I once read a quote that said, ‘A son is a son ‘til he gets a wife, but a daughter is a daughter all her life’. No disrespect to the author but as a mom of 2 boys, I refuse to believe this.

I remember getting irrationally irritated when I read this quote. Was she telling me that my sons were only temporary and that I’d lose them to their life partners? Or worse yet, if I had a daughter, she’d still need me? Not buying it.  #sorrynotsorry

I am sure there are parents out there who can attest to this quote being true. However, I’d like to believe there are also parents who can disprove it. It’s natural for things to shift once you have a child start a family of their own. I truly believe a lot of factors can determine whether a child would disconnect from their (original) family. For example, personality, level of closeness, privacy, stress and family drama, and the relationship between the child’s partner and his parents/siblings. But this isn’t reserved for just sons.

The idea that my sons wouldn’t need me anymore once they married really bothered me. Perhaps it was just fear getting the best of me. I know this is a long time off, given their ages, but I don’t plan on saying goodbye when each of my sons say, “I do’. So, I will work hard at disproving this quote. I will try to build a foundation that will sustain our relationships for, well, forever.

Here’s how:

• 1. Open communication:  I’ve always followed the rule that states ‘if you don’t listen to the small stuff, they won’t tell you the big stuff’. Why else would I know so much about Pokémon and Fortnite? I created a very open dialogue with my kids at a young age. They know they can tell me anything. We also talk about feelings a lot. Their future partners will either love me or hate me for this.
• 2. Raise Mama’s boys:  While this wasn’t intentional, my boys are Mama’s boys. Not in a creepy way, more in a ‘they love their mom and are very protective of her’ way. How could they not be? I’ve been single parenting them for 6 years. As primary parent, they are with me all the time, learning from me, watching and listening to me. I’m raising these two little men, and they have become so close to me. I truly value my relationship with my boys.
• 3. Talk about the future:  My oldest wants to have a well-paying job, but not work too much that it keeps him from his family. He also wants to drive a fancy car. My youngest wants to be happy with a wife and kids and a comfortable house. Playing in the NHL is also on his goal list. We talk about education, schools, and travelling. But the thing is, they factor me into these plans (of their own accord). In fact, they have my future planned for me.  Each of them wants me to live with them when I am older. Both will have a basement apartment for me, whether (and I quote) “my wife likes it or not”.  I’m rethinking the creepy factor here.  
• 4. Spend time together:  Create traditions, whether it be games night or Taco Tuesday’s. Spend quality time together. I try to invest in my kid’s interests. For example, I hate sports. In fact, I can’t throw or catch a ball to save my life! Yet, you will see me outside playing street hockey with my youngest son. I will shoot hoops because it means I get to spend time with my oldest. Guess what? I will keep doing this until I’m old and grey and my knees or hips give out, whichever comes first.

My 10-year-old promised me, out of nowhere, that he will still want to spend time with me when he’s older. I chose to believe he meant that. I joked and said “of course, why wouldn’t you? I’m super cool “, but inside I was ugly crying. He also said he’d bring me Reese’s peanut butter cups when he visits me. He knows the way to my heart, that one.

Of course, I am not naïve enough to think that things won’t change as they grow up. In years to come, new love will take priority. But that’s okay, because it’s not a competition. Once they are raised, I will take pride in their independence and the men they will have become. It’ll be my turn to take a backseat. But you mark my words, I will still be along for the ride with these men, who will still be my sons.

In the famous words of Robert Munsch, when it comes to my boys, ‘as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be’.

When I had my first child, I knew right away that I’d want a second. It wasn’t because I loved childbirth so much that I wanted to keep reproducing. I just liked the idea of giving my child a lifelong companion. Having grown up with 3 siblings, it’s all I knew.  

Little did I realize that signing up for Motherhood automatically signs you up for the role of full-time referee. However, if I had wanted that gig, I would have joined a sport. Many years ago, I remember standing between my teenage sisters crying ‘why can’t we all just get along?‘ I hated when they’d fight. Fast forward to now, and I’m a 43-year-old woman standing between two mini-me’s, asking the same question. Forever the peacekeeper, I am.

