I will not accept hate in my country. I WILL NOT.

Last night a swastika was painted onto a Rabbi's front door in my city, my Capital of Canada.

The story is here.













This shit has happened before, and I've always been dismayed. But, unfortunately, I've never been as fucking livid as I am right now.

So I decided to do something. I wrote a letter to my elected representatives, at the municipal, provincial and federal levels. I encourage you to do the same.  In fact, your can copy and paste my text if it appeals to you.

I don't know what I will do next, but I will do something. I will.

*****

To my elected representatives and candidates:

As you know, a hate crime was committed today against a Rabbi in Ottawa. I suspect you agree, a swastika is not only a revolting violation, it is a distinct threat. I have a hard time believing this hatred wasn't incited by the horrendous, racist, misogynist, bigoted rhetoric being normalized by the recent US election.

This type of hate is not unprecedented in Ottawa or Canada, but it is perhaps often considered an isolated incident - an incident that we "condemn" but actually do very little to prevent.

However, in the rude awakening of the US election, I sense that some Canadians are becoming aware of how easily things can go awry; how quickly hatred that spawns in cold, dark places can find strength.

So today I want us to do something.

I can no longer accept my own or others' apathy. Empty "stances against" can no longer be the go-to response. This cannot continue; it cannot be shrugged off. In this country, in this community, in this national capital - or anywhere - hatred cannot stand.

And so, I need your help:

Could you describe how you extinguish the spread of hate in Canada? What specific actions will you take to support minorities, to educate and build cultural competency, to bring communities together, and to foster a dialogue that will strengthen multiculturalism in Canada? What organizations do you fund or support? How can constituents build on what you're doing? How can constituents get involved?

Sickness is catching / Oh were favour so.

But favour can catch. I implore you to use your voice, your platform. I implore you to speak loudly and with pride to those you represent and those you work with; to communicate widely about how we, as a collective, can fundamentally and consistently reject hatred in Canada.

Thank you sincerely for your time and consideration,

****

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.

You don't have to read this, either

Nearly three years ago I posted my Fraggle birth story on this blog. You didn't have to read it; it was for me. Same with this post, which is also for me - because if I don't write it down I may later doubt that it ever happened.

***

Monday morning. 5:00 am. Contractions start. But they've started and stopped several times in recent weeks, so I figure who am I kidding? This baby is never coming out. 

Ok 5:30 and they hurt. But they aren't exactly regular. I wait and see. 

Alright. 6:00. I wake Hubby. I'm in labour. Yes for real, maybe don't just ignore me and go back to sleep this time. 

We decide to take Fraggle to daycare early. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. He wakes the sleepy (but surprisingly happy) toddler. 

Oh. Ouch. That's a lot of contractions isn't it. Or is it just one big, long one? It's impossible to tell. That can't be a good sign. I take a tooth-brushing break, leaning over the counter like women on tv often do. 

6:30. I ask Hubby to please page the midwife. Yes, now. 

Hi, midwife? This fucking hurts. No, contractions don't really stop, there isn't a break. Yep it's starting again. Ok, I'll see you at the hospital. 

Hubby feeds Fraggle. I walk downstairs. One. Step. At. A. Time. 

We have to go. Yes, now. 

Oh look. I got my boots on. Who needs socks. 

Fraggle screams because she doesn't get to finish her breakfast. The beginning of several disappointments resulting from this baby, honey. I'm so sorry. 

I walk to the car by myself. Win. 

Wow the car is cold. Hubby starts it. I try to wash the frost off the windsheild but there's no washer fluid. Better than no gas, like last time. 

I look at the clock. 7:17. Contraction. Yelling isn't an option so I breathe. I chant. "It's ok... It's ok..."  I wait. 

7:18. Contraction. Uh oh. "It's ok... It's ok..."

7:19. Shit. "IT'S OK..."

Hubby gets the kiddo in her snowsuit and into the car. Longest three minutes of all time. 

Hubby suggests maybe we drop Fraggle at daycare and then go to the hospital. Not gonna happen my dear. Drop me off first. Thanks for not asking if I'm sure. 

Hubby drives in the wrong direction. No, the hospital is *that* way. I wish yelling was an option. 

Fraggle's very quiet but asking where we're going. I'm answering through my breath. Hubby can't even hear her, he's too busy scraping the frost off the windshield with his credit card at the stoplight. I praise his ingenuity. He doesn't hear me. 

Oh good the hospital. Fraggle asks where we are. "At the midwife's office" seems like a good answer. I walk out of the car, wishing in retrospect that I'd had the capacity to remember to say goodbye to her - a fuck up for which I may never forgive myself. 

Hubby starts to walk in with me, but he can't leave her alone in the car. It's fine. I walk in on my own like a soldier in a trance. 

7:24. I pace into the main doors and request/demand a wheelchair and a ride to the birthing unit from the poor old hospital volunteer man wearing a blue vest. He wheels me upstairs, nice and slow. He asks if I think the baby is coming this morning. I tell him the baby is coming right *breath* now *breath*.  When can I yell?

He wheels me to the birthing unit triage. They know who I am thanks to my midwife who called ahead. It's a good thing because I couldn't tell them my name anyway. I thank the nice volunteer man (A simple "merci" is all I can manage in French at the moment), and I wait for a nurse to help me. No midwife in sight. 

I tell the nurse I'm scared and all alone and yes the baby is coming. I climb on the table and yell for her help. Yelling is finally an option. I vaguely remember arriving here last time and never getting checked by a nurse because six other poor women kept coming in ahead of me, yelling. As I've always said, yelling gets shit done. 

She returns and tells me I'm nine and half centimetres. I get wheeled to a room, leaving my coat and wallet and phone in triage. I don't know where my boots are. I might still be wearing them. 

I tell them that Hubby's coming. He's kinda tall, thin and blonde. His name is Hubby. 

Several nurses help me climb on a bed. I'm loud now, this fucking hurts and it's the worst and YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. Yes I want gas. One nurse asks another nurse where I came from. She answers that she doesn't really know, I've been here for four minutes. 

I tell every nurse to stop telling me I'm doing a great job and distract me with questions. Some of them ask questions and I nod or shake my head. Is this a boy? *Nods* Do I have another child? *Nods* Is Hubby tall? *Nods/shakes head* (Translation: Yes, compared to me but no, not really.) They eventually run out of questions and revert to telling me I'm doing a great job. I hate them. 

