Happy Halloween!

This was the first year that The Boy went trick-or-treating. Last year it was hard enough to get him to get his costume on. This year we thought we were in for more of the same, and were thinking that we weren't going to push it, but he WAS excited about putting out the jack-o-lantern that he and his dad had carved earlier in the day, and once I announced around 6 that it was time to put that out, he decided it was time to go trick or treating as well. Thank heavens he had an easy costume to put on.

(He went as Venom, which I'm not sure I mentioned here before. Yeah, I know -- a supervillain. I'm not entirely sure it was a good choice, since I'm supposed to be the guider of morals and all, but he did LOVE it and ... well, the costume was on sale at the local consignment store, $12!)

So off we went -- first to the neighbours, where he got his first treat, much to his surprise. I don't think he really believed us that people would just give him candy. And then we went to a small townhouse complex down the block -- I think we hit probably only 15 places in total -- and he was pumped.

"I LOVE this trick or treating!" he kept saying. "I LOVE all these treats! Let's try THAT house! They have pumpkins!" And on it went. The pitch and volume of his voice got louder and louder and more excited, and he was practically sparkling by the end of it all. He had to be reminded to say trick or treat, and reminded to say thank you, and a few times we had to help him remember to leave, because at a few places if he just stood there they would give him MORE CANDY, so each time he would lean further and further in the door, perhaps in the hopes that just round the corner there was some big vat into which he could simply dive. And he never managed to be able to tell people who he was dressed as, instead he would point at the spider on his chest and say "duh duh DUH" in that classic comic sign of evil arriving and bad things happening that we've taught him, which did at least give him a few laughs. (He had his own entrance music!)

By the end of it all he decided his bag was much too heavy for him to carry, so he would hand it to us as he turned around, his faithful baggage handlers, before racing off to the next stoop.

He was (surprisingly) pleased to go home, but I think that perhaps it was just because then he could look at all his loot and -- gasp! -- eat some.

And now it's 8:45, and despite the fact that we let him eat only three items from the loot bag, he is wired as sh*t and won't sleep. So I guess all in all we could call it a rousing success.

Randoms for a Saturday morning

One of the advantages of having a.) done this whole pregnancy thing before and b.) taking a while to get to this point in the process is that I have gotten to know my body far more well than I ever thought I might. But it has neat side effects -- this morning as I lay in bed, my abdomen relaxed , I reached down and felt, just below my belly button, my uterus, carrying this new child. The only thing I'm missing now is some quickening, but that too, I know, won't happen for a few more weeks. I've felt a few things here and there which don't feel like anything else, but I won't be sure what it is for a while. That more than anything is what I loved about pregnancy -- the baby squirming. Although I admit that The Boy was a squirmer, not a kicker, and I've heard that the kicking is not so pleasant. I guess I'll see.

* * * * * * *

Yesterday was the daycare Halloween party, and the child was allowed to go in his costume, which naturally he refused to do. Upon arriving to the centre and seeing that everyone -- and I mean everyone -- was in costume, he promptly changed his mind. Luckily I had prepared for this. But interesting how in that way -- he's just like me. Let's not step out of line unless everyone else does too.

* * * * * * *

This morning is clear and bright, the rain having gone through last night. Which would be good except for the fact that we had gotten out of the daycare yard cleaning on account of the fact it was to rain all weekend. Now that it's not raining, I feel obligated to go and sweep / rake / otherwise clean. Which is pretty much the last thing I feel like doing this morning.

On the bright side, if we do this, I might be able to stop by the quilting shop on the way home and get my batting / backing finally, which I meant to do all week from work and didn't manage to do. And this can turn back into a blog about something interesting and other than my swelling self.

* * * * * * *

The Man usually does the grocery shopping in our home, but yesterday I had occasion to do so instead. It's not something I like to do when it's a forced weekly chore, but going out to wander the stores to look for yummy things is of course delightful. I am completely amazed by the number of gluten free products that there are out there. I bought frozen pizza which we had for dinner last night that was actually not too bad. I mean, it's frozen pizza, so there is a limit to how good it can be, but it was pretty nice to have something that easy again, just out of the freezer and heat.

Also I found brownies made with fruit puree, which were not nearly so tasty as they proclaimed on the box. To be fair they were indeed edible (which isn't always the case for gluten-free baked goods) but double chocolate nuggets of goodness they were not.

* * * * * * *

Damn, I really am going to have to go sweep that darn yard. The day is gorgeous. All the better for trick or treating, I guess.

Happy Halloween everyone!

Pregnancy Honeymoon

It was cold and rainy this morning, and I dressed in cords, a mat shirt, and a large fuzzy warm shirt. I was still cold. And now that I'm entering the second trimester, I'm less nauseous than I used to be. Consequently I spent most of the day forgetting I'm pregnant. And wondering why. And then thinking ... shouldn't I be feeling something?

And then half an hour later thinking, why am I so tired, and why don't I have any appetite?

Clearly at least I have pregnancy brain.

What I did to make myself feel better

It's been one of those days. Well, mostly it's just one thing -- the flu. No, I don't have it. Neither does anyone I know. But it's ALL people can TALK about, especially when you're pregnant. Will you get the vaccine? Will you not? What's in it? What's not? What's best? What's going on? What the hell??

It's got me worried, which is silly: most cases here have been mild. As far as we can tell, anyone around here who HAS had complications or death has had some underlying health condition. The complications rate has been less than 1%, and 70% of those have been people with underlying issues.

