“I said, Mr. Purple People Eater, what’s your line?
He said, ‘Eatin’ purple people and it sure is fine!”“The Purple People Eater” by Sheb Wooley
I’ve always hated it when people ask, “What do you do for a living?”—especially when it’s asked in that smug, small-talky way that assumes a title defines a person. I never had a job or career that made people raise their eyebrows in admiration (although my husband was always happy to chime in with praise)—but I always had an answer I was proud of.
“I make people.”
Ripples not resumes.
To me, parenting has always been one of the most important jobs in the world—not just because of the responsibility it carries, but because of the ripple effect it creates.
When a child is raised by parents who are truly committed to their well-being—not just physically, but emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually—they grow up with a kind of wholeness that carries into every relationship, every workplace, and every community they touch. That kind of impact doesn’t come with a job title—but it mattered to me. And I never doubted the value of the work I was doing.
The dream team.
Maybe that’s why I always dreamed of having a big family—five boys, to be exact. My very own starting lineup of generous, grounded humans ready to take on the world! Where the front door was always open, the foyer piled high with sneakers from friends comfortable enough to raid the fridge without asking. A dinner table buzzing with energy—and a trail of crumbs from midnight snacks. A never-ending chorus of “Mom, where’s my…?” And more than a few refereed fights. I wanted the kind of house filled with noise and belly laughs—where everyone talked over each other and our couch was never empty.
Loud, loyal, and kind-hearted.
Holding it together.
I blame my grandmother. People came and went in her home like waves, but the flow was constant. I didn’t just admire the life she built—I admired the role she played in it. An orchestrator of harmony (though she didn’t always keep the peace!)—part conductor, part confidante, part human glue. Always noticing, always showing up. And most of all, creating a space where people felt safe, supported, and seen. I mean really seen—not just who they were on the outside, but what they carried, and what they needed, and what they couldn’t always express.
I’ve always had an instinct for the things left unsaid. People used to joke that I should’ve been a therapist, or that I needed a sign on my office door with drop-in hours, because somehow, people always found their way to me. Maybe then I would’ve had a more impressive answer when people asked what I did for a living.
But I never needed credentials to know that caring for people was the work I was meant to do. So when I became a mother, I didn’t need a manual—but I did need a moment.
A head start.
I’d watched both of my sisters become parents and had helped care for my nieces and nephew, so I had a bit of a head start. But even with that, I still made mistakes—especially when my first son was first born.
When the cradle rolled away.
When he arrived, I did what I thought I was supposed to do: I let the nurses take him to the nursery for the night—”so I could sleep,” they said. I didn’t question it. I assumed that’s what new mothers did and I was following the rules. But the moment they wheeled him away, my stomach dropped. I knew it was wrong and I regretted it instantly. I still get a pit in my stomach every time I think about it.
It was the first time I realized I wasn’t the one taking orders anymore. I was the one giving them. I was a mom. The mom. And I would never hand over that role again.
Years later, when our second son was born, things were different.
Voices carry.
I kept him close from the start. He was slightly jaundiced and needed regular bloodwork in those early days. Each time they pricked his tiny heel, he cried—loud, angry, honest cries. I never shushed him. I didn’t ask him to be quiet or ‘be good.’ I just held him tighter, letting him know I heard him—and that he was right to cry. I’ve always seen crying as communication, not something to hush away. Some find comfort in shushing—the soft sound mimicking the whoosh of the womb—but for me, it mattered more that my sons felt heard. That their voices—however small—mattered.
My eldest son was in the delivery room the day his little brother was born. But before you get too judgy and gaspy— it was an unusually calm delivery. So calm, in fact, the OB kept glancing at the monitor to make sure I was still having contractions. The only shouting came from the crowd of family members crammed into same room, cheering as Canada defeated the United States in the 2002 Winter Olympic women’s hockey game.
If you build it, they’ll feel it.
Later that night, after everything had quieted, he and my husband floated to the car hand in hand “as snow fell softly under the glow of the hospital lights—muffling the world around them, as if they were the only two people in it” my husband would later recall.
“Well, it was about 3 o’clock in the morning,” I’d add.
The next morning, they celebrated with a pancake feast—”with extra syrup,” they whispered, so Mom wouldn’t hear—followed by a stop at the hospital gift shop, where they picked out a miniature stuffed giraffe named Twiggs for the new baby (and my favourite animal, I might add). The moment unknowingly carved itself into my husband’s memory, and Twiggs became a fixture in our youngest son’s room for years—a small symbol of the night our family became four, and they became brothers.
And though I’d always imagined a bigger family, I started to see things differently. Not because life got in the way, or because dreams stopped mattering—but because the thought of my eldest son ever feeling different sat too heavy on my heart. I didn’t want him to be “the one with a different dad,” while the rest of his siblings shared another. I know it might sound strange, but it mattered to me. He mattered to me. And I never wanted him to feel separate. Or sidelined. Or less connected to the family we were building.
Maybe I didn’t have a starting lineup. But we were a team.
[Psst … I know the song doesn’t match the sentiment of this chapter—but try hearing that chapter title and not thinking about it. Besides, it reminds me of my dad.]