Midwife! Thank god. I very slowly and deliberately move my eyes to her eyes. She seems to want me to calm down. I don't, and I kinda start to hate her too. 

She asks a nurse to help her. She rushes around (much like the poor nurse last time but far more competently). She says we'll just need to break my waters but we'll wait for Hubby.  I - with gas mask locked firmly on my face - shake my head NO with fierce insistence that cannot be mistaken. 

Do I want more gas? Hmm. Is it helping? *Shakes head, shrugs shoulders, can't move muscles in face, shakes head again*

Ok. Not waiting for Hubby. Waters broken. I can start pushing if I want. Oh, ok. 

And then I scream bloody murder as I feel a human person's small-but-not-small-enough head move through my body and I can't seem to stop screaming even with three or five nurses trying to calm me the fuck down. THIS IS WHY I WANTED AN EPIDURAL YOU SHOULD NEVER DOUBT MY JUDGEMENT. 

I look up to the right and there is Hubby's glorious face through my scream. Relief like I've never felt. 

The baby falls out. 

Even more relief. 

One push, and a very long scream, and holy fuck what the fuck. 

It's 7:49. 

I whimper for a while. Do I want skin-to-skin? *Nods vehemently.* 

Hey look a baby. 

Now, god knows how long I endure body repairs by a midwife with very little patience for my complaining and even less interest in updating me on her progress - but a Hubby with remarkable patience (guilt? pity?) for my complaining and incredible tolerance for me squeezing his hand too hard. 

And yet there's a precious (although unnamed) 7lb 3oz baby boy on my chest which seems to make it all ok. 

A couple hours and some rushing by the midwives and we're home by 11:45 texting pictures to everyone we know. 

What is this life? 

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

Working Parent Morning Parenting

Of all the brands of parenting I've been attempting for 22 + 9 months (Late Night Feeding Parenting, Child Throwing Food Parenting, Child Falling of the Bed Face Bruise Parenting), I think the most challenging/ridiculous brand of parenting is Working Parent Morning Parenting.

Yesterday morning, I arrived at work having forgotten my office employee pass, so I borrowed one from the security desk, thereby having to trade my driver's license.  Seems like an unfair trade, but there it is.  

Then yesterday evening, upon leaving work, I forgot to trade back, so I drove home without a driver's license.  ("Sorry Officer, will my temporary employee pass suffice?")

Last night before bed, I carefully and deliberately set my temporary pass on top of my employee pass, perched on the bathroom counter, so I would remember to bring both to the office in the morning.  

Enter: Working Parent Morning Parenting.  

Working Parent Morning Parenting means frantically brushing my teeth and curling my hair while Fraggle yells "MAHMA!" from her crib.  It means pulling Fraggle away from the cat, whose tail does not want to be yanked like tug-of-war. It means forgetting deodorant at least twice a week.  It means forgetting to put socks on, but deciding to go without because running back upstairs to get some isn't worth it.  It means arriving at work with sweaty bare feet that won't come out of my boots.  It means that I'm a coked-out chicken with multiple heads, all cut off.  

And so, of course, this morning I did not remember either of my employee passes.  Both are patiently waiting, as we speak, on the bathroom counter, meaning I had to approach the security desk this morning, requesting a second temporary pass.  

Why can't I just go home?

The Strangercare Show

After 23 months (9+14) of being my baby’s sole provider of care (i.e., eat, drink, sleep, play, learn – let’s be honest, I was her sole provider of life for all intents and purposes), I am now two weeks into my ominous Return To Work. 

This unfortunate Return To Work ritual is one that apparently every parent can relate to – some after only a few weeks of parental leave, others after several months or years.  There seem to be some customary phases of this momentous event, putting your child into Strangercare. 

The Strangercare Dress Rehearsal

Also known as The Transition.  Partial days, or partial hours, easing into the reality of leaving your most precious being in the hands of some hack who will probably drop her on her head and let her play with cigarettes.  Usually exudes only a small portion of the total strength eventually required for the actual Strangercare opening day, partly due to your continued significant daily role, but mostly due to denial. 

The Home Nesting Interpretive Dance

A fast and sometimes furious flutter, organizing and cleaning in an attempt to prepare for the new world order.  An often fruitless but necessary exercise. 

Before you know it, though, it’s opening night and the performance truly begins. If you don’t know your lines by now, it’s too late.  The show must go on. 

The Opening Prayer

A slow and cautious pleading to anyone who will listen, begging for empowerment.  Usually in the vein of “This is good for me.  And for her.  She’ll get used to this.” and ending with a single repeated phrase “I can do this.  I can do this.  I can do this.”

The First Day Acrobatic Display

Usually accompanied by a sense of confusion and awe that fogs you into a convenient submission. Running out the door in high heels, carrying 1-2 children on your hip, 3-to-4 bags on your shoulder, and a giant coffee mug in your hand. Followed by an 8-hour intermission. Then followed by a dash home in the same fashion with desperation in your eyes/heart/soul.   

The One-Woman Show

Also known as The Panic Attack.  When the reality of this being reality becomes a reality and the whole show almost comes (or does come) crashing to an end.  Usually accompanied by frequent (possibly extreme) crying for everyone involved.  This image is a hard one to shake – spectators be warned.

The Team Building Exercise

The rally.  The getting-to-know-each other and setting-a-plan group activity. Comes in the form of a meal planning diorama, or a "Juggle the Flaming Schedule" show, or a guest-starring role for your psychologist.  Or all of the above.

The Meditation

A slow and steady decline of emotions into a pattern of rhythmic movements. Not necessarily in a state of calm, but a state of acceptance. 

The Finale

The reflection on the overall event and how it has impacted your life.  Consideration of how you might change your life based on its influence.  For some, this will have shifted their perspective entirely – finding a new job, or a new income, or a new approach for their family.  Others will make moderate shifts – selling their house, moving close to work.  Some will make small allowances – hugging their kids more often and more fiercely. Some will do all three.  Ultimately, the finale is what brings you to your new you, your new world.  Or at least inspires you to create your own spin-off soap opera entitled Wine and Tears: My True Life Story.    