So basically the chances of me getting life threatening complications (and that's IF I even get sick) are about one third of a percent (JS, if my math is off and I have a greater chance ... please don't tell me!) And the chances of my having a healthy baby at this point are 98%, and most pregnancy books and doctors treat that as close to a sure thing as you can get in pregnancy. Odds are greatly, greatly, greatly in my favour of getting through this flu season unscathed AND having a nice healthy baby in May.

But I admit I've been a little twisted in knots even so.

And so I sat down this afternoon and wrote nice things in my journal, and took it easy. Joked with a colleague. Relaxed. Reminded myself how lucky I am to be pregnant and how grateful I am. Reminded myself that I have a good plan in place for the flu if the worst does happen, and by the end of the month I'll be vaccinated and all set. Reminded myself of the odds that are in my favour.

And then I got some good -- great -- news from a friend back east, and THAT made my day. And I'm reminded that there's lots of good in the world.

My pleasure for the day

Pardon the spectacularly bad photo, but our real camera was dropped one too many times and is feeling poorly. But THIS is a finished quilt top, people.

Now all I have to do is get the batting and the backing and baste it together ... wish me luck!

Daycare Debauchery

This afternoon when I picked up my child, his shoes were on the wrong feet and his pants were on backwards.

Fifteen years from now, if I pick him up from a day out with friends and he's in a similarly disheveled state, I will be rather concerned.

And what did you do to make yourself feel better?

I read a lot of parenting stuff. It's a normal thing for me: before I got married I got a book about the first year of marriage (needless to say, THAT went out the window when the whole farce crumbled. It had a lot of good advice about how to avoid fights about money, children, and religion, but NO advice whatsoever on the "I'm sleeping with my co-worker" dilemma. Useless trash.)

Anyway. I read a lot, perhaps excessively, about topics I am interested in and about which I don't feel confident. And let's face it: there's so much information out there on parenting that I'm not sure how anyone feels confident, even if you have raised 18 children (although I for one think that that's actually bad parenting -- how awful will your kid feel when you can never remember their name and only spend 2 minutes with them each day?)

Have I digressed again?

This is a round about way of saying that I read something interesting today, but I can't remember where, and so I am not going to credit the author, for which I apologize.

Everyone wants to raise a happy and resilient child. I sure do, especially because I admit that I tend to be, when stressed, a bit of a pessimist. (Reading this right now, The Man is saying "A BIT???!!!) I'm reasonably resilient, though -- which I like -- but there's a big difference between being resilient and slogging through things, and being resilient and bouncing back. It's surviving vs living, and I'd really like to do more of the latter.

So this morning's article on raising resilient and happy children said the usual stuff, but one thing struck me: it's easy, they say, to tell your kid to buck up after a long day. As a parent you have the gift of hindsight and you know very well that no matter what Mary did in Math class, that pales in comparison to having your husband come home and tell you that your marriage is over because he's been screwing around in the stacks of the library.

But what you need to do is commiserate with your child and then ask the all important question:

"And then what did you do to make yourself feel better?"

Which gives your child the idea that a.) they have the power to do this, b.) that there's no sense in wallowing over it and c.) they should do something about it, they have the right and the personal obligation to treat themselves nicely if something bad happens in their lives. Or even if it doesn't.

And you know, I think that this isn't just good advice for your kid: it's good advice for us all. Adult lives are fraught with stress: work stress, relationship stress, kid-raising stress, commuting stress -- the list goes on. And we're often battered by not just our own lives but by the problems of those around us.

And yet for some reason there's this Puritanical expectation that we as adults must just buck up and carry on. Too much self-indulgence leads to ... I don't know. Slothfulness? Gluttony? Some other of the deadly sins?

I am definitely one of those people who does this. I was raised to do chores before pleasure, and if there were too many chores, then pleasure got sacrificed. And don't get me wrong: I'm not suddenly going to stop doing my dishes.

But I think going forward me and my family are going to be encouraged to find one nice thing for ourselves each day. Maybe more. But one little treat, one little joy, one kind thought. Simple pleasures, but a recognition of them, a moment to appreciate a little joy in life, to guard against the battering. A way to make ourselves feel better, to treat ourselves nicely, to give ourselves a little frisson of pleasure in the face of a world that isn't always kind and beautiful.

So tell me: What are YOU going to do for yourself today?

Pregnancy Dreams

I think it's a common phenomenon to have dreams that are especially vivid during pregnancy. And for the past two months or so -- wow, have I ever. Every single night. I wake up every single morning shaking my head over the insanity of it all.

But perhaps the weirdest thing is that almost none of the dreams are about the baby. For instance, a few weeks ago I dreamed I was having a conversation with an executive from a large multinational resource company downtown. He was worried. He was the head of the Peanut Butter division, and the company was getting out of the peanut butter business and laying everyone off, but they couldn't lay him off because he was too high up, but he had no idea where they were going to put him. Obviously he had no experience other than peanut butter. Which wasn't so useful for other resource areas.

Last night's took the cake though -- it was a baby one. It was the one where we figured out we couldn't conceive on our own, so The Man and I decided I would sleep with a guy we know instead (because that's our best solution to unexplained inability to conceive.) And in the dream not only am I concerned about how to explain the child's red hair, but how we might explain how this new kid has an IQ so much lower than the first one.

Nice.

Crazy AND mean. I can't wait to see what the next six months of dreams will bring.

