Moving on to the next decade

I've now written two posts about this momentous occasion of the evening, the coming of the new year, neither of which I felt was even remotely interesting enough to post. Shall I sum up the past ten years? Reminisce? Share what I have learned? And then vow to improve for the future?

To confess, I'm not a big fan of new year's. I don't like large parties; I hate the pressure that I felt as a young person to go out and have a wonderful party. I also don't like the idea of once a year examining my life and aiming to improve it, when everyone knows that single days of resolutions are pretty much useless: life change will only happen if you work at it every damn day, not if you drunkenly vow to stop drinking January 1st in your new year's inebriated haze.

This is not to say that I think other people doing these things is silly -- I'm only saying that I know that it doesn't work for me. I think that an evening spent analyzing the past and considering the future is certainly worthwhile; for me, however, I do enough navel gazing all year round that for me yet another night of it is certainly superfluous.

One of the things I've learned this last decade is that self-improvement is a very worthy cause, and that I'll probably never stop doing it at one level or another. This is not to say I'm more or less flawed than any other human being -- self-improvement can range from resolution of personal emotional blocks to reading all one can about the Norman Conquest just for fun. But new year's isn't a time for me to sit down and suddenly decide or announce all the self-improvement I plan to make this year. I figure that I'm going to continue to do it as much as I can, and that it's an on-going process, this year and all years following.

So -- having said all that ...

I'm kind of glad that the first decade of the new millenium is coming to a close -- should we group it together as a time period, it has had a number of wonderful life changes, but also had some pretty dark times that I'm quite glad are behind me. And I've learned a lot, from both the good and the bad times, things that I hope I can remember to carry with me into the future.

There isn't a lot I am looking for from 2010. Top of the list would be delivery of a healthy baby sometime past April 1. Second would be some good health for me, my family, and my friends. That pretty much sums it up. Oh, sure, I'd love to win the lottery, (and / or) get a great new job, buy an enormous new house and travel around the world, but I'm going with necessities here. Another thing I've learned from the last decade is that many many things in your life can be stripped away, but all you really need in the end is your health (as good as it can be) and the people you love and who love you in return.

SO that's it, in the end. I'm not sorry to see the old decade go. I'm looking forward to the new one, especially to the baby who will hopefully arrive hale and hearty in three or four months. I plan to continue to try to be the best I can be as a person, a mother, a partner, a family member, a friend, and an employee. I plan to knit and read and enjoy my life. And I can't wait to see what the future unfolds.

My best to you out there for 2010.

Christmas Day Yarn Haul

The white / cream on the left is pure alpaca, fingering weight. Then an aran weight black cashmere, for a hat, and the green on the right is sock yarn, part merino and part cashmere. Gorgeous!

The brown in the middle is -- get this -- bison. Bison underhair, softest thing I think I've ever knit with, and that includes the cashmere. Not dyed, just spun. I couldn't stop touching it, and have already cast on for a delicate lace scarf. I will post photos. Not that the lace looks great while knitting it, of course.

I'm very thrilled with the bison -- there are four skeins, and I think the scarf will only use one, or maybe one and a half. I might consider some mittens or gloves to go with it. I will be very warm next winter.

The other gift highlights were a gorgeous necklace from my darling man, and some very nice maternity clothes picked out by my three year old. Surprising, perhaps, but very nice.

And now I just need to get rid of the mess of recycling in my living room.

Merry Christmas Eve

We sit in front of a fire, stockings hung, Christmas tree lit. The day is bright and cold, and we are looking forward to a couple days of relaxation in our small family. The baby kicks; my cold is worse. Things are pretty damn awesome.

If I don't get to blogging tomorrow, Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate. And best of the season to you even if you don't.

Two days to go

I'm tempted to write something overly melodramatic about WOOOOEEEE is MEEEEE, is there anything worse than having a sinus cold while pregnant when there are NO medications I can take????!!! MY KINGDOM for some NeoCitran.

Etc.etc.

But of course there are about a million things worse than that, all things considered. So let's just can the pity party and hand over the kleenexes. Yep, I'm tired and a tad cranky, because sleeping is hard. Yep, it sucks. Yep it makes my headaches worse, which makes me cranky as well. But ... baby! Christmas! Nice warm house! Great food! Cookies! Massage today!

Moving on.

I've also managed to finish some freelance work I've been doing -- technical writing / editing, for which I was paid a very tidy sum thankyouverymuch. (Which is the only reason I took it on; between a three year old and work and a house and a husband who works lots, I have no time / energy for freelance work, despite the freaky coincidences that have been shooting me opportunities over the past two months. Seriously, no work offers (and no attempts to find work) for five years, and then four people ask within the last two months. It's kind of a sign.) Anyway I'll be sending off the last thing today as well as a nice invoice which will handily pay for the overly expensive present I bought for my mother yesterday. Ahem.

My child and partner are sitting cuddled together playing games on his iPhone. I'm not sure I should allow this, with the shooting and stuff (none of it graphic, but still ... the idea of the game is to sink ships, so .... ) I have friends with boys who will not allow video games in the house. Part of me feels a little guilty about letting The Boy watch / play games; part of me knows that with a software engineer / video game player for a father, it's just inevitable. If not now, within a year. Or less. And at least with the video games he tends to interact and come up with ideas and think, vs watching videos where he sits there with a glazed expression.

And no, I don't believe that video games make you violent, unless you happen to have a mental illness to start with, or you start playing them instead of sleeping which would drive anyone to madness.

I sat and wrapped some presents yesterday, and between everything that I need to wrap I still have about half of them to go today. Sheesh. And it's not like we went totally overboard; I just have to buy for my family (two people), my parents, two friends, two uncles, and two nephews, and then two nearby birthdays, twelve people in total, some of whom received two gifts instead of one, which means close to twenty things to wrap. (The Boy got a few more than two presents.)

So. Ah well. Today I get to drop off the kid, do some grocery shopping, and go have a massage and then come home and wrap merrily all afternoon. There may be a movie. It really is a pretty good day.

Today, Lego gave my kid a chainsaw

No, I'm not kidding. The Christmas chainsaw. It came with a log and some sawhorses, to go with the lumberjack we got yesterday. Frank the Christmas janitor will now have to sweep snow AND little lego shavings.

In other news I think -- think! -- that I am done Christmas shopping. Now I now that many of you will sit there and think ... geez, it's the 22nd, you should be done by now. In fact many of you probably are thinking, well, heavens, I was done weeks ago! But for me? Two days before Christmas to merely wrap? This is amazing. A-MAZE-ing.

Of course now I have to wrap wrap wrap and wrap some more. But at least I can do that from the comfort of my living room, without braving the crowds.

More gluten free baking adventures

My mother has a recipe that she makes every Christmas, an old family recipe that's a favourite with everyone. She usually has to make a double batch, otherwise they disappear too quickly, and people complain. Since they are basically shortbread, I figured these would be easy to make, since many people make shortbread with rice flour on purpose because it makes it nice and crumbly, like shortbread should be.

Ha ha ha.

I made the shortbread with a bought brown flour mix that includes tapioca flour and potato starch to mimic the binding properties of gluten; I have had some luck with this mix, making baked goods that aren't too gummy as with xanthan gum, but aren't too dry either. (Case in point: I made pumpkin muffins the other day with it. They were GREAT the same day, but two days later were decidedly more sawdusty than their wheaten counterparts would have been. Still. Delicious. And still edible two days later, just a little drier than I prefer.)

So I mixed up the shortbread, and cut out the cookies and baked them and they all looked really pretty and all. And then I ate one.

They tasted great. They even had ok texture. But they were OH so crumbly and to be honest, a little dry.

I put them away, once cool, in a sealed container, thinking that I'd probably eat them or dunk them in tea or something (although that wouldn't have been a good idea. They would probably have fallen apart.) Alas, I made the mistake of putting the sealed container on top of the fridge, because it was the day that The Man was moving the dishwasher in and out, and we had a decided lack of counter space. Some banging about -- as the dishwasher went out and then a new one went in -- and then the opening of the freezer door ....

CRASH.

Yep.

What was interesting is that due to their brittle nature, not a single damn cookie from the almost three dozen that I made was in tact.

