Dear Fraggle, Don't Ever Let Me Stop You From Being Who You Are

Dear Fraggle,

You are generally a polite and cooperative little person. But every single time we ask you to go to the bathroom, you squawk and resist with ferocity.

Once you eventually concede, you spend 15 minutes doing god knows what in there. It doesn't seem to matter how often we ask you not to play in the bathroom, you are not deterred.

I think it's because, most of the time, your play isn't "play." Your play is work. You're working on something. You're practising, observing, exploring - and doing so in the most direct, linear way possible. The way a surgeon practises sewing up dolls.

So tonight, just after you went to bed, you got up to go to the bathroom just one more time "Because... In the middle of the night, if I *really* need to go pee, I can. Yeah I can. It's ok Mama."

You were in there for a while, but Hubby and I didn't pay much attention.

And then, just now, when I came up to bed, I found this on my bathroom counter.

A handful of about 50 sheets of toilet paper. Individually separated and stacked in a perfect little Fraggle pile.

And I've never been so happy.

Because this is YOU my darling. Quietly working in the bathroom and then toddling off to sleep on your own.

I love you. You are my joy.

Mama

Two days later

Two days past, and a hazy sadness lingers.

The Tragically Hip's 30 years of music is still playing on a desperate loop in my house /in my heart /it's in my pockets and in my eyes /in my blood.  The poignant conclusion to their final tour on Saturday - culminating in their (and my) hometown of Kingston, Ontario - has brought with it a sweeping sense of grief.

"I understand now how you feel about them.  I hadn't paid any attention before. I'm a fan! The whole thing is really hard to put into words." -- My mother-in-law, emailing to see how it all went.  She has captured the crux of this particular beast, hasn't she.  This idea that we all get it, even if you didn't before.

Try watching commentators and journalists grasp at thin straws of what this has meant, this swan song tour and its final show.  Yes, The Tragically Hip is quintessentially Canadian.  Yes, there is a simple pleasure in the mention of our hometowns in a lyric. Yes, the band has been around for 30 years. And yes, Gord Downie is a poet, and a nice guy. And yes, he is dying.

But it's more than that, isn't it.

It's pride. And I suppose a form of awkward, indefinable patriotism (as patriotism often is). There's new appreciation for the band and their accomplishments, even though they have, until recently, been avoided or gently ignored by many and sometimes considered inadequate by others.  Now, The Tragically Hip is hoarded and held closely to our collective heart in a "you can't have them, they're ours" kind of way. Now we all finally get it. Now we all endear them, as we should. (Although, those who always did will happily prove it.)

It's talent. True, impressive, undeniable talent. The uncommon kind of talent that can be legitimately referred to as art in its uniqueness, its composition, its performance, and its literary prowess. A conscientious, intentional, intelligent - while imperfect - talent that often goes unnoticed until all of a sudden we notice it.

It's longevity.  Thirty years, the same five guys, consistently touring the country with our favourite soundtrack and a few new tunes tossed in.  The reliability of "Well, I saw them last time, so maybe I'll skip this one and see them next year." Each song and show with its own story to tell, and a dedicated crowd competing for who knows them better.  Songs that everyone knows, even if they don't, and with an endurance that most artists work their entire lives to achieve.

Add to all of that the profound sadness that our glorious, always recognizable frontman is dying.  He's dying, and somehow, as some unbelievable gift, he has offered us the opportunity to reflect on what he and his band have meant to us - and we've finally caught on. We've followed their biggest tour yet and then watched across the country with 11.7 million tv, radio, and internet feeds, of course on nothing other than the CBC.  He, and we, have been given the chance to /bask in the golden light/ one more time.

And this is the most intensely heartbreaking part: That Gord Downie's cancer will take his /world possessed by the human mind/ away.  And that it took this for us to really consider how much he and his band meant to us - even if we already knew it meant, well, a lot.  But he hasn't left us yet.  Not before we sang with him, collectively, simultaneously across the country, one last time.  Not before we figured it out.

Ultimately, it's this series of contradictions that ruin me.

It's the irony.  

It's the irony of our patriotism for a self-described non-nationalist, our new or revived appreciation for his talent, the end of what seemed like an endless loop across our country, and the dripping, cascading empathy for his diagnosis.

I can see now why it hurts so much - because irony is the surely the fiercest and sharpest ache in anything so definitively tragic.

We all know Gord Downie

This morning I woke at 6:30 to the sound of my new baby stirring in his bassinet.  When I brought him downstairs, I looked at my phone.  There was a single notification.  It was an email from @TheHipDotCom announcing Gord Downie's diagnosis with terminal brain cancer.

It took only a single breath before my mind flooded with the weight of this news; the weight of Gord Downie's voice in my life.  I was overwhelmed with how much I love this music, these lyrics, this band.  I'm what you call a true admirer... I'm a fan.

