It was a good weekend.

I love school.  I love sharp pencils and blank notebooks just waiting to be written on.  I used to love the promise of September, of a new school year with new projects and new challenges.  I have eight years of post-secondary education under my belt, and I would happily go back for more if I thought my busy life could juggle it.  But that’s not in the cards for me in the foreseeable future, so for now, continuing education seminars are the “school” that meets that need.

RCCSSI attended one such seminar this past weekend.  It was the Royal College of Chiropractic Sports Sciences annual conference.  Quite the title, no?  I’ve been to this conference before, and I love it every year.  This year’s theme was “Train Smarter,” and we listened to wonderful presenters like Mark Rippetoe, Christian Thibaudeau, and Dr. Andreo Spina talk about training, performance, and movement.  Two days of bliss, where I could sit with my sharpened pencil and my new notebook and soak up new ways of thinking and new forms of inspiration

But you know what was the best part?  You guessed it, it was the people.  It was being called “Ash” and saying “remember when?”, seeing classmates I haven’t seen in years and spending time with like-minded colleagues.  It was a sense of belonging in a very male-dominated field and a shared interest in all things sport and athlete and treatment and research.  I love my job and my patients and my hands-on practice, and it is events like these that keep me motivated to continually improve, to learn more, to question more, to master more, to progress more.

It was a good weekend.

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Because I am me, but I could’ve been her.

I am not afraid for my life.

My children are getting an education.

I have access to healthcare and antibiotics and clean drinking water.

My home is safe.

I don’t worry about bombs or air raids or war sirens.

I have two cars and three bedrooms and big, beautiful trees.

I did not happen to be at a concert hall in Paris, or a funeral in Baghdad, or walking in a suburb of Beirut.

I was born in Canada.

So I am lucky.  

I am certain that there are 36-year-old female Syrian refugees who do not have loving husbands and healthy children and dream jobs and safe, secure homes.

I am also certain that if the situations were reversed, if I just so happened to be born in Damascus instead of Provost, if I just so happened to be unlucky instead of quite possibly the luckiest ever, if I just so happened to be fleeing my home and my country, while clinging to my children and screaming, crying, shuddering in terror while trying to keep them safe and nourished and not witnessing human atrocities daily and seeing the very worst of the very worst, well then,  I am quite certain that I would want her help.

So I am lucky.

And I will help.  Because I am me, but I could’ve been her.

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This works for us.

I find myself parenting differently the second time around.  My expectations have shifted and my this-is-what-the-parenting-books-say has completely disappeared.  I think I’m a better parent because of it.

A prime example of this are my three-year-old daughter’s sleep habits.  We moved a couple of months ago, and she developed a new routine.  Our new house has a main-floor Master bedroom, and nearly every night, she tip-toes downstairs in the middle of the night and crawls into our bed.  Most nights I don’t even hear her, and I will often wake with her little body pressed up against mine.  Not only do I not mind this even a little bit, I actually need it too.  I’m still adjusting to my own “new normals” and there’s a big part of me that feels safe and secure when my children are at my side.  Content and happy, calm and peaceful, just how life is meant to be.  She snuggles into me and whispers, “Mama, can we snuggle?” with her sleep-drunk voice and her bedhead hair.  So I wrap my arms around her and we fall back to sleep, both comforted by the fact that we’re together.

But I find it interesting that I’ve never questioned the “should I put her back in her own bed?” part.  If my son, my first-born, had done the same, I likely would’ve done what many parenting books suggest: that children need to sleep in their own beds.  I likely would’ve walked him back upstairs to his room, and put him back to bed.  Because that’s what I “should” do.  Or, more accurately, that’s what I perceived I should do.  But now I realize that parenting is so much more enjoyable if you simply do what works for your own unique family in your own unique situation.

This works for us.

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