Along came Wesley

There are moments in life so primordial they become inseparable from who you are. Not just memories, but ingredients. Take one out, and the whole cake collapses. The cake is you by the way.

As a family, we have those moments too, the only difference is that they are collectively shared and they shape the entire unit. And this is one of them. It’s the story of how the LJM crew; then just Lola, Sophie, and me, began to grow.

While this story technically starts after Lola was born, the dream behind it goes back a long time. Sophie and I always wanted a big family even before we met each other. Four kids to be exact. But before you get to four, you gotta hit two, and so in late November 2022, with Lola at the ripe old age of one year and three months, we started the fertility journey all over again. You no longer need to wait to qualify after the first time.

Yes, we still tried the old-fashioned way; because, science be damned, you never know. But fertility journeys, once started, tend to follow you around like a clingy ex. Ours was no exception, especially since neither of us is getting any younger. And as if fertility struggles weren’t enough, we got hit with a curveball: the only fertility clinic in our area lost its government funding. Translation: treatments would now be out of pocket.

Little-known fact about fertility treatments? They are not cheap.

To access coverage, we had to go to Montreal. Now, taking a baby-making road trip when you already have a toddler isn’t exactly a spontaneous romantic getaway you can execute without planning. Everything becomes more complicated. But we tried to make it fun, like the old age Chinese proverb goes: if you’re going to make a baby with the help of science, you might as well turn it into a date night.

Our strategy? Drop Lola off with the grandparents; forever blessed; drive to Montreal the night before since my role in this endeavor requires me to make an early morning donation before Sophie shows up a bit later for artificial insemination. We would start with an escape room and finish it off at a restaurant we wanted to try.

P.S. I’m telling you, Montreal escape rooms are on another level. One of them had us riding a pirate ship to a lost voodoo island, with actual sand and huts.

These little dates helped ease the sting of the new costs. They let us reconnect. And they softened the blow when the pee pee test gave us the sad news that the baby we were hoping for wasn’t going to join us after all.

Here’s the thing that might not be immediately obvious: after Lola, the losses didn’t hurt less. In some ways, they hurt more. Because now we knew what we were losing. We’d held it. Fed it. Sang songs to it. Lola existed, and every failed attempt after her was a reminder of what could’ve been. It sucked in all kinds of ways even if we never really showed it. Essentially once fertility problems enter your life the anxiety and stress that it brings follow you throughout your entire family making journey. Even with one child the gloom of fertility clouds follows you no matter where you are.There's no comfort to be had there.

Three times we went to Montreal. Three times we escaped as lovers. Three times we wined and dined…. and three times we tried to bring another child into our life.. followed by three failures.. and three heartbreaks.

The government of Quebec gives you six attempts which reset after each successful birth, and we were halfway through. The halfway mark starts to feel less like the middle and more like the edge of a cliff.

And just to make sure our stress levels reached galactic levels, we also decided it was the perfect time to renovate our bedroom and the master washroom. Because why not destroy your sanctuary and your sanity at the same time? That meant the house was collateral damage, and so were our brains… dust in the air, drywall in our hair, and zero doors to hide behind when you needed a cry or a snack alone.

So a reset was necessary, Sophie was also finding the back to back attempts very hard on her mind, body and soul. So, in March 2023, we took a trip to the UK to visit Sophie’s cousin and his family, three girls deep, four if you count his wife. That trip was magic, I documented the majority of it for those who might be interested. It was a welcomed palate cleanser. A reminder that family is worth fighting for, even if it comes with paperwork, travel expenses, and sterile clinic rooms.

While we were away, I shared an idea with Sophie: what if, next time, we brought Lola with us? We started this journey as a couple, but now we are a trio. If we were going to continue growing our family we should do it as a family. Sophie agreed without missing a beat.

So we returned, all jetlagged and full of pub food, ready for round 4. Except, plot twist, we all got hand, foot, and mouth disease. A thoughtful gift from Lola’s daycare. Lola and I got it the worst. I had lesions on my hands and feet that felt like I walked through a patch of angry Legos and thumb tacks coated in tobacco sauce. Undaunted, off to Montreal we went, stopping first in Hawkesbury to visit Grand-maman and Papa Jay.

Rather than doing an escape room with our young +1 we opted for something more toddler friendly, the Biodôme. Watching her lose her tiny mind over penguins and monkeys was its own kind of healing. We didn’t do a fancy dinner this round—just McDonald’s in the hotel room. Everyone was exhausted. Sometimes Happy Meals > fine dining.

