How to be good at chores in 16 easy steps

Parenthood is an unrelenting barrage of chores. It's a barrage of other things too, but the chores - good god the chores.

Now, to be clear, I don't really care about chores. My house is not one of those pristine magazine houses. On a good day, it barely passes for hygienic. My house is a solid tolerable, and often in some state of repair or renovation (thank you Hubby).

Generally my house borders on embarrassing, but can sometimes look like at least I turned on the robot vacuum.

However, I still do chores. A fucking endless, painful, surprising series of chores that keep my house precariously perched on the fence between "hmm what's that lingering stench?" and "holy shit we gotta call someone my socks are stuck to the floor wait is that poop of course it is what else would it be."

So today I had a single chore goal. Usually, I have zero chore goals. Each day passes with a three-year old yelling and running and making all matter of messes (including, but not limited to, playdoh on the table, milk on the couch, rice on the floor, and paint in her hair) as well as a six-month old who actively spits all of his saliva, food and breastmilk on any and all surfaces.

Whatever chores get done in between all that are a miracle. On an average day, the dishes don't get done and piles of clean and/or dirty laundry become excellent floor pillows for Hubby and I during our best "yes I'm parenting even if I am laying on the floor with my eyes closed" moments.

But this morning, Fraggle marched into our bedroom at her precise 7:17 and announced that her nighttime diaper had leaked into her pants, and therefore into her sheets.

Enter: chore goal.

Today's chore simply had to ensure that I am a good enough parent that my kid doesn't have to sleep in a possibly pee-ish bed.

Chore goal failed, as I'm sure you predicted. Because life.  Fraggle napped in her possibly pee-ish sheets this afternoon.

BUT - I did not allow myself to be deterred. I swore, tonight I will be a better parent than I was this morning. Tonight I will change those godforsaken sheets if it kills me.

And kill me it nearly did.

After washing windows, making dinner, sorting closets, and then feeding, bathing and bedding the baby, this is what it takes to complete a single chore goal in my house:

Step 1 - Strip the pee-ish sheets.

Step 2 - Realize you don't have a clean sheet.

Step 3 - Go down to the main floor to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, for the clean sheet.

Step 4 - Return upstairs, put away those clean clothes, spread out the clean sheet but then realize you don't have a clean towel to lay under the sheet to protect the mattress from other pee-ish nights.

Step 5 - Go down to the basement to retrieve a clean towel from the dryer.

Step 6 - Fold all the laundry from the dryer and put it into a hamper.

Step 7 - Put the wet stuff from the washer into the dryer.

Step 8 - Put new stuff in the washer.

Step 9 - Carry the hamper up - wait, stop - scoop the kitty litter.

Step 10 - Wash hands.

Step 11 - Carry the bag of cat feces up to the garbage.

Step 12 - Take the recycling out because it's overflowing on the back deck and Hubby keeps ranting about it.

Step 13 - Wash hands.

Step 14 - Return to the basement to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, dig out the clean towel buried at the bottom because fucking idiot.

Step 15 - Heave the clean laundry hamper up the stairs and make the child's bed.

Step 16 - Put the pee-ish sheets into another hamper - wait, stop - all the hampers are already in use fuck that - launch the dirty pee-ish sheets over the stair railing.

Oh, and, you have to do all that silently because - duh - sleeping baby.

There it is.  Now you, too, can be the best mediocre parent. You're welcome. Pass the beer.

Easier doesn't mean easy

When I was pregnant with this Warner Brother, several of my friends told me how easy the second child was.  Less anxiety they said.  Less stress they said.  More knowledge, more tolerance, more confidence, they said.

All of that is true.

However: More or less of something does not equate to all or none of something.

Newborndom is certainly less anxious and less stressful this time around. I don't panic as easily regarding his well being.  I don't worry as much because I sorta have the hang of this.  I know when he's hungry, I can tell when his cries are gas, I have an idea how to teach him to nap, and I totally knew as soon as I saw his first real smile.   I don't have to learn as much, so I can enjoy more.

Although I feel tremendous empathy for the first-time parents in my life who have not yet caught up to my level of experience, I still want to be completely clear:

This is not easy.

I am not one of those parents who "forgot" how hard it was.  I remember the misery of newborndom. I remember walking her around the mall trying to get her to sleep.  I remember standing over her bassinet with my pinky finger in her mouth for endless minutes, maybe hours.  I remember the fear associated with her breastmilk intake - nipple shields, pricey consultants, painful boobs, and cold washcloths on her bare, sleepy back.  I remember late-night cluster feeds, kicky gas legs, and crying on the bathroom floor (me, not her).  I remember whisper-arguing with Hubby and assuming we'd be divorced by the end of the day.  (He would have called a lawyer if he didn't have a sleeping baby on his lap.  The survival of this marriage is attributed to a long nap and a rescue visit from @msfreshfish.)

After all of this, though, I also remember that IT GOT BETTER.  I remember drinking coffee while she peacefully napped, visiting with friends, playing in the sun, smiling above her on a yoga mat.

So, when we diligently weighed the benefits and risks of a second baby, I was not operating in a hormonal or sentimental illusion. I knew precisely what I was in for.  Disaster at first, and generally ongoing heartache and exhaustion in one form or another for the foreseeable future.

Until my friends confused me.  They somehow convinced me this would be effortless.  They claimed "It's so easy this time!" And sure, by comparison, it can be... easy - but only in relation to last time.  Not standing alone.

Standing alone, this experience is just a different kind of impossibly hard.  I still only get two hours of sleep at any given time, except I also have to entertain a toddler most of the day.  I still have a baby who won't allow me to set him down, but I also have a toddler asking for my help to reach the soap/put her socks on/play in her tent.  I still spray breastmilk all over the house, except I also spray it into my toddler's dinner.  I still have to whisper and tiptoe all day long while he attempts to sleep, but I also have to make a toddler whisper and tiptoe while she attempts to play live.

I still have the hard parts - albeit minus some of the anxiety - but with a whole other whack of shit to fill its place.

I still have to take off to the children's hospital when my infant seems to have a fever (with the same unnecessary panic attack). Except this time, I have to do it by myself while Hubby stays home with our other precious child who just wants me to tuck her in.

The constant competition between opposite emotions is staggering. Parenting is wonderful. It's bliss. It's joy. It's pride. It's a gift that we are ever-grateful for. It is an incredible satisfaction, a surprising sense of purpose, an indescribable love.  But it is never easy.

Birthday Month

It's going to be my birthday this month, and it's going to be what they call a big'un. 

My 30th birthday will take place on February 22nd, and if you know me at all you could expect that I'm rather un-exited about it. In fact, my profile still reads mid-twenties because, well, denial.

Why birthdays bother me is a question for my therapist (of whom I've not visited in six months since the Baby Fraggle was born - when the Crazy induced by making an appointment, arriving on time for said appointment, and trusting a babysitter during that appointment began to outweigh the overall Crazy I live with on a day-to-day basis). In the absence of my therapist, I'm going to self-diagnose my problem with birthdays as the fact that birthdays are a marker of passing time. 