The Man was most remorseful. I was ambivalent. If there's one thing that helped me most on my experimental journey towards gluten free baking, it's the knowledge that failed baking attempts can always be frozen and used as bread crumbs. Or in this case, pie crust.

And this last weekend, we made the world's best cheesecake. With shortbread cookie crust. It was amazing. See how I'm making lemonade from the lemons?

Or ... well, you know.

The only downside of this story is that we don't have a six inch springform pan, and so had to make a 12 inch cheesecake. I say this and you'll take it as a mean it sarcastically, but I'm finding these days that unless I have a constant stream of decent food, I start feeling kinda gross again. Pregnancy is Fun! So having a lot of sugary-based food around isn't that great. Still. It's the holidays. I'm eating chicken AND cheesecake.

* * * * * *

I am off work this week, frantically (or not so frantically right now) trying to get Christmas all prepared, and one of the things I'm doing is more baking so there are more treats (apparently the last paragraph above has had NO EFFECT WHATSOEVER on me). Yesterday I made peanut butter cookies which are sweet but OH SO DAMN DELICIOUS. I justify eating them with "peanut butter is good protein!" Never mind that there's more sugar than peanut butter in them. Seriously.

Anyway, those turned out rather well, and they are super easy and I am likely to make them again. Or I would, were it not the case that my child is not allowed to take them in his lunch, which is half the reason for making home-baked treats in the first place. Can't wait until the kid with allergies leaves next September!!

The cookies are just peanut butter, sugar, egg, baking powder, and a tad of vanilla. If you want the recipe, look here. (I added the vanilla. It's good.)

Today I made sugar cookies. The least sugary-sugar cookies I have ever tasted. (Recipe here.) They are pretty good, though, with a very nice texture. I think that I will probably ice them later, as she suggests, and then see how they seem.

All in all, it seems to be true that buying your own flours and making the complex concoctions if well worth the effort -- you get decent baked goods instead of crap, which is what happens with a lot of mixes. I suppose that's not all that different from baking with wheat -- there are a lot of crappy mixes out there. And if they aren't crappy, they aren't that good for you. So the amaranth-based sugar cookies are nice. Much nicer than similar cookies would have been with white rice flour.

It's an effort, but I think in the end, it will pay off.

(However, amusingly, or perhaps not so, both The Man and I are still kind of under this mindset that at the end of this pregnancy the gluten restrictions, like the alcohol / deli meat / raw sushi restrictions, will be lifted. It's an easy mindset to get into -- all kinds of things are restricted in pregnancy! And you have the baby and it's negitoro city, baby! And it's kind of hard for me to get my head around the fact that this gluten thing? MIGHT BE FOREVER. As in, I may never eat another cinnamon bun as long as I live. Which is a whole 'nother post, in and of itself, my gluten adventure, but it is kind of bizarre, really.)

Parenting three

Last night while I was talking to my mother on the phone, my child took the last of his glass of milk from dinner and strewed it on the floor in a pleasing array of perfectly round droplets.

When I discovered this, and attempted to start the clean up process, he objected strenuously. "It's decoration!!" he wept. "NOoooooooo!!!!" There was much consternation at the sight of papertowels. Especially since I handed them to him to clean up his installation.

I am both a somewhat lenient parent and a very lazy housekeeper, and while there may be some things I'm prepared to leave on the floor in pursuit of art, milk is decidedly not one of them.

Merry Christmas from Lego

This year, as I think I have mentioned, we bought The Boy a lego advent calendar. The advantages of being an only child, really -- I never would have bought TWO of them for each of the children. Next year it's paper all the way, baby.

Our first item was this:

Fun Christmas boy, with snowballs! How festive!

The next day we got the snowman. A little weird that he has no face -- not to mention the broom impaling him -- but let's run with it anyway.

A little bit later came skater boy.

And then the traditional holiday lamppost, complete with snow on the leaves!

I quite liked the post man / post truck / present combo (which arrived on three different days).

In amongst there we got a few other things, like a sled, now inexplicably missing.

But then, things got weird.

Ok. We eat at Christmas, so a chef is ... not that strange.

I guess there should be a policeman and megaphone to keep order amongst all the merriment.

A flower stand in the middle of a Christmas scene .... uh .... well, ok. Maybe they are white pointsettias.

But the weirdest so far:

The Man and I have named him "Frank the Christmas Janitor". We've made up a new carol. There has been much merriment trying to imagine just what the HECK lego was thinking with this one.

But now I think in future Christmas will not be complete without a guy in an orange jumpsuit with a broom.

No, we haven't looked

Last week we had our Big Ultrasound. The only one we get from here on, barring any complications that crop up. And this time, unlike last time, we were all set to find out the sex of the baby. We were pumped. We were excited. We were hopeful. We told everyone we were going to find out.

We were three days too early.

Because at 19.5 weeks, it's too early to tell us. At twenty weeks, they said, we can tell you. But oh no, not at 19.5.

[insert eye rolling here]

Nah, screw the eye rolling. I don't get how I am allowed to see my kid's brain and kidneys, but OH NO, don't tell them the SEX!! I mean, it's MY BODY. and MY BABY. and to tell me that I'm not .... what, responsible enough? ... to know the sex? Is just plain insulting.

But that's not what I wanted to mention.

This baby, like the last one, was very uncooperative for photos. Shy, like his / her mama. He / she is also sitting WAAAAYYY down low, which meant getting the required photos and shots was hard enough; there was no way we were getting a good peek between the kid's legs. The sonographer told us that she was writing down a guess on the report for the midwives, and they could tell us the following (this) week. And then we asked her how sure she was.

"Oh, about 70%," she said.

Huh. That doesn't sound that much better than the 50/50 we had two minutes before.

So we (and by we I mean me and The Boy, who was pretty much uninterested in everything but the heartbeat; but I guess that's the important part) went to the midwives yesterday -- chatted a lot, weighed myself (only ten pounds so far! I might not gain the 60 that I did last time!). And then she said -- do you want to know what they said about the sex?

The Man was unfortunately unable to come to this appointment -- first one he's missed, ever, in two kids -- and so instructed me to ask her to write it down on a paper and fold it up, and we'd decide together. So I dutifully did so. "Are you sure you're going to be able not to look?" she asked with a smile. I took the paper, shoved it in my pocket, and drove home.

But here's the thing: I'm just not sure there's any point in looking. I don't know about you, but I am not going to buy a wardrobe for 70% chance. (Not that we need a wardrobe anyway; we have enough boy clothes to clothe boy triplets, and if it's a girl I'm certainly not standing on ceremony to not use boy / unisex sleepers for my infant. Oh, I'll augment her wardrobe when she's older, sure, but for those early months / years? It's hand me downs all the way, baby!)

So I'm not going to buy anything. Or not pick names for the other gender. Or tell anyone, so they can buy anything. Nothing would change if we looked, not at 70%. (If we'd had an amnio and were 100% sure, well, then, that's a whole 'nother story.)

What's more, as much as my logical brain knows that there's a 30% chance that it wouldn't be what the paper said, I know my emotional side would start thinking of the baby as X. I would think of it of he or she; I would call it the name we were thinking of for a boy or a girl. I would talk to it as that. I would think of it as that. I would start thinking about my children, with their names. I'd start wondering how they would get along. I'd talk to people about the child, using the correct pronoun. People would begin to guess. I'd probably not be able to keep it a secret for long.

The little person would be real to me, in that particular sex.

And I can't think what would happen if he / she were born, and he / she wasn't that little person. I'd give birth to a stranger. I might be ... gasp! ... disappointed. And I can't think of anything worse than giving birth to a healthy, wonderful (God willing!) baby, and being disappointed.

So we haven't looked. The baby is still a mystery. Oh, I have an intuition of what it is, and my intuition was right last time. I'm inclined to trust it again. But I know deep down that while my intuition says one thing, we still don't know. And at the end, we'll be surprised. And delighted. And be blessed, God willing, with a beautiful healthy child.

Because in the end, this child's sex is only one part of who he or she is, of who he or she will become. And that person, whoever it is and whatever sex it is, is the most important thing.

Not his hair colour, her eye colour, or what's between his legs.