One look at twitter today and it's obvious that the rest of Canada feels exactly the same way.  The Tragically Hip is an emblem of our nation, a worthy representation of our pride.  Even if you're not a "fan" you hear this music wherever you are.  Gord's Downie's lyrics and unmistakable voice float in your consciousness.

Everyone who was struck by this news today - kicked in the stomach by it - knows Gord Downie.  He's our comrade.  We have followed him and his band for 30 years.  We have been to his shows and have sung alongside him.  He has written elaborate, honest, enduring stories about our hometowns, and we have walked with him on our streets.  We have heard these songs on our radios every single day, some of us for our entire lives.  Gord and his bandmates have driven across the country with us, they've strummed with us by the cottage campfire, they've lulled our babies to sleep and hyped them up for living room dance parties.  These songs are quoted at our kitchen tables.  These lyrics have become a national narrative, a collection of lore.  They literally tell the stories of our lives.

I have seen six Hip shows, including four in my Hometown, which is also their Hometown; two benefit concerts for someone else's cause; two in an arena perched on a street named for them; three standing in the grass on warm summer days; one at the National Arts Centre in fancy theatre seats that nobody sat in and that Gord walked across the backs of into he crowd; and one standing all by myself when Hubby got lost looking for beer.

These musicians are my neighbours. I have seen them at my movie theatre and been too shy to say hello. They have sat in the halls of my high school.  They have been awarded honourary degrees from my university. I danced the last dance of my wedding, in our Hometown, to their song.

Gord Downie's voice plays in my mind as a backdrop to my life.  His music is coming home. I feel like I know him, as we all do, and I am so, so sorry this is happening to him.

But let's not act like he's already dead.  His voice is still singing on every radio station and in every house in this country, and soon on as many stages as he can manage.  I intend to hear it.  I intend to add to my collection of powerful memories set to the tune of his music, with renewed appreciation; with will and determination, and grace, too.

A photo on my fridge for almost a decade.  

Dear Fraggle, My favourite little girl

Dear Baby Fraggle,

Except you're not a baby anymore.

When I was pregnant with the Warner Brother, another mom told me that when she left for the hospital in labour with her second child she had a little toddler at home.  But when she returned home with a new infant she had a giant child waiting for her.  In those few hours her baby had become a life-sized person.

This is what you are, my darling.  A person, the size of life.

You have big finger-paint handprints and a big grownup head that you squeeze through a 3T shirt hole all by yourself. You tell jokes. "I am going to... put DoDo Cat in the toilet! Nooo!"  You play. "Ine just tryin to be funny!" You run away from a Mama Monster. You hide and seek (mostly hide and then reveal yourself shortly thereafter.)

You elaborate. "When, when, when it's Friday? When it's Friday, I stay home and watch *whispers* Peppa Pig and I can have branna cake and when it gets womma out we can, we can play with my water table. You remember my water table Mama? And we can put bubbles wit soap in dare."

You sing full songs with perfect pitch.  "Down by the bay.  Where the watermelons grow.  Back to my home. I dare not go. For if I do. My Fraggle would say.  Have you ever seen a ducky, driving a fucky? Down by the bay!"

You help.  With everything.  "Can I HELP?" Laundry, dishes, dinner, washing the cupboards, washing the table, and now bathing and changing the Baby Brother.  You totally understand his existence. You know that he was in my belly, but now he came out ("You push him out yike dis uhhhh and now you can bend over and put my boots on.") You know Baby Brother is crying because he can't talk.  And he sleeps a lot.  And baby brothers will poop, and baby brothers will cry, "and you better watch out or he pee in your eye!" And he loves you; you know he loves you.  

And my darling, when I was in labour - major active labour - waiting in the car to drive you to daycare, you were so patient and calm.  You were quiet, but not too scared.  You just wanted to finish your breakfast, but there wasn't time.  You knew what was happening.  You are so smart my dear, so clever, so understanding.

You are such a lovely person.  I am so proud of who you are.  I sincerely adore spending time with you.  You are a joy.  You are my joy.

I miss you so much right now, two weeks into newborndom.  I am pulled toward two little beings for whom I have unimaginable, aching, heartbreaking, all-powerful, knee-weakening love.  Two beings that I want to be with, want to be for, every single moment of every single day.  But life doesn't work that way, does it? As I'm always telling you, sometimes we can't have what we want.  And that fact makes me want to scream like you do when things don't go the right way.

I wanted you both so much. I wanted this big, full family that I didn't have when I was small.  Now I have you, but I can't quite have enough. I sit here with tears down my face because I am in so much love and there just isn't enough of me.

Wait for me, my lovely.  I will come back.  I will always, always, do everything I can to be there for you, even when it isn't enough.  Ultimately, we will all be here, all four of us, together in this life.  I love you my baby.  My favourite little girl.

Dear Warner Brother

Dear Warner Brother,

Welcome to our family, my darling boy.  I am so happy you are finally here.  After just over 40 weeks of pregnancy, just over an hour of labour, and just under two years beforehand wondering if we'd ever be ready, you have completed our family - a family that was previously miraculous, but not quite done. 