While I don't love my new wrinkles and grey hairs, I suspect I'm more concerned that my life is blowing past me while I spend so much time trying to stabilize it. While I'm off growing up, and marrying, and housing, and wifing, and jobbing, and growing tiny humans, my life is, I don't know, trekking onward. Life is apparently what happens while you're trying to get your shit together.

I try to remind myself that the number doesn't matter. In fact, it doesn't - I've been in my thirties my whole life. Not to mention, I'll actually be entering my 31st year on my upcoming birthday so I oughta get the fuck over it. 

But I can't. I can't seem to let this birthday go by without it meaning something - meaning anything - bigger and better than just "oh yeah I turned 30 and I didn't like it."

So here's what I propose: Rather than sitting around dreading my upcoming passage into what is apparently Hell (?), I am totally gonna milk that shit. I'm gonna milk it for everything it's got. 

I bring you... BIRTHDAY MONTH. 

This month, until my birthday party on March 1st, I'm going to do something that is just mine every single goddam day. Starting with this blog post (and followed by what will hopefully be a daily blog post for the entire month - because who am I kidding I totally have time and I've been fucking lazy for months) and ending with a couple dozen "today I marked the occasion by..." activities. 

I know what you're thinking. "Hey that sounds light and fun and easy in a non-self-judgy kinda way Marianna! Way to go!"  But the idea isn't for this to be difficult. I simply want to celebrate rather than mope. 

So here goes. 

Welcome to Birthday Month. I'm sure it will be a joyous occasion for all. 

Ps

Fuck you, 30. 

I'm a goddam medical mystery. And a failure to boot.

I wrote this in June, but I was afraid to post it.  It was a dark time for me; I wasn't sure how many details I wanted to share.  Time has since passed, and now I want to share it - for any woman struggling through pregnancy, with or without complications and/or antepartum depression. 

*************

How common is pregnancy?

Probably about half the human population is physically capable, and it's safe to say that most of those do happen to experience it at some point in their lives.  Even for those women who don't experience pregnancy, there are several others who experience it multiple times.

Not only that, but pregnancy has been going on since the beginning of time.  It isn't even specific to certain parts of the world - women get pregnant internationally.  Plus Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior.  

I think it's safe to say, then, that pregnancy is the most common medical "condition" of all time.     

So, I find it continually dumbfounding that the most common medical condition, particularly in an advanced nation such as Canada, is such a FUCKING MEDICAL MYSTERY.  

Perhaps it's because I've never actually experienced a significant or long-term medical condition, nor have I ever had much direct exposure to the medical system, but tell me:  How is it possible that doctors have so few immediate or precise answers?

Not only is my little Fraggle's health and well being entirely relying on me and only me, but I have essentially little-to-no control over her safety and development, let alone any true knowledge of how she is progressing.  

Every time I speak to a medical professional, they seem to apply 50 different random and uncertain measures of baby wellness, but they don't actually know the answers to anything.  

Is Fraggle happy in there?

Well, here, let's strap this monitor to your belly and listen to it for 30 minutes.

Is she growing?

Well, we can put this measuring tape on your belly to see if it's getting any bigger...

Can't you measure her?

Well, we can do an ultrasound, but we just did one last week and so any change would be imperceptible.  

Am I in labour?

Well, that depends on you - What's your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?

Am I dilated?

Well, if we check, we may dilate you, so we're not going to check.  Actually, let's check and make matters way worse.  

Is there a chance of me going into pre-term labour?

Well, let's do a test. 

What were the results of the test?

Well, they're inconclusive.  

Is she moving enough?

Well, that depends on you - Here, hold this little clicker and click it every time she moves.  

How many Braxton Hicks contractions are normal?

Well, you're having too many. 

What do you mean "too many" - what does that mean?

Well, we don't really know, except that you should sit still for several weeks on end.  

What causes them?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we think your uterus is irritable.  

Huh.  Doesn't that just suit me perfectly.  What "irritates" it?

Well, moving.  So sit still.  But don't limit yourself.  But don't go shopping or anything.  And drink lots of water.  But don't let your bladder get full.   

So, my uterus doesn't want this little one in there, or what? I'm a terrible mother already? My body is incapable?

Well, no.  Maybe.  We don't know. This is not your fault.  Just sit still. 

Ok, so can these constant, uncomfortable, and terrifying contractions lead to labour?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we doubt you'll make it to your due date.  Then again maybe we'll have to induce you at 42 weeks.  But just in case, stop moving.  

So now I'm terrified of pre-term labour.  How can I prevent it?

Well, sit still, and call us if anything changes, but no, Braxton Hicks contractions are not real contractions.  But we don't want you in pre-term labour, so please sit still. Hopefully we can just get you to 34 weeks.  

Ok, 34 weeks.  Good news right?

Well, yeah.  But let's get you to 37 weeks. You should probably sit still.   

Ok, what about after 37 weeks? Then we're good?

Well, every week after that is better.    

So, we're still aiming for 40 weeks then...

Well, no, 37 is full term, but yes, 40 weeks.  Please sit still.  

I never anticipated that keeping myself physically well would be so fucking emotionally exhausting... 

Fraggle ended up staying put until 40 weeks and 2 days.  And she rushed out of there like a bat out of hell.  

Let's be honest - what it's like to have a newborn

People kept telling me it would be hell.  That doesn't describe anything. That just scares me while also making me doubt that it's true.  So as I was laying in bed at 3am, I decided I needed a way to describe the joy/misery that is nerborn-dom.

I figure it's kinda like a natural disaster, a tornado or a hurricane.

First, the storm is coming.  You have some warning from the experts and you start to prepare, but you don't really know how bad it will be.  Will it be like the one you saw on tv? Or maybe it will pass right over you?

When the baby comes, the storm hits.  In an adrenaline-rushed flurry, you run to your storm cellar.  You grab whatever supplies you guess you'll need and you barely keep your wits about you. For the duration of the storm, you hold up in the dark and inevitably go nuts.  You're scared and you can't concentrate.  You have moments of lucidity and moments of panic.  You can't fall asleep, even if the noise outside did subside long enough for you to try.  You're terrified of what will become of you.  You cling to your partner to keep you sane and safe.

Not only that, but you are weak.  You've just finished competing in the iron woman competition and your whole body is wrecked. Also, you may or may not be recovering from a "saw the lady in half" magic trick you were forced to participate in yesterday (after the iron woman events).

On top of it, in a freak occurrence of nature, you are suffering from puberty, PMS, and menopause, simultaneously.

Oh, and there are stitches in your vagina.

Furthermore, you aren't alone in the cellar.  You've been entrusted with the care of a very tiny, very delicate baby koala bear.  Sure, it's a cute koala bear, but you have no idea how to take care of a koala bear, particularly in these traumatic circumstances.

And this isn't just any normal koala bear.  This is the world's most precious koala bear - a koala unicorn - the first and only of its kind known to humanity.  Should anything happen to this koala unicorn, you will never forgive yourself, and neither will society.

