And Baby Makes Three!

Thanks to my high blood pressure, my doctor decided I should be induced early, rather than allow my levels to get out of control and wind up with an emergency situation. I was called in to be induced on Friday morning, but had to wait for several hours before being treated with a Prostin gel to soften and ripen my cervix. Babydaddy loved any reference to my cervix ripening and kept making fruit-related analogies during the labour. We were sent home with instructions to return later that night to check my progress. The nurse emphasized that Prostin rarely ever brings on labour on its own and I would likely need to be induced the following day. Babydaddy and I watched TV, napped and ate before making the trek back to St. B. My own doctor was on call, so she checked me and reported that I had made a little change and was two centimetres dilated and 50% effaced. Another round of Prostin, which for some odd reason made me vomit up EVERYTHING I had eaten earlier in the evening, and we were sent home once again.

After a decent sleep, I woke up at 7:53 in the morning with contractions. I relaxed, napped and threw up in a regular cycle and eventually Babydaddy called the hospital. We learned there were no beds and told to wait at home, as an induction wouldn't be possible until later. Induction? Isn't this labour? I was confused, but laboured on, as the contractions became more intense. My sister joked that perhaps the baby would be born in a manger if there was "no room at the in...patient wing". Finally, we decided it was hospital time. Babydaddy claims it was very challenging to get me ready to go...he blowed dried my hair, I recall, and probably dressed me. It's kind of a blur for me. My parents picked us up and I do remember listening to Bob Dylan Christmas in the car on the ride to the hospital...Si-lent Niiiiight. Ho-ly Niiiight. Oh Bob.

The next couple of hours was a mixture of pain, vomiting and yelling. When we arrived at triage, I was three centimetres dilated. I was eventually hooked up to an IV for antibiotics and saline. The nurse checked me an hour later and I was five centimetres. Feeling discouraged, I told Babydaddy I wanted to die. And I wanted an epidural, something I was against during my pregnancy. There were still no beds, so I continued to labour in triage. Eventually, I started bucking from the contractions. I felt possessed. During one contraction there was a gush of fluid. "My water broke!" I cried out. No, Dana the Nurse confirmed, you peed. She checked me and exclaimed that in half an hour I had fully dilated and was now 100% effaced and the baby's head was pushing against the membrane. I said I had to poo and went to the washroom. "Don't push!" she said through the door. "I CAN'T HELP IT!!!" I yelled back. She burst in the bathroom and got me back in the bed and then was on the phone yelling "My girl is going to go! I need a bed now!"

Suddenly, I was being wheeled down the halls, past horrified looking dads and visitors. The doctor, Dr. Ambrose, met us in the hall and introduced himself, although we had met in triage several weeks earlier. As I was getting onto the labour bed, my water broke. My feet went up in stirrups, Babydaddy was instructed to hold my heel and in one push, out popped our little monkey. It was the biggest, most satisfying release I've ever experienced. I looked at the baby on my chest and said "it's a girl?" and then "she looks like you, honey!" Babydaddy cut the cord and that was that. My next question was "did I tear?" Just a tiny one, no stitches needed. "Did I poo?" No. Ok!

And that is how Teagan Evangeline made her way into the world, quickly and relatively easily. She latched right away and nursed happily for a little while before being assessed and getting her bath.  Our nurses from triage and the previous day's Prostin adventure came to say hi and meet Teagan. The story made its way around the maternity floor and might be something of legend, especially for a first time mom.

When It Rains...

I offer my sincere apologies for the lack of posts! Blogging has taken a backseat to a plethora of events and issues that have arisen over the last few weeks.

The last week of November, my blood pressure started to rise to alarming levels. After a number of doctor's visits and a trip to the hospital for monitoring, I was placed on medical leave from work. To ensure my and baby's health, I was prescribed medication and placed under the supervision of an antenatal home care program with daily visits from a nurse. I also started going for weekly fetal assessments and ultrasounds, which was nice -seeing my baby was a bonus- but also stressful -parking around the hospital is atrocious.

To make matters worse, our neighbour's house exploded at the beginning of December. Details are still being sorted out, but our house, shed and Babydaddy's old car caught fire. Damage was entirely exterior, but the firefighters trampled all over our brand new kitchen floors and left soot marks on the walls during their search of the house. We lost all our camping gear and the car was completely destroyed. This happened two days before I officially moved into the house, after all the renovations Babydaddy and his dad did to make the house comfortable for our little family. The move went smoothly, thanks to the assistance of our families and friends and after settling in, I felt infinitely more prepared for baby to arrive. We're still dealing with the aftermath of the fire, but Babydaddy is taking charge of that, meaning more rest time for me.