Inner restlessness

From time to time -- frequently, really -- I get this inner restlessness. It's writing related. I need to write something, I just don't know what. Work is helpful -- when I don't know what to write, they give me something to write about. Often it's terribly uninspiring, but that's not their fault. It keeps the restlessness at bay. But here, on a Sunday night, I sit unable to go to bed until something comes out, I don't know what.

* * * * * * *

This evening I lay in bed with my child. "Tell me a story" he says, after the light has gone out. So often he wants stories about animals, various animals, in strange situations. I ask; he says no. I ask if he wants a story about a boy with his name -- children, they tell you, like to hear about themselves. He always says no. He will listen to me tell him about when he was a baby, but ask him if he wants a story about himself, and he always says no.

I ask next if he would like a story about the baby. He is enthusiastic about this. So I do. I tell him a long rambling story about how the baby is excited to be born, because there is someone very special waiting for her (in his words, the baby is always a girl. We don't know, but I'm going to use female pronouns because he does.) This person is her big brother, and I tell him all the things she is looking forward to doing with him. He smiles. He laughs a little. He looks pleased. His cheek dimples here and there, with each passing sentence.

My heart overflows.

We are trying to make this special for him, to start off their relationship as best we can so that it ends up better than mine, with my sibling. We have no control over this -- my own observations tell me that it's personality, more than anything else, that decides sibling relationships. It's not years apart, it's not gender, it's not how the parents do it -- some siblings will just click, and some won't. Perhaps you are more likely to click with a sibling, given your genetics, than a random stranger, but it is left up to fate. As it will be with the two of them. Part of the reason I want two is to give them a chance, a chance to have a close relationship with someone who will know them longer -- and maybe better -- than any friend or any spouse. Someone with whom they will share a past. It may not matter in the end, what I do -- they will choose what kind of relationship they have. But at least I want to start out as best I can.

* * * * * * *

After that story, he wants another one, about the same thing. "Tell me the one about how when she arrives, she looks for her big brother. And she comes into this [his] room and the big brother isn't here. And he's gone shopping with his dad."

I don't delve into the likelihood of the baby arriving without a father present, because (God willing) he'll be by my side the whole time. But The Boy is three, and hasn't asked how the baby comes out (although he has his theories*) and so I haven't talked about it. Neither has he asked how the baby got there. I'm a big believer in the idea that kids will ask about what they are ready to hear, so I haven't said anything.

I ask him what they were shopping for. He pauses, considers.

"A turnip!" he finally answers.

I try and keep the astonishment from my voice. "Why do we need a turnip?" I inquire.

"For dinner." he says matter-of-factly. And the story is over.

* * * * * * *

* Not so long ago while we were driving to daycare, The Boy mentions to me that the baby is scared, the road is bumpy. We have a conversation about this, and the topic turns to when she will come out. "She'll burst out of your belly!" he tells me. "She'll burst out of your belly, but then she'll put you back together." A pause. "And I will help her."

I'm hoping that he isn't prescient -- I'm hoping that I can get away without having a c-section. And I'm certainly hopeful that if it is necessary, someone more skilled than a four year old and a newborn will be there to put everything back where it came from.

Shopping spree

My mother met me at the hair salon, where I had a cut, deep condition, and eyebrow shape (on the idea that I *feel* awful these days, but I don't have to *look* awful too, and heck it might just make me feel better if I look in the mirror and don't see someone who looks like they need a good shot of caffeine. And / or a stiff drink.)

We went for lunch, and then to a nearby childrens / maternity consignment store, where I found a single pair of pants that fit -- but still, a single pair means I'm up by one. We then went to another nearby retail store, where I found two pairs of pants and an assortment of shirts and now that we've together spent roughly what I did last time for clothes, I'm well outfitted for the next few months. I am sitting here now in some yoga pants she found for me at a consignment store near where she lives, and am more comfortable than I have been in *weeks*.

The clothes are nice, actually, and I think they look pretty good too, and I'm looking forward to a few weeks of looking cute and pregnant. Early pregnancy I think is nice -- you are obviously pregnant (or, *I* am) and yet that's the only part of you that's large and you still look small and unthreatening. Unlike at the end when I look like I'm going to explode.

We also bought at the consignment store a new pair of very nice shoes for The Boy, on sale for less than half price (because kids shoes either fall into the "cheap and fall apart before they grow out of them, which is UNBELIEVABLY fast" or the "more expensive than my shoes, and so well made that they look like new after he's grown out of them, also UNBELIEVABLY fast" category, so good quality consignment is huge), and ... drum roll please ... a costume for Halloween of Black Spiderman (or Venom, as I believe he is know outside three year old lingo). You can imagine the excitement when I got home.

And despite the fact that I arrived home with $200 in new clothes ... I was more excited to see how thrilled he was with his new $12 purchase than I was over everything else that I bought. Ah, motherhood.

Whoa

When I dropped of The Boy at daycare this morning, he was one of five children there. There are normally 24 children. Now granted, I know that some probably arrived later, and some were being kept home just as a precaution (even though let's face it -- the horse has left the barn here, people), but a quarter of the students left in ... that's one virulent (er) virus.

I did read this morning that they anticipate this week will be the peak of the fall flu, with numbers declining next week for Halloween. And then of course there will be another peak again later in the winter.

How they predict these things, I have no idea.

But wow, that was one powerful nasty. Cross fingers that we got off as lightly as it seems to appear right now ...

In other news

Why yes, pregnancy has made me a tad more emotional than usual. Why do you ask??