Vancouver snow

Trust me when I tell you that this much snow will cause absolute chaos on the roads.

Portrait of real life

Yesterday it was cold. We got up, got breakfast, drank tea. We bundled up and went outside. A few tiny flakes of snow were falling. We walked a block to the Christmas tree lot, and bought a Christmas tree. The Man carried it home, set it up in the back yard, brought it inside. We lit a fire, put on some Christmas carols, ate some lunch. Then we decorated the tree. Lights. Baubles. A heart decoration that was a gift from our son this year. A few things from my childhood. Some garland.

It was a day right out of a story book.

...

...

Well, not quite. The part that was skipped over was that our dishwasher died at last, after limping along for months, if not years (never again will we buy Maytag!) So before the Christmas tree shopping I went to the nearby appliance store. Didn't find anything. But we needed accurate measurements, so while I decorated the tree, The Man got out his tools, and with some amount of effort and cursing, pried the old one out of its moorings. And then betook himself to some more stores. Finally found something. Rushed about madly to find a truck that he could borrow to pick it up and take away the other one. Did the amazingly Herculean task of getting the old one out to the truck, and onto the back, off to the store, and brought the new one home and into the house (thank heavens we're on the ground floor!) There was some more swearing as we realized that we were missing one single part. The dishwasher, as of Sunday morning, is still in the middle of the kitchen floor. There are dirty dishes everywhere. (Although fewer now, because I did a load and so did The Man.) There are parts and tools scattered randomly. We had dinner from a box last night because we didn't have time to do anything else, and we ended up missing a friend's Christmas party. We all went to bed before nine.

But this morning, there's fire once again in the fireplace. The Christmas tree is up and lit. We are warm and safe and happy and looking forward to installing the dishwasher today while the playdate is here.

Life is complex, but it's pretty good, too.

Also, I should add that the heart decoration? Is scribbled over and he tells us it represents "bad guys and bad guy warriors and good guys. It's the battle for Wesnoth!" Because nothing says Christmas like bad guys on your tree.

On being a mother

Way back before I had children I was at the home of a friend of The Man's for a social gathering of some kind. The mother of the home was a stay at home mom. And though I didn't ask why (because -- well, what business is it of mine? And why would I need an explanation?) she sniffed "Because I didn't have children to give them to someone else to raise!"

Now let's skip aside the whole idea that she might have been feeling defensive or ... whatever her reasons were for saying such a thing. The thing I wanted to address is that this is the dumbest reason for staying home with your kid that I think can possibly be used.

Why? Because up until this generation, children were never raised in isolation. My grandmother, raising my father and his two brothers, always had an au pair. Or two. And a maidenly aunt, or grandmother, or another female relative to help. And they weren't visitors, either: those maidenly aunts would tell you what for if you needed it. My mother's mother wasn't so lucky to be able to afford help or have family nearby, but growing up in the 1950s, with all the other moms home, you know very well that if you were at someone else's home, and acting up, you got told off by the resident mom. Neighbourhoods with freely roaming children always had some adult around to corrall the insanity. There were teachers at school, policemen on the street, even a random stranger, and they weren't shy about showing disapproval. People often lived close to extended family -- grandmothers to babysit, aunts to check in. Back unto our earliest history, parents have never been alone in raising children. There's a saying even -- it takes a village to raise a child. And it does.

In fact one might argue that being your child's sole carer is the most unnatural thing about modern parenting. It's never happened before. I live in a neighbourhood where I know only a few neighbours; my parents and inlaws aren't close, and neither are either of our sisters. Were I a stay at home mom, I would be raising him entirely on my own. And so instead of sending my child off to be raised by strangers, I have instead chosen for him a village. I have chosen for him a group of alternative carers -- parents of his friends, friends of mine, and yes, his daycare teachers -- that are helping me to raise him. I'm his mother -- my influence is going to be strongest no matter what. But he needs these alternative carers. He's learning how to live in a world as his very own person, to be responsible for himself and to cope with other people. I think it's an awesome way to raise a child.

I would like to just note that while I do think it's awesome, it's not by any means the only awesome way to raise a child. I think staying home with kids is great, if you can do it. My only, only reason for this post is that I don't believe I'm "giving my kid to someone else to raise" -- I'm his mom, I'm raising him (with the help of his dad!). But I also don't think that allowing someone else, someone carefully chosen by me, to help raise him, is a bad thing. In fact, I think it's good for him.

That's all.

Nesty

So in follow up to the rant earlier this week that I am not a bird!!! it has occurred to me that, while not actually aves in nature I am starting on that whole nesting process. It started last weekend when I was clearing out some things from the living room in order to try and fit a tree (does anyone else seem to have pockets in each room where stuff just magically accumulates? The junk corner? I seem to, in each room, and man does it get bad some times.) I cleaned out the living room junk corner and a pieces of my soul felt less weighted down.

When I was done I sat down and eyed, from my position on the sofa, the dining room corner of shame, and began thinking about clearing out that one and then, oh yeah, I should really tackle that kitchen drawer of junk, and maybe the little desk too, and then there's the closets in each of the other rooms, because hooray! the advent of this pregnancy and subsequent (we hope!) baby, I can get through the mat clothes and get rid of them, and then start on the mounds of baby clothes, and start getting rid of those as the baby grows, which will mean more and more and more space in our closets as we move stuff from closets to our downstairs locker which up until this point has been holding boxes upon boxes of maternity clothes and baby clothes and baby toys. And OH! What I can then do with the closets!!

The Man is reading this and hyperventilating.

The funny thing is that despite the fact that this was all running through my head, it didn't occur to me to think of it as nesting because, well, hello! I didn't get too nesty until closer to the end of the last pregnancy. No, right now, I'm just plain old cleaning.

Despite the level of organization I am currently doing in my head of those bedroom closets. Nope. Just cleaning.

Pregnancy Thoughts

The last time I was pregnant, I remember marvelling at the wonder that was physical reproduction. I'm not a physical person; I've never excelled or even been talented at physical activity. I've rarely been what I would refer to as "in shape" and physical activity has never once been on my list of fun things to do. My doctor occasionally admonishes me to get myself more exercise, and then brilliantly exclaims -- you just need to find something you think is fun! And is incredulous when I tell her that no form of physical activity -- even yoga, which can be a pretty gentle way to exercise -- has ever been fun for me.

I have the luxury of genetics, I admit. I've always been on the lean side, and I've never had to work for it. I'm very lucky, I know. And I also know that I'll have to start working on it soon, because at this age (not that I'm so old, but still) it's less about aesthetics and more about health. As a young person you are healthy by default; as an older person you have to work at it.

Anyway. I digress. Pregnancy was the first physical thing I had ever done, and it drew me out of my little cerebral world and into realizing I was, in fact, an animal. A mammal. It sounds funny, but in this day and age of technology and industry and crowded cities, it's easy to lose track of the fact that we are just part of nature -- beings that are more closely related to the animals around us than anything that we build and use every day.

This time? This time I'm more struck by the fact that with all this technology and fancy wizardry, that there isn't yet an easier way. I mean, how ridiculous is it that we have this internet and hand-held computers and food that you just have to heat in the microwave for an easy meal (no more hunting and gathering for us!) but yet to reproduce a human you still have to carry it within your body, with all the attendant issues that brings, and still have to PUSH IT OUT OF YOUR BODY??! I mean, honestly. How crazy is that??

And I'll tell you another little secret: last time, I couldn't wait to go into labour. Not just because I'd get a baby out of it, but because I was just fascinated by the ability of my body to just take over and do what it needed to do. I wanted to see what it was like, I wanted to experience that, because I thought it would be incredible to see the power of the birthing process.

It was incredible. But it was also painful, difficult, trying, and extremely tiring. I was in pain for most of a week afterwards and didn't sit comfortably for many more weeks. Don't even ask about going to the bathroom afterwards: a nightmare. And so this time? Labour is the one thing I fear the most. I'm dreading it. Oh, yes, of course, all being well I'll get to meet my little one and that will be a wonderful experience. But unlike last time, I'm not looking forward to the process at all. In fact I'm downright terrified. The only consolation is that I got through it once; I'm pretty sure I'll do so again. But: Ugh. And ugh again. Seriously, why isn't there a better way?