Oh my god, today

I had a lot on my plate today.  Regular Christmas prep coupled with the in-laws visiting tonight meant that I had to: make dinner, clean the house, wrap the gifts, and pick up some groceries - all while caring for a tiny human.  And oh, facing a snowstorm.

It started out fine, as most jerk days do, and then BAM it bit me in the ass.

To begin, my baby monitor randomly died during Fraggle's morning nap.  For those of you who don't know, this is basically a crisis.  First I had the initial OH MY GOD HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN OFF IS SHE ALIVE panic.  The the WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN NIGHTTIME anger.  Followed by the FUCK NOW WHAT frustration - because unless I intend to sit outside her bedroom listening for sounds of life, I need a monitor.  Plus, so. much. to. do.

I tried everything and couldn't fix the fucking thing, so I called the company.

Company lady: "Have you tried plugging it in?"

Me:  *resists snarky comment* "Yes."

Her: "Ok can you [insert troubleshooting obstacle course]."

Me: "Nada."

Her: "Well, we can send you a new one.  First we'll send you a voucher for free shipping.  Then you send us the broken monitor.  Then we send you a new one."

Me: "Oh, so you have teleportation capacity?"

Her: "...?"

Me: "Seriously? What am I supposed to do? Now I have wait weeks for a new monitor - a monitor I'm not sure I want if it's just gonna die.  And in the meantime I have go out to buy a new one. Three days before Christmas."

Her: "What's your address?"

UGH.  So my quick grocery outing became an urgent find a way to function today outing.

The rest of my day included: pushing a grocery cart through a snowy parking lot; terribly short and terribly upsetting baby naps; and, fifteen thousand chores.  I must be a fucking hero because somehow I managed to achieve it all... while watching White Christmas.

To top things off, my brother-in-law's flight was delayed (enter: snowstorm), so my in-laws arrived a couple of hours earlier than expected to kill time.  All  my chores were done (except my DISGUSTING floors which desperately need to be vacuumed), but it doesn't seem to matter because I'm a giant crazy stressball with a sore back and a baby on my boob and an un-shoveled walkway BECAUSE THE NEW STUPID BABY MONITOR DOESN'T WORK OUTSIDE MY FRONT DOOR.

Furthermore, my brother-in-law missed our dinner - lovely festive table setting and all- and I'm exhausted but still staying up to see him because I can't not.

I'm currently sitting here with a cat on either side, a computer on lap, and a crappy baby monitor on my hip, listening to a poorly-rested baby whine, while Hubby and Ma and Pa-in-law drive through a snowstorm to the airport.

I'm trying to find the merry here people.  But we're gonna press on.  We're gonna have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat ass down that chimney, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

Careful. Don't pee in the bath.

Last Friday was a good day.

Just like every Friday, we kicked it off with Baby-Mommy Yoga (aka "Baby-Mommy Sitting On A Mat").  This is the highlight of my week due mostly to the lovely moms I get to hang out with and our visit to the coffee shop afterward.

Later that afternoon, I got to experience my favourite part of motherhood - watching her learn.  You see, after a month of plainly sitting in her bouncer and staring at the toys, she finally figured out how to actually bounce. And bounce and bounce and bounce.

When Hubby arrived home, he played with Fraggle while I - wait for for - GOT DRESSED UP AND WENT TO A PARTY.  Yes, that's right.  I curled my ever-decreasing hair, put on a dress and heels, and went to dinner with a room full of adults - adults who spoke to me about adult topics.

(Although I adore talking with my mom friends at a coffee shop following Baby-Mommy Mat Sitting, my conversation earlier that day was primarily centred around the fear of having my nipples bitten off by a teething baby, and the joyous procedure of sucking snot out of her nose.)

Not only did I relish in adult conversation, I also enjoyed belting out K-Os' "The Dog Is Mine" at the highest possible volume on my fancy car stereo, ate a giant steak meal, downed a glass of pinot grigio, and... ATE ICE CREAM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR MONTHS.  (Thank you Fraggle for your improved tolerance of dairy in my diet.)

I arrived home a mere two and a half hours later after what felt like a miraculous three days of freedom.  After ranting to Hubby about my joyous solo outing, I headed upstairs for my regular evening bath, Kobo e-reader in hand.

This is where I was unceremoniously reminded of my new parental identity.

I was enjoying my hot bath and e-book, when I suddenly had the urge to pee.  Now, in case you didn't already know, a mother's bladder control is not what it once was, before she pushed a tiny human out of an even tinier hole.  So, the urge to pee is not something that can be ignored.  I jumped out of the tub and in my haste dropped my e-reader directly into the water.

This was precisely my fear four years ago when Momma bought it for me.  Of course the damn thing went sketchy.  Ruined I was sure.

Hubby happened to come up and I begged him, dripping wet and precariously holding my pee, to bring me some rice - because when you accidentally immerse your electronic device in water, burying it in rice helps eliminate the moisture.

That said, I had little hope of saving my Kobo, humbled by my realization that no day is perfect.

It seems, however, that the universe was watching out for me that day, because guess what?  My Kobo works.  Perfectly.

So now I want to thank the people of Kobo for making an e-reader with the durability to survive a new mother, a bathtub, and weak bladder control.  And also Uncle Ben's rice, for supporting its recovery. My only question is if the rice is still edible...

Uh oh. Now what?

I can't lie.  Since being home on maternity leave (and advised to stay still for 2 months before that), there is a significant possibility that I am going entirely stir crazy - sick of staring at these walls, tired of trying to find productive things to do, starving for interaction.  And it seems I'll take interaction of any type...

This is Franco.

Earlier this week, Franco appeared at my sliding glass door, put his paws up on the window, and politely requested some peanuts.

I of course obliged because what if Franco is actually my Nana reincarnated?

When I texted Hubby to warn him of my indiscretion he wasn't super impressed, but he also didn't think much of it.

Then, last night, Franco returned! And, to my great astonishment, Hubby encouraged me to feed him.

Hubby: "Get him some peanuts!"

Me: "Really? Ok..."

Hubby: "No, put them close to the door, so he'll come closer."

Me: "Alright... Who are you by the way?"

Hubby: "No.  Closer.  Really close.  CLOSE!"

Me: "Wow, ok, they're nice and close.  What shall we name him?"

Hubby: "Franco."

Tuxedo Cat: "WHOA.  SQUIRREL.  I'mma get it...  SHHHH, you guys.  Quiet.  I'm working here."