Frustration

Today's piece in the NYT on parenting yelling. I .... I don't know what to say. I wonder if anyone who writes these things has children, I really do. I know that spanking is a bad thing, and I don't hit my child. I honestly try my best not to yell, and most of the time I succeed. But ... I'm sorry, anyone who lives full time with a toddler or preschooler who isn't pushed to the Freaking Limit at times is someone who must be lobotomized. And I am kind of tired for the litany of parenting articles about what we should or shouldn't do, because it just seems like this one is taking just one more thing from parenting that we Simply Cannot Do or Our Children Will Never Succeed and Will Be Stunted Forever.

I admit that in a perfect world I would never yell at my child, but in an ideal world he would never crayon on the wall after I've told him not too for the thousandth time, or throw his legos when he's mad, or pull off my glasses when he's having a temper tantrum and throw them to the floor. In an ideal world parenting would be rosy and lovely and we'd all be polite to each other and do what each other says and my three year old wouldn't say things like "No I won't, you can't make me, I'm never going to!" about anything and everything making my head explode.

And most of the time I don't yell, even when provoked. But I have, and I have to tell you: I'm not sorry. You know why? Because sometimes people lose their temper. SHIT HAPPENS. And it's just as important that I try not to yell and mostly succeed as it is that I occasionally yell, and lose my temper, and my kid sees that even if that happens, I get back in control, we talk it out, and I still love him. Yes, I'm sorry, I think that this is a type of education. If I never show him that it's possible for me to lose control and regain it, how will he ever realize that when his emotions feel out of control -- a common thing for a preschooler, after all -- that he too can regain control and feel better?

No, of course it's not ideal. But it's REAL LIFE. And raising our kids in an environment where no one ever gets angry and yells and loses control and then regains it sure isn't going to help prepare them for when a co-worker snaps at them or says something nasty, or they get really really angry or ... for when they have their own kids, they are tired and dinner isn't working and they had a bad day at work and they are on deadline and they yell ... they need to know that it's normal. It sucks, it's not a great thing, but people need SOME way to let off steam. It's real life.

Otherwise, the explosions are going to be far, far worse.

So suck it, parenting gurus: I'm trying my best. I love my child, I provide for him, I listen to him, support his emotional, physical, and cognitive development. I read to him nightly, feed him nutritious lunches, have him in one of the best daycare situations I can. I tell him I love him every day, often several times a day. Most of the time I take the time to explain and reason and be patient and treat my son as well as I can, respectfully and thoughtfully and like how I want him to treat me. I parent by example. I don't hit my kid or belittle him or make fun of him or neglect him. And dammit, I think I'm a good mom.

But I reserve the right to yell, when things are just Too Much. I am not perfect, and you can't expect me to be. So stop writing articles like this. We can't spank, time outs tell the kids they aren't loved, yelling is demeaning or ... something. Real life means that sometimes kids don't listen to reason, or listen at all, and if you're going to give me a way to deal with a kid who puts his hands over his ears and chants "na na na I can't hear you" over my reasoned pleas to put on his clothes for daycare, then great. But until then: SHUT. UP.

Hilarious news from my life

Every outfit I put on this morning screamed "I AM PREGNANT", so I dressed, threw over it a voluminous wrap, and summoned up the courage to tell my boss. And then a few other people.

And no one -- not a single person! -- had noticed or even suspected.

For all my "OH MY GOD! THEY MUST KNOW AT WORK!" panic ... and no one knew. I know that we're all a little myopic about our lives (read: self centred), but I think that my navel gazing has taken it to a whole new level.

* * * * * * *

I arrived at daycare this morning at the regular time to find that five (5) kids were out with the vomiting nasty that The Boy had on Tuesday (at least I hope it was the same one, otherwise I'm going to have FUN this weekend.) Before I'd even finished drop off they'd reached the critical number of six when they are required to call the health authorities. Now, none of those kids is allowed back to daycare until Monday, regardless of how mild their illnesses might have been. It's considered an "ILLNESS OUTBREAK!!!"

It's nice to know that my kid is really good at something -- spreading illness! Way to go kid! Way to strike out first and then infect the rest of your friends!!

To be honest I feel terribly bad. I have a job that's relatively easy to take sick days from, and usually if there's any threat of me or my kid passing on illness, I stay home. I consider it my part in cutting down proliferation of illness. Not everyone has a job that can do that -- I remember my ex's dad working through three weeks of a terrible flu because he was a doctor in a single practice and if he didn't work, his patients wouldn't have any doctor at all.

(Don't get me started on the the problems involved in a single doctor practice, which I don't think is a great model, nor the practice of working through the flu, with SICK PEOPLE, which probably just resulted in a.) him taking a LONG time to get better and b.) spreading it to a lot of people, many of whom may have had other underlying problems. But hey.)

As I was saying -- I try to stay home if I can, with any illness. I can work from home if I'm not feeling too bad, and I almost always get better faster if I stay home early on in an illness. And I almost did stay home with the kid on Wednesday, but he seemed FINE. And now seven kids are sick with the same thing (or worse) ... to be fair, I'm pretty sure he caught it at a playdate on Sunday, which would mean a 48 hour incubation period before symptoms, which would mean anyone who caught it Thursday caught it from my kid on Tuesday, long before I even knew he was sick ... Not to mention the mom who dropped off right after me said that HER kids had the damn thing over the weekend.

Still. I do feel a little like Typhoid Mary.

* * * * * * * * *

edited to add: it took me like an hour to realize that above in the first paragraph I had written "through" for "threw" -- what's more is that I kept looking at it thinking "that doesn't look right ... " but I had NO IDEA why. Clearly the hilarity of my life had addled my brain.