The hell?

I was at our work holiday function this afternoon -- these are a group of people I don't see often, because our "office" as a whole is about 50-60 people, but I only see about 10 of them regularly. So many don't know I'm expecting, because I don't randomly visit other people's offices just to tell them my breeding news, strangely enough. Over the course of the party I talked with a lot of people who were either a.) carefully making sure they were making eye contact and NOT MENTIONING THE BELLY or b.) making some carefully guarded hints, and interesting conversation that would lead me to say something. You know, like, "So, what's NEW with YOU??" while eyeballing my stomach. Because, and I have to say it myself, the belly, she ain't subtle. You don't gain weight in a basketball on your stomach and no where else. (luckily, so far.)

But by far, the weirdest comment? Especially as a conversation opener? "Hey, are you sitting on a nest?"

Because ... what?? I actually almost looked behind me to see what I *was* sitting on, to see if I had inadvertently sat on something strange. It took me several minutes to parse together what she meant. And ... nest? I mean, I know they refer to parts of pregnancy as "nesting" but ... still! I am not a bird! I do not lay eggs! If I did, this whole process might be easier! And what's with the animal references? Do people not have babies?? This is definitely the strangest thing anyone has said to me since I was told that I was a "good cow" when The Boy was a newborn and gaining weight well while I was breastfeeding. Because hello! MAMMALS make milk. Just because I do too doesn't make me BOVINE.

One family member fewer

We had to put the sick cat to sleep today.

I kind of can't believe it came so fast, and suspect it won't really sink in until later tonight, when I sit down after bed time and she doesn't immediately jump up on the couch to cuddle between The Man and I.

She was a good kitty. We'll miss her.

Duly noted

My son, this afternoon:

"Never go to the swimming pool in Superior Court."

Do I even need to add that this was something completely out of the blue, completely random, with explanation or context neither before or after? I guess it's good he's thinking away but DAMN, there must be some pretty bizarre things going on in that little head.

I think we're addicted

After last weekend's chimney cleaning we had a few fires -- one each weekend day and then a couple during the week. We waited until a respectable 3pm yesterday to light up, but this morning at 8am The Boy insisted we start it up, and frankly neither The Man nor I wanted to say no. So we didn't.

And frankly it makes sense if you think about it -- the house is cold at this hour, and so is the weather, and a fire is the perfect antidote.

....

Nah, we're just addicted. I know.

* * * * *

In other news, we felt the baby kick on the outside this morning. I've been feeling a little something here and there for a few weeks, and having the usual freak outs when there was action for days and then nothing for days (I can worry about ANYTHING!) But this morning I lay in bed and felt some movement and put my hand down and felt a soft thump. I called in The Man who was kindly making breakfast and HE got to feel a little twitch too which was cool, for so early on. We are having our ultrasound this coming Thursday and I'm looking forward to seeing if we can find out who this little person is ...

Other things I'm thinking about ...

Should I get a doula for the birth?

We didn't get one last time. I had The Man, and we invited one of our close friends, who came and helped out. It was nice, even if she was horribly traumatized by it for weeks afterwards.

However, she is also one of the few people who live close enough to take care of our older child during the labour, one of the few I'd trust to have come to our home and watch our child for the day or night or whatever. And frankly -- this is how much things have changed -- I'd rather HE be comfortable than *I* be comfortable. With mommy and daddy away doing God Knows What, I'd rather he be in the company of his familiar aunt in his own home and his own bed.

But while it's possible that this birth will beat time records for quickness (the last one should have been only four hours or so; my mom had me, her second, in three -- no kidding, from contraction to baby out of body.) I definitely am not counting on that, and think that The Man could probably use a back up, especially if it does on for a while. The midwife will be there most of the time, of course, but they really are medical professionals, not birth coaches. Oh, sure, she'll coach and all, but her main concern is the medical overseeing of my birth, not The Man's emotional well being. It might be nice to have someone there to see that he eats and gets a break and I have emotional support while he does that.

But at the same time -- how the hell do I find one? Because I should soon, and it'll need to be someone that I like a lot in order to be comfortable with her while I'm in labour. And I'm nervous about picking someone from the internet; I don't really want to interview a ton of people; I don't know anyone who had one from around here who I could ask for a recommendation.

I've found myself perusing a few sites of local doulas and they all seem so chirpy and outgoing which is lovely and all but not exactly what I want for someone around my while I'm birthing. I need someone who is also an introvert and would understand that what I might really need is just to have someone around who is silent.

I suppose websites advertising services are not the best way to judge people. You can hardly expect they'd get customers if they were all dour.

Anyway. I suppose I will likely ask the midwife when I see her in a short while and see what she has to say. I mean, it would be nice to get someone that the midwife likes so that they get along during the crazy time.

Must go an negotiate with two small boys.

Solitaire

I downloaded a solitaire game for my iPhone. I remember back to the early days of my marriage, when we were in grad school and had no money -- solitaire was the only computer game we had, and there was no TV, and we'd each play it for ages. It was the mindless time sink that you kind of need to decompress. The ex would play every game; I would pick and choose and play only the games that I thought looked winnable.

I still do this.

We had an argument about it once. Maybe more of a discussion. "What are you teaching our children?" he exclaimed. "To only play if you can win? I play all games no matter what. It's always good to try."

"No," I retorted. "I'm teaching them to choose their battles. I'm teaching them it's ok to give up if they don't want to try."

Now, with the benefit of ten years and a kid behind me, I smile and think to myself -- what I would actually want to teach my child is that it's just a freaking game. It exists entirely to amuse you, and however you are amused with the game is the right way to play it. It has no more relevance to how you live life than ... I don't know, how you use a fork.

Honestly. The things you take seriously at 25.

Or, perhaps, the things I took seriously in that marriage, and an illustration of why the hell I'm better off out of it.

Wha ... ??

Seriously? December?? How? What? Who?

???!!!

That's pretty much all I have to say, to be honest.

I've been enjoying the week -- after November what was constant deluge, this entire week has been sunny and beautiful, albeit COLD. And by COLD I mean it only gets up to about 5 each day, and actually freezes at night, which is of course as cold as I think weather should EVER GET. My iPhone is set up to show me weather from various places across the globe, and over the next few days in Alberta it looks like the HIGH will be about -15, with lows of close to -30, which is just plain insanity. It makes me wonder how our forefathers coped. I mean, arriving from nice temperate (by comparison) England and northern Europe, coming in the nice warm summer and then -- Good LORD! -- coming through a winter where most of the people starved and the temperatures reached lows they'd never even considered possible. I'm really very surprised they didn't just jump back on the boats never to return.

My grandparents did this very thing -- not the high tailing and running part -- but did immigrate to Canada from England in the 1950s, from southern England to WINNIPEG of all places. Winnipeg that was so cold that the sound board in their piano split clean in two and ruined the damn thing. I imagine that the cold was quite a shock to the system, given they were used to dressing their three little boys in cute little shorts. And if they'd done that in Winnipeg winter their knees would have frozen clean off.

Not entirely sure I'm going anywhere with this.

Anyway. Suffice to say -- it's been a long week (hence no posting) but at least the sun has been shining. And there's more sun to come, which will really be nice. Now I'm just looking forward to a weekend of fireplace fires and not much else. I hope.

YUM.

Those are quite seriously some of the best cookies I have ever had.

Or again, they are yummy when warm. Very, very yummy. They are very sweet, so next time I think I'll cut down the sugar. And then we'll see how they are when they cool, as well.

But: Oh, YUM.

The peanut butter bag

So I couldn't face it yesterday, but managed this morning to stick my hands into the bag and get out the various detritus of my lunch from yesterday, rinse them off, and dishwasher them. The worst hit was an apple, but at least it was easy to wash off. And as The Man said, at least it's a knitted bag you can wash, as opposed to a bag that would felt when you didn't want it to. Which is a very good point.

Needless to say I've put peanut butter on the grocery list for today.

* * * * *

On my other list of things to do today is to make these. The banana bread, which disappeared within days (even The Man ate it!) was from her site, and I'm just so darn excited about making cookies with quinoa. It's almost like health food!