This goes on for a couple weeks - you locked down in the cellar during the longest tornado in Earth's history, scared and crippled by exhaustion.

But then the storm begins to subside. You inch your way to the cellar door and gently open it inch by inch, carefully emerging into the light.  Sure, there's an utter disaster around you, everything is a mess, and your whole world is wiped out.  Parts of your life before the storm have been lost forever (including bladder control) and you're generally very fragile.

HOWEVER, your surroundings have never looked so beautiful.  You're in awe of nature.  It may look grim in some ways, but also so promising in others.  Your friends, family, and neighbours will help you put your Humpty Dumpty world back together again.

Ultimately, you're hopeful that everything will be better than it was before.  You're just so fucking grateful that everything truly important - you, your family, and your koala unicorn - are safe and happy. Everything else will fall into place.

Hello Antepartum Depression

Is there such a thing as pre-partum depression? Or I guess it would just be partum depression? Because it's 4am and I've been laying here for an hour realizing that I have not felt any good for an extremely long time.

I've stopped blogging lately, because all I can really think to blog about is how hard this pregnancy is, but I'm pretty sure most people either don't understand that, don't buy it, are sick of hearing it, or are judging me for it. 

Add to that a month of pregnancy complications that are beating the shit out of me (and Hubby) and then ask us if we'd ever do this again...

So I stay silent. 

And it eats me alive.

Somehow I'm supposed to go into labour/delivery/newborn/parenthood mode on this remarkably *depleated* capacity. How the fuck am I supposed to do that?  Everyone keeps saying "the first three months are hell."  What am I supposed to do with that information? I apparently can't handle the 9 months prior to the three-month hell and you want me to raise a child on top of it?  My body and mind are clearly not strong enough to grow the human, let alone be its mother. 

At this point, I feel like the only thing I have to cling to is the possibility of upcoming *change*.  I already adore this little Fraggle more than anything and I really just need her to be OUT of my body. I need to go for a bike ride. I need to roll over onto my stomach. I need to pick something up off the floor. I need to hug her and soothe her and call her by name. 

But I can't do any of that. So instead I face every day like a marathon and try to find any single solitary little source of stability that provides any small fraction of peace. 

But I'm running out of sources...


****
Updated

Elle (below) shared this link with me.

The Beast Known As Antepartum Depression - By Allison Zapata

Although my situation hasn't gotten as bad as it can for others (yet), I apparently am experiencing what's called Antepartum Depression.  I wouldn't be so quick to self-diagnose if I didn't already have a propensity for Depression in the first place.  It's been a slow build-up over time, magnified by recent complications and doctors orders to stay still all the time - the Stir Crazy has added to the already-existing Crazy and I'm running out of power to overcome.

But having a name for it helps, and knowing there are some women out there who understand and who are maybe not judging me helps too.  I also have a therapist that will get me through and an understanding and supportive Hubby who *always* makes me feel unconditionally loved.  And then there's hope - hope that when this adorable little darling arrives I will find some form of peace... new stressors, sure, but hopefully some new strength as well.

Seven reasons I cried at work today

Crying at work is not necessarily uncommon for me.  Life upsets me and I don't really know how to hold it in.  Today, however, the crying at work was the result of a series of related reasons, of which I will enumerate here:

1) When I arrive and run into a coworker I haven't seen for weeks, I don't need him to exclaim "Well, let's see your belly! Let's see the reveal!" as I'm removing my jacket - even if he is the kindest, sweetest colleague of all time.  This makes me feel like an object that is being pointed at.  Not to mention, I don't think if he were gaining weight he'd want me to point at his ass and shout at him. 

2) I am a whale.  I'm already too big to touch my feet, or bend, or do yoga, or sit up, or roll over, or put on my underwear, or shave my legs, or wear any of my clothes, or find new clothes that I like, or tolerate my bulky winter jackets (WHICH I STILL NEED BECAUSE SPRING WON'T COME).   And guess what sunshine? I still have 3 months to go and this tiny human is less than 3 pounds so far.  There's nowhere else for her (or me) to grow.  I am as big as I can handle, and I'm so terrified about that fact that I can't even type it without wanting to cry. 

3) Add to that: I am fucking tired.  Not only is my mind running at warp speed with baby thoughts all hours of the day, but I can't sleep because my back and hips hurt like hell (yes I have pillows). 

4) I am in pain.  See above.  The back pain has started and I'm still working on ways to relieve it.  Anyone who is in pain might be a little extra sensitive, no?  Well, add pain to the other 6 reasons, and I feel justified. 

5) I am hormonal.  I have to admit this must be part of the problem.  I tend to resist the "crazy pregnant hormones" hypothesis, but I do feel fragile lately which must at least be partially due to the raging ridiculousness that happens to one's body when she is housing an ever-growing human being.

6) I am embarrassed.  Being the centre of attention is hard for anyone, especially when it comes to a person's body.  Not to mention, nobody likes crying in public - it tends to lead to more crying. 

7) The barrage of attention is constant.  There is no reprieve.  So even if you are a well-meaning colleague, friend, or family member, having people comment on or point at my body all day does not make it easier to withstand. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that tolerance boils down to volume and frequency. 


I get that some pregnant women don't feel this way.  Or they do and they just don't talk about it.  Or they do and other people are not paying attention.  But I am not the only one to say this.  I am not crazy.  This is hard, and it's allowed to be. 

My advice to people (including Past Me who has also made this mistake): Please don't make everything about the baby, even if it is all you can see.  Remember that she's a person - a person going through a lot right now - and maybe you could just act normal sometimes.  Or at least be subtle...

Turns out I'm a creepy hoarder

Turns out I'm a creepy hoarder. 

Well, not exactly.  I actually hate "crap" in my house.  I ditch stuff all the time, I sell stuff on the interwebs constantly, and on any given day I have a pile of junk in my trunk that is headed for Value Village. 

But last week I realized I do have at least one weird creepy hoarding habit.  I noticed this because for the last month I've been asking Hubby to gimme his goat soap. 

That may require some explanation... in his Christmas stocking, Ma in Law gave Hubby some fancy goat soap.  It's made of goats, I think.  Or goat products.  Or something.  And from the moment I saw the goat soap, I had my eye on it.  So for a month I've been telling Hubby to hand it over.

Well, he finally coughed up the goods, and that's when I noticed:  I seem to resist throwing out the last remnants of my previous bar of soap.  There is a thin, pathetic little sliver of my former soap siting on the side of my bathtub, and I seem to be incapable of discarding it.  I apparently think I'll use it?  When in reality, my former soap is so dramatically inferior to the new goat soap that I would be stupid to revert to my old ways.  Once you go goat...

So I got to thinking, it isn't just fancy goat soap.  It's all liquids and gels.  Like shampoo, toothpaste, lotion.  I apparently have a freaky obsession with making sure I save EVERY LAST DROP of every liquid or gel in my life. 

When the body wash or dish soap gets low, I add water and shake it up to save the last drop. 

I injure my fingers trying to maneuver the last of the toothpaste out of the tube.