As Tuxedo Cat sat at the door stalking poor Franco, Franco simply continued to eat his peanuts with zero interest in the idiot cat staring at him.  I suspect that Franco is a seasoned squirrel - well versed in sliding-glass-door-peanut-eating, even when there are stupid cats nearby full of empty threats.

But then, this morning, I've recognized the error in my ways...

Ooops.  We knew this would happen, didn't we.

When I texted Hubby, he called me a few minutes later.  Uh oh.  This merits a phone call?

Hubby: "What. Have. You. Done."

Me: "ME?! You encouraged me! Put it closer you said!"

Hubby: "Get my BB gun."

Me: "Nooo! That might be Nana!"

Hubby: "...?  Um, I'm not sure where we go from here..."

Me: "Me neither."

Speaking up wins again

I'm not a person who's afraid of confrontation.  I speak up.  I consider this a good quality.  Sure, sometimes it gets me into trouble, and sometimes I say too much, but overall I believe that speaking up is the only way to live.  Don't bottle that shit up, man.  EATS YOU ALIVE.

So last week when I was at the mall, I spoke up.

Baby Fraggle and I were in the Hallmark card shop. We were walking in, between two big rows of greeting cards.  (Well, I was walking.  Fraggle was happily riding in her stroller.) There was an old couple ahead of me, in their 70s, and there was another mom leaving the store, also with a stroller.

That's when shit got real, y'all.

The crazy old couple wasn't looking at me, they were watching Other Mom.  Other Mom was walking out, while I was walking in.

Crazies, not seeing me, started to back up to let Other Mom go by.  (They didn't have to do that.  Other Mom had plenty of room, as you can see from my very adept drawing.)

As Crazies started to back up, so did I, giving them room.  Crazy Man almost bumped into me.  I smiled.  But this wasn't good enough for Crazy Lady.

Crazy Lady: "Watch out, husband!" And then, under her breath, "These women - have to bring CARS into stores with them."

Umm, pardon me?  These women?  Cars?

No.  We are regular women, just like you.  And these are baby strollers.  You know, to safely and lovingly transport the tiny humans that we grew inside our bodies who are yet incapable of walking on their own.  What if you had a wheelchair or a walker, Sunshine?

So of course, in my speak up style, I said:

"Pardon me?"

*No response.*

"Hello?  Did you say something?"

*No response.  Starts to walk away. Ignores me completely.*

"Excuse me ma'am, I'm talking to you..."

By this time, Crazy Lady had walked around the other side of the aisle. I obviously continued to attempt to engage her in conversation, leaning on my tiptoes, looking over top of the giant shelf of cards.

"I think you said something.  Care to repeat it?"

*Looks past me like I'm a ghost.*

"Yeah.  That's what I thought."

Kickin' ass and takin' names. Or not.

Today was going well.  Better than yesterday at least. 

Baby Fraggle woke at a decent time, and we were on track - on track for our newly created get-the-baby-to-nap-so-we-don't-go-insane plan.  She had a half-nap this morning IN HER CRIB (never mind the fact that I sat there with her) before we walked over to the grocery store and pharmacy. 

I was kickin' ass and takin' names.  These are big accomplishments, people.  Don't doubt me. 

Furthermore, on the way home I encountered an actual mail man at the actual mail box, with whom I had an actual conversation and he even mailed my actual letters. 

By the time we arrived home, Fraggle was still sleeping in her stroller (WIN), so we sat on the front step allowing me a precious 10 minutes to soak up the sun and tweet up something fierce.

Then something went awry...

About 15 minutes after coming inside, I noticed the front door was open. 

Fucking holy hell shitballs craphole dammit where are the fucking cats. 

Tuxedo was, as usual, under the shrub by the front step, since he's too damn stupid to venture far.  I spooked him, so he came flying into the house - covered cobwebby junk.   

Patches though.  Where was Patches?  I called her name, no luck.  I clinked her food bowl, no luck. 

Umm, uh oh. 

And a tiny human inside that I couldn't, ya know, leave alone. 

This is when it happened.  A matter of time, really.  The "turns out I don't love the cats as much as the child" moment officially occurred.  It's been coming for a while (such as when they are meowing like lunatics at 3am), but this was the true moment in which changing and feeding the baby was potentially more important than hunting for the stupid cat...

But then it wasn't. 

So back in the stroller goes the baby, and off we go, wandering through the neighbours' backyards, clinking bowls and shouting PATCH for everyone to hear.  The little shithead emerged from a backyard a few houses down, running for the food her clinking bowl seemed to indicate. 

Thanks to all that I missed the baby's "sleep window" so Fraggle is now accidentally sleeping in her swing, rather than her crib (but at least sleeping thank heaven). 

Oh, and I just unloaded the grocery bag and it turns our that I bought the wrong fucking coffee.

So, not acing this motherhood thing yet, eh?

So much good happened today

Today was a good day.  Four things in particular made it better than average.

First, Hubby let me lounge in bed for an hour while he went downstairs with Fraggle.  I can't really accurately articulate how helpful this is.  If only he could be here to help me all the time, but noooooo, he needs a job.  Whatever.

Second, Fraggle fell asleep for a whole two hours this morning while I watched - wait for it - The Fast and the Furious.  The original.  This movie makes me happy.  It perfectly balances worst movie ever made with fun and cheesy.  Plus, it reminds me that I need to use my serious driving face more often. We should never forget the value of a serious driving face.

Third, the three of us made our way downtown for some lunch and wandering.  It was pretty spectacular - sunny day, friendly people, happy baby.  The best part of our outing? Driving into the parking lot and being stopped by an exiting driver who offered us his parking pass.  Yes, that's right, a stranger did us a kindness.  WEIRD.  Which we totally paid forward on our own way out of the lot.  Y'all need to do this. It's easy and it totally makes somebody's day.

Finally, and most importantly:

I had wine.  Well, a wine spritzer, but wine nonetheless. Since Fraggle came into the world, I have had a couple light beers, but I've been saving a glass of wine for the best possible opportunity.  Although the perfect giant glass of pinot will have to wait for another time, this was the sweetest tasting cheap spritzer in the history of the world.  Not gonna lie, I got a little tipsy.

