Starbucks, I Am Your Bitch

I am dreaming of frappucinos. As I barely stay awake at my desk, only the thought of having a creamy, icy, lovely fat/calorie/caffeine-laden frappucino in my hands by about quarter past four is keeping me going.

This is insane. This is even worse than the skor blizzard habit I cultivated during my pregnancy with Bee.

This morning as I was walking into work, I spied someone’s half-empty, discarded frap on top of a garbage can and, I shit you not, I almost took a swig.


This is going to be a long pregnancy.


Yes, after not posting for a week, this is all I got. I might do better once I get my fix.


Instant Karma's Gonna Get Me

When Bee was about 5 months old, I met a woman in a local baby store. She was buying some items for pumping and storing breast milk for her son, who was about the same age as Bee. We were at the cash register at the same time, and she was asking the store clerk a bunch of questions. I chimed in with some nugget of wisdom about not reheating breast milk in the microwave, or about pumping first thing in the morning, or some such gem, and we went on our separate ways.

A few weeks later I saw her again, and though I wouldn’t have recognized her, she remembered me and we chatted for a minute. She asked for my number and email address, as she didn’t really know any moms in the (totally, completely, baby-filled) area, and would love a playdate. I said sure, and though she wasn’t really the kind of person I usually hang out with, went home and told Chris that I had just gotten picked up outside the health food store, but that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to actually go on a baby date with this woman. I figured I had nothing to worry about, since she would never call (read – I would never have called).

Of course, she called. I was surprised, but we made plans to meet at a local baby-friendly coffee shop, where we could have a java and the babies could sleep (my idea of a playdate with an infant).

Our get-together was surreal. There was absolutely no one in coffee shop that did not have boobs and a baby, but it was like this woman was visiting a different planet. She spoke so quietly I could barely hear her, almost wouldn’t leave her sleeping baby with me while she went to get a coffee (wouldn’t allow me to get one for her, either), and I had to give her a diaper to change her baby when he got wet, because she had only the cloth diaper he was wearing. We did cloth diapers too, but I always brought a few disposables when we went out. I made a joke about bringing a million useless things with, but forgetting the one thing you’ll actually need. But that wasn’t the case with my new friend – in 5 months, she had never been out of the house with her baby long enough to necessitate a diaper change. Wtf? Also, she excused herself twice to go breastfeed in the bathroom because she was so flustered trying to get her freakin ‘privacy bib’ on without anyone seeing flesh.

Now, I will always be supportive of a woman doing whatever she needs to do to facilitate breastfeeding. But seriously? We were in the most liberal part of town with no one present but moms whipping them out all over the place to feed their babes, myself included. Trust me, TRUST ME when I say that no one bats an eye when you do that where I live.

My date had not suffered ppd or any other post-birth trauma (these topics had come up). She was not a new resident to Canada or our neighbourhood, and was highly educated. I know; you are shaking your head at me and calling me a bitch. But I was being so nice and supportive that I almost gagged on it. I was trying to be a positive role model – look! Here’re my boobs! Look! I can drink a coffee while I hold my child! Look! A diaper!

I am an uninhibited person, to say the least, and I know that not everybody is. I just felt like, dude, do what you gotta do to take care of your child, but fuck worrying about what anybody else thinks. Life is too short, and too much fun to not be able to get out there with your baby. I really tried to make this woman feel comfortable, to make being a mom out of the house normal. But the bottom line is, this woman would have never been my friend in real life, and becoming a mom did not change me so entirely that I could now hang out with people who were so totally not my people. And I’m definitely not everybody’s people, so I was hoping that this woman was feeling the same way.

Nope. After our truncated date (her kid was crying so she had to go), she called me again, but this time to see if I would just come over to her place. No way, man. It was a beautiful, warm autumn day, and I said that I would do the park because I preferred to be outside. She didn’t want to go because she didn’t think her baby would sleep in the stroller, and she was worried about dogs. In five months, this woman had never strolled through the park with her child. I avoided her future calls, didn’t call her back and didn’t return her emails until finally her attempts petered out.

I was a new mom too, but I wasn’t being held hostage by my baby. I certainly didn’t want to be held hostage by another mom.

Now, this could have been a post discussing the alienation of motherhood, or self-esteem or community or any of those sensitive things. But I am not an entirely sensitive person. I am writing this post because, a year and a half later, I ran into her again. And she asked if I wanted to get together again.

I endured a pang of guilt for about 5 seconds, and then told her we were moving.