I have at least a couple hundred small bottles of mostly-empty hand sanitizer on my desk. 

And worst of all, when my lotion pump no longer reaches the bottom of the bottle, I buy a new one.  But I don't throw out the old one.  No way.  Because once I use the new for a while, I figure there will be room in the new the bottle for me to add the remnants of the old bottle.  Sometimes you'll walk into my bathroom and there'll be bottles stacked on top of bottles, dripping contents.  Like ketchup bottles in a breakfast diner. 

This is a sickness.  Somebody save me. 

No, how are YOU feeling?

Everything's great! I love being pregnant! 

That's what I SHOULD say, I assume.  As opposed to my normal response:

No, how are YOU fucking feeling?

And I usually say it with a snotty attitude that makes people want to punch my face. 

I'm sorry guys, but it's not easy having everyone constantly questioning me about the human-growing factory that my body has become.  Anyone who knows I'm pregnant can't seem to talk to me about anything else. 

I know it's a big deal, and I know people are excited for me, and yes I totally appreciate their interest and concern.  The problem seems to arise when people who wouldn't normally stop by my desk, or people who wouldn't normally tell me I need to be taking it easy, start doing exactly that. 

I much prefer the people who just pretend I'm not pregnant at all.  Like my boss.  It's so easy.  I can complain or whine (my specialties) whenever I feel like it, but he's not babying me.  Or like Momma, who must be dying to hear all the details but is totally leaving me be (thanks Mom). 

Or, alternatively, people who ask heartfelt questions out of apparently genuine interest.  I don't mind those people.  Like one coworker today who actually requested to see my ultrasound picture, as if it was somehow different from every other ultrasound picture in the history of ultrasound pictures.  That was nice of him. 

I think my problem is primarily with the randoms (who don't really want to hear the truth anyway), or the constants (who are deathly curious and/or have nothing else to say).

In any case, I'll try to lighten up.  But if people really want to know, here's the truth on how I am:

I'm grumpy more often than not. 
Pregnancy hormones and a tendency to feel depressed don't go well together. 
I can't take Advil for my headaches, but Tylenol just isn't as good.
I need to go to sleep every night by 9 if I want to survive the following day. 
I'm breathless all the time, simply upon standing, or talking, or walking. 
I'm having aversions to all my go-to foods, leaving me with nothing to eat. 
I'm impatient to feel the baby move and to know boy or girl, BOY OR GIRL! 
My pants don't fit and my bras pinch and I hate shopping even more than I hate tight pants and pinchy bras. 

On the upside:

We ordered a crib the other day and bought some paint.
Hubby is totally tolerating my absurdity, which is very sweet of him. 
Oh, and apparently the baby can hear me now, so I have someone to listen to me complain - someone who can't get away, and who won't judge me.  Yet. 

So it's not all bad. 

Phase one of growing a tiny human

In case you missed my post the other day, I'm totally preggers you guys.  Full on growing a tiny human over here. 

Because I was desperately missing my blog and twitter outlet during the whole "try to keep this GIANT NEWS a secret for three entire months" time frame, I kept a brief diary in my kickass iPhone. 

Here are my earliest entries:

October 27

Miss Sarcasm arrived to visit me last night! We went to dinner and ate unpasteurized cheese and drank a glass of wine.  "Are you pregnant?" the waiter asked.  Nope! Bring on the bacteria cheese and alcohol!

But in the back of my mind? My period was due today... and yet, no sign of it...

October 28

Ok no period.  Must go to the drug store.  Then shopping and lunch with Miss Sarcasm!

I thought I'd take the test later tonight, once we went to bed.  But when I got home from lunch, I just couldn't wait any longer.  So I peed.  And guess what. 

1-2 what?  Children?

HOLY FUCK.  I was totally not expecting that.  I even bought 2 tests, because I'd need one of them next time, right?  Doesn't it take months and months to get pregnant? It's been maybe three months.  And I'm pretty sure we didn't even understand the precise timing requirements for the first two months.  So lucky...

And of course I couldn't even wait two minutes to tell Hubby.  Even though he was in the bathroom. 

"Hubby! Come out! I have something to tell you!"

When he walked out, I just said it.  "I'm pregnant!"  Then I hysterically laughed and waved a pee stick in his face and he just shouted "Are you serious?!" over and over while I freaked out. 

(Then for about 2 weeks after that, every single time he and I caught each other's eye, we'd raise our eyebrows, pull our cheeks back showing our teeth, and inhale deeply, to reveal an awkward panicked smile-type laugh.  Every. Single. Time.)

October 28

Oh, poor Hubby has to scoop the kitty litter.  SUCKER. 

Turns out, though, that I have to give up ALL THE THINGS.  What the fuck?  I can't even have a scalding hot bath - my favourite type of bath.  And yummy bacteria cheese? Gone.  And WINE. I can't even talk about wine. 

On the up-side, I get to use pregnancy as an excuse for pretty much everything.  So there's that.

October 29

I'm a mess. Fucking student doctor scaring the shit out of me and still managing to NOT answer a single one of my questions directly. I'm surely guilty for anything that goes wrong. This is too much responsibility.

October 31

And the hormones begin!  So emotional. Freak out at work and irritable with Hubby too. Not that that's any different, really, come to think of it.

Otherwise?  No symptoms!  No sore nipples, no sickness, no anything. I'm like one of those freaks who wouldn't know she's pregnant until a baby appeared in the toilet. (Which SERIOUSLY happened to a girl at my office. She really just thought she'd gained weight and had stomach problems. Until she gave birth in her bathroom. Then she called her mom. WHOA.)

I have to keep reminding myself that I haven't had my period. That's really the only proof for christsakes. 

November 7

I can't poop! That is so not like me.  I'm a pooping expert. 

And a nosebleed? What the fuck is that?

But Hubby found a random sign today, which is super exciting.

November 8

It's a sad day when I have to eat my cats' Metamucil.

November 9

I told hubby I wanted a girl.  A boy would be fine too, but I don't know what to do with a boy. Changing a diaper with one of those little things pointing at me would be super weird.

Later, Hubby spent a good five minutes crawling around on the kitchen floor, following me as I walked around, trying to hook my feet with the long string that he pulled out of his hoodie. Aaaannnddd this what having boys is like, then?

November 10

Are you in there little fetus? In 9 months will you come greet us? I will buy you some Adidas...




Oh, Phoebe.


More to come! Let the illness begin...

Hey! I have news!

Alright dear friends.  Here's the big news.

I'm not even going to make you wait.  I'm just going to come out and say it. 

I really don't like those people who say, "Hey! I have news!" and then ramble on for fifteen minutes about how they didn't know how to tell you, and would you like the good news or the bad news first. 

I mean, if you don't know how to tell me, then maybe you should have thought about it a little bit more before you brought it up, because now I'm just sitting here waiting while you find the perfect words to share news that - let's be honest - probably doesn't impact me in the slightest. 

