Irony

Can I just note for a moment that I realize that several posts ago I was all "Oh my god I get to spend time on my own relaxing! I so need this! I so want this! It's so blissful! etc. etc." and now mere days later that's all I get to do and I'm complaining about it.

For the record, I am laughing at myself. Clearly this is a case of be careful what you wish for.

Day Two: Guilt

Three and a half years ago, my sister was pregnant with my nephew. She had a very bad case of placenta previa, and she started bleeding at 20 weeks. She was put on bed rest. But when I talked to her, she spoke of taking her older son to preschool, and making lunches and doing laundry, and I was baffled as to why she wasn't staying off her feet as instructed.

Now I get it: the guilt.

Our situations are not the same, of course -- at 20 weeks, her son's life was literally hanging in the balance. But this almost makes it worse for me. I'm almost 35 weeks; having the baby now wouldn't be ideal, but it also would result in just a small pre-term baby with a couple minor issues that would be dealt with as the baby just got bigger.

And so when my cat is at death's door (yes, another one. Apparently we're not having a good year for cats) and my partner is stressed to the gills at work and then has to come home and take care of the cat and the child and the house and me, and all the changes mean my four year old is difficult and weepy, I feel freaking awful. And let's not even take into account the fact that I feel like I'm leaving my work colleagues high and dry. I feel guilt about that too. I should just get up and take care of things and be a mom, because this baby will be just plain old fine if it comes now.

And to be honest part of me would kind of like it, because DAMN, things might be easier. It would be easier for me to do stuff, because MY restrictions would all be lifted, and I could participate and do laundry and cope with the kitchen and ... and just deal with a tiny baby.

Sigh.

But here I am, lying on the couch, trying my best to do what I can and keep everyone happy and completely failing at it of course, and trying to shrug off the guilt because it's only a couple weeks and we'll all cope and who cares if the laundry just sits for a short while, we'll get the basics done and it'll be fine.

It'll all be fine, it'll all be worth it. It's all good.

Right?

waiting

Since the phone call last night, I've sat and stood and laid gingerly, waiting for definitive symptoms to appear. I feel like I'm trying to hold the baby in through force of will. I feel like every time I get vertical I will feel the sudden gush of water breaking. He / she is sitting low, right over my bladder, I can feel her little head moving. I recall this feeling -- I had the same one the day before The Boy was born.

I'm worried.

Not so worried as I would have been ten weeks ago. Or even last week. But worried anyway. 34 weeks is just the beginning of when the baby has the ability to suck, swallow, and breathe at the same time, 34 weeks is when the lungs are just barely mature enough to cope on their own. These are the last two important skills a baby needs to come home healthy and avoid extended care in the NICU. But every baby matures at its own pace; maybe my 34 weeker isn't there yet. And so staring down 35 weeks, I am just grasping for three more days. Or just one! Just day by day, I guess. Let's get through today and get to tomorrow and hope for the best.

Well, THAT was a surprise

I slept extremely poorly last night, and was too tired this morning to do anything but moan piteously when it was our regular waking time, so I stayed home. I emailed my boss to say I wasn't coming in in the morning, but by the afternoon was nauseous and feeling worse, so I just took the day off.

I've been feeling a few other things as well -- backache, tension, restlessness, slight abdominal cramping, so I hummed and hawed but finally did call the midwife around 4 and left her a message -- due to daycare pick up and a few other things, I only managed to touch base with her ten minutes ago, and largely expected to hear her say her usual -- oh, that's normal, no worries, watch for labour symptoms and call me back, but everything's ok.

What I got instead was modified bed rest.

Oh, sure just for a few days. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's just a few symptoms here and there, maybe it's just a small stomach issue.

Or maybe this is early labour. It feels enough to me like early labour that I could be convinced.

Whoa. Was SO NOT expecting that.

It's only 34.5 weeks here people, so please help me out and think good sticking around thoughts for another two weeks at least. We'd like another two weeks. That's all, I'm not greedy. Two weeks, and the baby will be close enough to full term that I'll feel better. Oh, sure, 34.5 weeks sure isn't bad, and the baby will likely be fine and all. I'm not too worried.

But another two weeks would sure be good.

Not a newbie

As a birthday treat to myself, I went today to a nearby baby store and
bought myself a Moby wrap. I was big into baby carrying last time and
still have my beloved and well-used sling and my Ergo from last
time ... But I used a bjorn for newborn and didn't think much of it. I
noticed another mom at the daycare using a Moby for her newborn and it
seemed perfect.

So given I'll be buying nothing else for this baby, I thought this
would be great. I scoped them out a while back and found them at a
nearby store ... Price, colour etc. I checked their website and took
some time to deliberate about what I might want and need and use,
based on last time. And went back today.

I didn't have a lot of time, so I walked into the store and made a
beeline for what I wanted. Picked out a colour (forest green) from
what there was, headed straight for the register. Plunked it down.

She looked at me dubiously. "this is one of our most confusing
carriers," she said. "many moms don't like them as there's a lot to
learn."

I actually stood a moment confused as to what she was trying to tell
me. And when it slowly dawned I said "oh, no, this is my third
carrier, I'm fine."

And at that point all her reserve vanished and she cheerfully wrapped
it up and took my money. I guess there are some advantages to being an
old hand at this.

But one does wonder if it might have been better salesmanship -- and
more helpful, were I in fact a first timer, to, I don't know, offer
some help or something.

The longest I have sat still in years.

Weekend babymoon

It feels a little silly to call it that, being parents already -- we're kind of old hat at this -- but this weekend regardless The Man and I have hied ourselves to a nearby hotel (truth be told, ten minutes from home. Not because we are so afraid to be farther from our preshus baybee, but because we live ten minutes from downtown, and that's where the nice hotels are). My mother is at my home with The Boy, who is behaving wonderfully even if he did get out of bed this morning and unlace her shoes partway before knotting them together. I'm wondering if he was just puzzled as to what to do with himself.

Last night was the second night I have spent away from that child in the four plus years since his birth; I remember the first, back in November, for The Man's birthday, I went into with some trepidation, but this weekend I have been looking forward to for weeks. I feel a little bad about this, but I am just so damn tired and I just wanted some time to sit and rest for a while. We booked two nights this time, so I have all darn day today to sit. And sitting I am. I slept from 9:30pm until just past seven this morning, and then lay around until 9:30am. Then I got up, had a shower, and had a massage -- for almost ninety minutes, hallelujah! And lunch and now I've sent The Man off to a movie and I get to sit. Alone. In a quiet hotel room. And ...

-- oh, the joy of it. --

do what *I* want to do.