So between the lazy morning, the so bad it's good movie, the free parking and of course WINE, today was basically the best day of all time.

You don't have to read this

I wasn't going to write this because, well, nobody gives a shit.  But then I remembered my rule about this blog:  write it for ME, and don't leave anything out.  Ultimately, this is a creepy online diary which I fully intend to read years and years into the future - and what woman's diary doesn't include her birth story?

********* 

I wake up on Monday July 8th - two days after my due date - around 6am, with ridiculous back pain. This is the same back pain I've woken up with for the past several months.  Hubby is busy getting ready for work and I'm busy propping up 50 pillows so I can lean over them like a drunken hobo.

By 7:00, Hubby is about to leave, making a bowl of cereal, when he hears from upstairs: "Ahhh!  HUUUuuubbbyyyYY!  MY. WATER. JUST. BROKE!"

Which it did.  In the bed.

Aaaannnnnddd... PANIC.  Because that's what I do.  It's kinda my thing.

Hubby calls the hospital.  They say we should come in, but we could probably have breakfast first.  We jump in showers, wolf down cereal, pack last minute crap in our bag, climb in the car, and of course STOP FOR GAS because Hubby's goal in life is to make me crazy.

We arrive at the hospital around 8am.  I'm having regular contractions but they aren't much different from the constant Braxton Hicks I've been having for eight weeks already.  Problem is, I've learned, even if you are in labour, no medical professional will even look at you until you're screaming.  There are six screaming women ahead of me.

So we sit.  And wait.  My contractions are getting worse, but I'm breathing through them.  Maybe I won't be one of those screaming woman, maybe I'll be able to breathe through it, at least until my epidural.

We finally see Smart Smiley Nurse.  I'm three and half centimeters dilated.  Progressing, but still early enough for MORPHINE.  Shoot me up, doc.

We go sit in the "Early Labour Lounge."  How charming.  Hubby gets snacks and I call our car dealer to ask him to hold the car I've been trying to buy.  True story.

A couple hours pass, I keep leaking, but pain is fine.  I try to pay brain games but I'm loopy from the drugs.  Bonus.  Hubby discovers a cereal spoon in his back pocket that he apparently brought from the house.  You know, in case he needed it.

By noon the pain is getting worse.  Back to Smart Smiley Nurse.  Five centimeters!

Time passes. OUCH OUCH OUCH.  Epidural please!  NOW.

Funny how they start paying attention to me.  Now I'm the screamer. Seven centimeters.

Oh, the anesthesiologist is in surgery? Oh, he can't come and drug me up? Oh, I have to keep enduring this pain?  Oh, you can't find a wheelchair?  Oh, FUCK YOU.

Somehow I get to my delivery room, screaming every minute or two.  It's getting worse.  WAY WORSE.  Where is that godforsaken anesthesiologist?  I'mma kick that mofo in the shin.

I remember staring at the wall, trying not to lose my fucking mind, smacking my lips as a signal for Hubby to feed me ice chips.  I remember wondering why the hell we attempted that pinky toe massage reflexology shit the night before to encourage labour because it apparently worked and I totally regret it.  And I remember the worst part: when each contraction begins because I know what's coming...

Mofo Anesthesiologist arrives.  Once upon a time, I was afraid of the needle-in-the-spine process, but now I'm just terrified that I have to STAY STILL for ten minutes, through a few contractions, while he does his work.

I lean over Friendly Nurse André's shoulders begging her "You. Have. To. HELP. ME."  Hubby sits helplessly nearby.

Oh, that's better.  Hey Mofo Doc, they should pay you more.  I mean, I know you make a lot of money already, but you deserve more.  Hubby, get my purse.

Clearly, I'm feeling much better and acting less insane.  New Nurse is putsing around the room, and informs us that it may take a few hours to get to 10 centimeters.  Once I do, we'll wait TWO MORE HOURS before pushing, so the baby can get closer to her grand entrance on her own. Baby will probably arrive around 10pm or midnight.

Huh. Clearly New Nurse has not met my baby.  My baby is in a rush to join this world, or hadn't you heard? But ok, you're the professional.  I trust you.

Hubby goes to grab dinner.

All of a sudden, a skippy dude doctor waltzes in.  Apparently Fraggle's heart rate has been too high for a while...

Doctor Skippy:  "I'm just gonna check you.  If you're fully dilated we're gonna start pushing.  If not... well, let's check before I scare you."

Yes he said that.  And no, Hubby was not there.

He checks, I'm fully dilated, and Baby Fraggle is blowing New Nurse's estimated timeline out of the water.

Oh great.

"Let's try pushing."

Um, WHAT?

"Just try a push.  I want see how you do.  If it's tricky, we'll do a C-section."

WHAT THE FUCK.  Uhhh... ok... here goes...

"Oh, you're doing great.  You push for a while and I'll come back in a half hour."

Hubby returns, hearing from Doctor Skippy that I'm pushing.  "Not my wife" says Hubby.  YEP, YOUR WIFE.

New Nurse is panicked because she was too stupid to set up her baby table.  I'm begging her to warn me when I'm having a contraction so I know when to push.  She says she will, but she never does, so I end up pushing whenever the mood strikes.

And here's where it gets really nuts.

Apparently I'm a rock star pusher (something for the resume).  This baby is coming out, and she's coming out NOW.

From across the room, New Nurse is counting to five instead of ten on every push, and Hubby and I are concerned that there's nobody there to catch the child when she slides out of my body.

Finally, Smart Smiley Nurse returns and makes this seem fun and exciting instead of TOTALLY FUCKED UP.

We do a few more pushes and everyone praises me for my skills.  Hubby looks at all the hair emerging from my vagina.  Everyone says "So much hair!" - a phrase I've been hearing on a daily basis ever since and, for some reason, take great pride in.

Smart Smiley Nurse adjusts our pushing pattern, counting to TWO instead of ten.  I push a couple more times.

In total, I push for 17 minutes, mostly miniature pushes.

Baby Fraggle arrives at 7:40. ("Arrives" makes it sound like she danced into the room.  Let's be clear: the tiny human is pushed out of my loins through an even tinier hole.)   They plop her on top of me.  I think whoa, she's bigger than I thought. Hubby cuts her cord, I don't notice.