And as for the good news/bad news question? What do YOU think? If you're really asking, I'd rather not hear the bad news at all.  Because who wants to hear bad news?  Unless it's just "bad" relative to the good news, but not really all that bad in its own right, well then I guess I wouldn't mind hearing it.  And I might like to hear it first because it might seem pretty decent until I hear the actual good news.  Whereas if you share the relatively "good" news first, then the relatively "bad" news is just wasted news because who cares about not-so-great news when compared to particularly-good-news?  No one.  No one cares about the "bad" news.  We all just want the good news.  So stop asking such a stupid question. 

What were we talking about?

Oh right. 

Hey! I have news!

I don't really know how to say this...

Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?  I'm going to give you the good news first, and then validate it by adding my own personal flavour of cynicism. 

The Good News:

Right now, at this very moment, there is a very tiny being growing inside my body.  A human being.  I mean, it isn't an alien being or something.  Although from what I can tell, it does have a VERY large head. 

Yes, yes, my eggo is preggo.  Just over 3 months preggo, actually.  And I've been reluctantly keeping it from all of you (not to mention my closest friends and family) for WAY TOO LONG.  I don't know if you guys know me AT ALL, but I don't exactly keep secrets very well.  I'm a sharer.  Which may explain my difficulty in maintaining any regularity to my posts over the last couple of months...

Going along with the good news is all the excitement! Sharing this with Hubby. Laying in bed at night thinking about what it'll be like, if it's a boy or a girl, how I'll basically have my own little doll to dress up all the time! (kidding)

But.  There is bad news, and it is simply not like me to hold it in. 

The Bad News:

The bad news is that I've never had so many mixed feelings in my whole entire life.

The nausea that consumed me for 5 straight weeks.  The confusion of what this will mean to my life as I know it.  The overwhelming pressure of not telling people, and then, even worse, of telling people who don't necessarily understand how hard it can be to tell people.  The decision to blog or not to blog this very personal experience.  The utter dissatisfaction of decaf tea.  THE LOSS OF WINE.  The frustration of bigger boobs getting in the way of my arm-movement.  The worry that I'm not eating well enough.  The fear that I will have no idea how to take care of this thing once it comes out, let alone while it's in there.  The constant fucking panic that any little twinge is a sign of something going horribly wrong. 

This is a big deal, you guys.  Some days, hours, minutes I am truly so excited and looking forward to every little bit.  Other days, hours, minutes, I just don't know what to do with myself. 


So, my own personal reality of pregnancy and parenthood is soon to be revealed.  I've even been keeping a "what I would tweet if the biggest thing in my life wasn't a giant secret" diary to share with y'all over the next few posts.  Buckle in. 

PS
For those of you who learned this ahead of time, consider this your official authorization to share the news with others!  I know the few days of secrecy has been HELL for you, but we do appreciate it.  In fact, maybe even direct curious people here, since this is where the whole truth comes straight from the pregnant horse's mouth.  So to speak. 

Three reasons you should vote (for Obama)

As most of you probably know, I am not an American.  However, up here in Canada we do happen to follow American politics, American economics, and, most importantly, American vampire and zombie television shows. 

We North Americans aren't that different from each other - many of our values, laws, and ongoing debates are quite similar.  Our cultural influences are much the same.  We like to visit each other.  We're often lumped together when traveling to other parts of the world.  We're two very developed, very democratic, and perhaps very ego-centric, countries.  (And I can see Alaska from my hoWse!)

But, having visited the US several times and with some very close friends living there, I can safely say that there are several things I adore about Canada that are seemingly lacking in large pockets of the grand ol' US of A. 

There are countless reasons that I insist that you vote tomorrow.  But there are specifically three main reasons that I politely suggest you vote for Barack Obama. Like three genie wishes.  Or three magic beans. 

*******

Number 1 - Abortion is legal in Canada. 

Abortion is legal, and will likely stay that way for the foreseeable future, if not forever.  We are not reopening the abortion debate, despite some regular and recent attempts. 

Now.  Depending on the person and how he or she presents the argument, I can in some cases tolerate an opinion different from mine on this.  

I cannot, however, over-state the importance, in my opinion, of allowing a woman to make FREE choices that are best for her and her body.  I mean, we make adoptive parents jump through a shit-ton of hoops, and even bio parents do an awful lot of planning and soul searching before making a decision to grow tiny humans.  I would like to trust women (and their partners, and their doctors) to make good decisions, even when I know many of them can't or won't.  That's what being FREE is about. 

Even if we took this abortion choice away, I cannot even begin to fathom how the fuck we would regulate it.  Would a judge decide for me? Would there be a list of criteria?  Would I have to prove I was raped?  Would there be a scale of "rape legitimacy"?  Would there be a binder full of women representing a series of case studies and indicating who is abortion-worthy and who is not?

This is a fundamental paradigm about woman that ties into all sorts of questionable policies and approaches that I simply do not support.  Birth control.  Equal wages and career ambitions coupled with flexible work hours (for men AND women).  Parental leave (which is a full 12 months up here).  Support in the workplace.  Support at home.  Politicians talk a lot about support for families, but they talk little about support for the parents that lead them. 

Number 2 - Gay marriage is legal in Canada. 

The government does not attempt to pass judgement on our relationships.  Well, sometimes I'm sure it does, but legally, if I love someone, I can marry that person and I am offered all the rights and privileges and responsibilities that go along with that. 

Hubby and I didn't think we needed marriage, but we wanted it, and we love it.  It makes me want to cry heavy, ugly tears that a country as apparently progressive and innovative as the United States (a country that allowed SLAVERY not many generations ago - from which black Americans escaped to Canada) could possibly withhold this right from all its people.  Let alone that everyone sits in judgement on the issue. 

I support you, and whomever you love, no matter who you are.  To be honest, I'm not even opposed to polygamy if everyone is a willing partner and there's no observable harm to the children.  Call me out if you wish, but it's really where I stand.   People deserve to be happy. Just let people be happy.

Isn't that what marriage is about? Isn't that the "sanctity" we should be protecting?  The sanctity of a happy marriage and caring families and a supportive society that loves thy neighbour? In fact, maybe I have a problem with those sham "I'm pregnant so I better get married" marriages that end in pain and suffering and broken homes for kids that potentially were never wanted in the first place.  Where's the sanctity in that?   

Number 3 - Health care is free in Canada.

Ok, so free is a tricky word.  We have high taxes here, and in some provinces people pay a "premium" to support their health care system.  We all pay for it, and it ain't perfect, but at least anyone who needs to can go to the friggin emergency room or receive radiation for their cancer without some ridiculous fee.  And hell, people can even get cancer and not be kicked out of the system or denied.  SHOCKER.  We may wait, but patience is a virtue and good medical care is worth it.  Trust me. 

Some of you might call that - gulp - socialism.  Well, guess what?  I'm  not only a dirty liberal but I'm a crazy socialist too. 

Tax me all you want if it means that when I go to the doctor I don't get an invoice afterward (nor a statement from my asshole insurance company telling me the exact price of every goddam nurse and every fucking tube they stuck into my orifices). 