The morning of April 30th, 2023 arrived without much fanfare except for the fact we were in another city about to head to our fertility appointments with our almost 2 year old. I couldn't tell you what makes the difference between a successful and an unsuccessful attempt having two kids born out of that process, and on this day I didn't have any gut feeling or aura that it was about to work.

I just knew that it felt right with Lola by our side in some weird kind of way. I imagine for Sophie she felt similar having agreed to all of this from the moment I ushered the thought. We wouldn't know until 2 weeks later but this was it… this was the moment that brought our little Wesley into our lives… thinking about it just brings back so much emotions.

Through all the attempts we had a pee test protocol which involved both of us being present. To say that Sophie gets really excited (euphemism for impatient) is a disservice to her emotional state. So when the morning came she peed on the stick in our washroom while I slept soundly in our bed.

You have to do it first thing in the morning anyway for the best results so it's not like she was gonna hold it in anyway. This of course violated our protocol and triggered a number of marital sanctions that to this day don't seem to have dissuaded Sophie of her “deplorable” actions one iota.

Marital treaty violations aside she hurried over to my side of the bed where I was still drooling into my pillow, she woke me up with the single best alarm clock in human history:

“We’re going to have another baby.”

Remains to this day my second favourite way of being woken up after my kids coming into the room to do so.

Sophie loves what being pregnant represents. Like everyone else she's not a fan of the aches and nausea and dramatic sighs that accompany it. But she lights up when she’s pregnant, grateful every single day. And she never misses an opportunity to tell me. Hell even when she's not pregnant she tells me about how much she loves it. Even in the difficult days she finds ways to be thankful. I can only hope these immense feelings of joy and happiness contribute to our child's development.

In contrast to Lola's COVID gender reveal we opted to find out the gender early. Sophie did a six-week at-home DNA test, pricked her finger like a champ, and a few days later: it’s a boy! We told everyone right away. No secrets. No stress. Just joy. Next time we are thinking of forgoing this all together and just find out at birth. Now that we have both, being ready and prepared for either is a foregone conclusion.

We involved Lola early, too. Told her she was getting a baby brother, helped her understand what that would mean. And she was excited, at least, in the way toddlers express excitement, which is mostly just intense snack-sharing and occasional belly pats.

When Lola arrived, she brought with her all the joy and magic that first-time parents dream about but also the emotional freight no one fully warns you about. Sure, people mention the sleepless nights and diaper blowouts, but no one really sits you down and says, “Hey, you’re about to start grieving your old life. And also your old self.”

The first thing you lose is your freedom. And not in the “I can’t go to the movies on a whim” way, though that’s part of it. It’s deeper. It’s the loss of spontaneity. Of long, aimless afternoons with your partner. Of quiet. Of finishing a sentence, a meal, or a thought without interruption. You grieve the “you” that once was… two people moving freely through the world, high on free time and Netflix algorithms tailored to adults.

And it’s a grief that hits harder the older you are, because you’ve had more time to get comfortable in that rhythm. You’ve had longer to curate your selfishness. When a baby comes, that all gets unceremoniously tossed in the diaper pail and the baby doesn’t say thank you. They just scream.

But then something wild happens. You adapt. You build a new rhythm, a new normal. And then because you're clearly gluttons for chaos you do it again.

With baby number two, the grief is different. You’ve already mourned your freedom, your alone time, and your right to pee without an audience. What you mourn now is subtler. It’s the impending shift in your relationship with your firstborn. For nearly two years, it was just the three of us. Lola, with her sticky hands and impossibly long eyelashes, had our full attention, our full hearts, and our undivided snack budget.

And we loved it. We loved her. So much so that realizing this precious dynamic was about to change… forever.. hit us in a way we didn’t expect. No one told us that adding a second child might feel like a betrayal to the first. That it might make you pause, hold them tighter at bedtime, and whisper, “I’m so sorry things are about to get loud.”

But then, again something wild happens. You realize the second child doesn’t take love away from the first. They multiply it. They stretch your heart in directions you didn’t know existed. And this time, you’re ready. You’re calmer. You don’t Google every diaper rash or obsess over sleep schedules. You notice more, appreciate more, stress way less. They become a second first time.

Sophie said it best: “It’s worth having two just so you can fully experience what you missed with the first.”

And she’s right. Because this time, we’re not surviving… we’re soaking it all in.

Loving and raising Lola has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life; like, climbing Mount Everest rewarding. In just nine months, we crammed in more family adventures than most people do in a year: we hit up Sandbanks, Parc Omega, a Saint-Jean festival at the Aylmer Marina, spent time at our Tremblant condo, and of course, lived that bougie backyard pool life. And that was just June 2023.