They take her away for a second to clean her off (damn meconium), then bring her back.  She's 7 pounds, 8 ounces.  She's round and cute and pink and LOOKING UP AT ME and HOLY FUCK WHAT IS HAPPENING.

New Nurse gives me a shot in the leg, I don't notice.  Smart Smiley Nurse grins and pushes on my tummy, I don't notice.  Doctor Skippy marches in (a bit late there shit head) and Hubby gets a rundown of the placenta.  He does not eat it. I wouldn't notice if he did.

I puke.  Then Student Doc somehow squirts my blood all over the walls and ceiling.  Seriously.  It looks like a CSI scene in there.

Doctor Skippy parks himself in front of  my vagina and goes to work like a mechanic or a painter.  I pay very little attention, but I do notice.

After a couple hours, Young Hot Nurse helps my broken body into the shower.  "This is a weird part of your job," I tell her.  She doesn't seem to mind.  Of course she doesn't - she looks great.

We spend the next two days trying to breastfeed, trying to absorb fifty different "expert" opinions on breastfeeding, trying to sleep, and trying to crack the code of this tiny child who is totally and completely dependent on us being at least somewhat competent in caring for her.

In the end, I could totally do that again for the reward.  It was survivable.  Pregnancy SUCKED, but if you could promise my next labour would go like that? Sign me up.

You're gonna want my autograph

Just so you guys know, I'm totally famous.

No? You're doubting me?  Well don't.

On Saturday, Hubby, Fraggle and I went on a shopping trip.  We had some time to kill, so we decided to have lunch at a nearby pub.  WITH THE BABY.

Now, you should acknowledge what a monumental accomplishment this is for us - as nervous, pathetic and completely exhausted first-time parents - to leave home for several hours WITH THE BABY.  It's what you call stress.

That's not what made us famous though.  (Although I do think we deserve some international recognition for this achievement.)

While in the pub, I tweeted this:

It was priceless.  They were betting on the game, shouting, cheering, and otherwise raising the roof, all in the name of Tiger wandering around a big green field with a big stick.

What I didn't mention in my tweet was that there was also a young good looking gal sitting in the pub by herself, knitting.  Yes, knitting.

Hubby and I laughed, because only in our friendly, boring city would a pub's patrons include a bunch of old guys all worked up for a golf game and, of course, a knitter.  Not to mention the young couple with the newborn baby.

Still not famous eh?

Well this morning Hubby texts me.  "Call me when you're up, I have a funny story."

Hubby's driving to work listening to the radio.  The morning DJs are taking calls about the weirdest thing people have witnessed in a pub.  The conversation continues, and the one DJ tells her story - how last weekend she was hanging out in a pub, getting a total kick out of the group of old guys watching a game of golf as if it were the Superbowl.  Oh, and how meanwhile, SHE WAS KNITTING.

Too funny.

So I of course place a phone call to the radio station and tell the whole story to the gal, who totally remembers us and fully agrees that this is a perfect example of the perfect pub, in the perfect city, in the perfect small world.

Then she plays our conversation on the radio, and BOOM - famous. So you can totally have my autograph if you want.  Only $5, plus shipping and handling.

[For the purpose of this post, "famous" is loosely defined as "heard my voice on the radio, recorded it on my kickass iPhone, and played it later for my friend LB who said I can totally count this as my productive activity for the day. ]

Our love story will freak your freak

Hey look.  I'm blogging.  Weird, eh?

I can't put my finger on why it's been so long, necessarily, other than the fact that I'm now 8 months pregnant and it has not been the easiest thing I've ever done - to say the least.

But something funny happened today that made me and Hubby laugh, which is nice because if I'm honest with myself, laughter hasn't been as prominent in my daily life as it once was - another symptom of pregnancy, I suspect.  So laughing out loud today, shaking this giant belly of mine, felt, well, pretty damn good.

We went to Hometown for a wedding this weekend.  Not just any wedding, but my best friend's wedding.  My best friend who is so sweet, and so considerate, and so happy with her new husband that I have been devastated - and I mean devastated - that I haven't been able to be the perfect maid of honour.  The effort and emotional energy that growing a baby requires has unfortunately taken away from my capacity as best friend.  I've done my best, which in my eyes it isn't good enough.  In fact, I almost couldn't even be there, so at least I accomplished that much, right?

So.  Hubby and I drove to Hometown, enjoyed the wedding, and then made our way to our hotel for some much needed rest.  Given the emotional disaster I had become throughout the course of the day, a two-hour drive home late last night stopped being an option.

I felt a bit better this morning.  We packed up our stuff (poor Hubby carrying my 16 heavy bags) and walked (in my case, waddled) to the lobby to check out.

When I came around the corner I immediately recognized the girl behind the counter.

"Annie!"

Annie went to school with me.  In fifth grade.  And in case you haven't heard the story a million times before, not only did she go to school with me, but Hubby too.  Yes, Hubby and I went to school together in fifth grade, and every grade after that until we started dating at 16, married at 25, and are now in the process of growing a tiny human at 29.

Annie recognized me too, and quickly noticed how fat I am - but that's not the funny part.  She looked at me, and then Hubby came around the corner.  Annie, like every other girl in our class (including me), had a huge crush on Hubby.  She looked at him, recognized him right away, exclaimed his name, and then:

"...wait..."

*eyes to me, eyes to Hubby, eyes back to me*

And then?  Then came the most hilarious confused and surprised facial expression I've ever witnessed.

See, Annie is apparently the one person in Hometown that I haven't actually seen since we were about 12 years old, and it seems she wasn't familiar with the adorable Hubby-Wifey Love Story.

It's as if she was in the twilight zone.  We freaked her freak.  The look on her face said "Whoa. What year is this? Am I on shrooms?"

I laughed. "Yep.  We're married."

She laughed "And you're pregnant!"

We chatted for a minute, left the hotel, and then laughed for about 20 minutes.

This is Hometown; this is my remarkable history with this wonderful husband of mine.  And I adore it.

He didn't even lose his shit

Grocery shopping is a shit show.  This is a fact of life.

For Hubby and I, grocery shopping is more than a shit show - it is a devastating ordeal of remarkable proportions.  We either argue about Hubby's 15 minute pickle-selection process, or Hubby's 20 minute cereal-selection process, or Hubby's 25 minute sauce-selection process.  Or the fact that not every set of apples needs its own environmentally unfriendly plastic bag.