For the record, I do love being a parent, but it's been a 24/7 job for four years (and when he's at daycare, *I'm* at work, so it's not like I'm sitting about eating bon-bons), and it's nice to finally have a break.

There's a book, there's knitting, there are movies and there's even TV (although every single time I come to a place with TV, I am more and more convinced that we can live without one forever. The inane programming! The ads! The timing of the good shows for moments when you can't actually watch! Gah!)

It helps me let the week roll off my back. The week of bad sleep, grumpy family, annoying work, work and replacement issues, and all kinds of other things that just didn't help me relax.

And now I'm going to pick up that book, get a drink and some chocolate, and just sit.

And I can't wait.

Not sure it's working for me

So I had an appointment with the doula / acupuncturist yesterday.

For days before I had this crazy urge to cancel. I had no reason, I just didn't want to go. I have no idea where it came from. But I put it out of my mind -- let's give this a chance, I urged myself. And I went. And the entire time, I was thinking "this isn't right." There was nothing wrong. She was perfectly nice and caring and kind. But I just wanted to get up and leave.

And then there's the few times I've sat down and thought about the birth and, try as I might to visualize it, I can't see how she fits in. Maybe it's because I don't know her well. Maybe I'm just shy and she and I don't click / haven't clicked yet. But when I picture the birth, there's me, there's the baby, there's The Man, there's the midwife, and there's ... no one else.

I can't decide if this is the acupuncture or the person, but there's just something there that doesn't feel right. It's a gut instinct, deep deep down, and I know better at this point in my life to ignore that.

I'm not that worried about it -- it's the doula, not the midwife, I can do birth without her. (If it was the midwife, I'd be pretty concerned about changing practitioners at this stage. But this is the same midwife as last time, I have complete confidence in her ability to midwife. And anyway she and I aren't supposed to be best buds. She's the medical practitioner: I like her, and that's an added bonus, but we're not going to be sharing birth stories over wine later on.) I'm slightly worried that I'll suddenly have a long labour and The Man will have to support me through it, exhausting both of us, but if the worst happens we can always call my sister to come and relieve him. Not an ideal birth companion, for many reasons, but she'd love doing it and she'd probably do a good job because of that. And who knows, it might make her happy and thus improve our relationship.

And let's face it: neither of us is going to be keen on having labour over 24 hours, and I think we can handle / recover from that. We're not talking four days here ... I would opt for a c-section before that.

(Another difference in this pregnancy? I was pretty adamant about avoiding a c-section last time. I know that cutting open your uterus can cause scarring that can affect future pregnancies, and your fertility in worst case scenarios, and I was very much against this. This time, knowing that this is the last time? Meh. If it happens, it happens. No biggie. I mean, sure, I want to avoid major abdominal surgery, of course I do. I really WANT a nice, natural, quick birth. (And while I'm on a wishlist, painfree, with music and chanting, with me feeling merely happy and focussed and The Man sitting back and enjoying meeting his child while I smile and birth him / her. Yeah. Denial.) I'm just MUCH more focussed on the healthy baby / healthy mom thing, rather than worrying about the future. Let's just make sure he / she and I are ok; the rest doesn't matter.)

Anyway. I have decided to opt out of the acupuncture portion of the doula services, to see if it's that aspect which is bugging me. Maybe I just don't want to be punctured right now. And if that's not it? Well. Guess I'll call my sister and put her on alert. You never know. Maybe the universe has bigger plans.

The Second Time Around

Warning: long, self-absorbed, whiney post ahead

The first time I was pregnant, I marvelled at each and every little bit of it. Every new bodily change was yet another sign that my body was making! a! person! and that baby would soon be here and it was oh-so-fabulous. I was tired and achy and swollen and uncomfortable, but it was Wonderful! Go pregnancy! I love you!

And this time? This time I am So. Freaking. Done.

Don't get me wrong, the baby part of this whole process is just as exciting as the last time. I am thrilled that there will be a baby -- scared too, but thrilled -- and I can't wait to meet him / her. I am thrilled to be adding to our family, and grateful as all hell that things have so far gone so well. That part is still wonderful.

But at the risk of sounding terribly UNgrateful ... goddamn it, I miss my body. I miss having nice ankles. I miss walking as fast as I want to. I miss the fact that getting off the couch didn't used to be an ordeal. I miss picking things up off my floor without grunting with the effort. I miss turning over in bed without waking up. I miss drinking wine with dinner and eating soft cheeses and pate and tuna rolls. I miss my old clothes. I miss being able to breathe properly, and take advil when I have a headache, and just generally not having to think about every damn little thing I put in my mouth to eat / ingest. I miss curling up and being comfortable. Being comfortable in general. I miss not knowing every second I'm at the office where my tailbone is. Because it lets me know with a huge complaint every time I switch positions. I miss wearing my nicer shoes. I miss my clothes. I miss my thighs. I miss putting on my socks without effort. I miss drinking as much tea as I want to during the day. And sometimes even COFFEE. I miss getting down to the floor and up easily. I miss not being so damn tired all the time. I miss not being kicked in the ribs. I just miss being able to do what I want, when I want to, without being constricted by this extra weight and extra consideration.

The only thing I don't miss are my pre-pregnancy boobs, but I'd give these new ones up in a second for the ability to run. And let's face it: I'll be giving up these ones regardless anyway. It's not like I get to KEEP anything about my body that I actually LIKE.

But it's more than that, too. It's the feeling that I really do want to just get on with my life. To start raising the children and seeing them flourish and grow and do great things. I don't want to be gestating any more. I want to see my kids grow up, and by association, I want to be done with this part of my life and move on to what *I* want to do, like investing in my career and moving on to new writing projects and seeing what else there is beyond 24 / 7 mommying. And while I know that I won't get to do that for a while, the end of the pregnancy will be a very big step in that direction. A good step. One that means that my body and my uterus are mine again, and will be forever. No more gestating. No more awkwardness. No more tracking fertility. I can grow old and be at peace with it, and start concentrating on other things.

Whine, whine whine.

I know. It's pathetic. It's only another month, and then it's unlikely (barring some kind of accident) that we'll ever do this again. And in another month it'll all be over and God willing I'll be blessed with a beautiful healthy baby. But that month right now feels like FREAKING FOREVER.

This is, I know, partly just the normal end-of-pregnancy stuff. Most women feel like this, it's totally normal and just part of being pregnant. I also know that a few days ago I wrote about how awesome being pregnant was and how I was all set to press pause here, and can I just note that HORMONES, people. It's all just crazy-ass hormones.

But I wanted to write it down anyway. Just in case in a year from now I start thinking ... yeah, three might be a great idea ...