Now we're done.

You've joined our family with unexpected seamlessness and fulfilled a gap that we knew was there but didn't know if we had the strength to fill.

Before you arrived, I couldn't quite imagine what you would be like.  To begin with, we could not for the life of us find a name that suited you.  We had 35 names that may have been acceptable but none that were exactly right.

Although this time I was able to picture what having a child would be like, I wasn't exactly able to picture you.  In my mind you were maybe a girl (even after we knew you weren't) and you didn't have a face, let alone a personality.  You were a mirage, sitting on the floor in my mind's eye, playing with blocks - but you weren't yet a real person.  I think I knew you would be completely different from Fraggle, but I didn't know in which ways.  Honestly, my darling, you felt a little like a stranger coming to live with us.

Until the day you were born.

On the day you were born, I truly loved you.  I began to feel that well of emotion that is "supposed" to come with a new baby (which I don't think the panic of newborndom permitted the first time).  You had a face, you had a voice, you had a tiny little hand that waved at me.  You were ours, and I was so... grateful to have you.

Within one day, we got to know you.  You had a name and a definitive personality. You became real.

Like your dad, you furrow your brow.  And like your mama, you cry when something isn't right - but I can usually tell what the un-right thing is.  You don't scream, not anymore (although you do have a strong dislike for cold diaper wipes).  You can always be calmed when we hum near the top of your head. You don't crunch up your hands or grasp our fingers with that normal newborn grip, you prefer to stretch and wave. You already love your big sister - you never cringe at her toddler screams and you always let her hug and kiss you. You have a very strong head and neck that leads us to believe you'll actually like tummy time and that you'll crawl before you walk. You don't like to be bounced, you'd rather lay still, dangling weightless in our arms. You want to be nestled, you want to be hugged. If you could choose, you'd breastfeed all the time.  You would stay cuddled there for hours if I let you, and you're growing like a prized pumpkin because of it. You make contented wimper sounds when you're feeding that make me believe I can keep you warm and safe in my arms forever.

I can't wait to nestle you for the rest of my life; to protect you from anything that makes you unhappy; to support you, wrap you up, calm you, and keep you tucked in my arms for as long as you'll let me.  I love you my baby boy. Welcome home.

Dear Fraggle, Just learn the good stuff, k?

Dear Fraggle,

Newsflash my baby: Lately you are less "baby", more "small human taking over our house." You recently turned 18 months old, and it is finally becoming clear to me what people meant when they promised this parent job would get fun - because holy hell my little monkey, you are so. much. FUN.

Sure, raising a small human is still hellish on a fairly frequent basis.  There are moments when literally pulling out my hair seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to a toddler who just hit me in the face or chucked her dinner across the room.

That said, those hellish moments are becoming more balanced with neat, hilarious, fun things that I had never quite anticipated, that I am grateful for, that I wish could be bottled and preserved forever.  Like scotch.  (That's a bad example.  Don't drink scotch.)

My point is, Fraggle, you're making our lives so much more fun than they were before.  Life before you was, well, boring, as far as I can tell.  Life now is exhausting, yes, but also exceptionally engaging.  For example...

You talk.  

Like, a lot.

Before I went to sleep the other night, I was counting sheep baby words.  You have almost 40 distinct, regular words - plus a dozen hand signs, a couple special squeals, and a minimum of 50 animal sounds, including camel and penguin.

Obviously there are only a handful of people who can understand these "words," but that fact matters very little when you look at me and say "sheesh" (meaning, please, I want that, help me mama); or "bAL" (meaning, hey look, a balloon); or "WHOA" (meaning, WHOA LOOK AT HOW COOL THAT IS I CAN'T BELIEVE IT).  Or my personal silent favourite: tapping one hand on top of the other when we chase/tickle/toss you (meaning, more! more!).

Communicating with you, my darling Fraggle, is the highlight of my day.


You dance.  

You adore music, bursting a giant grin and wide eyes that light up your face when you hear a guitar strum or a drum beat.

Even better than witnessing the beaming smile is watching you dance (aka run) around our kitchen - with moves including the Knee-bend, the Moonwalk, the Smooth Criminal, and your most recent addition, the Peg Leg.


You count.  

Kinda.  It's more like pointing. You point at all the frogs, or bears or butterflies and say "da da da" as I count.  You understand the concept - a concept that you wouldn't catch if someone (that is, we, your parents) didn't teach you.  

What I'm getting at is that you learn.

You are a person that I grew inside my body, and who, since that time, has absorbed every minor tidbit of seemingly useless information, and then somehow successfully applied it to your own little world.

You use a spoon.  You stack cups.  You tidy up.  You carry your pajamas into the bathroom.  You clap and say "yaaay!" when you place a puzzle piece.  You have a hand sign for toilet, and you run to your potty, hand waving, when you're about to pee.