Today, however, we did quite well.  We didn't need much, just a few snacks to satisfy this tiny human I'm growing.  We made it through the produce section (with only one minor "discussion" about whole grain bread), and then it happened... I could tell, Hubby was starting to lose it...

For some unknown reason, I was in a perfectly pleasant mood.  Normally, the insanity that is a discount grocery store on a Sunday afternoon would be too much for me to handle (RUN THE FUCKERS OVER), but today I was downright calm and cheerful.  Blame hormones?

Hubby, on the other hand, was on the BRINK.  Although entirely imperceptible to anyone but me, the small aisles, large carts and idiot people were starting to sloooowly push him closer and closer to the edge.  It wasn't obvious, it was subtle - a little twitch in his eye, a sigh now and then, an occasional speed-walk past a fellow shopper.

But I could tell.  I could see it.

And what did I do to prevent his meltdown? Absolutely nothing.  I just kept moseying through the aisles, asking the dumbass store kid to find my soup, and oooh look ice cream sandwiches!

Then we got to the end, and I thought one particular encounter would really send Hubby into the realm of intolerance that would result in total abandonment of our grocery mission:

There was a 4 year old randomly running through the crowds like a stun-gun victim - only made worse when his dad (who probably stun-gunned the stupid kid in the first place) started shouting at him FROM 8 AISLES AWAY, only to receive a insolent exposed tongue before the kid took off in the opposite direction reverting to his original "I'm a demented airplane without a steering wheel" style.

But no.  That was oddly NOT the end of Hubby as I knew him.  Sure, I knew what he was thinking ("I will SO not let my kid do that" and "get me the fuck out of here"), but he didn't verbalize it.  He simply found the path of least resistance to the cashier.

To top it off, he returned the cart to its little hut without even reclaiming his deposit quarter, and now I don't know what to do with the world.  

Phase three of growing a tiny human

Hello dear friends.  Amazingly, I've managed to keep up with my iPhone pregnancy journal.  I know.  Incredible right?  So, picking up where I last left off...

December 26

[Telling the fam…]

Whoa THAT was a lot to take in. Glad everyone is excited but holy, overwhelming is an understatement.  

December 27

What do you mean the baby might not be ok?  Oh.  So that's the panic and fear everyone is talking about that will last for the next 50 years.  I was not AT ALL prepared for that.  The only thing keeping me sane right now? Tuxedo Cat is in a bag.

December 29

Much more emotionally stable today.  For now anyway.

December 31

I'm gonna be the dancin mom. All 90s all the time. I'm gonna learn all the backstreet boys dance moves. Mmmm Bop baby.

January 4

Dr appointment today. I love my doctor. I trust no one else. Everyone's a HACK. [And yes the baby was ok.  This is a reference to the fact that emergency room doctors are apparently not at all qualified to deal with such an array of medical concerns. My own doctor is never allowed to leave me.]

January 6

My doctor got me thinking about a midwife. Never considered it before. Don't know why. I guess I thought a 19 year old hippie named Willow wearing a hemp skirt would come to my house and whisper at me while I pushed a human out of my vagina “naturally” in a plastic kiddie pool. Turns out? Not exactly.

January 7

Hubby just came home from work with the RANKEST odor.  And proceeded to blame MY heightened sense of smell... uh, no. Do something about that.  Immediately.  

January 8

Wow. So, going to sleep at 7:30 every night is a real thing, eh.

January 9

I can't decide if dinner in bed is good for the soul or a very bad sign.  

January 10

Hey pants. You're too small. Fuck off.

January 11

Hubby was reading about baby proofing. "You're supposed to go around on your knees to see stuff from the baby's perspective. Luckily, Honey, I guess you won't have to do that."   Nice. Throw a short joke at the grumpy pregnant lady.

January 15

THERE ARE WINE SAMPLES IN THIS GROCERY STORE.  FUCK YOU, WORLD.  

January 30

Yay Hubby building the crib! I helped.  Mostly by sitting in the rocking chair.  But when asked to hold up one side, I totally did it.  I held that sucker up for at least 10 minutes.  ("held" = put my hand on it until I realized my hand was no longer needed because it was all done anyway)

My handywork

February 4

I was TOTALLY just advised by my doctor that my extra 300 calories per day can be junk food if good food is unappetizing.  Even better, Hubby needs to back off giving me a hard time about it. Bring on the Crispers.

February 8

So sleeping on my stomach is uncomfortable, and sleeping on my back will apparently result in the apocalypse. So, sides only? MY HIPS HURT.

February 9

February 10

I've had the most bizarre change of heart in the last couple of days. No more baby. Ha just kidding. I actually just think a boy would be good. Girls are assholes. I vote boy.

February 11

First day with elastic pants. I've put it off as long as humanly possible. One benefit: peeing is way easier when all you do is slide down your waistband.

February 19

Ultrasound day. Sitting in the waiting room.  No, Hubby, I don't have any games in my purse.  And to the lady filing her nails: STOP IT.

What do you MEAN it's a girl? What does that mean? 

February 20

Remember when I wanted to be kicked? So masochistic. Now? Stop kicking me you little brat! Ok don't,  But still.

February 28

Worst. Sleeping. Ever. Ouch my back. Ouch my hips. OUCH.

March 1

I'm beginning to think this baby is like Hubby. Can't sit still! My whole insides are flailing.  Either that or she's like me - a total asshole.  

March 3

My new nemesis? Indigestion. Which is particularly terrible for someone who physically does not know HOW to burp. (Swallow my air, I know I know. DOESN'T WORK YOU GUYS.)

March 4

We bought a stroller yesterday! And now I wish I had a baby to put into it. So far, all I have is a Tuxedo Cat.  But he likes riding around, that's for sure.  

March 5

My mood today equates to this: 

March 6

Bought our bassinet! And the cats love that too it.

March 7

Pregnant women resemble toddlers?  Um, yes.

March 9

Whatever you do, do NOT google "placenta images"

March 10

Ok. Who gave this little thing a bongo to play inside my uterus?  She could also probably stop jumping trampoline on my cervix.  

The last birthday of all time

Sadly, my five-day birthday celebration has come to an end.

I'm not normally one to extend the birthday process, particularly since I instituted my "I hate birthdays" policy 3 or 4 years ago - right around the time I became closer to age 30 than to age 20.  