Siblings with(out) rivalry

It started a few weeks ago, with a few innocent questions. "What if Bumblebee* wants to put Moon** in her*** mouth?" The Boy asked.

"Oh," I replied. "We won't let her. We won't let her do that to things that are precious to you."

And then another day, looking around his room. "Which toys are Bumblebee's?"

"None of these, Bumblebee's toys are in the basement," I replied. "But I hope you'll share some of them."

A few days ago I wrote a book. On computer paper. With stick figures. It's about the baby, and what will happen when she comes. About how mommy is getting bigger and bigger, and how we're all excited about the baby, and how when the baby is ready to be born, I'll go to the hospital with Daddy and the midwife, and how I will stay there with the baby for a few days. And how then I'll come home and etc. etc.

This afternoon, as we drove home, he was telling me, as he often does, how much he loves me. (Which is wonderful, I admit.) And then he said, "But I might stop loving you. If you go away from me, I might stop loving you."

And I paused. And I said, "If I go away to work, or if I go away when Bumblebee comes?"

"When Bumblebee comes," he said.

I admit I haven't read up on what to do in this situation. So I said, "You know, it's ok to be mad at Mommy about Bumblebee coming."

"Please open my window," he replied.

I guess we're still in denial.

To tell the truth I had a little cry yesterday (now I'm REALLY hormonal) about how I'm going to be changing his life so much. He doesn't realize how much things will change. I won't have as much time to spend with him, to answer his needs, to pay attention to his lego creations. To give him one-on-one, to bond with him. And I feel So Damn Bad about this. I'm turning his world completely upside-down, without any of his consent, and it's going to be hard for him.

And us.

I know this is normal, that every mother feels this way with a second child, possibly with every subsequent child (although I believe the possibility of my experiencing that to be extremely slim, especially given just how uncomfortable I am currently feeling.) And I know that everything does work out. Or at least, it's ok.

But as with every other problem I have in life that I don't know how to solve, I think tomorrow I'm going to go and buy a book about siblings. So that maybe, just maybe, I might be prepared when my son tells me he doesn't love me anymore.

* The name he gave to the baby.

** His favourite cuddly toy.

*** He believes the baby is a girl, but no, we don't know.

More things my son might not experience

My child is playing sesame street games on my computer, using the
touchpad. He can work this iPhone as well as I can.

He has never used a computer mouse. And it occurs to me that given
Apple's new iPad and the iphone's interface ... Maybe he never will.

33 Weeks

I can't remember exactly, but around this time in my last pregnancy I came down with a case of shingles and was off work for two weeks. It. Sucked. It was a mild case, so I didn't really think much of the aches and pains until three days later, and so there were no anti-viral drugs for me -- because they don't work, really, unless you start them within 48 hours, and because it was a mild case and because, hello, I'm PREGNANT and I'm not that keen on exposing my unborn child to drugs that aren't approved for pregnancy, not when there's not a very compelling (i.e. life and death) reason to do so.

So when I woke up this morning with the scratchy throat and congestion of a cold, I thought -- nope, no work for me today. The cold is just going around, it's nothing sinister. But I've been feeling pretty tired lately and I don't want to get run down at almost eight months pregnant. So better safe than sorry.

But then there was the matter of the Project That Must Be Completed By Monday and The Terrible Mat Leave Replacement Problem That Had To Be Solved Today, and Oh Yeah, the fact that my kid needed to go to daycare which is five minutes from my office, so ... I went late (10-ish) and left early (noon-ish) but still ended up at work regardless. The good news is the Problem and the Project are both pretty much solved, and the even better news is that I got to spend two hours this afternoon on my couch (working, but still reclined, which is nice).

The point of this all being: I'm turning the corner into that Last Stretch. That last month where you are big and tired and slowly more and more uncomfortable. I want to take it easy, conserve my strength, but really how does anyone do that? (I heard that in Germany they mandate that you HAVE to take your mat leave starting a month out from your due date. I suppose THAT'S how.) All I know is that work for the next month is going to be a sprint to the finish -- we may have (probably) found my replacement, but there is a lot still to be tied up and finished; and regardless I still have a house and a four year old and a family to take care of. And not nearly enough holiday time. (My employer is pretty good as far as mat leave goes, but they don't give me holidays days for the months I'm not actually going to be working. Go figure.)

I can tell I'm already starting to check out. There are projects that I'm working on that I can't help thinking I'm so glad I'm handing this off and I won't have to deal with it for a whole year -- if ever again! Between the midwife and my doula and the massages I'm treating myself to to keep myself nice and relaxed and happy, I feel like I'm hardly at work anyway. And it's just so much nicer to work on the couch and not in my office chair.

If this baby is born as early as the last one, it'll be four weeks until arrival; seven weeks until due date; nine weeks until there will be significant efforts to get out a baby if he / she hasn't yet arrived.

The strangest thing is that in some ways, despite my finalizing work and finishing up projects, part of my brain can't get itself around the idea of having a baby. It doesn't feel real. Nine weeks feels like forever away. I am not at all ready. There is no car seat. There are no clothes cleaned. There are no diapers or wipes bought. There is no place for the baby to sleep, and my son's room needs a complete reorganization to house the baby which should be obvious by now is not even begun.

But the rest of my mind and my body know that final stretch is beginning whether I'm ready for it or not. So ... here we go.

The Ides of March

Last year around this time (I think it was April, but who's counting) I had one of those weeks where it felt like the sky was falling in. Not on me, but on everyone around me. The situation at work has gotten worse -- for me, a little, and for others I work with, a lot. People are stressed. I have one friend who is having a much worse work situation, and one who is having a bad marital situation (at almost 33 weeks pregnant like me, to boot) and the swirling chaos is just plain ugly.

Sigh.

BUT. But. My beloved hubs is coming home tonight from a business trip. My kid has been really, really good the last few days while the two of us have been on our own. (He wrote a letter to Santa yesterday which is just plain darling.) The sun is shining, the air is warm, the trees are in bloom, and I lucked out with parking for the second day in a row (which is nothing short of miraculous given that the Paralympics are in full swing a stone's throw from my office window). I have a nice cup of hot tea (decaffeinated, since I am still trying to be good, but still). And I'm having bacon for dinner. (Among other things. But still. Bacon! Yum!)

Life goes on.

Blargh

-- A rare work post --

I work in an office of extroverts. I've said this before. There are nine of them now, they are multiplying. And I love them all, but they don't really appreciate that while I love them, they are exhausting to me. It wouldn't be so bad if I had a home wherein silence reigned, but I don't. And yes, I brought that upon myself, but ...