Tax me all you want if it means that groups of inter-generationally and socially disadvantaged people with whom I share this country need some fucking support. 

Tax me all you want if it means I get TWELVE FULL MONTHS OF PARENTAL LEAVE. 

Tax me all you want if it means I can have full-day kindergarten/preschool in Ontario, or $6 a day daycare in Quebec for my kids. 

Tax me.  I will live within my means and I will contribute.  And I will sleep better at night because of it. 

*******

Now.   Please don't mistake me here - if you're an American I value and appreciate you, and your opinion.   And I don't know everything there is to know. 

But if you refuse to vote tomorrow - no matter who for - I will hunt you down and kick you in the shin with my "poke-the-eye-out-of-a-snake" boots.

And if you're undecided, consider voting for your current president, who, despite his faults, has the drive and determination to accomplish something great for your country - and who has a vision for your future that is actually quite revolutionary and entirely well-intentioned. 

Or consider moving to Canada.  We'd love to have you. 

Adam's Song

You'd think I could never, ever forget what it was like to be anxious.  How could anyone forget that?  That exhaustion, that pain, that debilitation, that fear. 

But I did.  I forgot it.  I forgot how much my chest hurts with every breath.  I forgot the headaches and the butterflies in my stomach.  I forgot the restlessness, the racing heart, the crushing feeling in my ribs.  I forgot what it was like to count the days.  Count the hours.  Count the minutes trying to hold it together. 

I forgot. 

I forgot because I've been doing so well.  Because I let myself forget.  I slowly reduced my meds until I could cope without them altogether.  I was stable.  I was happy. 

Until something happened.  I'm not sure what exactly, but something.  Or many things.  Many little things that just aren't so "little" in the grand scheme of my childhood fear, confusion, frustration, mistrust.  Things that somehow triggered me.  One thing, or two, or a handful of external pressures that just... built up inside me until they burst.  Set me off like a bomb I forgot was there. 

Only not like a bomb.  Not a shell-shocking explosion.  More like a slow-releasing toxic gas that seeps into my lungs and pores without me even realizing it. 

And then.  Then the effects begin to make themselves known.  I start to feel it.  To know it.  To recognize it. 

It hits and I don't want to leave my bed.  It hits and crying seems easier and yet harder than it ever has.  It hits and Adam's Song on the radio shoves me into a panic.  It hits and... and I'm terrified that I'm back where I started, with no power, and no strength, and no logic to save me. 

It hits. 

And it hurts. 

And I'm trapped. 

I don't automatically assume he's a perv

I don't know if you guys know this, but I'm not necessarily a terrible person. 

Sure, I'm kind of an asshole.  I curse a lot. I'm 100% un-punctual.  I say what I'm thinking, even if it might offend your precious sensibilities.  But I have some good qualities too.  I'm fun.  I distribute freezies to my colleagues.  I even volunteer. 

So what's my favourite Marianna Annadanna quality? (other than the constant cursing, which I'm actually quite fond of).  It's the fact that I almost always give people the benefit of the doubt. 

Not every day, nor in every circumstance, but I generally try to minimize my judgements. 

The crazy jerk neighbour?  He doesn't know any better.  It's not his fault.  His wife doesn't even like him. Poor guy. 

The celebrity couple who got divorced?  We don't know them.  Leave them alone.  Sure, he's probably completely nuts, but we can't prove it. 

The creepy dude who felt up my leg on the bus?  I should talk to him, if he's talking to me.  I wouldn't want to be rude.  He probably just thinks I'm single.  (!)

This is not to say that I don't make my voice heard.  If you've read my blog, like, ever, you know I'm a huge fan of the giant bitchy rant.  I have been known to throw a hissy fit at a stupid salesgirl or mall cop, for example. 

But I also often defend a lot of shit that really should piss me off. 

Yesterday, let's say.  Yesterday Hubby and I were driving home from Hometown. 

Hubby: "Ew.  This road has potholes." *

Me: "Yeah it does.  But I guess it's not that bad.  Just drive around them."

Hubby: "They just re-paved it.  THIS IS BRUTAL."

Me: "Well, maybe it's just temporary."

Hubby: "STOP IT! It's a SHITTY ROAD! Just accept it!"

Ok, so Hubby's right.  Fine.   I admit it.


*Read the first two comments.

I caught a fever

I caught a fever.  I woke up this morning feeling pretty normal, but then, when I was watching the Today Show, something funny started to happen inside me.  I felt kinda tingly and giddy... off kilter. 

And that's when I realized. 

I caught it. 

I caught Bieber Fever. 

Godammit. 

I was minding my own business!  I wasn't exposing myself to dangerous contagions!  I was clean!

But then Matt Lauer was interviewing The Biebs and everything got a bit goofy.  It turns out that Matt just joined the twitter, and he made the mistake of asking The Biebs to help him with his first tweet. 

True to form, the little dude genius took Matt's phone, and tweeted this:

HAHAHAHahahahahahahaha!

What a sucker.  He totally handed over his phone - and his first ever tweet - to an 18 year old pop star with 25 million twitter followers.  GOOD IDEA MATT. 

And then I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. 

But afterward, I began to get sucked in...  Not only is he an 18 year old genius, but that Boyfriend song is actually really catchy.  And he's a good little dancer, isn't he?  And Canadian.  We can't forget Canadian.  Be still my heart. 

There's no hope for me.  I'm lost.  This fever will consume me and I will forever be wandering the wasteland of what was once my adult life, wondering where all my responsible friends and family members have gone...

Sure, Hubby may stick by me for a while, but for how long?  How long can he deal with a tragically and hopelessly ill Wifey?  Not long.  He may have stood by me through Asshole Depression and Bastard Anxiety, but not this.  This is too much.  Now he knows I've truly gone insane. 

There's no going back. Farewell, cruel world.  Farewell. 

Baby, baby, baby, Ohhhhhhh...

The time has come.

Well, my friends, the time has come. 

Last year I lost my shit.  I went nuts.  I had some wicked panic attacks and some flashes of miserable ideas.  I took a month off work.  I started seeing a shrink, and when that didn't work (fast enough), I started popping the crazy pills like peanut m&ms. 

First a small dose, then a medium dose.  And after about six weeks I began to breathe again.  Not every day.  Not all the time.  But the breaths came easier and the panic attacks were fewer and farther between.  The pain - terrifying crushing immeasurable intolerable pain - began to subside. 

Huh.  Well, that's a relief, isn't it?

I finally had room to get my life back on track.  I tried to get active (even if I almost killed my friend v in the process).  I diversified.  I got VOCAL. 

And then I got better. 

Not perfect (what the fuck does that even mean?), but better.  Softer.  Calmer.  Safer.  More aware.  Happier.  Gentler.  More honest.  Less ashamed.  Just... better.  Not only better than the bad days, but better than before. 

A better me.  A new me.

Still a lazy fucking bum, to be sure, but at least willing to acknowledge it and admit why.

Still a crazy wack-bat on more than one occassion, but at least able to limit my outbursts to a more opportune time (such as after Hubby falls asleep in the foreign hospital). 