Mother guilt

Last night I was sitting on the couch almost ready to head off to the daycare parent meeting. I wasn't looking forward to going, but I was going to go -- it's important, I think, to maintain communication with the daycare. And my child came over and said ...

"Mommy, something's wrong."

He was gulping, like he had hiccups.

And my mother instinct said, "Dear God, he's going to throw up."

And my common sense said, "Say wha ... ???!!!"

And then there was barfing. Copious barfing. Mostly over me. Because the common sense overrode the mommy instinct, and there were no preventive measures taken.

Needless to say I didn't make it to the meeting.

I should note before anyone wonders, the kid is fine. He didn't eat dinner and he went to bed quickly (which is rare), but he woke up this morning like nothing had happened and went to daycare all day. It was almost like he didn't notice.

But here's the weird part: I feel guilty. Guilty because my first reaction to someone heaving all over me was to push him away. Which I did. And logically? This is not a crazy reaction. Were it anyone else throwing up on me, I sure as hell would push them away, or at least remove myself from the vicinity. But it was my child, my baby, and for some totally insane reason I now feel guilty that I pushed him away.

Which is ridiculous. But I figure it must be part and parcel of the mother package. Insanity.

At least this time I managed to wear a shirt in a contrasting colour

(Yes, E, more headless pregnant lady shots!)

My belly is officially bigger than my chest. Which for the record has gone up a cup size, so it's holding its own. I feel like a walking advertisement for caution with reproduction: beware, on your second pregnancy, you'll be bigger than a house! Witness this lady, not even three months and already popped right out! AIIIIEEEEEEE!!!

It also puts me in the curious dilemma: again with the work. I still haven't told my work, because I was waiting until the traditional 12 week mark (or rather about 14 weeks for safety), but a.) it's patently obvious and b.) this is the only time in this pregnancy that I'm going to be "cute" pregnant, and instead of hiding it behind baggy clothes (note I'm holding the shirt in the picture above -- it's very baggy), I'd kind of like to indulge my inner vanity with wearing a shirt or two that shows off a cute little baby bump.

You know, for the next two weeks until it starts scaring people.

Yes, I realize that life is good when these are the things that are keeping me up at night.

Life notes

I'm at this point of the pregnancy where the nausea is getting slightly better, but the tiredness is *ss-kicking. Me, the lady who never sleeps during the day and almost never sleeps in, fell asleep on the couch Saturday afternoon. Let me tell you, friends, this is something worth noting because I probably haven't napped since The Boy was a wee newborn. Seriously.

Clearly I am Very Tired.

Being this tired also makes me grumpy, so the cars that cut me off and the co-workers who demand writing on unreasonable timelines and a child who is ... merely three ... get some sometimes inappropriate-to-the-situation irritatedness. And don't get me started on the sh*t that The Man has been putting up with, including the storms of tears over the weekend over the fact that I loaned my maternity clothes to my thoughtless sister who somehow managed to lose five pairs of pants. And a few shirts. You know, about $250 worth of clothes. Which is annoying and which makes me angry because this is not, as many of you know, the first time my sister has said or done something terribly thoughtless and hurtful, but five pairs of pants is not, in fact, probably worth three days of unremitting anger, and the entertaining of thoughts of cutting her from my life forever and ever and she shall repent until kingdom come, etc.

I suppose I should be grateful that she did provide me with four boxes of other maternity wear, but it's less exciting when every single pair of pants in those four boxes is a medium or large, and so don't fit.

(Yet. It's rather likely that they might by the time this is all over, given my propensity for weight gain in pregnancy. Which last time was in excess of 50 pounds, for the record. Probably close to 60, but the advantage of the midwives is that they don't weigh you, and I stopped weighing myself because I just didn't need to see the number. Healthy child far outweighs the weight gain, but I still didn't need to see my weight start with a 2 instead of a 1. In fact such a weight gain that a woman I met in a post-partum class at six weeks post-birth saw me again a year later and didn't recognize me, I was so much smaller. True story.)

Where was I?

Oh yes. Anyway as much as I desire at this moment consigning my relationship with my sister to the very depths of hell, I do think that some restraint might be nice. It's not so much that I think she didn't do a terrible thing -- I do. Frankly if I can say it, I treat casual acquaintances better than she has sometimes treated me. I do think that writing off people is a sometimes necessary evil, family or otherwise, and I have let friendships go because they are too poisonous, but this is someone I have to interact with for probably another 30 years, and I figure that I just need to keep my expectations for our relationship at rock bottom, and just let it go. She's not a friend, she's not someone I would be friends with were I not related to her, she's not a force for good and positivity in my life, but my mother and father are, and it's worth it to me to keep civil to make them happy. It's not worth the antagonism around the Thanksgiving table.

However, I admit with some sadness that once they are out of the picture, all bets for the continuation of our relationship are off.

Anyway after this dreary post, I do have a little bit of fun for you: my child, stir-crazy from a rainy Saturday, spend part of the day running about the house like a crazy person, dressed in only his underwear, making rocket / car noises, and holding an American dollar bill to the top of his head. I think this is why we have children. To remind ourselves of the absurdity of life.

wa ha ha ha ha

So my kid has started having nightmares. Or bad dreams, I suppose, is more accurate. Preschooler bad dreams. You know -- he's not having nightmares about not being able to retire because his RRSPs aren't full, he's not showing up at the high school cafeteria naked, he's not reliving painful moments of his dating career. Preschool stuff.