As The Blood Volume Increases, The Brain Volume Decreases

This pregnancy is kicking my tired ass right now. And while I am thankful for every single little minute that I am getting the beatdown from raging hormones, doubling blood volume, sensory overload, crazy mo-fo fatigue and seriously premature weight gain, it is making it kind of difficult to do much else.

These are the exact symptoms I dealt with when first pregnant with Bee (except the ridiculous weight gain – holy shit, it’s like my stomach muscles received the message and said, oh hey, we remember this – ready, EXPAND!), but the difference is, well there was no Bee to deal with.

If I wanted to sit on the couch and deliver whiny directives to Chris all night, I could do it. Now, however, I must deliver whiny directives to Chris while convincing Bee that tea parties are much more fun when we’re lying down, and that Daddy really really wants to do pretty much everything for her right now and Mummy doesn’t want Daddy to be sad, so she’s going to let him. Bee’s answer? A very adorable, ‘Don’t fink so!’
Ahh, toddlers. Almost as demanding and unreasonable as their pregnant mothers.

Poor Chris. This pregnancy has got to be as hard on him as it is on me right now. Luckily, I have one of those husbands who seriously steps up, does whatever he needs to do to with a minimal amount of complaint and maintains a pretty high level of concern for his daughter, his wife and her belly while doing it all. Chris has been doing all the laundry, all the cooking, all the straightening up and looking after pretty much all of Bee’s needs (I’ve changed exactly two poopy diapers in the past 4 weeks), while still catering to all of my whims and cravings.

Ah, whims and cravings. Like, that by 6:30 every evening I excuse myself to go take a long, hot shower because it relaxes me and helps stave off the nausea that always makes an appearance around that time. Or like my need to eat shwag mr.noodle-type food Now! Now! Now! And anything else will make me sick, but if I don’t eat Now! Now! Now! I’m going to be sick anyway! (Thank you, Chef Woo, for making MSG-free shwag noodles.) Or like insisting that we leave the house Sunday morning at 9am to go get Montreal-style bagels while they will still be warm, and then eating 3 before we even get home.

Actually, that one is more like an ethnic mandidate than a craving.

To sum up: Me – tired but thankful; still worried but that will be alleviated slightly when I see my midwife soon (hooray!). Chris – awesome and slightly overworked, but will be rewarded when the second trimester whoremones (thanks for that one, Scarb) kick in. Bee – adorable and demanding. Blogosphere – severely neglected, but not for too much longer. Chef Woo – cookin’ it up good.

Better go; it’s bagel time.


Me Me Me

Because I can’t get enough of myself, I’ve asked Cinammon Gurl to interro - I mean, interview me, and boy, she did a lovely job. See for yourself:

1. I'm pretty sure I've seen some indication on your blog that you enjoy a little hgtv now and then. If you could have anybody from a design show redo a room in your house, who would it be, which room and why?

It’s a sad, sad truth. My home decorating aspirations are much like my crafting aspirations. Half-baked and with questionable results. Case in point – Bee’s nursery, which, ha ha, by the way, she’s NEVER slept in, was started a generous 4 months before she was born. We sanded, painted, refinished old furniture, put together new furniture, and readied a beautiful chair-rail…. which sits in the basement workroom, warped by time and dampness. Nothing is on the walls and her super-cute pottery barn curtains hang by an unfinished dowel. Her crib is used for little more than storage of behemoth laundry piles. Shameful, I know.

So, to answer your question, I’d want someone to come in a finish her room, right? Or perhaps begin the laborious task of transforming our chocolate-brown office into the new baby’s nursery, right?

Sarah Richardson, come on over and give my 62-year old kitchen with the 20-year old linoleum floor and gawd-awful cheap-as-shit countertop a makeover! Booyah!

2. I'm totally stealing this from the person who interviewed Beck but it's such a great question, I can't resist... If you were stranded on a desert island, what book, cd, movie, drink and food would you bring?

More importantly, Cin, what island am I on? It’s warm, right? And it’s not really a desert island, is it? Because I don’t really like the feeling of sand in my yoni. But deserted I could handle, as long as I have Fall on Your Knees by Anne-Marie MacDonald to read, Dave Matthews Live at The Gorge to listen to, Say Anthing to watch, water to drink and bagels with cream cheese and fresh tomatos to eat.

3. If we got together for a cheesy dance movie marathon, which movies would you pick?

Dirty Dancing, Stomp the Yard and Bring It On, which counts, because cheerleaders are just dancers who’ve gone retarded.