But at the moment, my living room is full of men and possibly soot as they clean the chimney, so they have to wait -- a reasonable thing too, because I have no room temperature butter (I always forget to get out the butter!) It's raining steadily (we had ONE WHOLE DAY of sun yesterday, which is I think it for the entire month of November -- we've set new records for rain! -- and now we're back to deluge again) and the idea of later sitting back with warm cookies in front of a roaring fire is absolutely seductive.

(See what happens with pregnancy? I have a clean house and that combined with baked goods and warmth is what suffices for marital intimacy.)

* * * * *

Whilst we had the chimney scoured I begged a favour of a friend to take The Boy off our hands, and she called this morning to say she was planning an errand up to a nearby store, and would I like her to come and pick him up? I was terribly grateful, so she's come and gone. This is the same friend with the same aged son we had playdates with regularly over the last year, so The Boy calls her by her first name and went happily off to her car with her to play with his small friend. So while the house is noisy with vacuuming and brushing, at least there's time to sit quietly and relax.

Playdates are essential in this weather -- snow, if you are so inclined (which I am not), can be played in, but rain is just rather unpleasant to be out and about in for anything longer than an errand or a walk. Oh, they get the kids outside every day at the daycare, but I've suited the child up in the very best rainwear, which wasn't at all cheap but it's Vancouver -- it's SO worth it. He has fleece and boots and pants and a jacket which keep him pretty much completely dry, but given the expense we only bought a single set, and they are at the daycare. (I could bring them home; I just forget.) So weekends must include playdates lest we all go entirely squirrelly. Thankfully other parents seem to agree, so we're setting things up for as many weekends as possible over the next few months.

* * * * *

The cat sits huddled at my feet. She almost never lies down anymore; it's not clear why. She huddles instead, restless and a little irritable. I suppose it's likely she's not comfortable. I don't think it's pain, but I think general discomfort is very likely. We figured out she's lost I think about 2.5 kilos in the past three months, and she was only probably just over 6 to begin with; her size is startling. Unless this newest medication can help her put on weight -- or at least stem the tide -- I think we'll lose her alarmingly fast. It's most likely cancer, they tell us -- 75% chance, with the other 25% being some other unnamed terminal illness. We are lucky in that with her age, she probably doesn't have the leukemia virus, which would endanger the other cats. The only thing worse, I think, than losing one cat would be losing the other two in a similar fashion soon afterwards.

So we wait, and see, and hope for the best. And prepare for the worst.

Today ...

Today the kid was nice. There was cooperation. There were fewer tears. The work thing got done. And the cat ... well, the cat is still ill, but no worse. Which is nice.

But.

Today I packed lunch in a hurry. And since I'm the mom, what I end up doing is instead of doling out a portion, I just throw the entire package of something into my bag. Eat what I want, bring the rest back. And this week I'm trying to get more protein into my diet. Something besides dairy products and meat.

So I took peanut butter. In the jar. With a lid. That apparently wasn't screwed on tight enough on the way home.

Yeah.

So the inside of my nice, handknit and felted lunch bag is filled ... with half a jar of peanut butter.

Thank God it's the weekend.

Today ...

... my kid was rude, uncooperative, and had a temper tantrum at daycare which eventually required me to carry him to the car by the back of his pants, because with his coat and lunch and my pregnant belly there was no other way to do it. It was dark and rainy and generally unpleasant, and I felt like a failure as a parent because he's been like this for days for no discernable reason and I can't get him to stop for love nor money.

... work sucked. I am asked to complete the impossible within the impossible time frame. And yet I will do it, because I'm a good little worker bee.

... the vet says that the cat is dying. We have no idea when and have no money to fix it, so we're just going to have to wait and watch and deal with a cat as she gets sicker and sicker.

It's times like this that I miss drinking.

Pregnancy Hunger

This morning I got up and ate a piece of toast with jam. Had some tea. Got my kid ready for daycare, drove him up, came home. Sat on the couch and did some work, knit a little.

And then I thought -- I'm a little hungry.

And I went to the kitchen, and suddenly found myself stuffing cereal from the box straight into my mouth. Three or four handfuls. A few more. And then I ate an entire bag of snap peas with yogurt dip. Half a bag of fries with ketchup. The rest of the banana bread. Half a litre of water.

Am still hungry.

Baby is clearly malnourished.

Verdict:

The banana bread is by far the best gluten free recipe I have made. By. Far. The only problem with it is that it is a little crumbly -- but not in the rice flour cardboard way, just ... crumbly, the way some cakes made of wheat can be. The taste is great and the texture, other than crumbly, is fantastic.

I'm sure it was helped along by following the recipe completely and instead of adding chocolate chips I cut up a very, very nice dark chocolate bar and put that in instead.

I am trying to think of what might make it less crumbly, and am thinking of adding some xanthan gum or something, but I think while that might make it less crumbly, it might detract from the overall texture and make it gummy -- which I really don't like.

In any case, I am *definitely* going to try more recipes from her site. Wow.

Well, it looks like normal banana bread ...

Today's gluten-free baking adventure

Is this. The woman who writes this isn't celiac, but if you check out her blog there are some REALLY nice-sounding recipes there. (Especially rich chocolate ones, which I also want to try.) I have wanted to try this one for ages, because of my love affair with quinoa, but I was only recently able to find quinoa flakes and I didn't know what I might substitute for them.

I also had to substitute brown rice flour for the white rice flour, and brown sugar for the blond cane sugar, since I still haven't managed to find that. (This is Vancouver, you'd think I'd be able to find anything. But I guess that only applies to Asian cuisine -- no matter how strange it sounds, if it's used in Asian cuisine you can find it in Vancouver. Which is lovely, of course, but does mean you can be SOL if you aren't cooking Asian.)

So the loaf is currently in the oven, and smells lovely. Let's hope it tastes as nice as it smells. Maybe the update for later will also include photos!

Storming

Last night I drove west from downtown towards Workplace to get The Boy from daycare. It was dry, for the first time in a while, and close to 5, so pretty much dark. And then suddenly the sky lit up. And then again. And again. And again. Lightening. I called The Man.

"There's a great lightening storm out over the ocean!" I said. "But I can't hear the thunder and it's not raining!"

Ha ha ha ha.

By the time I got to the daycare, it was raining. Just rain, nothing too special for Vancouver. And as I stood inside the daycare waiting for the story to finish, there was a BOOM that seemed to shake the place. And then another. And another. We finished up the story, and went out to the car, and in the 1o0 metres we walked, we got SOAKED. It was just Coming. Out. Of. The. Sky. Sheets of rain. And lightening. And thunder. So close together I knew we were pretty much right in the eye of the storm. And on a bluff. In a metal car. I drove as fast as the pick up area and visibility would allow --- which was, if one was being safe, about 20kph. There was so much rain that the drains were backing up and the puddles at the side of the road actually slowed the car down and sprayed higher than the roof. (Don't worry -- there wasn't anyone walking or biking in that mess!) It torrented the rest of the way home, but the storm was moving fast -- I saw several more flashes of lightening, but by the time we arrived home about seven km away, there was no more thunder.

Just torrential rain.

We were thinking of heading out for sushi last night, but I decided that walking in this weather would be a bad idea. So we stayed home and had frozen pizza.

All that was missing, once we dried off, was a roaring fire. Ah well. Next weekend we're having the chimney swept, and we can indulge our love of fires.

Of course, next weekend we are promised some sun, which should be a great change from the two weeks of unbelievable wetness.

Forecast for today: rain. Don't even ask about the rest of the week.

Boy, 3.5, stumps mother at math

We are under yet another rainfall warning right now. And this week I'm downtown at a course all the latter half of the week, which means that at 4pm class close I'm sitting, half off my chair, coat on, bag packed, ready to dash out the door, down the stairs, down the block, around the corner, up two flights in the parkade to my car, to take it all the way across downtown in the dark and the rain at the start of rush hour and then across town to the Workplace and daycare to get the kiddo.

This is all after spending seven hours in a room lit only by fluorescent lights having a power point presentation which only tangentially relates to what I do for a living read at me.