You copy everything.  You hear everything.  You observe everything and store it away for later.  And when you reveal some new thing you've learned, I get to think to myself: "I taught her that. She got that from me."

Unfortunately, that whole copy-cat thing is bound to bite me in the ass.  One day you'll crack your neck like a prize-fighter, or argue with a stranger in a parking lot, or shovel a slab of cheesecake into your face like it will save your life.  And on those days, I'll have to be there apologizing for teaching you the wrong thing, showing you the wrong example, leading you down the wrong path.

I only hope you'll also be glad that I taught you how to count frogs, how to host a very exclusive living room dance party, how to spit like a camel - because these are the things I want most for you.  I want you to be clever, independent, active, helpful, polite, communicative, engaged, and a fan of Michael Jackson's music.  I want you to absorb the good stuff, the fun stuff (and ignore the shit) because I'm starting to realize that nothing else much matters than being happy.

You're happy, my doll, and I hope I can help you stay that way.

PS.  Seriously, don't drink scotch.  That never ends well.

I'm on the #BanBossy bandwagon

For those who don't know what this whole "Ban Bossy" thing is, in a nutshell:

Ban Bossy is a campaign.  Its aim, according to its website, is to encourage girls to lead - without calling them "bossy."  It was launched by LeanIn.org, a nonprofit founded by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg to "empower all women to achieve their ambitions."  Sandberg is building on her book's message with partners like the Girl Scouts and Beyoncé to, well, #BanBossy.

"I'm not bossy.  I'm the boss."

)

Now that we're all caught up, I want to be clear:  I LIKE this campaign.

True, no campaign is perfect.  No campaign reaches all the right people in all the right ways.  True, there are things to be said about the appropriateness of any role model/spokesperson (including Beyoncé, whose recent Grammy performance was incredibly impressive but also very sexual).

However, this is a message that makes sense.  It's a message about empowering women and girls, about strengthening our confidence and our leadership skills, and about making it ok for us to be assertive and successful.  At its core, this is a good message, and I'm on board.

Unfortunately, (and this is where I jump up on the #BanBossy bandwagon like a squirrel on peanut butter; or like me on peanut butter), there are those making arguments against this campaign that in my opinion are fundamentally flawed.

Primarily, there's an editorial by Margaret Wente in the Globe and Mail entitled "Ban 'bossy'? Suck it up, girls".  I've also had some thoughtful exchanges with friends and other twitterers on the subject.  None of these opinions are wrong - I just have a sincere and significant opposition to them.

Critique #1: The word "bossy" isn't a problem.

Wente writes that the word bossy destroys a girl's "fragile self-esteem."  Only, she writes it sarcastically, as if it is the stupidest thing she's ever heard.  Well newsflash Margaret: any term that insults a child's personality shouldn't be uttered in his or her direction.  And yes, SELF-ESTEEM IS FRAGILE.

Yes, Margaret, we could also ban the term tattletale.  Perhaps also B*tch, Sl*t, Wh*re, N*igger, Pr*ck, R*tard, Fagg*t, and P*ssy while we're at it.  Those other words, though, are known "curse" words and have their own debate raging about context and reclamation (see below).

Words like bossy (or even tattletale, although it's fair to say that is not a uniquely male or female word) slip into the vernacular and contribute to a broader socialization of our children. Even if more girls are entering law and medical schools, as Wente points out, does that excuse discouraging girls from the get-go?  I should hope not.

These are not just words, they mean something.  A campaign that raises awareness, encourages critical thinking, and challenges the social construction is not the wrong approach.

Critique #2: Teach girls to live with the word and "overcome adversity"

Wente writes that being called bossy didn't get in Beyoncé's way, so isn't that what we should be teaching our girls? To soldier on, "overcome adversity and suck it up."

I tell you what, Margaret.  When your peers are hurling insults at you, you can suck it up.  You can overcome adversity and be better... 20 years later.  I, on the other hand, when insulted as a child would have judged myself and tried to be more likable.  Even as an adult I'm among those who work damn hard not to judge themselves but often take it personally when other people do.

For my daughter, I will under no circumstances tell her to suck it up.  I will tell her lots of things, but to ignore her feelings or dismiss the power of words? I don't intend to do that. Likewise, as Margaret seems to argue, I won't ban bossy as an idea. Fraggle will be strong and assertive, I've no doubt.  But the term as an insult?  Banned.  It's a good place to start.

There is no harm in being aware of the words we use and the social idea beyond their dictionary definition.  Words are symbols - like the American Flag or the middle finger - each having an implied/emotional meaning in the background.

Critique #3: Reclaim the word

This argument is an interesting one, made by a friend this morning.  I adore this friend and her perspective, but...