It’s natural for siblings to fight, I know. However, is it natural for siblings to fight over, well, anything?

Things my kids fight about:

• Farts: I kid you not, they have fought over farts. Who farted, who took too long to admit it and who smells worse. They have proven that whoever smelt it may not have dealt it.

• Who forgot to flush: One child blames the other, yet both deny that they pooped. Well, someone had to because the toilet didn’t shit itself, now did it and it sure as heck wasn’t me.

• The TV remote: They both want it and can never agree on a show. Then, once a show is on, oddly enough someone finds the volume ‘too loud’.

• Sitting in the front seat of the car: My youngest son isn’t even old enough to sit in the front seat, yet they still fight over this. He always calls ‘shotgun’ when walking towards the car, just to piss off his brother. It works, every time.
• Chores: We rotate daily who dries the dishes and who puts them away. It’s always a sweet after dinner treat to hear them argue over whose turn it is to do what.
• The phone charger: One of my kids always needs a charger, and no one can ever find one. Both will claim they didn’t have it last. Oh, and apparently, the kid with the lowest percentage of battery remaining trumps the other. “How much battery do you have? I have 5%“
• Brushing their teeth: Nothing sets the mood for bedtime quite like one kid pushing the other out of the way of the sink. “MOM, I was here first!” one will yell, while the other one stands nearby with a mouthful of toothpaste. Venom in his eyes, and spit in his mouth. Hush little babies don’t say word.
• Who did it (he said/he said): This one has to be the worst. Both have their side of the story, drastically different. Of course, in each story, the sibling is in the wrong. It’s often hard to know who’s telling the truth. Who hit who first, or who said a bad word, or insulted the other?  Often, there are tears and it’s hard to know who did what.  Referee, interrogator, private investigator, and judge. This mama wears many hats.

I can chuckle now as I read these, but the truth is I wish their fighting didn’t faze me. I often wish I were one of those cool as a cucumber mom’s. You know the type. The ones who can just break up the fights with no emotion involved. They simply ignore the commotion and walk away, letting the kids figure it out for themselves through screams or fists. Instead, I get consumed by the fighting. It drains me emotionally, taking a toll on my mental health.

The funny thing is, as often as they fight, they don’t. They go from one extreme to the other in a split second. Often, it’s unexpected and catches me off guard. They could be sitting side by side, not at all bothered by the presence of the other. Then, within 16 seconds, the fact that the other one is breathing threatens a war.

Then, there are the times when I know what’s coming. I try to prevent it before the gloves come off. Usually this starts with them being hyper and laughing, perhaps getting along TOO well. Before you know it, someone is hurt and it’s time to enter the ring.

Despite the frequency and intensity of the fighting, I know my boys don’t hate one another. That’s the silver lining, I guess. Rarely do they hurl such hurtful words (as hate), which I’m thankful for. They are also fiercely protective of one another. They will always say I love you before their heads hit the pillow, no matter what had transpired that day. Once, my oldest son apologized to his brother for being rude to him.  I nearly passed out cold junk in the other room when I heard the exchange. But I’ll take that as a parenting win!

I have a feeling the bickering, arguing, tormenting, and attitude will get worse before it gets better, as they age. Two boys, only 2.5 years apart, what can you expect? However, I will keep reminding (or trying to convince) myself that all this fighting is just temporary. That’s what this ref is holding onto. You can’t win em’ all!

I hate this question.

Honestly, I don’t know the answer. I tend to not make long term plans as I’ve learned that there are too many moving variables. Life can change in an instant so why focus on 5 years down the road when you can plan for today. Live for today.

This one is easy.

This year is going to be hellish. I’m not comfortable with change and it’s only been a year since the biggest change of my life, but I would tell myself to buckle up as there are more changes coming. These changes are not just for me and the kids, either, but for everyone. Globally.