I say this only because I'd like to explain my frame of mind for the conversation ahead, in the hopes that my math inadequacy will be almost excusable.

So post pick up, my child is in the back seat chatting away. Me, I'm negotiating yet more wet rainy dark roads, and the traffic that all wants to leave Workplace and daycare, and the lights and the cyclist and basically the insanity. And I hear from the back:

"One ten is ten! and then TWO tens are ....

...

....

twenty!"

And then:

"Mommy, what's FIVE tens??!"

"Fifty" I reply. And we discuss how two tens is twenty, which he knew, and then three tens is thirty and four tens is forty and so five is fifty. He thinks this is all HILARIOUS, for some reason. And then asks:

"Mommy, what's TEN tens??"

"That's ONE HUNDRED!" I reply. "Isn't that great?!"

He agrees that this is pretty neat, but then like all kids he wants to move on to something bigger and better.

"Mommy, what's ONE HUNDRED TENS??!!"

And I say ....

yes, it's true. I pause. I can't think. And I actually think to myself "I know what ten one-hundreds is. Is that the same??!"

I feel like I should be admitting at this point that I drool and don't actually work as a writer; in fact I don't have a post-graduate degree because hello! how can they grant a post-graduate degree to someone SO DAMN STUPID.

Eventually I cough out that one hundred tens is 1,000. "A one with THREE ZEROS! Isn't that great?!"

He agrees. And now that I'm more confident, we go into what 300 tens are, and so forth until we get home.

But MY GOD, this is pretty damn pathetic. And what's even more pathetic?

I did 100 10s on my computer calculator before I posted this just to make DAMN SURE that I was right.

Dentistry

Today was The Boy's annual dentist appointment.

I have extremely few fond memories of the dentist as a child. My first dentist, only hazily remembered, was an older man, the one my parents used, who wasn't that well suited to children. He soon told my mother he was removing kids from his practice, so we went elsewhere. The next one I don't remember as particularly personable either. The third one -- the one who I stayed with until I left the hometown -- was a very nice man and a great dentist, but he had the unpleasant task of removing the baby teeth I had that just. wouldn't. fall. out. I think all in all he pulled three or four of my baby teeth out, which was a painful and traumatizing experience, one which is forever burned in my brain.

Not the mention the fact that he was the man who recommended to my mother that I get braces, which of course in hindsight was a great decision, because my teeth are pretty and probably healthier because of it, but it was a full year of painful mouth and peer teasing, which pretty much SUCKED. Good memories of dentistry are something I simply don't have.

So the first time we took The Boy to the dentist, I was beyond nervous. I picked a pediatric dentist, too -- more expensive, but I was hoping he would be excellent with children, and so would his hygienists, and thus The Boy's first experiences would be good ones. I do believe that good oral hygiene is a very good practice, and I think a good start in life down this road will be a very good thing.

But I was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that I had to leave the room when they were looking at his teeth. I'm sitting there, just watching, and was feeling so ill and so horrible that I had to leave the room. They weren't doing anything that hurt, he was fine, but I was so distraught I had to leave the room. Let's keep in mind that I've held my kid down while he screamed while they stuck him with IV needles when he was sick with a kidney infection, so clearly I have a real neurosis here.

So I made The Man take him this time. Oh, I told him what was coming, I reminded him of last time and how he went to the special room with the special chair that tipped back and that they were going to look inside his mouth. "And count my teeth!" he remembered. And I said yes, but THIS time they would also BRUSH his teeth for him! He was puzzled by this news, but accepting. (Of course, he's three; if I told him they were going to kindly stroke his tongue he'd be puzzled but accepting. Everything is new.)

We texted back and forth through it, me at home, The Man at the office. When his turn came, The Boy just trotted off happily with the hygienist. The Man on tenterhooks, listening intently in the waiting room for close to half an hour for noises of distress and wailing. Nothing. He's called in, sees our tiny boy, legs in the air, back on the chair. His mouth is open, the dentist pokes around; the dentist pauses to talk to The Man, and The Boy closes his mouth. The dentist turns his attention back to our child, who obediently just opens his mouth again. Not a peep, not a complaint, not a tiny bit of resistance. Just ... fine.

This isn't the first time he's surprised me with his bravery in new situations; this is especially notable because he wasn't a terribly adaptable nor outgoing baby. But I guess this is what parenting is: you spend the time and energy and try to prepare your child to go out into the world, and if you are lucky they are just as able as you hope they will be. And we are. Very lucky.

But to put this into perspective, I might also note that upon leaving the dentist's office, The Man and The Boy encountered ... wait for it ... WIND. And while he can sit and have his mouth poked at for half an hour with nary a complaint, the WIND in his FACE was a definite cause for disquiet and great complaints.

You just never can tell.

Verdict:

Well, like all un-wheated baked goods, it's texture is .... well, not liked wheat based baked goods. It's hard to describe, and the best adjective I can come up with is that it's a little bit ... gummier. Which sounds much worse than it is. In order to mimic the binding properties of gluten, you have to add a binding agent of some kind to these recipes, and xanthan / guar gum is the ingredient of choice. And it binds, but just differently.

But the flavour? Spot. On.

And the texture is moist and soft, just like regular cake.

So all in all: A success.

(But a small one -- one recipe I tried was delicious when warm, but the next day was inedible. So I'll reserve judgement until I finish the thing. Because if I do, it's a real success.)

yay. :)

Smelling like home

The only thing I like doing in the kitchen is baking. Which means that basically it's the only kitchen thing I'm any good at, because it's the only thing I practice. I'm not saying that I'm any kind of virtuoso, but I like doing it and I like eating what I make, so I guess it's pretty yummy.

So figuring out that gluten is the root of all evil in my like has been rather a blow. Yes, there are lots of gluten-free things available in the city, but they aren't universally yummy; some of them are downright awful. And most of the rest are rice-based, which is fine but has a certain texture that isn't conducive to all baked goods.

And the mixes that you can find to bake yourself are very hit and miss; some of them so dry and white-rice based that they taste a lot like sawdust, and some that we made and literally couldn't eat. We have found a few that are ok, but there's always something lacking -- too full of white flour, too sweet, too dry. For someone who baked almost exclusively with whole wheat flour, it's hard to go back to eating empty carbs; I just don't see the point of ingesting something that gives me little to no food value.

There are lots of recipes on line, of course, but they can roughly be divided into the ones that use flour mixes, and thus are mediocre, and the ones who carefully parcel out the weird and wonderful exotic flours, like sorghum, quinoa, and teff. All of which I can find in Vancouver, but I am loathe to buy because they are expensive, and my luck with the pre-baked goods, baking mixes, and other recipes has been so hit and miss -- and mostly miss.

(Having said that, the idea of baking with quinoa and teff is rather exciting to me, because quinoa is a grain that is actually, from my reading, healthier than wheat. And since I kind of like my baked goods to have some kind of food value, I like the idea of eating something that gives me good protein and amino acids, and yet tastes like a treat.)

But I can't live without baking. I can't live without the carbs, and I thought to myself -- if I'm going to avoid gluten the rest of my life, I can't live like this. I miss it too much, I miss the baking itself, I miss the creation in the kitchen, and I miss, miss, miss yummy baked goods. I can't just eat mediocre mixes the rest of my life. And there are some pretty amazing-looking baked goods out there, and people who swear by the yumminess thereof, and .... well, in the end, what have I got to lose? I might lose some money, and some time, but what I might gain is my baking back again.

This was further encouraged by my finding, at the local store, a gingerbread loaf made by the local rice bakery. I was entranced. My mother made gingerbread cake when I was a child, and I loved it. And the instant I saw it, I thought, I must have that. And I looked forward to it all the way home, the rest of the day, and that evening, I cut into it, scooped out the first piece ...

And literally couldn't eat it.

I did kind of shrug it off; well, that sucks. Another thing I'm just going to have to miss. But then by complete chance I navigated my way back to a blog I'd been to before but didn't go to very often, and she had, as her most recent post: gingerbread cake.

It was a sign.

So I dug into the recipe, and put the wide array of strange flours on the shopping list, and when The Man came home with the groceries, I measured and counted and sifted and mixed my way into home made gluten free gingerbread cake.