Last night's, for instance, was him waking up and insisting that he be given "Pancakes and CHEESE! I want pancakes and CHEESE! and CCCCHHHHEEESSSE!!!!!"

I assured him that at wake up time, he could have whatever he wanted, and then there wasn't another peep out of him.

It's for this reason I figure they are nightmares -- he wakes up, yells about something, I manage to reassure him, he blanks out again.

But does any one else find it amusing that my kid only slept through the night a year ago, and NOW is waking up in the night again needing to be soothed from dreams? No one else? Just me then?

EXCELLENT.

It ain't getting any smaller

10.5 weeks. I'm thinking that this week at work people might suspect it's more than the high-fat yogurt I've been eating lately. Because I can't stomach anything else.

Wherever you go, there you are

Last night's Thanksgiving was nice -- as nice as can be expected. There were fourteen people including small children, all three of whom were running about like lunatics. My child still gets along better with his six year old cousin than the one nine months his junior, so there were some interesting moments. My sister, to whom I regaled my news over the phone on Saturday, was her usual pleasant self, alongside her Stepford-like husband, who only has ever shown a single emotion of calm pleasantries in the almost 15 years I've known him. My mother ran about trying to make everyone have a wonderful time, and my father only had one serious moment of temper, so all in all it went fairly well.

You know, as it always does. Fairly good, with moments of tension and boredom. Always the same. One day I'll miss it terribly, I know, and look back at these meals with a great deal of nostalgia.

* * * * * * *

My mother's mother was the last of nine children and lived in a medium sized three storey house which by the time she passed away had accumulated seven siblings worth of life detritus. Only two other of her siblings had children, so she had a HUGE amount of stuff. It took my mother over a year to clean out the house. Granted we found a large number of very interesting items, such as a World War One soldier's helmet, bayonet, and medals (no idea who they belonged to; not a single person in the family we are aware of fought in World War One); several shotguns and handguns, one with bullets (no one we know of ever owned guns or had any use for them); my grandfather's navy uniforms as well as his wallet that was still in the top drawer of her bureau, unchanged from when he had died 25 years earlier; fur coats and other fashions from the 1920s; a ham radio from the 1950s; and the letters that I wrote to her, faithfully once a week, while I lived overseas in university. Those were the one thing that made me cry.

My mother, bless her, is very conscious of what a hard job that was, and so she has been trying to, very slowly, move through the contents of her own family home with its years of detritus (much of which was inherited from said other home), and clean out things she doesn't want or need. One of the things that was kept from years gone by were my grandfather's -- father's father, this time -- collection of slides. And I'm talking thousands of them. Many of them from the wonderful trips he and my grandmother took post-retirement and pre-grandchildren, after which they were a little too old to be gallivanting off to India. So many years have gone by that we no longer know where the pictures are taken, and really have no need for almost 40 year old photos of random scenes from China, so those are being thrown out. But we're keeping the ones of my parents as a young couple, in front of the house they bought in 1969, the one in which they still live. The ones of me as a baby; the ones of our family at Christmas 1982. The ones of my uncles as young men, toasting together over a nice pub meal. They brought a selection of them to dinner last night, and marvelled at the photos of my parents in the same stage of life we are now -- parents to a single child. A pregnant mom looking over her older child. A new baby. Young, dark haired, thinner.

And happy. My parents looking genuinely excited to see each other and be with each other, instead of merely content as they are now. I don't remember that. I don't remember my parents being actively in love with each other. Oh, it's been over forty years, I don't think they are unhappy. But they had two children and two careers and they were busy, and they didn't get excited about each other any more. I understand why, and I can see it in my own relationship. I don't even think it's bad, per se. You can't be excited about someone else every single second. You'd be exhausted.

But I don't really want to lose that either.

* * * * * * *

I was in the bookstore near work the other day at lunch time, and there was a new book showcased about the end of globalization. It seems his hypothesis is that cheap oil is the reason why travel of people and goods has been so cheap -- why we can have strawberries in any month of the year, because even if they aren't being grown in local fields, someone in Chile is growing them and we can have them in a jiffy, for merely the cost of a flight. And clearly someone is buying them, because it's worthwhile to bring them that far, even if they do taste like straw.

Travel is the same -- we can get anywhere in the world for cheaper than it ever has been because oil is still cheap and plentiful.

But that's all about to change, he suggests -- meaning we won't be able to move either people or goods about the planet nearly so cheaply. This saddens me greatly -- not because of the strawberries, because I never buy them when they come from Chile. Not because they cost twice as much (although that's an obvious deterrent) but because they are revolting and flavourless. But it may mean that my ambition of travelling to new countries and taking my child -- or children -- may be thwarted. I remember days travelling with my parents as some of the best of my young life. I'd like to be able to give that to my children.

* * * * * * *

Many years ago I purchased a book of questions -- by someone named Gregory, I think. The type of thing that had all kinds of various questions like "If you are hiking with your father and your best friend and they both get bitten by a poisonous snake, and you only have a single dose of anti-venom, and no time to get more, to whom is it administered?" or "Would you rather have a life full of exhilarating highs and devastating lows, or a relatively calm stable life throughout?"

One of the questions I remember was "Would you rather leave the country of your birth, never to return, or never again leave the province in which you now live?"

As a younger person, I would always answer the former. Heavens! Miss out on the wonders of the world? Never!