A couple months ago I said something stupid like "I'm a candy sl*t."  I didn't mean anything by it, except to be funny.  I do eat whatever candy crosses my path, I don't discriminate, and it can't be good for me... but what about the word?  My initial reaction was "It's all context!" or "I don't mean it like that!" And then I called bullshit on myself.

If years ago I banned the C word from my vocabulary, and then banned "that's gay!" followed by "how retarded!", why should sl*t be any different? No. These words have a meaning and I have no place invoking it.

This morning my dear friend made a fair point: she may not use a word but she wants to give others the space to reclaim it if they so choose.  Ok, good.  Except I have yet to think of a word that has been "reclaimed."  Even people who ironically or critically use words have not managed to undo the damage caused under other circumstances.

Further, I have no idea where the line is drawn regarding who can use a word and who can't.  Your grandfather is black so you could use the N word. Her Aunt has Down's Syndrome, so she can use the R word.  I am Depressed and Anxious so I can say "Crazy."

Sure, I'm all about context.  When I call myself Crazy I do it in an ironic and self-deprecating (hopefully humourous) way, essentially aiming to bring mental illness into the socially-acceptable forefront.  But it's still self-deprecating.  If I constantly called myself fat (in front of my daughter?) an impact is undeniable.

It comes down to using one's judgement and tact, walking an informed and critical line.  So yeah, I'll give others space to "reclaim" their words, but I have no idea if they're reclaiming them right.

Critique #4: She's going to hear it anyway

"People aren't going to read the article, and they don't have the internet, and they won't stop saying it."

Oy vey.  That's the point of an awareness campaign, no? Can we remember my first point? I LIKE this campaign, for the exact reasons you're noting.  #BanBossy is just a slogan.  The root of the word's use and its potential impact is now entering the discourse BECAUSE of that slogan.

True.  My daughter will hear it anyway.  And very true, she'll hear and see lots of things that I will discuss with her (The Little Mermaid included) - but raising awareness about the potential harm behind bossy as an insult is not a fruitless effort.  

In the end, let's get personal...

As a kid, I directed the neighbourhood plays, I edited the yearbook, I went to leadership camp.  I grew up successful and relatively well-adjusted, despite (or perhaps in spite of) the fact that I was called bossy.  My confidence (or lack thereof) and Type-Aer style evolved from a world of influence, not one word or one personality trait.  I still ended up Depressed and Anxious (aka Crazy) due at least in part to that leader-ness and to my drive to "overcome adversity."

None of that changes the fact that when I was called "bossy" as a young girl, it fucking hurt.  It was an insult, a sting.  It was something I didn't want to be.

We have lots of things to teach our girls, but to "suck it up" is NOT one of them. Neither is to skip an attempt to make a change because it probably won't have an impact so who cares.  We need to foster leadership in those who are socially and systemically deterred from it, minus the judgement.  A campaign that jolts the conversation is a perfect place to start.  

I value that

I've struggled for years to define what Remembrance Day means to me.  Like many, I don't generally support war.  But defining "war" can be just as difficult as defining "peace."  I suppose the point is I would always prefer a diplomatic solution - but wouldn't we all.  Unfortunately, war and peace are far more complicated than that, and I cannot begin to understand all the facets and intricacies.

Ultimately, I think I'm coming to the conclusion that Remembrance Day doesn't have to be about war, or about peace.  It can simply be an opportunity to reflect.

Many military "missions" aren't about fighting, rather about peacekeeping, or protecting, or preventing a larger fight.  Even if they are "war" in the traditional sense, regardless of the macro-level political and social intricacies, I think the individuals who provide their service are doing it with a sense of courage, a sense of loyalty -- I think are are doing it for something.  I value that.

I don't know much about my Papa during WWII, but I know that I couldn't have balloons in his house because the popping sound was too traumatic for him.  I know that he met my Nana there, in Italy I think, while they were both serving, and that they married in three separate countries to make sure it was legal.  I value that.

I know that without a father to do "dad" things with, my uncle let me camp in the backyard in his giant army tent.  I know that I fretted for him when he went to Somalia for peacekeeping when I was eight years old.  I know that it was beyond special to speak to him for one minute of his allotted five minute phone allowance while he was there.  I value that.

I know that Hubby's Gramps, now in his 90s, takes immense pride in his service during WWII.  He is so highly appreciated and respected and has achieved some incredible things in his lifetime.  And he loves his family; he loves my Baby Fraggle.  I value that.

This all means that Remembrance Day doesn't have to be about the wars, or the peace.  For me, it can be about these people who have participated in something bigger than themselves, and how it has impacted them.

Lest we forget that.

Dear Fraggle - Volume 3

Dear Fraggle,

Three months? Are you kidding me? I'm still unclear on how the final six months of pregnancy dragged on like a tortuous apocalypse, while the first three months of your little life have flown by like the Roadrunner on meth.

One of the saddest things about you being three months old is that I don't think I'm allowed to count your age in weekly increments anymore.  Technically, you're 13 weeks old, but if I say that to people they're going to think I'm a weirdo.  "This is Baby Fraggle, she's 13 weeks old.  My name is Marianna, I'm 1544 weeks old.  Pleased to meet you."