However, I worked really friggin hard this winter - both at the office and in the laborious task of growing a tiny human - so I decided that a five day mini-holiday was in order.

Day 1

My actual birthday, which was mostly spent hanging around the house with my cats.  I might have even emptied the dishwasher, which has recently become a really effective storage system for clean dishes, while the counter has become a really big shelf for dirty ones.

I did have one agenda item for the day: renewing my driver's license and health card.  You know what that means, right?  It means getting my photo taken. DUN DUN DUN. And not just any photo - a photo that is going to last for the next FIVE GODFORSAKEN YEARS.

Five years is a long time, yo.  It's the difference between late twenties and mid thirties. Is PRE-BABY.  And it's even being taken on a day during which I actually have time to make myself look half-decent.

Given these indisputable facts, nobody in the history of the world has ever seen me with such cute hair and makeup on a random Friday afternoon.

TASK ACCOMPLISHED.

The rest of the evening was spent shopping around, without being rushed, and having a nice dinner with Hubby - who got me the best birthday gift ever.  

Days 2 and 3

Mini holiday with Hubby!  We drove to la belle provence, visiting Montréal for a night.

LOVED IT.  We wandered and shopped, went to a jazz club, shopped some more, walked 10,000 miles (which Hubby didn't even complain about!), bought new footwear, laughed hysterically at stupid shit that wouldn't be funny to anyone but us, and, la pièce de la resistance:  FISH PEDICURES.

I know some folks aren't on board with this particular activity, but I adored it.  Neither of us has been so relaxed.  We both nearly fell asleep and I don't remember the last time my mind was so clear and calm.

Day 4

I think we'll pretend this day didn't happen.  I was bummed this day, demotivated and tired.  I have these random Asshole Depression days once in a while that are not always attributed to any particular trigger.   So.  Forgetting it.  Moving on.

Day 5

BABIES! My wonderful friend let me accompany her to a museum with her lovely toddlers who of course were more entertained by walking/sliding/running up and down a ramp than by most other museumy-type things.

I then undertook some art projects for a friend's wedding festivities which if nothing else helped me feel productive.


And thus, the end of a five-day birthday break.  Which is perfect because I intend on having no further birthdays ever, for the rest of eternity, being frozen in my twenties forevermore.

Phase two of growing a tiny human

Remember when I promised to blog my eggo preggo journal?  Well I suppose if I'm going to be a mother I had better learn how to keep my promises.  So this picks up where the last one left off, pasted from my iPhone notepad... 

November 11 
Cliche: tearing up at a credit card commercial. Dude went to visit his uncle in Italy, you guys. I mean, c'mon. 

November 12 
I just spent 2 minutes looking at tampon prices in the toiletries aisle at the grocery store before I figured it out. [This remains one of the major highlights to this whole thing.] 

November 13 
And the weak stomach has started. Just ever so slightly. And now I'm terrified.

November 14 
Ugh. Yep nausea is real. I'm definitely nauseous. Or "nauseated" as Sheldon Cooper would say.   

November 15

November 20
I'm also feeling especially whiny. I expect that will remain for the next 20 years or so. 

November 21 
Pretty sure if Hubby's gonna be a father that he should keep up on his laundry and stop "recycling" his dirty underwear. Maybe. 

November 23 
Pregnancy fatigue. Who would have guessed. Beyond exhausted by the end of the day. But it isn't just physical. It's mental too. So much worrying. So much stress. A some damn legitimate resentment too. Ugh. Tired.

November 24 I
 wanted Hubby to come home so I considered texting him to say I think I'm in labour. Then I realized that was a terrible idea. 

November 28
Wow this pregnancy stuff is some really grown up shit. Big decisions. Luckily, I have Hubby to talk to. And we pretty much always see eye to eye on the big stuff. Best. Hubby. Ever. 

November 29
3am: I WANT TO SLEEP ON MY STOMACH. But I may puke.

November 30

December 1 
Hubby and I can't picture ourselves s parents of real actual children. Babies, yes. Toddlers, sure. But real children? Nope. I mean, children, like, do homework and stuff. That's too hard. Hubby says he'll put our kids up for adoption around age 5. Makes sense.   

December 3 
I find it odd that people had, like, a year and a half's advance notice before our wedding. They could mark their calendars, plan around it, buy us a modest gift... But growing a tiny human? 6 months. That's all they get. And that might be too much.  Any way I can keep this a secret any longer? 

December 6 
My boobs are bigger and they're getting in the fucking way. MOVE, boobs.    

December 8 
It's like having the threat of the nausea pills prescription in my purse was all I needed. Nausea gone. I WIN.   [In hindsight, this entry grossly under-states the absurdity of constant nausea 24/7 for several weeks on end.] 

December 11 
Holiday lunch at work today. I wanted to cry because everyone was passing around bottles of wine and I couldn't have any. I could even SMELL it. I could have tasted some, I guess, but who wants to torment themselves like that? ! I didn't want a damn sip, I wanted three fucking glasses. I didn't even care red or white. I woulda mixed them together. Pink wine would have been perfect.   

December 12 Just when I thought the nausea had passed I nearly died last night. Well, not exactly, but I basically puked in my mouth at least 20 times. So upsetting.

December 17 
My boss made the mistake of asking me if I wanted anything from the grocery store.  Um, sure, how about a block of cheddar cheese.  And then he had to watch me eat nearly the whole thing, chunk by chunk, just with my hands and a knife.  Classy.   

December 20, 7:30 am 
Hubby and I driving to the hospital for THE ULTRASOUND and blood testing. Did you remember to bring your cup of pee? Yes? Ok good. 

December 20, 8:30 am 
Pardon me?  What's that?  I don't need a pee sample? The whole "full bladder" remark was for the ultrasound? Oh. So what should I do with the cup of pee in my purse then? 

December 20, 9:30 am 
So that wasn't too bad. The baby viewing was pretty cool. But if it meant I could avoid a hospital, I may never do it again... But how did Hubby do?  Oh he was thrilled of course.  Nobody was pushing on *his* naked pelvis.   Me: "Yeah. There's a baby in there. What else is new?" Hubby: "Whoa! There's a BABY in there? 

December 21 
I used to use my period to tell me when to switch to a new set of contacts. I fear my contacts are 3 months old...