And now I think -- I'm never going to be rich. Travel might not be a big option in my future life. And while I like being close to my family, the fact is that I spent my twenties wandering about and trying new places only to finally figure out that I am, in fact, a west-coast Canadian. This place is part of who I am, and I could no more leave it forever than I could remove part of my personality.

I'm not saying that I will necessarily live in Vancouver for the rest of my life; moving to another part of Canada is still an option that we consider, mostly due to the cost of living. But in the end, I know who I am, and there's a deep seated part of me that will always feel at home in the temperate west-coast climate near the sea.

* * * * * * *

In the end, the fact is that our world may become physically smaller, and my family might drive me crazy, and this town is too expensive, but they are all part of who I am, for better or for worse. I can see my parents as young people, in love; I can see who they are now, loving and cranky, caring and tactless. I can see my partner for who he is and be genuinely excited about being in his life and seeing where it leads us both, where my life path leads us both. It doesn't really matter. In the end I know where I came from, and while I don't know where I'm going, all these things will still be the same. The crazy family with a long past. The place, the ocean, the partner, the child. The constants. The world will revolve and change, but the constants will remain the same, and they are really the only important things.

And strawberries imported from Chile in February will always taste horrible.

Rainbow Day

Most mornings before work -- and on the weekend too -- I check the weather forecast. The Boy is pretty good at interpreting them now, he knows what all the abbreviations for the days mean, and he gets that the little pictures below the day show the weather for that day. And he delights in telling me the story. "Monday there will be sun! And again on Tuesday! And then there will be clouds on Wednesday!"

But my favourite is when there is an icon for all three -- a little cloud, a little rain, and a little sun, because those are always the Rainbow Days. Since everyone knows all you need for a rainbow is a little rain and sun together. It feels very optimistic, somehow, to know a Rainbow Day is just around the corner.

Freakish Coincidence?

The Boy was due on my birthday, at the end of March. He was born three weeks early to the day, on a day we never expected, the one that belonged in fact to my father's father, the day on which we had joked to everyone (and I mean everyone -- at least in the family) -- if the baby is that early we'll name him / her after my grandfather!

We ended up having to do so. Not that we're at all sorry, but still.

What's even weirder about that is that *I* was due on my grandfather's birthday, and was almost three weeks late. An hour from being induced.

My father asks me today, after they arrive -- when's this next baby due?

May fifth, I tell him.

And he says -- the grandfather you never knew? Your mother's father? His birthday was May 2. Three days early (instead of three weeks) and you can have a kid born on each of their great-grandfather's birthdays.

This time, I haven't made any jokes -- or any promises -- about naming this coming baby after his great-grandfathers should he / she arrive on the proscribed day.

I know it's dumb, but it's stuff like this that makes me believe in a higher power. The little things. The seeming random -- and yet not random -- stuff. I think maybe God is in the details.

Stray thoughts

Earlier this week I was informed that one makes quesadillas by taking cheese, rolling it with a rolling pin, and then putting in the toaster. Three is such fun.

* * * * * *

I called up the sewing machine repair guy yesterday when I was at home, and he said to bring it in. So I did, and we went through threading the machine and he got it to pick up the bobbin thread ... and we seemed to think that I was holding the thread to the wrong side. Which seemed weird when it hadn't mattered before, but perhaps I hadn't been paying attention. And then it stopped picking up, and he determined that the alignment is off. So I am still without sewing machine. Sigh.

There are only two more rows to go!

How ironic that I thought it was a GOOD idea to get it all tuned up.

* * * * * *

My parents are trying to get here from the island today. There was a fire on one of the ferries yesterday, and so they've cancelled sailings and halted reservations. As of this morning at 8:30, there was a two sailing wait. They are in for a very very very long day. I hope they have some good car games.

* * * * * *

"when you have apple juice, you pour it on the raft and then the horse slides off."

Are three year olds a little bit insane?

Quandary

I grew up in the house where anger does not live. Which is to say -- outright expressions of anger and calling people on inappropriate behaviour just does not exist. (Unless you're the mom and you're talking to a little kid. Not as adults.) Oh, it's ok to be snarky and mean, that's just fine, but telling someone calmly and rationally that that comment / action on their part was hurtful is simply never done.

We are a tad dysfunctional.

I also grew up in a house with a sister who I don't remember liking, or her liking me, for a single moment. I remember existing near her, I remember cooperating with her, but we have never been friends. We are in our mid-late thirties now, and we are still not friends. It has evolved to the point that when I have good news, or I'm in a crisis, or just want to talk to someone, it never even occurs to me to call her. She's not even on my radar. I have always wished to have a better relationship with my sister, but the fact is that I want a better relationship with a different woman, a woman she will never be (and just to be clear -- I'm not expecting she'll change. She is who she is, and there's nothing wrong with the person she is. It's just that my personality and her personality are not meant to be friends), and trying to be friends with a woman I simply don't see eye to eye with is a difficult struggle. It's hard to make my peace with it some days, but in the end I've learned to make friends with women and consider them my sisters instead of counting on my own sister.

Two days ago, I was on the phone with my parents and told them to good news. They said the usual things, but then my mother started in on my sister -- how I need to call her and tell her, and I'd better (almost threateningly) tell her before this weekend (Thanksgiving, for any of you who aren't Canadian, otherwise known as what used to be a pleasant family time, now fraught with tension).

And I just passed it by.

But then I emailed her a picture of my wee belly, and instead of emailing me back a few nice words, all she did was tell me I needed to tell my sister. Again.