I unfortunately can't end this post by telling you how wonderful it is: it's only just out of the oven, and too hot to eat. Moreover, The Man is making something Wonderful for dinner, and I don't want to spoil my appetite.

But the house smells like childhood and Christmas and home baking, and that in and of itself is a wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I have hope that one day I will just get used to sifting together quinoa and sorghum flour into a beautiful baked item. And I will love it again.

(Either that or that my body will decide that I am not allergic to gluten after all, which naturopathy and even conventional medicine tells me is not an impossibility, and I will just start baking with wheat again.)

But I will try to remember to update later and hopefully will then tell you all then that spending $15 on a small bag of quinoa flour wasn't a colossal mistake.

Sundry

I'd write more about the Olympic ticket buying experience, but I'm so angry about it that I can't do it without writing in all caps. And no one likes to be yelled at early on a Sunday morning.

* * * * *

This morning we are under a rainfall warning AND a flood warning. We already have the Big Bad Flu, and there are a lot of sirens around for a Sunday morning. If we just had a locust warning, I'd start wondering if all those rumours about 2012 were true.

* * * * *

I went to prenatal yoga late yesterday afternoon -- despite the horrendous price. It's Vancouver Westside, it costs an arm and a leg to live here, and I guess the yoga prices fit the neighbourhood. It was a great class, and I'd like to go back, but I'm at this part of the pregnancy when all the ligaments in my lower abdomen are stretching, and if I move too fast or sneeze too hard, they hurt like hell. And so by the time I was ready for bed last night, I could hardly move from all the stretching.

It was a pretty unconventional yoga class -- never before have I sung "You are my sunshine" in a studio before -- and there was a lot of mama dancing ("move those hips!") and "embrace your power as a woman!" stuff, but it was fun and relaxing and I think I'd like to go back. If by next Saturday, I can walk without wincing.

Amusingly my work is trying for the first time to have a social life, and they've organized a bowling party in a couple weeks -- after the yoga experience I think bowling will probably snap something. So I think abstaining is best. For me and the team, because to be honest I'm the worst bowler ever. Having the ball go somewhere other than the gutter is quite a fluke.

* * * * *

This morning I can walk without too much pain, but last night it hurt so much to bend and / or lift a leg, I had to get The Man to help me get my pants off. I'd say something quippy about how that got us into this problem to begin with, but that seems too obvious. Clearly I do need to spend more time doing yoga if I'm that poorly after doing so.

So: onward! Let's see if we can get through this rainy day and find something interesting to do.

Dear Vancouver Olympic Games organizers

As I approach two hours in your virtual waiting room, let me just say this:

The place sucks.

Time spent in Olympic ticketing "virtual waiting room"

one hour and twenty minutes.

I don't want to be cynical or anything, but I think tickets for us ordinary folks might be hard to come by what with all the corporate sponsors, etc., who've already scooped most of the best ones.

But I'm not cynical or anything. Really.

Erk. Olympic-sized erk.

There is not one but two three year olds running unfettered in my house right now, and I am all alone. In terms of adult company. Which means I am outnumbered. The daycare, for whatever reason, has decided that today must be their annual work day, and given my delicate gravid status I determined that The Man had to go. And then I offered a playdate to a small friend whose mother is also out at the work day (which they term a "work party" which is misnomer if ever I heard one). So here I am, preparing for negotiations between small children, and lunch to be prepared at some nebulous point in the future. I don't know this child well; I don't know what he eats.

Wish me luck.

I am also sitting here with the idle goal of finding ourselves some tickets for these here Olympic Games that I have heard are coming here to Vancouver. I'm personally not really in favour of them; in fact I voted against having them. These things are always over budget and not paid for, and I do believe that the millions of dollars that they will cost would be better spent improving schools, health care, and opportunities for the homeless, among other things. Those people who try and tell you that there will be so much more revenue due to incoming tourists are full of it. People, it's VANCOUVER. People come here ANYWAY. It's not like people are unaware of the city and will suddenly start coming here in droves. And I'm already paying enough property tax to live here; I don't need to pay any more.

And that's not even to mention how my daily life will be affected. The place where I work will be one of the venues, and thus will be overrun with people, and they've closed all the roads that take me between the daycare and my office, which incidentally are five minutes drive apart normally but during the games I will be required to drop off my kid, completely leave the area, and then come in a completely different way to my office. I anticipate that due to increased traffic and confusion, that it will take me about 30 minutes to get between the daycare and my office. And that's not even the funny part. The funny part is that although the games themselves are just over two weeks long, due to security considerations, those road closures will be in place for ... come on, guess, can you? You'd think three weeks? Four? Maybe even six? TWO FREAKING MONTHS, PEOPLE.

TWO.

MONTHS.

So I have thus determined (and told my boss) that I will be working from home for the entirety of the games, because I am not hauling my six months pregnant self up there on over crowded public transit with a four year old in tow, nor will I be spending lengthy times in my car, because the likelihood of my needing a bathroom between leaving my house and arriving (late) to my office is just too great. And I am lucky that I can do this -- that I have enough vacation time to take part day vacations and work from home and do this combination for 2.5 weeks so that I can avoid the worst of the worst of the chaos. There are a great number of people who won't be able to do so. At my work and other places. And it's going to be very, very frustrating for people who are hoping that their lives can just continue as much as possible.

But at the same time ... there's nothing I can do about them coming here, so I may as well sit back and try to make the best of it. And since I have no plans to, in future, get myself to an Olympic event, I might as well see what I can find while they are here. What the heck, right?

Alas, despite trying to access the site for the better part of half an hour, I have had absolutely zero success and I can't see any hint that it's going to get better. And since I highly suspect that my peaceful time on the couch for today is rapidly approaching its end, I figure that 30 minutes of trying is all I'm likely to get.

Ah well. There's always TV. And scalpers.

Diagnosis: Anemia

Of course it's not like I actually asked a medical professional about this; goodness no! Why bother with an actual informed opinion? But today, after no more sleep than any other night this week (in fact, somewhat less!) I feel quite a bit better.

I credit the beef. Hence it must be anemia.

I guess we'll see.

Snap

When the boy was two, I was still in touch with most of the women I met in the post-partum Mommy Group. And between the time he was 18 months to 2.5, all of them got pregnant again.

I'm not exaggerating. With the exception of the woman who split from her husband and the woman who was 38 at the time she delivered her first baby and who I suspect may have had fertility difficulties, I was the ONLY ONE who didn't get pregnant again. So among those who were a.) fertile and b.) had a ready supply of sperm, I was the only one who didn't have a child two years after the first. And there were like 12-15 women, so it wasn't a tiny sampling of reality.

I felt like an outcast. Like I was doing it wrong. And it's not just there. At The Boy's daycare, he is almost the only one who doesn't have a sibling within two years. Barring those who I know are subfertile (it's amazing what people will tell you when you meet them at pick up time each night), he might be the only one.

Child spacing is something that comes and goes with fashion. In the 1970s, when I was born, three years was the norm. Almost everyone I knew was separated from a sibling or two by three years. It was the Perfect Child Spacing. These days it's two. Despite the fact that there's no evidence whatsoever that this is a good age gap; no more than three years. In fact if you read the literature, most child psychologists say four years (or more) is best because a.) your older child has had a lot of one on one parental attention for his formative years, and is more independent leaving you b.) more able to fully pay attention to the second child for his / her formative years and c.) children so spaced are less prone to sibling rivalry. In fact the two / three year age spacing is the worst possible for sibling rivalry, with every other age spacing being better. (This is not to say that your two years apart children will hate each other -- of course there are situations where children two years apart are best friends. But statistically speaking, children born less than 18 months apart or more than four years are less likely to be rivals.)

And woe betide you if you fall outside the normal spectrum. Because -- fast forward three years -- I have announced my pregnancy now to co-workers and colleagues at work (not a huge group, less than 10), and have been told now TWICE that "Oh, I thought you weren't going to have any more!"