4. Which quality of Chris's would you most like to a) see AND b) not see passed onto your children?

As long as they have his nose, I am a happy. No? Looking for more? Ok, then. Chris has an amazing ability to not judge and not be petty. He always sees the positive in people and is incredibly sensitive to other people’s feelings. What I mean is, he is nice. Genuinely nice. As opposed to me, who is kind of a bitch. I hope our children inherit this quality, because like some stupid bimbo on tv said, It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.

And I’d be ok if his complete inability to make small-talk, beyond, ‘So, yeahhhhhhh,’ stops here.

5. What's the craziest or stupidest thing you've ever done?

Hmm. This is tough. Uh, no, not because I’m a sensible, responsible adult, but because I have done so many – SO many – crazy and stupid things. But they were all in the name of growing and learning, so I embrace them all. And I truly regret nothing. And I had a lot of fun.

But here’s an example – it is 1993 and I am hitchhiking from Nanaimo to Tofino with my bff. Our 3-hour journey has taken quite a while, not because it’s a shitty day to travel, but because the first ride we got was from a really cute guy in a v-dub bus and he and I hooked up and I wouldn’t continue on our journey for days. That’s how I met Lisalou (said boy’s ex!) so it was definitely a good move.
But that’s not the crazy or stupid part.

When I finally heed bff’s call to get the fuck on our way already, we hit the (side of the) road.
First ride – how bout 2 drunks in a pickup! Awesome. (btw – this crazy, stupid thing is also not the crazy or stupid thing I am alluding to.) They drop us off in Port Alberni to hit the bar (again.). We say a hail mary and hike up our thumbs, just wanting to get out of the redneck backwoods little corner of hades we were stuck in, where pretty much every car that passed had a yellow ribbon on it’s antennae, supporting the logging of the old growth rain forest – that we were heading up to to see before these rednecks tore it down. Where my sister had been arrested a year earlier for blocking said rednecks from getting their tree-death machines on the road. Ugh. Port Alberni. Ever been there? Lovely in the spring.

So anyway, we were desperate to leave, and nobody would pick up two hippies for a long time. Oh, and it was raining, because it never stops raining in Port Alberni.
Finally, FINALLY, a man pulls over. We ring out our shoes, get in and relax. Everything’s fine for about a half an hour, until the driver informs us that he’s going to pull off the road, into the bush, to check out some land he’s thinking of buying. Me and bff look at each other and try not to freak. A million things are running through our heads, not the least of which is Get the fuck out of the car!!!

(enter crazy and stupid)

But instead, we sit in panicked silence, each of us probably formulating a plan as to how we will get out of this or really, if in fact this will be the end of us. He can’t take us both, I am trying to convince myself, while digging in my backpack for anything I could use as a tool of self defense. The best I come up with is a pipe, and not like a ‘Col. Mustard in the Conservetory’ kind of pipe. So, ok, I’ll just get the guy really high, and distract him from his intention of raping and mutilating us and we can all laugh about how funny the word ‘Chillum’ is! Good plan!

Meanwhile, the car stops. He gets out. We get out. ‘It’s just down here,’ he says. Do we run? No. Why? Because we’re fucking stupid crazy idiots, of course. We are paralyzed by our youth and inexperience and, quite honestly, politeness, and no amount of after-school specials is going to change our inability to change this situation. And in the back of my mind, at least, this is my first trip away without the safety net of my boyfriend, first trip as kind of an adult, and I want to trust this guy. I want to believe that not everybody is a horrible, dangerous predator, regardless of how this scenario fits the profile.

So we follow the guy. To the top of hill. Where, just below is the most beautiful valley I’ve ever seen in my life. With a For Sale sign at the edge. We let our guard down and enjoy the view.

‘Do you girls mind heading back to the road on your own,’ Our killer asks, ‘I think I’d just like to sit here for a while.’

Our next ride is from a minister. We both fall asleep in the back of the car and wake up in the land of the big trees.

Oh lord. Don’t tell my mother about this one.

That was fun! And if any of you would like to be interviewed by me, let me know! I’ll get you good.


mmm, tums

Totally preoccupied to the point that you can't blog about it, so you can't blog about anything?

So scared you can barely stand it?

So happy you can barely stand it?

So tired that you wanna pull a George Castanza and go to sleep under your desk at work?

So nauseous that even your dad, going through chemotherapy, laughs at you?

Smell someone's disgusting ham sandwich two blocks away?

Just about at the point where you are able to stop freaking out every time you go to the bathroom, expecting to see blood?

Going to freak out for the next 6 1/2-ish months anyway?