On the up and up, the fire has given us a reason to sing various renditions of Billy Joel's "We didn't start the fire"...because we didn't.

Baby Shower

Last weekend, the grandmas-to-be hosted a baby shower for our little monkey. Our aunts, cousins and friends of our moms descended upon us in droves to present us with all the accoutrements necessary to housing, feeding, diapering, clothing and caring for a baby. Both Babydaddy and I were overwhelmed by the generosity and kindness of everyone who attended and consider ourselves so blessed to have such wonderful people in our lives.

We are now flush with diapers, which is a huge relief...we're going the cloth route with diapering. The massive amounts of money parents spend on diapering, coupled with the environmental impact of disposable diapers made me certain that cloth was the right choice for us. A disposable diaper will sit in a landfill for 250 years before decomposing! That weighs on my conscious, given my affection for Planet Earth. Furthermore, average potty-training age has risen expotentially since the introduction of disposable diapers...I'm optimistic that my diapering years will be limited by using cloth. That and the fact that both Babydaddy and I loved being clean and nude far too much to stay in diapers for long.

We're slowly working on getting the nursery ready for the little monkey -then we can unpack all our fantastic gifts and get to work arguing about how to set up the swing and bouncy chair!

Only Six More Weeks!

Despite the many assurances from laypeople and medical professionals alike, my nausea and so-called morning sickness has continued, uninterrupted, for tje last 28 weeks. It reared its ugly head around the six week mark, meaning that I've ralphed daily in three seasons, two countries, half a dozen bathrooms, morning, noon and night.

Everytime a person asks how I'm feeling or how pregnancy is treating me, I'm honest. Pregnancy hasn't been awful...no swelling, no weight gain, no leg cramps, no acne or mask of pregnancy, no stretch marks, no headaches, no diabetes. My blood pressure is perfect and the baby, by all accounts, appears happy and healthy. I do admit, however, that I still have morning sickness. At first people would say "Oh, that will end by 14 weeks" then "16 weeks" then "18 weeks" and eventually "that will end...when the baby's born." Let's hope!

Last night was my first bout of middle-of-the-night vomiting. I woke up for my regular 3:30 AM pee and decided to have a few sips of juice, since I was feeling nauseated. I got back into bed and dozed for a while before rising once again to empty my ever-bursting bladder. After I piddled and washed my hands, the familiar urge to throw up washed over me. I hunched over the sink, bringing the little juice I drank and remnants of my bedtime snack. A thorough toothbrushing and facewashing later, I was back in bed, desperate for a few more hours of nausea-free sleep.

My mantra has become "only [blank] more weeks" til I can wake up without throwing up. Only six more weeks!

Hospital Tour

Our hospital offers monthly virtual tours of their facility to allow expectant parents to familiarize themselves with the procedures abd policies surrounding labour and delivery.

The first portion of the evening was all about anathesia, although our current birth plan includes a drug-free labour. While the information was...there and important in case of c-section, it was delivered as slowly and painfully as possible. It made me want an injection of morphine right then and there! We had to sit through the presentation, however, to get to the main reason for our attendance -the hospital tour!

The nurse presenting the tour was funny, warm and animated. And everything she said ticked the boxes on my list of labour, delivery and recovery "wants". Changing positions throughout labour? Check! Pursuing a variety of pushing positions? Check! Showers for comfort? Check! Hydrotheraphy tub? Check! Immediate skin to skin with baby? Check! Breastfeeding within moments of delivery? Check! Babydaddy allowed to overnight with baby and I? Check!

Learning all this makes me feel even more comfortable and confident about giving birth. However comfortable one can feel about pushing an object the size of a watermelon out of a 10 cm opening..

Little Bunton Bag

With two solid boy's names both Babydaddy and I love, I'm a bit panicked that we only have one solid girl's name. If we have a boy, we'll look him over before deciding which name best suits our son. And if we have a girl, we better hope she fits the name we picked. Otherwise, we're in trouble.

Yesterday, Babydaddy picked me up from work. On the drive home, I mentioned that the baby is now the size of a honeydew melon. We joked about the baby having green-tinged skin like a alien or Bunsen Honeydew, the Muppets character. "What about the name Bunsen?" I asked in jest. That was my first mistake.