Another exciting/sad thing since the last time I wrote is simply how much you've changed.  I woke up one morning and I swore to Hubby that you looked different.  You changed, literally overnight.  He thought I was crazy. "No, it's just her hairstyle" he said.  But then, when he arrived home that night... "She looks different" he said.  I TOLD YOU.

When you were 11 weeks old, you achieved the most amazing feat.  YOU ROLLED OVER.  Apparently it's early for this particular accomplishment, but I don't really consider it all that werid - given how much you've wanted to MOVE since your days inside me, as well as how much you dislike being forced to sit on your tummy.

The actual roll-over event was more of a two-minute process of forceful grunts and heave-hos as you tried desperately to get the hell off your stomach.  I obviously videotaped the whole thing - complete with my screeches of delight in the background.

Since then, you roll over about half the time.  It seems to depend on how much energy you have and how much you're hating your stomach in that particular moment.  Every single time you do it, the pride in me swells like a hot air balloon - a really big, bright hot air balloon.

My other favourite thing is your coos.  You gurgle and gobble at me all the time and I have an unhealthy number of video recordings of you doing it.  I goo and you gah, I ah and you ahrg.  The joy this beings me is indescribable and ridiculous - second only to your smiley kicking delight upon waking when I come to rescue you from your crib.  These are the best parts of my day, every day.

When I last wrote, you were refusing to nap.  I later learned it was less of a "refusal" and more of a "Mom, I'm a textbook and just because you can't figure me out doesn't make that my fault get your act together I'm tired K thanks" situation.

Turns out you're a rockstar napper, if I conduct the "prance around the nursery saying goodnight to things" routine.  Actually, you nap so much that I'm bored much of the day. (Sorry other moms.)

So, contrary to my previous advice, I'm going to now suggest that you wake up, at least a little bit, just to hang out with me.   Because the bottom line is that you're so freaking cute that all I want to do is hug you, and sing to you, and smell you, and stroke your hair, and kiss your cheeks, and otherwise gobble you up all the livelong day.

Also, I'm cool and fun and you oughta want to hang out with me.  Just saying.

Love,
Mom

Dear Fraggle - Volume 2

Hello again my dear.  I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and here I am again because I have some new thoughts I want to share.

You will be nine weeks old this Monday.  NINE WEEKS.  I don't have a friggin clue how that happened, but here we are.

The first couple weeks with you were an impossible gong show.  The following four were pretty good - life abounded with small victories and I regained a small semblance of sanity.  You learned so many neat things...

You grabbed stuff - like really reached out and GRABBED it - and then you pulled.   Hard.

You started standing.  Ok, not standing, per se, but extending your legs and pushing off while we held you up.  Your little head and neck got so strong.  Hubby and I predict that you won't really crawl, rather you'll start walking around holding onto our fingers.  Mark our words.

And the piéce de la resistance:  SMILES.  You, my sweet little koalacorn, learned to smile.  You do it all the time.  You grin when you wake up and I lean over your bed.  You grin when I change your diaper in the front window sill.  You grin. At me. And then I melt.

Then the six-week mark hit.  One day I was saying to people "Nah, she never really cries..." And all of a sudden, well, you cried.  It's like you just learned how and you simply had to show off your new skill.  Huh. What a novel idea Mom.  If I cry you'll notice me?  COOL.

And so it went, you crying (and probably spurtishly growing) for 10 days straight.  Hubby and I thought we'd go crazy.  I mean, you were still cute as all-get-out, but holy hell girlie.

Here's the good part though.  After your 6 week vampire conversion, you were the sweetest little angel.  Your dad and I were over the moon having our lovely little darling back again.

For three days.  Three days you were a perfect little doll.  By the fourth day you made a pretty big life decision. No more naps, you said to me one day, and then you cried and cried and cried all the livelong day.

Now.  Here is some advice for you my sweet:

When you are old like me, you will adore, nay, RELISH, any single solitary chance to NAP.  You may nap on a bench in the sun during your lunch break.  You may nap at your desk in the afternoon, with your hand on your mouse so your colleagues think you're working.  You may nap at a friend's house.  You may nap on the bus.  You may nap on a couch, on a pool floatie, on a lawn chair at Home Depot.

When you are old like me, you will not only wish you had more time to nap, but you will wish you capitalized every previous napping opportunity as the precious gift that it is  because naps are cumulative, and priceless.  So nap now, my sweet.  Enjoy it while you can.

I love you Fraggle,
Mom

PS Please nap.

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. 

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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.  

Dear Fraggle

In case you didn't get the memo, I FINALLY gave birth to my tiny human a few weeks ago.  (Wait, has it been four weeks already? What the hell? Is she driving yet? Has she graduated?  Is she married?)