Still weak sometimes.  Still working on it.  But stronger.  Wiser.  More... hopeful. 

So, the time has come.  The time has come to try stepping out without the crutch...  *cue doomsday music*  ...to slowly reduce my meds until I can hopefully function (reasonably well) without them. 

Holy SHIT I am terrified.  What if the bad days return? What if I want to sleep all the time? What if amazing Spring weather isn't enough to hold me up?  What if I have to go back to relying on Hubby more than I ever thought I would?

What if...?

Christ I'm not sure if I can do this. 

But I have to. I have to at least try.  I'm not the same person I was when I started boosting myself up with pills.  But how do I voluntarily give up the one thing that I knew would save me if I could just be patient enough for it to kick in? 

I want to.  I need to.  But how?


This song.  This song is me, speaking to myself. 

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

I invaded Hubby's shower. Sorry?

Yesterday when Hubby and I woke up, we were pretty confident the house was going to get picked up and crash down in some far away land over the rainbow.  Except there was no effing rainbow out there, I can assure you of at least that much.  There was, however, WIND. 

SO.  MUCH.  WIND. 

A cold and nasty bitch was blowing at about 95 kilometres per hour. (Nearly 60, for my crazy American friends.) 

And thanks to the terrible recent news coming out of Indiana, as well as certain technicolour movies, I was terrified.  I couldn't stop imagining some giant tree smashing through my bedroom window, or the roof getting ripped off, or a pack of crazy flying monkeys coming to attack me. 

Basically, I was a tad jumpy. 

I'm sure you can imagine how much worse matters got when the apocalypse came.  Or the power went out.  Whichever. 

Me:  No! The power went out!
Hubby:  Uh huh. 
Me:  We should have showers! The hot water tank is going to fail us momentarily!
Hubby:  It's gas.  It'll be fine. 
Me:  Oh. 

It was around this time that I got distracted by the fact that my kickass iPhone was running low on battery power.  While I was busy considering driving around the block to charge my phone in the car, Hubby had started the shower and was searching the house for a flashlight. 

Me:  At least turn off the water! You're wasting it!
Hubby:  Honey.  There will be plenty of hot water.  I need a flashlight. 
Me:  Fine.  Hurry up though, dummy. 

And then it happened. 

Hubby, yelling from the shower:  Did you flush the toilet?!
Me:  No, why?
Hubby:  Uh... I think the hot water is running out!
Me:  Are you kidding?!
Hubby:  Um, no!

God dammit.  He KNOWS how a Wifey without a hot shower (twice a day, at least) is a very unhappy Wifey.  He KNOWS Wifey will be pissed if Wifey can't wash her hair.  He KNOWS that if there's no hot water after he said there would be, Wifey's gonna lose her SHIT. 

He also knows Wifey is certifiably nuts. 

Which is why I guess Hubby wasn't particularly surprised when a panicked and crazy Wifey ran into his bathroom, dropped her pjs, and jumped into his luke warm shower. 

Yeah. 

It turned out that the hot water was fine, and by the time we got dried and dressed, the power was back on.  Also, interestingly, and thankfully, our house didn't actually blow away. 

Huh.  So... my fear wasn't entirely rational, then?  WEIRD. 

I HAVE A SUN SPOT, PEOPLE.

Have you guys read my "Dillio" page?  It very clearly states the following:

• I live in Canada;
• I like late night dance parties in my living room;
• I love Hubby and my kitties; and,
• I am in my mid twenties (continually refusing to define the point at which my mid twenties become my late twenties). 

Now.  I acknowledge the legitimate possibility that one's personal "about" page could change over time.  There may come a day when I no longer enjoy late night dance parties in my living room.  It's unlikely but theoretically possible that I could move away from Canada.  I may even get a new cat (or a new Hubby).  Or maybe even a child. 

But my age?! My age should never, ever change.  A person's ability to come to terms with his or her number of years on this planet is a long and painful process.  Once achieved, this is not a process that should have to be repeated.  At any time.  

I'm happy in my mid twenties. 

I used to miss age 21, but I got over it. 

I was comfortable with 24.  24 was ok with me.  I was usually the youngest person in the office, but still an adult. 

Then 25 hit, and I tried my best to ignore it. 

Not surprisingly, 26 was a fucking PROBLEM.  All of a sudden I was on the wrong side of 20.  I had a real issue with 26.  26 and I DID NOT get along. 

And now I'm 27.  Still mid twenties, as far as I'm concerned.  Getting too close to 30, but still twenties.  Not the youngest person around, but still young.  Loosening and wrinkling, but still looking ok. 

But now it's happening.  Age 27 is coming to an end.  Next Wednesday I will turn *gulp* 20 *gag* 8. 

No no no no no no no NO!

To make matters worse, my colleagues hosted my birthday party last Friday with my FAVOURITE Dairy Queen ice cream cake... while I was at home taking a Benilyn Day.  Although I think they saved me a piece. 

Even more fun, I'm going on a business trip this week, meaning that (given the 5 hour flight and the 3 hour time change), my whole birthday will be spent ON A PLANE.  Eight hours.  On a plane.  They had better bring me a free cookie or something. 

The only redeeming components of this week will be: a) going out West, which does happen to be a wicked cool birthday present; and, b) getting to see Carmen, which is better than a birthday present - it's like a effing birthday PRIZE. 

So while I may make it through this week, I'm concerned about my longer-term ability to accept my new age range.  I'm not sure I'll have the strength to update my Dillio.  I'm basically a pathetic old lady.  Getting older by the minute, and hating it. 

I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back

Hubby and I are back from our beach resort vacation. 

And I have never been so glad to be in my cold and snowy country than I am RIGHT NOW. 

Seriously. 

I have a SHIT SHOW of a story for you...  but since I'm trying not to resent the whole damn thing, I'm first going to recap the good news. 

The Good News:

It was gorgeous.  It rained a little, but not much, and the sun was warm. 

The beach was AMAZING. 

Our friends were so much fun.  The beers were unlimited.  The food was decent. 

We swam with stingrays and sharks and fed the tropical fish.  We danced on a party boat. 

The staff were incredible, even teaching us how to curse in Spanish... 

Quel Diablo!

We walked an hour to the market, bought a bunch of crap, and got happily taken advantage of. 

We swam in the pool near the pool bar.  Hubby took a poolside salsa dance lesson.  We made fun of others. 

We slept in and stayed up late.  We had an elevator dance party.  We played Jenga.

We made a GIANT sand prison (because castles are too predictable). 

WE BOOGY BOARDED.  We swam in the waves.

On our last night, we partied it up, slid down the kiddie water slide around 2 am, got shooed away by security, hit up the late night bar, and went to sleep by 4:00. 

And this is where the trouble started. 

The Bad News:

Hubby woke up on our final day with what seemed like a nasty hangover... until that "hangover" got progressively worse, and worse, and worse.  My friends and I went downstairs to check out at the front desk and choke down our final buffet lunch.  When I returned to Hubb, I found him desperately ill sleeping on a bench in the hallway. 