No one could have predicted a Global Pandemic; you know the type of shit you see in the movies except without Matt Damon or Will Smith coming to the rescue. We will all have to wear masks in public. Playgrounds and schools will be closed. Streets will be empty, and I won’t see family or friends often. We will all live in bubbles. Literally. The government will dictate who we can and cannot see. I will tell myself that I will eat, sleep, live, work and play at home. Every day, I will be glued to the TV, waiting to hear the daily number of confirmed COVID 19 cases in the city, country and around the world. I will worry with every sniffle, cough and fart. I will wonder what is happening and more importantly, I’ll worry constantly whether we will all be ok.

I would tell my 2019 self that yes, we will all be ok. I would recommend more sleep and less overthinking. Take it a day at a time and don’t live in fear. There’s no need to wipe down groceries after I bring them home. I will not run out of toilet paper. Oh, and take advantage of curbside pickup, it’s super convenient (even in 2024)! I’d tell myself to smile at strangers. It’s a kind way to remind people that we are all in this together, despite how alone and scared we feel. There is something powerful in hearing a stranger tell you to ‘stay safe’. Pay it forward.

Slowly, as the year goes by, things will improve. l would tell myself that we move out of the basement apartment that suffocated me and my children and into a house we will call home, with a backyard and nice neighbors. This will help my children settle tremendously. I’d be excited to share the news that l meet a new man, and he will help me heal and restore my faith in many things, including love.

Oh, and I’d tell myself that the new size 4 figure that I have come to love won’t be sticking around. It turns out the 25 pounds lost from stress and tears will reappear this year into next. Others like to call it the Covid- 20, I called it regaining my appetite. Long story short, go shopping.

The words Covid-19 become somewhat less scary as time passes. You adjust to the new norm. Life carries on.

Girllllllllllll, get help!! (Ouch!) While I am busy in 2014 trying to convince myself that crying in the dark bathroom every morning is normal, it’s not. I have a 3-year-old and a 6-month-old, and am living in a fog, sleep deprived and irritable. And I’m not a single parent (yet) so I shouldn’t be doing this all on my own. It’s not all on you, Sonya. Why are you allowing it? You’re getting burnt out.

I would tell myself that I have Post-Partem depression and anxiety. It took a year for me to realize this. Sadly, it takes a few more years before I find the courage to ask for help. It’s presenting itself as a mood disorder, as well. It does that, the sneaky bastard. One day, I’ll cry over spilled milk, the next I’ll sing about it and clean it up without flinching. The kids don’t know what to think, or what Mom they’ll get on any given day. I would spell it out for myself, something is wrong. Please, get help today! Stop holding out hope that things will get better on their own. They won’t. As they say, nothing changes if nothing changes. And nothing was changing.

As a result of the post-partem fog I was living in for most of 2014, I have no idea how old my youngest son was when he first crawled, walked or said his first word. I would tell myself to let it go, it doesn’t matter! Who gives a shit! All that matters is he hit, hell he surpassed, all milestones. He’s smart, funny, fast and amazing.

I would advise myself that like my figure, the sleep deprivation goes away. However, that doesn’t happen until the next year. I’d tell myself that 2015 has a few perks, including me starting a job (outside the home). It was clear to see that being a stay-at-home mom was not for me. In some ways, this new job would save my life. I would tell myself about a new co-worker who becomes a close friend and lifeline through the divorce (oh, 4 year spoiler! We get divorced!). The office becomes a place to laugh, make connections and meet new people. I would tell myself that it feels good to serve a purpose in an environment where I feel like me again. Sonya, not Mommy.

I’d love to know what the 5 years in the future Sonya would say to me right now. Perhaps she would tell me that I’m still too hard on myself. Or that I need to think less, relax more and be proud of the woman I have become and the boys I have raised. I guess I’ll have to just keep taking things as they come, day by day, moment to moment if needed, and figure the next 5 years out for myself.

Christmas 2022, I gave my counsellor a pencil for Christmas. While it accompanied a journal, the main part of the gift was a pencil. I know to you it may sound silly, but it was not. In fact, for a short period of time, while adjusting to life after divorce, I walked around with a pencil in my purse. I had no intentions of using it. It was symbolic, as my counsellor had explained. And I needed a constant reminder of that, so I carried it with me.