(Which is I suppose a better reaction than I had to my first pregnancy announcement, because people knew I wasn't married to his father and they repeatedly asked "Was it planned / on purpose??!" UH -- are you FREAKING KIDDING ME??! Are you actually ASKING ME THAT??! Do you think I'm going to actually tell you that no, we weren't planning it and we're going to split up and my heavens, was this bad planning? Isn't it possible that we may have wanted to have a family and just NOT BE MARRIED??!)

But just because I don't fall into the societal norm of two years spacing between children, people think this is abnormal. I fall into the category of "not wanting more children" because four years! My God! I may as well have them 15 years apart when I'm 45 and barely fertile! It's like I'm telling people that I've decided to raise them with wolves! Four year spacing! Good Lord! Could anything be worse?

Can't we just stick with "Congratulations!" instead of commenting on my fertility / child spacing / family planning?

Honestly.

* * * * * * *

This rant may or may not have something to do with the fact that I am, 15 weeks in, still bone tired. At times. Energy returns on occasion, but some days taking the day off to sleep is all I want to do. I was reflecting on this today while trying to stay focussed at work, and remembered that I was a bit anemic last time, and perhaps I should think about taking some iron and perhaps that would help with the energy level (and subsequently, my mood, making me less prone to ranting about people's comments on my pregnancy).

And then I imagined in my mind a steak. (Look away, APC! And SRH. And anyone else who doesn't eat red meat!) A BIG JUICY RED STEAK! And it was seriously the best thing I could imagine to eat. And one the way home I went and bought ground beef to put in my dinner, and while it was frying it was the BEST THING I HAVE EVER SMELLED. Seriously, if I hadn't been so conscious of the health dangers of eating half cooked ground beef, I think I would have dipped my spoon into the pan and just started eating.

So there, I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a little less irritating. Or at least, that I will be.

Remembrance

I haven't been to a Remembrance Day ceremony in years. It's a strange thing how when one is a child, one (at least one did in my school district) attends a ceremony each, solemn with small children reciting "In Flanders Fields" (which I still remember from the year that it was my class' turn to recite, incidentally). And yet when one becomes an adult, there are far fewer opportunities to attend something similar. Over the years I've often watched it on television, but we don't own one now, and getting television coverage requires special plug ins for the lap top, not to mention a very dangerous home made antenna that would likely injure the child.

And then for the last few years, I've had a small child who would never remain silent and calm for the necessary amount of time for a ceremony.

It's a load of excuses, isn't it? It feels like it to me. I truly believe that we need to remember the sacrifices that people made so that we could live the lives we want to. I want to honour those who men and women who lived through those times, who believed the necessity of that they were doing, to thank them for living through that horrible time so that I wouldn't have to. So my child wouldn't have to.

As I sit writing this, my child is playing with a plastic syringe we have to make sure the cat swallows her pills (we fill it with water; don't worry, he's not playing with random feline medicines). He's shooting things, tells me he's shot his father's head off. I cringe. I asked him if he knew why we were home today. He said no. I told him that long ago there was a big war, and it was horrible, and many people died. And that we take today to remember what they did for us, and be thankful that they did, and to remember that war is dreadful and peace is achievable.

He's still shooting things.

And I feel like a bit of a failure. Especially today.

I guess it's too much to expect that at three he can understand the enormity of war, and the finality of death. That he can appreciate the unknown sacrifices of faceless people who came before him. It's a very abstract concept. He understands power and dominance and superheroes and fun. He doesn't know how the massive loss of lives in war and the superheroes he adores are related. He doesn't understand that when he kills an imaginary foe, in real life, people aren't just bad or good. No matter who you kill, it was still someone's son, someone's brother, someone's dad.

And I suppose that this is what parenting is about. A friend of mine once told me that there's no point celebrating a pregnancy. People get pregnant all the time. What's celebratory is raising that child to be a functioning member of society. A compassionate, kind, thinking, feeling, understanding, thankful human being.

So I have a few years to go in this process, and in the meantime, I can remember and observe the day how I see fit. Because the best way to ensure that he remembers is to remember it myself.

Huh

We have a book -- a children's book -- about medieval castles. This should not come as a surprise to any of you who know me in real life, and perhaps not to many of you who have been reading for a while. It's a flap book, so you can SEE INSIDE the castles and see the various areas thereof and see some of the activities that take place there. Like jousts. And banquets. Banquets with trumpets and food and boys serving wine. (It's a very romantic view of castlery. But they do at least show the smithy and kitchens and such as well.) Which is what I think led to this exchange this morning. At 5am, no less.

Boy: I've never served wine.

Me: hzzzrkkk ... wha?

Me: Did you just say you've never served wine?

Boy: Yeah, I've never served wine. Boys only serve wine at banquets.

Me: [cluing in] We have very few banquets here.

Boy: Yeah. So I've never served wine. [pause] You probably have to be four.

Me: Yes, I imagine there is an age limit.

Every once in a while I sit and think to myself -- I wonder what goes on in that little head of his? And heck, NOW I KNOW. Just wish he could wait until, say, 7am, to enlighten me.

Life, consumed

These days my life is pretty consumed by work and home life and my ever growing stomach, and I don't have a whole lot to write. Nothing that seems interesting, anyway. Work is work, it's interesting by times and not-so-much at others. The house is (mostly) under control, which it is at various times. The stomach is the same. Maybe slightly bigger. We shall see; we're off to the midwife tomorrow.

I wrote a few more paragraphs here about that, but honestly *I* didn't want to read it over again, so I figured no one else would want to read it once.

It amuses me greatly that a few years back I did that NaBloPoMo and actually did it, and this year ... wow, so far from that it's not even funny.

Hopefully tomorrow I'll actually have something to say.

First night alone in almost 4.5 years

So I did it. I spent a night away from my child, for the first time since he was conceived four and a half years ago. Every night since then I have spent in close proximity to him -- together while pregnant, bedsharing, co-sleeping, or just nearby. Last night I was ten minutes drive away, and my last thought before I dropped off was "I want my baby!"

The baby was just fine all by himself. Or rather, with my mother. He went to sleep happily and willingly, stirred and needed covers at 5am, and then the next thing she knew it was almost 7:30am and he had gotten himself up, gone to the bathroom, turned on the light and sat himself down for his morning routine.

They went to the beach, she taught him all about owls, and ate some nice food together. He barely noticed I was gone; when I called last night before we went out to dinner, the only thing he had to say to me was "Bye mom!"

And don't get me wrong, he was glad to see me when I got home, but he clearly found the separation much, much easier than I did.

Such is the reality of motherhood.

* * * * * * * *

Despite missing my child, we had a lovely time out. We left the house around 3pm, went to the tea store and the bookstore, found a new book. We then went to the hotel, and relaxed for a short while. I took a bath in the big bathtub. We went out for a lovely, lovely dinner at a downtown restaurant, where I had prawns and arugula salad, and then steak and asparagus which was beautifully cooked, and chocolate mousse with raspberry and sour cherry for dessert. And then we went out for a nice brunch this morning where I had a delightful cobb salad. And tea. Beautiful tea.

The one thing about having a new found food intolerance is that eating in high end restaurants is actually quite easy. They make each meal as you order it, and they make all the food there, so they know exactly what is in it. The staff is very attentive, and they are cautious with food preferences and tolerances, and are inordinately careful about it.

So really the fact is that I've now just been sentenced to eating in very nice restaurants for the rest of my life, which is a terrible hardship, of course. If my bank account can keep up, I know I will enjoy it.

Of course, no matter how careful they are, brunch still kind of sucks without gluten. Sigh.

A week down

Last Sunday The Man left me.

For a week.

To Michigan on a business trip.

And I spent a week being single mommy. It sucked.

But now he is home, and I am Very Happy about it. Very. Very. Happy.

And not just because he is doing bedtime right now.

Let the record show ...

that for this pregnancy, 13.5 weeks was the first time I had someone look me up and down and say

"Wow! You're getting SO HUGE!"

Which is of course what EVERY expectant mother needs to hear. Especially at not even four months in.

Just like last night ...

the moon rises over the trees we can see from the back patio. "Look N!" I say. "Look at the beautiful moon!"

He gasps in pleasure. We admire it together. I think.

And then he says ...

"It's time to go trick or treating again!"

He is not entirely surprised, but a bit disappointed, to learn that this is a once a year opportunity.

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.