Anyway I'm getting off topic.

We moved into new office space about ... what ... six months ago? Eight months ago? And I'm lucky -- my seniority meant / means that I have a whole office to myself. A nice office, with a big window that faces east, so lots of natural light, and a door that closes and locks, and so I can sequester myself fairly well.

But.

But I have no wall. I have a door, but no wall. Or rather, I have a wall, but it's made of glass. A big, floor to ceiling glass "wall" that separates me from the hallway. All the offices are like that. And so instead of an office, we all work in a huge fishbowl.

Normally this isn't a problem, I don't mind it. But there are times I'd just rather have a tad more privacy. Lately, for instance, I'd love to lie down on the floor and sleep, but the idea of having everyone able to walk by to the printer and watch me gives me pause.

It's more of a mental thing than physical -- I mean, aside from napping there's nothing I need to do in there that requires much privacy, I'd just like, on occasion, to just cut off the rest of the office for a short while.

So you can imagine that I was psyched -- totally PSYCHED -- when the admin assistant announced that WorkPlace had FINALLY, finally, finally managed to organize etching for the windows, so they'd be frosted instead of clear. Eight months after we moved in. Etching that should have been done, was planned to be done, before we ever moved in.

And it should come as no surprise that the guy showed up this morning, did two windows (of 12) and ran out of frosting. Yeah. Well planned, WorkPlace.

Sigh.

The Sweet Spot of Pregnancy

As I sit on the couch writing this, my stomach is vastly bigger on the right side than the left. There are some feet in there, pushing up against my stomach, presumably trying to make more room since my kidneys stubbornly refuse to budge. The baby is heavy and strong and hurts when he/she kicks, and my stomach is getting bigger and bigger every day.

I remember the last pregnancy finally, at this point, wanting to put the brakes on. It's the same this time. I'm not a patient person. At all. And pregnancy (and wanting to be pregnant) is all about waiting. Waiting for the right time to try to get pregnant. Waiting for the two weeks to see if you are pregnant. Rinse and repeat if necessary. And then waiting to see if the baby sticks around. Eight weeks of waiting. Waiting to see just how sick you're going to feel this afternoon and if you'll get through that meeting without barfing and telling your co-workers you are pregnant through the worst possible means. And then once the first trimester is over, waiting for the myriad test results of the second trimester. And waiting for that magic (but not really magic) viability date, at which point you can supposedly breathe a sigh of relief that your baby will make it (but then don't think about all the problems said baby might have if born at that stage.) Waiting some more, waiting for the baby to grow and get bigger, and for the weeks to go by and then eventually waiting for birth.

Many many many days of waiting.

But right now -- right now is when I want to press pause. I am big enough and far along enough that the baby is well on his / her way, the tests results came back as well as they could be. I am not so big that I am uncomfortable every single second and can't wait for the baby to get out! get out already! I love feeling him / her move inside me (most of the time!) and I love having him / her near. Soon we'll lose this closeness, this bond, this being of two persons within one person. Soon he or she will be gone from me, leaving me emptier of body. I think about the newborn days, the endless feedings and diaper changes and waking and craziness, and I revel in the relative easy-ness of sitting about, feeling the baby move, and bonding in the way that you some how can with a being within you without really saying anything or doing anything. Just feeling a small push in a meeting, reaching down and stroking your stomach, your little secret all safe inside.

There's nothing I can do to preserve this time -- like all of parenthood, it will rush by in a moment and all you can do is try to hold on to those little golden bits as they race by (and try to remember that those not-so-golden bits will also race by, albeit they FEEL slower). But here, in sitting here writing this, I hope I will be able to look back and remember this, the contentment and the happiness and the wholeness of being. The lack of need for time to pass, the perfection of the moment. I can't wait to meet you, kid, but I sure am enjoying this time with you. Don't make it all rush by too fast.

Sunday brain dump

The house still looks like a bomb hit it, and I'm sorely missing that hour of sleep that got left behind last night with daylight savings. But I DO have a new pair of yoga pants that will likely be work-wearable, since like last pregnancy I have not so much grown out of everything, but any pant-like item without total give around my belly is so damn uncomfortable that I cannot cope by mid-day. So yoga pants it is! To hell with work place attire!

I did get a pretty shirt to go with in the hopes it will distract from the fact that I'm wearing leisure wear at the office. And I do have a single skirt for meeting days. BUt that's it, until I go on leave. Hope it lasts ... there's nothing like buying new mat clothes two months from the end of what will be your last pregnancy.

The child is reveling in the new toys, and what's more -- is reveling in the toys that his small friends discovered in his room (meccano! remember that, from Christmas? It's cool again!) Which has been nice, his playing for significant periods on his own. It DOES mean that the house is still crazy, but we're under a new maxim here, much like "never wake a sleeping baby", it's now "never disturb a preschooler playing on his own." So clean up is put off in the desperate need for time resting on behalf of his father and me.

We were relieved to find that most of the parents stayed behind yesterday, which was nice -- there was one we hadn't had a playdate with ever, and so it was nice getting to know her. In the course of the afternoon she confessed that her son, heading into kindergarten this fall, still had some issues he needed to work out before then, and she was feeling stressed, and really I do think that this is one of the major advantages of parent friends: feeling not so alone in parenting. The other day one of them allowed as how she had completely lost her patience with her son the night before, and I confessed my crying fest, and I think we both felt just SO much better. It's nice to know other parents, who always seem so calm and competent, and whose children seem so angelic at my house, also have the same challenges. I mean, you always know it on a theoretical level -- children are children after all -- but it's nice to know the concrete.

Where was I?

God only knows.

The other item of note that came out yesterday was the knowledge that, should this baby arrive as early as the last one, it will be here in a month. A MONTH. Seriously, five weeks from now. AIIIEEEEE. Nothing is ready. Nothing at all. Which is fine, we're not new at this, I know what I need and I also know that we can cope for a day or two with diapers and a few outfits. (One of the dads from yesterday asked me if I was all prepared for the baby. "No," I laughed. "Not at all!" "That's the right answer," he replied. "If you'd said yes, you'd be lying." I wasn't sure what to make of that. Commiseration that no one's ever ready? Commenting on my housekeeping? I'll go with the former (I certainly took it so at the time.) but now that I'm repeating it, it does seem a strange thing to say.)

Anyway. We have some time. And my mom is coming in a couple of weeks for the weekend so that The Man and I can go away, and I am sure by the time I get home she'll have re-arranged The Boy's bedroom and washed some baby clothes for me, so ... no worries. Thank God for mothers, right?

We survived!