I remember, a couple of years prior, sitting on her couch, crying. The stereotypical therapy session, right? I owe this woman 20 boxes of tissues, I am sure of it. This session wasn’t long after I separated from my spouse, after 8 years of marriage and 20 years together. I remember saying “this wasn’t my plan for life”. She took out a pencil and said, “Do you know why pencils have erasers?”  I said, “to erase mistakes”. She simply said “No, but plans change” and went on to explain that plans are fluent. We often get a chance for a do over. This was one of those chances.

It made complete sense, and I cried harder. Maybe because at the time I didn’t want things to change because I was so lonely and scared to death. I was coming to terms with my divorce, trying to keep myself together, while caring for my kids, who also felt like they were falling apart.

I’ve always been resistant to change. I never handled it well. While I know that good things can come from change, I’m very much a creature of habit so anything new, anything that disrupts the equilibrium of life, is terrifying in my mind.

Yet there I was, a 37 year old woman who had been with her spouse for literally more than half of her life, in unchartered territory. Alone. Two kids in tow. One income. No house. Broken.

While I don’t like referring to myself as ‘broken’ back then, but when I was unable to get off the bathroom floor from crying, there is no other way to describe how I felt other than broken.  My life, my heart, my family, my emotions, all shattered in pieces on the bathroom floor. No amount of glue could put them back together, I thought. I felt.

Something my counsellor said during that session resonated with me. Broken implies damaged beyond repair. I changed my thinking and saw myself as shattered, but someday my pieces would go back together, just in a different way. I would be slightly different than I was before, but no less beautiful. She said I’d be stronger. I liked that idea.

It’s been 6 years since that session. While I feel there are still pieces that need tighter glue to stay in place, I am back together. Not without scars, flaws or carrying around pieces of myself that still carry the weight of the past so heavily. But I’m in one piece. My counsellor was right……. I am different. I am most definitely stronger. Bathroom floors are strictly for cleaning these days.

I recently discovered a song by Kelly Clarkson called ‘Broken and beautiful’. When I play it, I sing it loud and proud, especially when she says “I know I’m superwoman. I know I’m strong. I know I’ve got this cause I’ve had it all along.  I’m phenomenal. I’m enough. I don’t need you to tell me who to be”.

Kelly sings “I’m broken and it’s beautiful”. However, when I sing it, I say “I’m reconstructed and it’s beautiful’. For some reason, it doesn’t have the same effect. Perhaps that’s why she’s the professional sing/songwriter. I’ll just stick to my blog.

I am a full-time single mom. Which means, I am ‘ON’ 24/7. I do get a break of sorts every month or two when they spend time with their dad. But I’m the primary parent. It’s really fun and not at all exhausting. Ha!

My kiddos recently spent a week with their Dad while I travelled out of town. Where they are with me full time, a week was a long time to be apart. The evening I got home, my oldest son was cuddling me. He was wrapped around me in a hug in his bed, with his head resting on my lap. He said to me ‘you’re so warm’.  I thought he meant my skin, so I touched my hand. It didn’t feel warm to me.

Then he said words that will forever ring in my ears. “You’re like home to me. My safe place. You’re warm’.

It took everything in me not to cry. I simply said ‘awwwww, thank you, love’. But what I wanted to say was ‘thank you’. Thank you, my child, for giving me, your mother, the most beautiful compliment you could have ever given me.

You see, a few years ago, after separating from his Dad, my young son was a hurt, sad and even a little bit angry. For a couple years, we navigated torrential waters. He’d often hurl negative words at me, and while I would try to let them bounce off me, they cut me deep. My counsellor would say that he said these things for one reason only: because he knew that I was his safe place and no matter what he said, I wasn’t going anywhere. It didn’t make it right, and it didn’t make it hurt any less, but knowing why he was saying them, made me love him harder.

So I listened to him lash out. I watched the tantrums. While I could have handled things much differently, many would have, but instead I chose to hold on tight and love him through it.

It worked.

It took some time, but there are no more negative words being spat out of hurt and anger. In fact, today, if he says anything remotely disrespectful to me, he apologizes and hugs me.

That night, on my bed, he finally vocalized accepting what was always right there in front of him all along. Me.

It’s me.

I’m warm.

I’m safe.