Babydaddy: How about the name Bunton?
Me: Bunton?
Babydaddy: Yes!
Me: Bunton Baerbig?
Babydaddy: Yes!
Me: What would the middle name be?
Babydaddy: Bag.
Me: Bunton Bag? Bunton Bag Baerbig?
Babydaddy: Yes!
Me: What would we call the baby for short?
Babydaddy: Bunt.
Me: Bunt? What about Bunbun? Or Bunny!
Babydaddy: No. Bunt.
Me: Ugh.

And that, my friends, is why we don't have a second girl's name. At least he makes me laugh.

"No Patience" Pachet

Chalk it up to hormones...my patience appears to have waned, perhaps storing up for parenthood, when it will be sorely needed. Specifically, my tolerance for stupidity, lack of courtesy, dangerous behaviour and rudeness in adults is at an all-time low.

Things that set me off include:

Able-bodied teenagers and adults not giving up a seat on the bus to the differently-abled, elderly or pregnant. This especially includes that very large dude in his late-thirties who sits in an accessible seat with his legs spread so far apart, that he often takes up three seats. Seriously, are your balls that big?

Drivers who don't use their signals, speed, cut off other vehicles, are too slow, are texting behind the wheel, appear distracted...ok, fine, ALL drivers. I have a precious, honey dew-sized package to protect!

Customers who don't consider other patrons during their transactions. For instance, after an appointment yesterday evening, Babydaddy and I were heading home to eat a long overdue dinner. I needed to stop at 7-11 to pick up bus tickets (andgetarootbeerslurpee). As I walked in, there were two women at the counter being rung through by the cashier. I got in line behind a nice couple buying pints of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey. The women at the counter were still paying...or so I thought. Turns out they were wandering around the store, selecting more items to buy, as the line of customers behind them got longer and longer. As she was handing the cash to the incredibly patient cashier, the first woman spotted some beef jerky...she asked a question I couldn't hear, then meandered down the candy aisle, cash in hand, to stare at something for two minutes. She returned to the counter, EMPTY HANDED, paid, took forever to get her groceries off the counter and leave. Babydaddy stormed into the store, worried I had given birth amongst the Doritos and day-old hotdogs, only to find me fuming in line.

Given my general timidity and reluctance to call people on their shit, my frustration is mostly spewed out privately to my family and friends. I can't imagine the number of new assholes I'd have ripped around this city if I let loose. Most of the time, I can laugh about it later, chuckling at my ire and ridiculous threats of knocking on windows at red lights.

Some people miss seeing their feet during the last stage of pregnancy; I miss not wanting to shove mine up everyone's ass.

Let It Snow!

The morning of the first snowfall of the year, Babydaddy and I were slowly getting ourselves out of bed. I was happy; snow represents Christmas and crisp night skies, hoarfrost and hockey. Babydaddy was grouchy; snow means cold. Hahrumph!

I mentioned that snow is so much fun as a kid...my sisters and I were constantly toboganning, building forts and quincies and "painting" the snow with spray bottles of water and food colouring. There's a great photo of my sister and I scraping together the last bit of snow in our backyard to make one last snowman of the year, circa 1988. Snow, although cold, is one of the best things about growing up in this climate.

Admittedly, there are plenty of things that lose their lustre upon reaching adulthood. As a new parent, however, these events/activities/weather conditions are renewed as fun and exciting once again. Snow is a prime example; I can't wait until our little monkey is old enough to safely fly down a hill on a cheap, plastic sled, screaming the whole way in a mix of delight and fear. We could make it a weekly outing! However, for the past ten years or so, I could usually only muster enough enthusiasm and drive to hurl myself down a hill covered in ice and snow once annually.

My parents would tirelessly carry toboggans up countless hills and dispense endless mugs of hot chocolate each winter. My dad would build elaborate forts in our backyard, creating tiny toboggan runs for those days we couldn't get away to the bigger driving-distance hills. My mom would sacrifice old sheets to put a roof and a door over quincies we would build at the floodway, which served as a shelter from the wind during marathon sledding sessions. My parents even bought a harness for our dog, Riley, so he could pull us down the street on a sled. 

Winter doesn't mean being trapped indoors, while your store of vitamin D is depleted and the sun is but a distance memory. With a little parent-power, I say let it snow!

Etymology of Pregnancy

Today one of my coworkers and I were discussing how far along I am in my pregnancy, when he exclaimed "Your oven is almost done!" It got me thinking about all the hilarious, bizarre, lame and stupid expressions we have used and currently use for pregnancy. Here are some little gems I can help but share...

"In a delicate state" - reminds me of a late 19th century socialite with a much-older husband and a penchant for fainting at the slightest surprise. Verdict: we should bring it back, ladies!