The place looks like a bomb hit it, and The Boy had a major meltdown in the middle of it requiring us to sequester him in his room while he hit and tried to bite me (fun!) but once he recovered from that the party was pretty great. The other boys were very well behaved. There was cake and presents and general madness of course, but it all seemed to work out ok in the end.

And now we get 12 months reprieve. Thank God.

Also?

We're having four small boys descend upon us this afternoon for Insanity Making 2010, AKA the BIRTHDAY PARTY.

Pray for us!

Different

This pregnancy has in every way, I think, been different than the first. When I exclaim over this, as I often do, The Man looks at me strangely and says "It's almost like you have a different child in there." Which is true enough, but I have the same damn body which seems to me would help even out the inconsistencies.

Oh, I admit, they aren't big differences at all. It's not like I sailed through pregnancy last time with nary a symptom and suddenly threw up through nine months this time or anything like that. They are just small things, small variations from each other, for some people hardly noticeable, and even I admit, probably inconsequential. But I've become so aware of my body the last few years that I *do* notice them. (And remark on them with far too high a frequency.)

Like at the beginning. I felt this pregnancy around implantation. True, true, I was waiting for this pregnancy, but the last one I had no idea until several days after I missed my period, and it didn't even occur to me until then to even buy a pregnancy test. And the reason I felt it was because I had this strange twinge in my lower right side, a twinge that got more and more painful through the first half of the pregnancy, before disappearing all together. Never had THAT with the first one.

And then there was the morning sickness. Which this time actually WAS morning sickness, unlike last time when mornings were the best time of the day, even during the worst of the nausea. I would cough and dry heave in the mornings this time -- and last time it was just unremitting nausea each day. Which was another difference -- this time I had weeks on end of nausea that would come and go, and tiredness that would come and go, days where it felt like all pregnancy symptoms had vanished all together, only to come round another day like nothing had ever happened. The last time, I felt fine fine fine until around week eight when I had three weeks of consistent nausea, and then ... poof! nothing.

The carrying of the baby is completely different too, as I've mentioned. At 7.5 months last time, I was a swollen, enormous scary pregnant lady who could barely haul herself around and had to wear support hose for swollen legs. I had little sausage fingers from six months onwards. This time I still have knuckles and ankle bones and those old lady support hose are nowhere in sight. And I hope to keep it that way. This time I've gained some weight in my hips (ok. A lot.) and I have a big baby bump, but that's it! It's lovely, if I do say so myself. (although I could do without the hips.)

Then there's the pregnancy congestion, which THIS time has plagued me from four or five months in, and nothing I can do helps. Last time it was mostly a third trimester thing, and a humidifier pretty much kept the problem at bay.

And lastly may I just complain for a moment about the tiredness. I am SO MUCH MORE TIRED. This is normal for second pregnancies, I know: I've polled the daycare moms. I mean, let's face it: I'm still working full time, like last time, but THIS time I have a four year old to take care of, which necessitates more housework and more meal prep (for some reason he needs to EAT when we get home. Go figure.) But it's also exacerbated by the fact that my body doesn't want to sleep much any more, and most nights I'm up at 4am and dozing the rest of the night. I am NOT HAPPY about this. I'd be much better able to deal with it if I were off work, but I still have to THINK every day, which is truly unfortunate.

If you ask some of the old wives' tales, they will tell you that different symptoms mean a different gender child, but I'm more inclined to think that it's more a matter of four years later / different diet. I wonder if perhaps my poor body didn't like gluten before, and the pregnancy tiredness and sickness and edema that I had then were part of my body trying to grow a baby AND cope with other things.

Or maybe it just is what it is.

Also: added in much later -- I have NOT yet had much heartburn (requiring of course the ingestion of gallons of vanilla ice cream, perhaps the reason I gained 60 pounds last pregnancy ... -- and I HAVE had leg cramps. So far most leg cramps just required mild stretching -- not the kind that require you to get out of bed and stand on the affected limb for ten minutes or more. Still. Not exactly pleasant.

V. strange.

FFD

Food failure day.

This morning started off well. The Man made eggs and bacon. Bacon which for some reason my pregnant body thought was poison OH MY GOD POISON because it tasted like absolute death. I have no idea why. I LOVE bacon. And I actually spit it out. I think this is a first.

So I ate a boiled egg. With toast. Not so bad. But nowhere near as good as bacon.

We were in a hurry this morning, so lunch was packed a little absent-mindedly. I got to work and realized that I had no morning snack prepared, so ate the apple at the bottom of my bag. It was kind of old and mushy. It was pretty much the best thing I had all day. This is a bad sign.

At lunch I went to the work fridge to get my carefully stored entree, only to find instead of the macaroni and cheese I had thoughtfully saved from last night I had leftover broccoli. And broccoli only. Cold. Old. Broccoli.

Now I don't normally buy food out, but I went and looked in my lunch bag and thought, well, I'll just augment what's here with what I can find at the nearest cafe. Which then given my gluten- and sugar-free desires was:

Yogurt.

Which didn't even make the sugar free category, but was the only thing available.

Normally this place has cut up veggies with dip and assorted fruit, but I was too late for all that. They did however have pasta salad left.

Yeah.

So then this evening I arrived home full of hope for dinner. We had pho nearby recently and the restaurant said they delivered, so it was on my meal plan for the week to order pho.

I called. They can't deliver tonight.

So then here I am: nothing in the house to eat. No plan. No husband to help my tired and pregnant self take a four year old out to get something (because I was NOT going to take him out on my own, given some behaviour lately and the fact that I could fall asleep standing up today).

My next brilliant idea was to re-heat the saved macaroni and cheese for him. So I did. In the toaster oven, which normally works brilliantly.

But only if you turn BOTH knobs. Which I didn't. (See above: NO SLEEP.)

6pm rolls around, I have:

no food for the child.

no food for me.

Husband who is valiantly doing a much-needed errand and can't get home through presumably paralympic traffic issues.

Awesome.

So pizza is ordered, and husband makes (yet another) stop, this time at Whole Foods, to get something for me.

I cry uncle, week. Work's been hell, the child has been difficult, the Hubs is stressed, and the food has left the building.

Thank God it's Friday.

(And thank God for a pizza place SAYS it will be 45 minutes, and actually takes 25. As I finish this post the child has eaten a small bowl of mac and cheese (which was almost hot, even!) and is devouring a slice of pizza. Lucky kid.)

Very Amusing

It's hard to tell, I know, but that there stuff on the back of the
car? SNOW.

We coulda used that a month ago, I'm thinking.

Dickensian

From the time I arrived at daycare until about half an hour ago, my child did pretty much every single thing that I can think of that pisses me off. He hit me, he run away, he was defiant and uncooperative and rude.