It’s not like we sat down and made a formal pact to “maximize family time before the baby storm hits.” We just genuinely like hanging out with Lola. For a baby, she had already become a world-class traveler, passport not required. Our hope is that the rest of our kids will follow her lead, mostly because I’m not emotionally ready to be the parent of bad travel companions, that’s my job.

Somewhere between my birthday, upgrading from the Prius to a van (yes, we’re that family now), and Halloween, we realized it was time to free up the crib for Wesley. Which meant: Operation Move Lola.

We migrated her; bed, books, stuffies and all; into her own room. A queen mattress on the floor, easier to sleep beside her, was our big idea. Seemed simple enough. Fun fact: Lola never escaped the crib once, don’t even think she ever tried. But free-range Lola? Nightly migrations. One moment: just Sophie and me. Next: tiny bed ninja.

Night after night, she’d wake up and waddle over like a tiny, adorable invader. And night after night, we were both too tired, too groggy, and honestly, too smitten to send her back. Not so secretly, I loved it. I’m pretty sure Sophie did too. There’s just something about those 3 a.m. cuddles… little arms, soft breaths, bed-hogging diagonals… that hits different.

So, if success is measured by “Lola no longer sleeps in the crib,” then yes: mission accomplished. Crib is empty. Our bed is not. Yay... us?

With baby arrival looming just past the New Year like a slightly overdue Amazon package, we needed to agree on a baby name. Last time around, we used a literal Tinder-style app to swipe through name options; a modern romance, but for baby naming. We had succeeded in compiling a long, harmonious list of girl names ready to go… and about three boy names total. I don’t even remember what they were now that I think about it.

But there was one name that had been quietly waiting in the wings: Wesley. Sophie had loved it for ages… like, pre-me ages.. so it was always kind of the frontrunner, whether I was ready to admit it or not. At first, I wasn’t totally convinced. (It gave me a bit of a “he owns a yacht” vibe, and we’re very much in the “borrows a kayak” income bracket.)

But as time passed, and I imagined this tiny human we were about to meet, something about Wesley just… clicked. By the time he arrived, the name felt not only right… it felt like it had already belonged to him. And watching his little personality take shape, it feels even truer now. Like he is Wesley. He always was.

I did make a last-minute pitch for Finn toward the end of the pregnancy, a noble attempt, if I do say so myself. But in the end, Wesley won in a landslide. Or maybe it was a soft coup. Either way, I’ve got no regrets. The kid was born a Wesley.

Wesley was due January 20, 2024. Unlike his punctual big sister, who arrived one day early like the Type-A champ she is, Wesley took his sweet time. Nine days late. Classic second child. Guess he enjoyed his mom's loft like uterus a bit too much. Almost had to go get him out with a shovel.

The weeks leading up to his birth were... tense. Mostly for Sophie, we discovered he was in breech position as the due date loomed like a passive-aggressive deadline. Given how intense her last birth had been, this little acrobatic stunt triggered all kinds of stress. But, because he’s clearly a considerate little dude, he eventually flipped head-down just in time, like, “Okay, fine, Mom,” putting Sophie’s worries to rest and winning early points as the good boy we knew he was destined to be. Big shoutout to our amazing midwives, who helped guide him, and us, through the whole emotional gymnastics routine.

When Sophie first felt the contractions, we called the midwife, who hit us with the most midwife-y advice imaginable: “Get in the hot tub and start counting them.” Which, to be honest, was the exact opposite of my emergency instincts but sounded amazing.

I don’t remember how far apart the contractions were, somewhere between “definitely something” and “cancel your plans.” But thanks to our 20-minute hot tub cycles, we were able to report enough data for her to say the magic words: “You’re in labour.”

Game. On. Oh also get your asses over here!

The grandparents swooped in like the seasoned pros they are; calm, capable, and somehow already in control of the entire household; ready to hold down the fort with Lola. Meanwhile, we packed up our hopeful hearts and headed to the birthing centre, crossing our fingers that this time we’d actually get to stay for the full show.

The second child did something to Sophie. Confidence boost? Power-up? Full-on Beyoncé energy? I don’t know but she walked into that delivery room like she had done it a hundred times before.

Now, for the uninitiated: when you’re delivering with midwives, there’s no epidural. It’s a “feel everything” kind of party And Sophie showed up like she was hosting it.