Internet ... I'm hurt. I'm really thrilled about this pregnancy, and it wasn't totally easy to achieve, so I'm really excited about this. And selfishly, perhaps, I want this thing to be about me. I don't mind that she reiterated that I should tell me to tell my sister, I'm just hurt that she couldn't say one. single. nice. thing about the pregnancy. A "we're so thrilled!" or "You must be so happy!" or even a short "congratulations again!" or something.

I've been making a lot of personal changes over the last year, and there's part of me that just wants to end this bullsh*t that my family lives in of not calling each other on behaviour and comments. I think in the end if I could get people on board, it might make us a nicer, closer family. And so I want to write back and tell her that it might be overly sensitive, it might be selfish, but I'm really, really hurt that she didn't take a second to say something nice.

But I'm terrified. I've never done this with my mother. Or my sister, or father, for that matter. With any of them. And I'm not sure I want to deal with the fall out.

I'm not sure what I think the fall out will be. I mean, she's my mother, I don't think she's going to disown me or never speak to me again. But she might be hurt, and she might tell me so, and then I'll feel awful and never want to say anything ever again. (See: dysfunctional family, fear of saying the wrong thing, terrible in an argument, and related.)

So! Please tell me: What would YOU do??

Oh, honestly

When will health practitioners learn that getting your underling to call patients -- especially patients who are pregnant -- and telling them that "we got the results of your tests and need to see you" is NOT OKAY when said person is dealing with a BABY??! Especially since then said person is not allowed to say ANYTHING ELSE, like, how about "the baby is fine, this is just about the next ultrasound and who is ordering it and there is nothing wrong."

Luckily I have a nice doctor who did in fact take time from her day to call me, after I told the receptionist that I was "freaking out" because "it's a BABY!" and she resolved the issue. And no, there is nothing wrong with the baby that we know of. But please! You honestly think I would have waited for three days to find out what the issue was?? DO YOU NOT KNOW ME AT ALL?

Oh, and I got the "please be careful with the swine flu" talk as well, which is frankly the one reason I was a little concerned with being pregnant this winter. I am lucky in that I have a job that can involve very little contact with people, and can be done from home, so I can isolate myself that way, but I have a partner who uses public transport, and a child in DAYCARE, so my hopes of total isolation are really laughable. I was all set to get vaccinated (normally I don't bother with flu shots, preferring to use my own immunity, but this year, with the baby, and the possible complications, and the possible seriousness of this meaning a bed shortage ... didn't seem worth it) until I heard that they are using thimerosal in the vaccines. Now I don't know about you, but if I'm going to expose my unborn baby's brain to unnecessary mercury, it's darn well going to be through one of my favourite tuna sushi rolls so I can ENJOY lowering my kids IQ; I'm damn well not doing it for a shot in the arm. (I'M SO KIDDING!!!!) What I mean to say -- if the darn thing is going to poison my baby, I'm really undecided on the "possible hospitalizing complications" vs "baby poisoning" issue.

Anyway, I did at least learn that there will be a mercury-free version available for pregnant ladies. So there's your public-service announcement for the day.

Sunday quilt

I'd like this to be a post about the quilt, and it is, in a way. It's a post about how, over the past several weeks I have been too preoccupied / tired / nauseous to sew, so I haven't been sewing, but this morning, I got out the machine (despite feeling terribly tired and nauseous) and wanted to sew, and ...

it won't work. The bobbin won't wind properly, but I got it wound. And then despite the fact that I have it threaded properly, it won't pick up the bobbin thread. No matter what I do. It looks pretty, but it works less well than before I got it fixed.

I am angry and disappointed. I've emailed the repair guy, who says to call him, but finding a time to call him when I can concentrate, without a three year old either clamouring for attention or being noisy? Ha ha ha.

Dammit.

And while I'm on the subject ...

There's no way I'm going to be able to hide this for three or four more weeks.

It's hard to tell, of course, since my stomach is about the same colour as the wall. But that's a belly that's hard to miss, let me tell you. I am certain that someone will guess before the trimester is up.

I'm also certain that by the end of this -- should I be so lucky -- I'll be unrecognizably huge.

Four limb buds, a twitch and a flicker

Nine weeks.

There's not much to see in a nine week ultrasound: a fetus-shaped blob that moved on its own, had a flickering heartbeat, measured on calculation, and was growing some limbs. It's only nine weeks, so we're not entirely in the clear, but it's looking more and more likely that come next May, we'll have another person in this teeny tiny home.

And I am just. so. tired.

The tiredness is making it kind of hard to be terribly excited. Trying to keep up with work and a three year old and a home, and you know, growing a whole new human, means there's just not much energy left over for excitement.

But I am. I am very, very hopeful, very glad, and very very grateful for being so lucky.

It's a baby. A real baby, and it's ours, and it's looking healthy and hale and in seven more months, we'll very likely have a beautiful new addition to our family.

yay. :)

Yep, momma's just made of money, son

Today, in the car on the way to work and daycare:

Me: Guess what! It's already October! And fall! And next month is Daddy's birthday!

The Boy: We can sing happy birthday and have a cake!

Me: Yes, we can! And a present!

TB: Yeah! We can buy it from the present store!

Me: What do you think we should buy for daddy at the present store?

TB: A CAR!!

I laugh. Yes, Daddy would love a car, I say, but cars are expensive. What else can we get for daddy?

TB: thinks

TB: A BIG TIRE!!

Me: What on earth would daddy do with a big tire??

TB, in his best three-going-on-thirteen voice: Put it on his CAR, mom.