And all I could think of was that if I weren't pregnant this would be so much easier because being pregnant prevents me from picking up the little $*#($#@*$&b and just carting him off to do as I need him to. As I used to when he got this nasty. And a tiny part of me wishes I believed in spanking. Really, good, spanking.

At the end of the long evening, I finally lost my temper, told my child I was cancelling his birthday party, which made him cry, and burst into tears myself. I went and cried in the bedroom, and he snuck in very quietly, and climbed up on the bed, and told me tearfully that he just wanted to give me a hug. And I felt like saying no, (because I too was starting to act like a child) but I rolled over and hugged him. And then he covered me with our favourite blanket, and crawled in beside me, and we agreed we'd be more cooperative, both of us, tomorrow. And then he kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. At each one, my mouth quirked up a little, and after dozens of tiny kisses he told me he wished I would smile for REAL. So I asked for three more kisses, and then I'd smile. And so he did.

And we spent the next half an hour cuddled up together on the couch, just talking.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Three dozen

Whew!

Definitely four

My child was kind enough to remind of the exact hour of his birth by waking me at 4am. However, it didn't snow today unlike that fated day four years ago, so I suppose we came out even.

He received a game, a book, some building tiles and a race car track for his birthday, as well as a transformer -- if that sounds like a lot, that was gifts from us, all his grandparents, and my sister and her family, so pretty much the whole extended family. I made two more dozen cupcakes and iced them and sprinkled them, and we are almost ready to go to daycare for a quick daycare party.

We stayed home with him, took him to lunch. Read his book, built with his tiles. I ate too much icing, and now the baby is going crazy. And I'm reminded that this is the last birthday that there will be just us, just the three of us, and I'm both pleased and sad -- pleased that we'll have a little someone new, pleased that we got to spend four whole years nurturing this one before we moved onto the next, and sad that our little triad, so lovely, will be disturbed.

At four he's losing the last of his baby chub. He is only getting skinnier and skinnier, his elbows have loose skin now instead of dimples. He has refused to get his hair cut since the fall, and it's growing over his ears and neck. He's got some sort of extra sensitivity thing going on -- I have it too, I hated having my head washed and people touching the back of my neck as a kid, so I'm letting it slide.

He's articulate as hell, he can do simple addition and simple multiplication in his head. (The other day he told me he blew me three double kisses, and I asked how many that was, and he paused, thought, and said ... six!) He can read anything he wants to, and frequently comes home from daycare with some new fact he got from the books he reads at rest time. ("Crabs foam at the mouth when they aren't in the ocean!" was the latest.) His imagination runs wild, and they tell me at daycare that he spends lots of time concocting very complex games that he leads the other in. His best friends are largely the boys older than he is; I worry about next year, when he'll be the oldest there.

At the same time, he can show surprisingly little common sense. He bit a chunk out of a book at daycare the other day. He still gets upset over tiny little things when he's tired and / or hungry. Some days you can tease him and he'll laugh; some days he'll sob inconsolably, and it's hard to know which will be which. Thankfully the temper tantrums have gotten fewer, but I'm not counting on that continuing, especially once there's another small person in the house -- goodness knows there'll be some regression, I just don't know what it will be.

Sleeping, never this kid's strong suit, is still one of his least favourite activities. He doesn't nap, and hasn't done so outside of being sick in well over a year. He hates going to bed at night, and wakes up in the night frequently. Still. The only difference now is that he knows he shouldn't, and that mommy and daddy are sleeping so he needs to lie quietly and try to go back to sleep. Which he tries to do. But he's small, and his idea of lying still and quiet is rather different than mine.

I have hope that one day, he'll sleep better. Or at least involve me less when he does wake up.

He can talk non-stop for hours on end. Sometimes it's interesting, sometimes I just tune it out as background noise. He loves playing video games with his dad, but cries and shrieks when they are stopped, so we've cut them out all together until he can regulate a little better. I have no idea when that will be.

He loves broccoli and avocado sushi and macaroni and cheese and pizza. He loves cheese on toast and apple juice. He won't drink fizzy drinks or eat anything excessively sweet, which I think bodes well for his future. He still reads with us every night, wants to fall asleep cuddled against a parent, and kisses me for fun. He talks to the baby and kisses my tummy. When my sister asked him who was in my belly, he said "Our baby."

We made it to four. It's hard to believe, both that we made it and that it's been four years. Four! It's been an impossible roller coaster of awesome and "Dear Lord what have we done??!" And now I can't believe we're going to do it ALL OVER AGAIN.

All in a day's work!

Almost done ... I think!! Just icing and sprinkles. Whew! And to think
I'll get to do this twice a year for the next ten years ....

Almost-four preparing

The first of three dozen cupcakes is cooling on my stove top. The butter is warming for icing. I'm making two dozen chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing and sprinkles and a dozen vanilla cupcakes with chocolate icing and sprinkles. Don't worry, they are all from mixes so the actual prep time is as minimal as I can make it, but still between it and the 18 bazillion loads of laundry I have to do today, it represents most of my entire day. Especially since we expect an influx of cousins for two hours this afternoon. Which I appreciate but will make the day significantly more chaotic.

Not, however, as chaotic as FOUR little boys for a party will be next weekend. Particularly since our choice of party activity was to buy a hot wheels car track and, as party favours, a car for each boy. In a two bedroom and tiny townhouse. Where we will be the only adults (four, apparently, being the magic "drop and go" age.)

Yes, as a matter of fact we *ARE* insane. Why do you ask?

I'm seven months pregnant, slow and tired. I wake up each morning between 2:30 (bad night) and 5 (reasonably good night). Every week or so I get to sleep until 7am. This is all my own doing, I might add -- the child is sleeping rather well. I'm not sure why I'm waking -- my body is preparing me for severe sleep deprivation / the baby is trying to communicate with me / I have no time to mentally prepare for birth so my brain is taking time each morning to force me to do so. Who knows. All I know is that by 8pm I can barely keep my eyes open. Who knows what's up with my circadian rhythms.

This week I don't get to work at home, because I'm interviewing three people for my replacement. I'm nervous about it -- it matters to me who comes in and sits in my chair for a year. I want someone good (but not too good, of course!). I want to feel like things are taken care of. And I want it all done before I go.