Ummm...

I tried to make him eat and drink, but keeping food down was a no-go.  I decided we needed our room back so he could rest, but the front desk wasn't havin' it. 

And then I started to cry. 

They said I should take him to the resort doctor, at which point I realized that he could never walk that far. 

And then I cried harder. 

A security guard took a very delirious and frightened Hubby in a wheelchair to the doctor, who, when asked by the patient if death was imminent, responded with "only God knows that". 

Quel Diablo.  What the FUCK.

The Trauma:

At this point cellphone roaming charges became immaterial so I started making calls to our insurance company.  Hubby was rushed (hallucinating, terrified, and puking up his insides) into a cab and we took off to the hospital.

A FOREIGN HOSPITAL. 

I checked Hubby in, and they started an IV for rehydration and antibiotics.  "Anti-biotico." He had a severe gastro-intestinal infection.  Hours passed, but he didn't get better, not even a little bit. 

I sat on the floor in the hospital hallway outside of Hubby's Emergency Room curtain, sobbing like a baby.  When the Spanish-speaking doctor found me balling, they scooped us up and devlivered us to a lovely little double room, admitting Hubby for the night. 

Around this time, I was about to lose it.  I'd already employed every possible grounding strategy and anxiety avoidance tool I had at my disposal.  I was alone, and helpless, and scared out of my already-crazy mind.  I was wearing my bathing suit under a skirt and tshirt, didn't have any food, and was even missing my crazy pills.  Nobody spoke any English, Hubby was barely conscious, and I very quickly lost my cool. 

So I called Momma - crying and alone, and needing to hear a friendly voice.  Momma did what she does best.  She calmed me down and kept me company.  She even offered to come there, which was more than was needed but appreciated all the same. 

She gave me the strength I needed to make a million calls: to our friends who were catching our flight; to our travel agency who would have to remove us from the flight; to our resort who would have to save our baggage; to our medical insurance company who would have to pay for everything; to our neighbours who were feeding the cats; to my boss who would wonder where the heck I was; etc, etc, etc. 

All while Hubby was knocked out in the next room. 

Time passed, I slept a little, and by morning Hubby was feeling a bit better.  We thought we might be able to catch a flight home - or at least close to home where our family could pick us up. 

But when the Doctor came in, he said we needed to stay ANOTHER NIGHT. 

Another night? Seriously?  Aaaaannnnnd... crying again. 

Not to mention I hadn't eaten in 24 hours - the solution to which was to hop in a cab BY MYSELF headed to the nearby gas station to buy a croissant, a tin of peanuts, and a can of Pringles.  All while still in my bathing suit. 

The Healing:

Hubby started to improve.  He ate some soup and his spirits lifted.  We watched tv, played Crazy Eights, and waited for the day to pass.  By night, we cuddled up in the little single hospital bed together and waited desperately for someone to tell us we could go home.  We woke up to the sound of crowing roosters (!) and complained about the humidity.  I refused to document this event, but was convinced to take this single photo. 

Momma booked a flight, while I paced the room thinking that if I never saw another damn palm tree again it would be too fucking soon, wishing I could rip off the damn resort bracelet shackle, and picking at my putrid bright pink nail polish. 

Remember how anxious I was to go on this trip?  How desperate I was?  How much I was clinging to it?  Well, when that doctor said we could go home, I had never been so desperate to leave a place as I was in that single solitary moment. 

Getting the Fuck Out of There:

We packed up Hubby's goody bag of drugs and took a $75 cab back to the resort to get our bags, and then to the airport.  We spent our very last US dollar, and even $5 Canadian.  We got on the plane, sighing a giant breath of relief. 

We landed in Montreal and were about to catch our connection home, when I realized that I didn't have our second boarding passes...

There had been an error in booking, and it turned out we were going to have to spend an extra night in Montreal. 

OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO FAINT. 

This can't happen.  We need to GO HOME. 

In the flurry of everyone running off our plane to catch their connections, the Air Canada staff saved the day.  They fit us onto the plane, switched our luggage, charged us an additional 300 bucks, and WE RAN FASTER THAN WE HAVE EVER RUN to catch that flight. 

We boarded that damn plane from the tarmac and tried to recover from our marathon in the cold, dry air. 

Home Sweet Home:

Aside from a smelly/wet suitcase and some very lonely kitties, home was the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

Momma said that when she went south, she was so happy for the warmth that she kissed the hot ground.  When I got home I thought I might eat the snow. 

Hubby was still sick but we were ok.  Glad to be home.  Glad to be safe. 

The Saga Continues:

Yesterday after I took Hubby to the doctor, I got nauseous.  By evening I was feverish and throwing up while Hubby held my head.  I have not gotten off the couch since.

Hubby still can't eat anything except soup and crackers, and he slept all damn day. 

I had to miss a psych appointment, a massage appointment, and tomorrow a dentist appointment.  Not to mention WORK, which I have entirely abandoned. 

I have not come to terms with all this yet.  I am struggling.  I am resentful and bitter. 

And I may never leave my house again.

_

Num num, rum rum in my tum tum

You guys.  I've made a dramatic discovery.  I've identified the one and only CURE for Ebeneezer-itus.  I can't believe I haven't found it before.  It's so obvious.  Are you ready? 

It comes in the form of eggnog. 

RUM and eggnog. 

Mmmmmm...

I've had fun this week. 

Thursday at work was extremely uneventful, and I may or may not have arrived very late and departed very early.  Maybe. 

Friday was even better.  I got to the office in time for the children's pancake breakfast with my adorable twin-mom friend, LB.  I toured around showing off her babies as if they were my own, and then we ate pancakes.  Well, LB and I ate pancakes.  The babies drank some milk.  Actually, it could've been eggnog. 

When I finally got to my desk, a coworker came into my cubical:

"Ok! Let's go!"

"Let's go?!  I just got here!  I'm LOGGING INTO MY EMAIL RIGHT NOW. It's five minutes to 12, for godsake." 

"K. I'll give you five minutes."

And so we left.  I did send one work-related email, so at least there's that. 

After I battled the Christmas Eve downtown traffic (I don't want to talk about it), Hubby and I went hopping about town shopping and eating and doing all things Christmassy. 

And then it happened.  My Holiday Spirit finally made itself officially known.  Via eggnog.  And RUM. 

We watched the Griswolds and drank rum. 

Click here for Youtubey. 

Yesterday we wrapped gifts and then opened them almost immediately afterward.  I even got a kickass new iPod!  We ate duck breasts for dinner and then drank more rum, and then Tuxedo ran away with a duck breast and left dirty little paw prints across my floor.

As for today, the snow started last night and has been falling at a slow and steady pace ever since.  Even though all the weather experts said it'd be a green Christmas.  But they were wrong, weren't they?  Because CANADA NEVER FAILS.  Want snow? You got it, Canada says. 



See?

The fam comes tomorrow, which of course we're looking forward to.  I just hope I don't run out of rum.   

Happy holidays y'all.  If I can find my Spirit, we know it's not all lost.