Mila Lune - the mom behind the character

By Maude Paquette

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I was affectionately called a weathervane. People would greet me by asking what new projects I had thrown myself into. I was often told that if they didn’t want to miss too many chapters, they had to wake up early and check in on me often. Let’s just say that, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, there wasn’t much I had held myself back from doing—always ready to simply follow whichever way the wind carried me. I had a stubborn streak and was apparently quite the princess, but it allowed me to do what I wanted, when I wanted, and to live my twenties in a way that made far too many people jealous.

I speak in the past tense because, just after celebrating my twenty-eighth birthday, my life took a complete 180 with the arrival of the most adorable little human on the planet—my son, Henry.

That was 9 years ago. I lost my North, as they say. My compass shattered right there in the operating room at the sound of his first cries. I left it behind, along with my impulsiveness, my self-centeredness, and, most of all, my sweet, sweet irresponsibility.

I had lived the wildest nights during my (too) long eight-year career as a bartender in Montreal’s hottest clubs. I had traveled to the other side of the world, making a living by singing in international bands. I had built an exciting career in events and philanthropy. And I had selfishly experienced love with a capital L—with the man of my life—before he also became the father of my sons.

For as long as I can remember, I had longed for and deeply wanted to become a mother. With the birth of Henry, and two years later, Harlow, I redefined myself—and I continue to do so. I’m carving out a new compass for myself. Because let’s be honest—it’s true what they say: it changes everything.

That stain on your shirt at 4 AM? It’s not yours, and it smells like sour milk. Going to pick up the mail at the corner of the street with a one-month-old? That’s an operation requiring military-level coordination. You don’t just slip on your flip-flops and sunglasses and head out—oh no, my friend! That little frizz in your hair? It’s not the latest trend. It’s the fact that you didn’t have time to dry it—baby was hungry, and then… well, you don’t even remember. You were too tired.

Ah, fatigue! Every parent warns you. You think you’ll rise above it. You think your years of partying have immunized you to exhaustion. Ha! Think again! You don’t know fatigue until you become—literally—a 24-hour, on-demand milk dispenser.

Just like you can’t fathom the depth of your capacity to love until you lock eyes with your child. And then—boom! That’s an atomic bomb of happiness exploding with every smile, every little coo, even every fart. Love, not just with a capital L, but a capital O, V, E—the whole damn word in CAPS.

My name is Maude, and I have two adorable sons named Henry and Harlow—though they mostly answer to Frog and Potato. And I’m still learning to navigate this new, incredible, wonderful life of being a mom!