Although I have been saving a ton of blog material in this pathetic messy brain of mine, who knows if I'll ever find time/energy to expel it from my mind onto the interwebs.

So, I'll start with this one post, this one thing I've wanted to write for a long, long time - a letter to my darling daughter.

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Dear Fraggle,

My god, I had no idea having you would be like this.  Nobody could have prepared me for it.  It doesn't seem to matter what people said or how they tried to warn me - the overwhelming nature of growing, birthing, and loving you has been, well, indescribable.

Sure, your life inside me was tricky for both of us, and for Hubby too, but my god I loved you.  I talked to you all the time, I sang you "I Will" by The Beatles on a daily basis, I imagined what you looked like, I adored when you moved inside me, and, above all, I worried about you pretty much every minute of every day.

And then you came out, in a flurry of (holy super painful) labour and only a few quick pushes. You came out and the nurse plopped you on my chest, and all I could really think was "wow, she's bigger than I thought she was."  Seven pounds eight ounces, with the cutest little face and ohmygosh so much long dark hair.  And those big brown eyes looking up at me.  And then Daddy cut your cord and before I knew it we were parents.

That first week was, (well, Fraggle dear, I'm always going to be honest with you) one of the hardest things we've ever done. Trying to feed you, laying crooked in a hospital bed opening my eyes every 5 minutes to look at you through that clear plastic bassinet, coming home and camping out in a not-dark-enough and anxiety-cloaked bedroom for days on end trying to figure out how the heck to keep you safe.

But then, then there was a light.  Slowly, very slowly, some weird normalcy began to emerge unlike any "normal" I have ever known.  A new normal where nothing else in the world matters as much as you do, and where Hubby and I truly rely on each other in a way we never had before, finding a way to exist as your parents rather than whoever those two fools had been beforehand.  I woke up the other night wondering, where is the grown up that is supposed to be caring for this child?

Now, honey, you'll be four weeks old on Monday.  I have no idea where this time has gone, or how I managed to survive it, but I'm starting to see what everyone was trying to tell me.  It was worth it.  All of it.  Because you are the most lovely, sweetest little baby known to humanity and it aches my heart how much I love you.  You are the most beautiful thing I've ever done. It kills me when you cry, and it warms me when your eyes gaze at mine.  And this week, when I was feeding you, you held my hand...

I love everything about you.  I love your jazz hands (aka newborn reflex), and your "ET phone home" (aka burping bliss), and even your giggle-cries (like Dick Van Dyke floating on the ceiling in Mary Poppins) and your monkey scream (which sometimes sounds more like a Michael Jackson "Ah hoo hoo").  I've watched your hair lighten, and watched your eyes shift from dark brown, to a deep sea blue that I can't describe, to now a grey blue that mesmerizes me, just like Hubby's.

I promise, no matter what, I will keep watching.  Be patient with me, though I'm not perfect, not even close.  But I will always do my best.  I will be there, for everything, all the time. I will support you, no matter what, without judgement.  I will hold your hand, and teach you things, and take you places, and adore you, unconditionally, forevermore.

Love always,
Mom

I bet parenting is a shit show. But he's got this.

I never really had to think about Father's Day, given that I never actually had one. I mean, sometimes it popped up here and there, but generally? Generally Father's Day doesn't really occur to me. 

Until this year, because this year HUBBY is the new father in my life. 

This little Fraggle is due to exit my womb in about 3 weeks (we'll see what she actually decides to do - she's indecisive, I can already tell... Like Hubby maybe!) and all I can think about is what a wicked dad my Hubby already is, let alone how awesome he'll be once he can actually, ya know, *see* his daughter. 

First, he will totally play with her. Not just "Hey let's play catch after dinner" but also "Hey let's get down on the floor and build forts! And stack blocks! And tackle each other! And tickle each other! And dress up dolls! And have a tea party! And bounce around on the exercise ball! And use power tools! And fix things! And run with a grocery cart, jump on it, and coast through the parking lot! And sing songs! And STRUM THE GUITAR! And hey I'll race ya!"  I picture Hubby as the "let's do anything you want to do" kind of dad, because: a) he's young at heart: and, b) he will in *no way* be able to resist her smile.

Second, he will understand her. I think he *may* have a little doubt on this one, simply because she's a girl - and growing up as the oldest of three boys makes him a little uncertain about girls. (Who can blame him? Girls are volitile and mysterious jerks.) However, it is, in my estimation, completely impossible for a sensitive and loving man such as my Hubby to not fully understand his daughter - or at least fully support and adore her, no matter what. Even when she needs a diaper change, or a pretty outfit, or a braid in her hair, or when she cries about some dumbass boy. She'll go to him for that stuff. She'll go to him for anything. 

