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?