The doula came yesterday to discuss the birth. We paid her a deposit, talked about how things might go. Ideally. Talked about my likes and dislikes; discussed how last time I went from no contractions to 10cm and effaced in just less than three hours. Her eyebrows rose. "I never say this to people," she says, "But I think it the contractions start coming like they did last time, don't even bother trying to labour at home for a while. Just start making for the hospital." I nod. "Unless you *want* to have the baby at home." she adds. We don't. It wouldn't be the end of the world; we're ten minutes from the best birthing hospital in the province. Still. Last time there were complications of unknown origin, and without knowing the origin I'm unsure I want to take the chance of them happening again, far from high tech medical help.

Our neighbours met us outside yesterday. Their son is now 14 or 15 months, and they've offered us the use of their bucket seat and bassinet, which we've gratefully accepted. The Boy will outgrow his car seat in about six months, and we can move the baby into it (it's certified for 8+ pounds) so we seamlessly move from one to another with precious little expense. It's a win win situation

The baby doesn't move that much. Oh, more than enough to meet minimum standards, but not as much as I remember The Boy moving. Whole hours go by without a peep from the kid. Which is not surprising given that babies in utero sleep 20 hours in every 24, and judging from the party that was happening at 5am this morning, most of this kid's awake time is when I'm not.

But the result is that while I'm tired and heaving around an extra 25 pounds, and we're preparing a doula and my job is being replaced and we're arranging a car seat ... I still have some occasions when I forget that I'm pregnant. I vaguely think to myself that I should get some clothes out and start re-arranging the furniture in The Boy's room. We need diapers and stuff for me for when I come from hospital, and some sort of more permanent sleeping arrangement for the baby ... not much, really. I suppose. But I can't bring myself to do it. It's so far off, isn't it? I'm only 32 weeks! That's five whole weeks at least!

Yeah. No problem.

Almost-four again

Last night, the end of a long week, I texted The Man and said our child wanted sushi for dinner. So we met him at 5:45 at our nearby sushi place. We got there late enough, even on a Friday, even in Vancouver, that there were no tables, so we all three sat at the sushi bar. The Boy ate his usual udon noodles, and edamame (more enjoyable to pop out the beans than eat them, but he still did eat some), avocado roll and california roll.

Today we ate Chinese food from the mall food fair when we went shopping for his birthday party next week. He insisted on beef with broccoli, his favourite vegetable.

And tonight we went to a new nearby Vietnamese pho restaurant, where he ate beef pho and lemongrass chicken.

Quite apart that we've eaten out more times in the last 24 hours than we have for a month (it's been a long week ... did I mention that?) it never ceases to amaze me that among my four year old's favourite foods are sushi, broccoli and pho. Two of the three I'd never heard of at four, let alone eaten. And I have to admit that I completely love it that he eats food from many varied cultures (Not just Asian ones, too!). It's one of the many things I love about living in a big city -- Vancouver is great, but I'm sure every city has its cuisines.

Among our adventures today, we went out and contemplated the purchase of a new bed. A twin bed. A nice one. Because up until now he's had, in his room, our old queen size. There are many reasons for this -- because we don't care if it gets wrecked by pee from a leaking diaper or child who hasn't totally finished toilet training. Because we lie with him there a lot. Because we have the sheets and we're cheap. Because we weren't sure what we wanted. But we've decided, at four, with a new baby on the way, that he needs to be the big boy, to have the big boy bed -- and preferably one that can be a loft bed or bunkbed since in a year or 18 months he'll be sharing that bedroom with his smaller sibling.

We took a photo today, of him and his father. They are wearing matching shirts, and The Boy is standing on a stool, but oh, it took my breath away at how much he looked like a little boy. My little boy. My tall, lanky, losing-all-his-baby-fat little boy. He's just ... so grown up.

It seemed somehow strange, to have two four years apart. But right now all I can think is how perfect it is. My little boy is becoming his own man. He can eat his own sushi, and sleep in the top bunk, and he is lean and fast and has an amazing imagination. And just when I see my baby running from me in leaps and bounds ... another one comes along.

Almost-four

This morning my son decided he wanted to be an elephant. He got dressed in blue and grey, and was delighted to think about how he lived in Africa, in the savannah. We hopped into the car, and drove to Africa daycare. He chortled to me about how he could do things with his trunk. "I can spray water over my back!! Isn't that crazy??!" And then "I can drink with my trunk!" Humans can't do that, we discuss. Humans can't drink with their noses.

And then, because he has a slight cold, he decided that elephants can do this "prob'ly because they don't have snot."

* * * * * * *

His life involves a lot of icky things. Messy things. Paints. Snot. Lego from one end of the house to the other, which aren't icky but damn painful on bare feet, so almost the same.

And the other day was the first time I heard him fart, and then laugh about it. Truly, he is becoming a little boy.

* * * * * * * *

And yet, another day in the car, he tells me with mixed awe and amazement that "Mom, you are TWO PERSONS right now!" And I ask -- because of the baby? "Yes," he says. "You and Bumblebee are together, two persons in your body." And I can't imagine how he came up with that. That's an interesting abstract thought for almost-four.

I tell him that he and I were once like that, two persons in one body. He says he can't remember. I know he can't. He's only just beginning to acquire the memories he will carry into adulthood, now at almost-four. I wonder what he'll remember. I'm kind of sad that the things we've done, all the things we do together right now, won't make the cut. He won't remember being carried as a baby; he won't remember cuddling close to his mother; he won't remember sleeping in our bed; he won't remember the games of kisses and raspberries and toddling out in the backyard and eating raspberries off the bush and helping empty the dishwasher. He wont' remember the hours and hours we sat, reading books, him on my lap. He won't remember the things he said and did that gave me such joy.

I guess it will just have to be me that remembers for us both. And then look forward to memories that we can share, later on.

Committed

About a month ago I ordered, and received, a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed. I had read Eat, Pray, Love some time ago, and had greatly enjoyed it; moreover, I had also deeply identified with her story of the aftermath of a marriage. We hadn't had nearly the same ending to our respective relationships, but in the end the circumstances didn't matter -- what was important was that we both went through that experience, and came out the other side after experiencing some pretty awful days.

Which is also, of course, what made her reluctant to try again. And me, too. Partnership, commitment, and love are no problem.

Marriage ... that is.

And so I imagined by reading this book I might be able to, as she had, make my own peace with marriage.

If you've just happened upon this place, The Man and I are not married. I am two months from delivering a second child with this man with whom I share my life. We already share one child, and own a house together, and, for what it's worth, a car, although that's hardly a consideration when one considers marital possessions. (It's not a terribly valuable car!) We have seven years of history -- more, I might add, than I ever had with my ex, if only barely -- and a life that is completely and utterly intertwined thanks to two children. Even if we wished to come apart -- which we don't -- our lives would still be tied together through the two beings we parent together.