Finally, Hubby will protect her - protect her in a way that I was never protected, a way that only a daddy can protect. That "you're safe in my arms and I will NEVER hurt you" kind of way that (no matter how much feminism I spit at people) I know I missed out on - even with a strong and independent momma. The way I see it, Fraggle will get the best of both worlds on this one. Me, being strong and conscientious on my own, but also knowing I depend on Hubby as my rock and my defender on a daily basis; and Hubby, being patient and helpful, and overall an active participant in his relationships. 

Hubby dear, I can't wait for you and I to tackle the SHIT SHOW that this whole parenting thing is bound to be. I wouldn't have it any other way. We got this. Hands down. 

 

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...


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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.

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.

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...

Hubby darling, play me a tune

One of my absolute favourite things about Hubby?  He plays the gui-tar.  Scratch that, he doesn't play it, he masters it.  He's really quite remarkable on that friggin thing.

Sometimes I beg him to for the love of god put that thing down already, but most of the time Hubby's guitar playing is the highlight of my day.  Neither one of us can wait until he teaches our little girl to play along with him. (I'll just watch.  And continue to pretend I know how to sing.)

If you know any guitarists, especially any good ones, you know they usually have a few key influences.  In Hubby's case, John Mayer is the go-to.

Now.  You might not appreciate John Mayer. Sure, sometimes he comes across as kind of a douche, and you might not even like his sometimes cheesy tunes.  However, in case you don't already know, I'm here to tell you that John Mayer's skills on six strings are very nearly unmatched.

Often to my particular frustration, John Mayer has become the backdrop to our lives.  Mr Mayer was playing when Hubby and I decided to tie the knot.  Uncle D quoted him at our wedding ceremony... This is not roman candle, firework, Hollywood, hot pink love; this is I got your BACK love.  Not to mention every goddam road trip of all time.  And of course, without fail, every. single. one. of Hubby's daily guitar sessions.

Despite the over-exposure, I have what one could call a soft spot for those tunes, so naturally I was glad to see John perform on Ellen this week.  Watching him play his new bluesy song Olivia, I learned something: As it turns out, it isn't John Mayer's guitar that I love - it's Hubby's, when he plays Mayer's stuff.

So when I went upstairs, I made of point of sharing this tidbit with my dear husband, for which I was greatly rewarded...

As if I didn't love him enough already, my darling set me up with a full-fledged bedroom concert to entertain me while I showered, complete with Strat, amplifier, vocals, harmonica, and pedal board.

Oh, how much I adore him - even when he's been a total wiener on three separate occasions that day.

The best "you're preggers" response of all time

This week, for pretty much the first time, I actually got a reaction to my pregnancy that felt good.  Other than Hubby (who indulged with me with bug-eyed panic faces for the first couple weeks), most people have the same responses:

Congratulations! That’s so exciting!

Followed by the inevitable:

How are you feeling? Do you feel pregnant?

And then the intermittent:

HOW’S THE BABY?

Although I am getting used to the constant questions (and dealing with the extra attention in a classic Marianna way - with bold and honest answers), I have yet to hear something that truly made me happy.  ME.  Not everyone else. 

This week my guy friend and former colleague was late to the party and finally heard I’m preggers. And this is the email I got…

Congrats on creating human life. Seriously. That’s complicated stuff. Just look at your index finger, like, really closely. I mean, hold it up 1 inch from your face and check it out. It’s pretty spectacular. You’re creating 8 of them right now, with a set of matching thumbs, from scratch. Plus, you’re doing it in your sleep. Come on. How crazy is that? You’re creating human life in your sleep. Who can do that!? You can. Props.

This makes me (granted, in my heightened emotional state) want to cry. In a good way. Because as I’m sure you’ve heard from me before, GROWING A HUMAN IS FUCKING HARD, yo. A message like this from a friend simply acknowledging that fact without making me feel like a weird mutant freak show is, well, fucking priceless.

Not only that, but he gave me some great tips too. For example:

I won’t give you any advice because frankly I was terrified the whole time. Enjoy what you can and be amazed by yourself. YOU’RE CREATING HUMAN LIFE!!!

For the remaining months, you should create scenarios that give you the occasion to tell people that you’re creating human life from scratch. “Hey Dude. That looks like a good salad. Did you make it? Wow, all I made was a whole human being. But hey, your salad is pretty good too, right?” “How was your weekend? Do anything fun? I developed a central nervous system for this human being that I’m creating inside me… while blogging.”

Just go with it and find what works for you. My one piece of advice: don’t apologize for anything. Feel how you feel and establish boundaries.

You are creating human life. It’s hard. You have full license to complain.

I love this email exchange and I’ve blogged it here so I can continue referring back to it and reminding myself how awesome I am. And how awesome my friend is. And how awesome this whole experience is, despite the fact that most days it kinda sucks.

Seriously, best of luck to you both. You’re going to be great.

  ***Dear friend: I hope you don’t mind that I pasted this on the interwebs. I know you’ll tell me if it bothers you, in which case I will edit and/or delete at your request - I promise. In any case, thank you for helping me feel less crazy.

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. 

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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.