When I got pregnant with my first child in 2013, I was working in a hot dog food truck and a burlesque bar. I was 25, and I was deliriously pleased with myself and my freedom. The father-to-be was preparing to open the first restaurant in which he would have a small ownership stake, and I was starting to pick up a few writing contracts and storytelling gigs. Things were okay financially, but certainly not what our parents thought was an appropriate basis for child rearing.
We hadn’t checked anything off the list of things you should have done before becoming a parent. Our home was an apartment at the top of a triplex in the Plateau. Neither of us had a driver’s licence or salaries. Our dining and living rooms held a weird collection of liquor and a book collection organized in teetering piles. It really wasn’t the life of families you’d see on TV, but it was warm and romantic and more comfortable than Toronto, Vancouver, or even Ottawa at the time.
For readers who care about Montreal
Create a free account to read this story and access 3 articles per month, plus our weekly Bulletin.