And so, despite the fact that Gilbert delves deeply into marriage and ultimately seems to make peace with it herself, I still am as ambivalent as ever about it. At this point, seven years down the road, I fail to see how a single piece of paper would actually make a difference in our lives. And keep in mind here that I *have* been married. There are many people who believe that marriage changes your relationship, and I believe that, but no more so, in my own experience, than, say, having a child together, or buying a house together, or expanding your family together. Yes, perhaps standing up in front of a bunch of people and declaring your love for each other might make a difference, but do you know what makes a difference for me? A pair of big brown eyes. The eyes of my son, who, should this relationship fall apart some day, will turn to me and ask "why aren't you and daddy still together?" And I will have to look into those eyes and tell him the truth.

And if the prospect of doing that with unflinching honesty doesn't keep me in this relationship, I don't know what will.

Oh, believe you me, that's not what's keeping me here. What's keeping me here is a man who holds me tight, and makes me laugh, and cooks delightfully delicious meals. A man who sends me interesting things from the internet he thinks I will like, a man who buys me beautiful jewelry, and who tells me that gaining weight to birth a healthy baby is worth it. A man who loves the child that I birthed more than life itself, a man with whom I want to share a life. I could go on. My point merely is that of all the faces of people I love, of all the people who matter to me, of all the people who depend on this relationship lasting, my son is the only one who really does matter. If we were to get married, he'd be the only one besides the man I'm saying them to who I'd need to hear the vows.

And so I don't think that it matters.

I sat and tried hard to think about why. Was it that I appreciated being maybe less committed? No. That was silly -- I mean, look at our lives. We ARE committed. Did it give me room to run? Did it give me an out?

No, and no again. I have no easy out, not with a child (or two). There will never be an easy out, room to run, less commitment.

Maybe in the end, for me at least, it was that marriage came with expectations. Expectations in its perfection, in its longevity. (My parents, I should note, are still married after almost 45 years. Both my sets of grandparents remained married to each other until death did them part. Is it any wonder I just expected my own marriage to do the same?)

And I enjoy very much being in this relationship with my eyes wide open. Being in a relationship with small children is no easy task. Some days, let's be honest, it sucks. And I think that perhaps not being married, and (again, for me) not having those expectations that things "just last" ensures that I continue, each day, to try. I continue each day to choose to be here. And I like this.

Maybe some people do this with marriage. All I know is that I didn't, and that relationship didn't end well. And I have no desire to go back there.

So we have no plans to get married. Maybe some day we will. Maybe if it begins to matter to the two people who matter the most beyond the two of us -- the children -- we will consider it.

But I doubt it ever will. Because study after study shows that children fare best in a steady, stable home with lots of love.

And we have that, without any piece of paper.

Fickle

There's one daycare teacher who tells me often that The Boy is very popular with the girls. I don't know if I believe this -- I have never once seen him playing (at least on purpose -- proximity being another story) with any girl, and if asked to name his best friends (as we did this morning, narrowing down a list for a small birthday party), they are all boys. But I don't mind being told; regardless, I'm glad he's not mean to little girls, and if they like him that's a great thing in my mind.

This afternoon she informed me that one girl had told her that The Boy was her boyfriend. Apparently The Boy heard this, and didn't deny this unassailable truth. (Said girl is going to be very disappointed not to be invited to the birthday party.)

However, later that day another small girl returned to daycare (many people were away over the Olympics). This is a girl that The Boy actually HAS mentioned to me, several times, because "she plays SUPERHEROES". The tomboy, I'm guessing, and by looking at her, I can believe it. Not because of how she looks, per se (just as "girly" as any other girl), more because she's often actually playing with the boys.

And at her hallowed appearance, apparently, The Boy abandoned girl #1 unceremoniously and was joyously reunited with girl #2.

Word is still out on how girl #1 took this abandonment.

I don't know if I should be sad or amused that junior high starts as early as three.

Post Olympic Hangover

The prevailing attitude around the city today seems to be bewilderment. How can it be over? Didn't it just start? It's like Christmas dinner: days and hours to prepare, eaten in ten minutes. We've been gearing up for these games for literally years, and then in a short two weeks it's all gone. Where? How? When?

What ever will be do with our time now? Not to mention our outfits of red covered with maple leaves?

Yes, sure, we still have the Paralympics left to soothe the aching hole in our hearts, but it's just not the SAME, you know? (Well, except for the insane road closures around my office. THOSE will be the same. Dammit.)

In the meantime, we are left clinging to the legacy of the games ... whatever that might be. No one seems to have clearly decided. That we actually have some patriotism where we thought there was none? That there's more to us than mounties and hockey players and snow (clearly, on the latter; there wasn't nearly enough of that!) And really, if nothing else, the Closing Ceremonies did nothing to get us away from THAT legacy.

(Did anyone else feel horrified by parts of that? Oh, Lord, there were many parts I sat, head in hands, moaning "Dear Lord what were you THINKING?" The enormous mounties and the hockey players and the little child puck running around ... not to mention the VANOC guy who completely butchered the French portion of his speech. God, I haven't taken French since high school and I'm pretty sure my accent is better than that. And don't even talk about Catherine O'Hara's speech, that was just plain embarrassing.)

I hope that in the end we are left with this: Canada seems to have an off hand inferiority complex. Our place around the world involves being self-deprecating and quiet about things, because we secretly believe that we are not as powerful as the US, not as sophisticated as the French, as worldly as the British, as cool as the Australians, as cultural as ... I don't know, everyone else. We are a hodge-podge country, a patchwork quilt, and unity, homogenity is really the basis for national pride and cohesiveness. We bicker amongst ourselves, we resent the heck out of the have provinces while maintaining stauch pride in ... sometimes our own province, or our city, or even just our neighbourhood -- the largest piece of the pie with which we can safely identify.

And we pretend it doesn't matter -- there are so many good things about Canada that the cracks in the facade don't really matter.

And I hope that what we proved to ourselves is that we have more cohesiveness than we thought. We all got behind those athletes and cheered them on, we put on a show. And it was a pretty good one.

And what's more is that we didn't come fifth all the time. We made some major strides forward in these games: the most medals we've ever won in the Winter Games. The most gold medals of any host country. The most gold medals OF ALL TIME. We did that. Us. The runner up, the little sibling, the polite person you overlook at the party.

I hope that we maintain our humility. I like Canada when we believe we don't know everything, because we don't. But I also hope that we don't skulk around the international scene, acting as though we're glad someone invited us. We belong there. And I hope the games proved that to us once and for all.

We didn't need to convince the world. No one else cares -- they don't see our lack of self-esteem.

We just needed to convince us.