What I didn’t expect? She was an absolute boss. No meds, all natural, and somehow still finding time to roast the situation. At one point in the middle of a contraction she turned to me, completely serious, and said “Oh man, if this is as bad as it gets, let’s have 20 more.”

TWENTY. MORE. I’ve never been more impressed or terrified in my life.

We showed up at the hospital on January 28, around 8 p.m., but from the moment we got there, Sophie had one eye on the clock. Not because labour is a great time to practice time management, but because midnight was creeping closer… and January 29 wasn’t just any date.

It’s her stepdad Jay’s birthday. It was also my late dad’s birthday. Same day. Same significance. So yeah, the 29th was emotionally loaded.

And I’m convinced… like, I’d bet diaper duty on this convinced.. that Sophie held off on the final push just long enough to make sure Wesley would cross the finish line after the stroke of midnight. A symbolic arrival.

Sure enough, at 12:04 a.m. on January 29, he made his debut.

This time, as our baby’s head began to crown, the midwife looked at me and said, “Wanna help?” Before I could overthink it, I was elbow-deep in the miracle of life. I held his head… my son’s actual head.. then guided his whole tiny, slippery, screaming body into the world. My hands were the first to hold him. Mine. It was wild and raw and perfect. A small gesture, sure, compared to the nine months of tender care and round-the-clock construction his mother put in… but for me.. that moment? It’s carved into my soul. I’ll never forget the feeling of his little body in my palms, seconds old, full of life, and already stealing my heart… and probably my sleep.

Once he was fully out, we laid him on Sophie’s chest and that’s when the tears came. Both of us crying, equal parts joy, relief, and sheer disbelief that he made it to us without a single complication. No detours, no drama. Just here. Safe. Ours.

Sophie, once again, reminded me of her quiet, unfathomable strength. She looked like a warrior who’d just finished a marathon barefoot and still had enough in the tank to hold a baby and look amazing doing it.

This time was different, though. This time, we all got to stay together. The three of us, tangled up in the sheets, our new baby in the middle like the tiny sun we’d all started orbiting.

The rest of the delivery? Smooth as it gets. All green lights for baby. Not even a flashing yellow.

We “slept” in the way only new parents and adrenaline crashes allow, curled up in the large birthing centre bed, wide awake and wide-eyed. By morning, we were itching to get home. We had one mission: get back before Lola left for daycare. She needed to meet her baby brother before the rest of the world got a turn.

The whole thing was a heart-melter and thankfully, we caught most of it on video. She naturally wanted to hold him, and we let her. Again. And again. And again. Like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment which, to be fair, is only two years long. But still. Soul-level patience.

And man… when she finally had him in her arms? Parenthood gold. At one point, he started gently shifting his little head around; you know, those slow, newborn bobbles like his neck is running Windows 95; and without missing a beat, she leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. Just so they’d be rubbing against each other. Like it was instinct. Like she already knew this was her person.

Immortalized on digital film.

And all I kept thinking was: Please let me be around when they’re old enough to watch this together. I want to see their faces. I want to hear them laugh at how small they were. And I want to remember exactly how this whole beautiful mess began… together, over and over again.

The weeks that followed felt like magic. We didn’t become a family of four, we morphed into it, like some sort of peaceful, sleep-deprived Power Rangers. One second we were three, the next we were four, and somehow it just worked.

Lola was obsessed with her new brother. I mean obsessed in the way toddlers get obsessed with a snack they just discovered or a rock they found on the sidewalk. She would proudly introduce him to complete strangers like she was his tiny press agent. “This is Wesley,” she’d say, nailing the pronunciation every time, beaming like she had personally crafted him in a Build-A-Teddy Bear workshop.

And Wesley? He was perfect. Just… perfect. That squishy, sleepy, new-baby kind of perfect that makes you forget what life was like before him.

I had taken three weeks off to be with him and Sophie, which meant I got to soak in all those little moments, especially the ones where he’d fall asleep on my bare chest. Yes, bare chest. Skin-to-skin, full dad mode. Picture a WWE wrestler on paternity leave, minus the muscles… and the fame… and the tan. But all the heart.

No one ever told me how special those moments would be. When I had Lola, I discovered this little golden secret, these quiet, skin-to-skin connections that make you feel like you're the entire universe to this tiny person. And I wasn’t about to let that tradition slip with Wesley.

There are so many hidden joys in newborn life. Things I never knew to look for. And now, I get to rediscover them all again with Sophie, my perfect partner, co-pilot in chaos, and mother-in-arms. We’re back at the beginning… but with more love, more laughs, and more spit-up. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.