, you’ll be able to look back at the childhood we “created” with fondness. But what if you don’t? What if, like me, you remember most vividly the parts of childhood that didn’t involve us? What if all those late nights making special lunches and hiding elves on the shelves melt away with the fallibleness that is remembering? Or what if you only remember my shameful parenting moments?

Then I remember, my job isn’t to give you good memories, although that would be really, really nice. My job is to make sure you’re okay. Make sure you learn how to navigate the world. Watch me fall down and get back up. Know you are loved. Know how to feel anger without hitting, feel sadness without hopelessness and be happy in a troubled world. Show kindness. Develop empathy. Offer gloves to a friend when it’s cold out.

Despite my scattered memories, my parents made me feel safe in the world, they let me be myself and those things are no small feat. I’m sure they have their own memories of watching me grow up that I will never have. Instead, I’m sure they remember being a living, feeling human who did their best. After all, that’s all any of us can do.