"In a family way" - This is the worst idiom for pregnancy ever. Firstly, this reminds me of casseroles made of Campbell's Soup and hair that needs to be set on a weekly basis. Secondly, it implies that without a baby, a couple isn't a family. Verdict: don't use it in my presence.

"With child" - Makes me want to break out the patchouli and love beads. Being with child, however, is kind of sweet. How many mothers-to-be walk around referring to the baby as "the fetus"? Babydaddy feels bad when we call our baby an "it". Verdict: a throwback without being repressive.

"Knocked up" - A personal favourite. Being knocked up definitely alludes to surprise or happy accident. Unlike "a delicate state", knocked up also gives the impending mom a tough, bad-ass edge. Verdict: Sounds marginally low-class, gets the point across.

"Expecting" - Although this is widely used, it seems silly. A person expects lots of thing...the cable company to show up, a promotion at work, winter...so unless it's followed by "a baby", it's a little vague. Verdict: use it at your leisure, but if someone asks you "what?" don't be offended.

"Preggo" - A misspelling for that mediocre pasta sauce. Verdict: leave it for the spaghetti. 

"Pregger MacGregor" - Babydaddy's clever description of my "state"...an homage to the many times we drove by MacGregor when we lived in western Manitoba. Verdict: I like it because it was created especially for me -at least, I'm going to pretend it was.

"Bun in the oven" - I feel sorry for ovens now. Getting punched, kicked and jabbed, throwing up, losing sleep and feeling tired every time some idiot baker decides to make themselves some bread. Verdict: Poor oven.

Baby Ninja Streetfighter

I'm convinced that if I could see inside my uterus, it would be black and blue. This baby is a hearty kicker and puncher, when it wants to be. Usually, the baby makes relaxed turns and little sweeping motions, causing my bump to ripple and move. However, several times a week, the baby seems to throw a tantrum of sorts, doubling me over with pain.

Yesterday, I was cuddling with Zoe the Chihuahua watching the pilot of Once Upon a Time. Zoe, completely uninterested in the show, dozed off. Meanwhile, the baby, enraged by one thing or another, decided to jab me in the ovary with a foot. Jab, stamp, curb-stomp. It was unexpected and ridiculously painful. I yelled out in shock. Poor Zoe was startled out of her adorable sleep, looking at me as though I were insane. I apologized to her, tucking her into a blanket. She nodded off once more, only to be awoken again by my cry of agony as the baby laid the smack down for the second time in five minutes.

Seriously? Does he have a knife or throwing stars or a mace in there?

Labour of Learning

Last week, Babydaddy and I attended our first prenatal birthing class. We're taking a six week session, allowing us lots of time to absorb as much information about effacing, placenta, pushing and vaginal tearing. Hooray? 

We started off with an informative icebreaker, where we got to ask other parents if they knew about a variety of labour and birth facts. Babydaddy's personal favourite appeared to be the question about the effects of nipple stimulation during labour. As it turns out, our instructor explained, it would take a lot of nipple stimulation to induce labour to which Babydaddy responded with an enthusiastic "Yessss!" Yep, I procreated with this fella, ladies.

Interestingly, the class gave me the opportunity to experience my partner in a new way -how he is as a student. This made me reflect on my own behaviour as a classroom learner. It's been a long while since I was a student in a traditional sense. Apparently I haven't changed -I answer questions when I know -or think I know- the answer. I speak up when no one else wants to volunteer information. I ask questions, only when I'm really curious. 

Unlike the majority of student-parents in the group, I'm fairly far along in my pregnancy. Many woman aren't due until February or March. I've already begun reading and thinking about labour and birth, giving me that academic "edge" that pushes me to be such a keener. Hopefully I won't be "that mom", causing the other parents to loathe us.

Type A!

Busy Baby!

The baby often busies himself with high kicks, exploring my ribs and what I can only imagine is punching. I've reached a point where we can now see the baby moving...although my layer of chub is preventing us from distinguishing little hands or feet. I'm ok with that. When my cousin told me about her preview of their son's face pressed into her abdomen, I was freaked out. There's a reason we're not going to Babymoon Ultrasound!

One of my favourite parts of feeling our baby move around happened earlier this week. Babydaddy rested his head against my bump and asked the baby, "What are you doing in there?" Almost immediately, the baby punched him in the cheek, as if to say "None of your business, Daddy!" I'm not sure how I feel about our child already giving attitude; especially when Babydaddy and I are so anti-violence. Maybe the baby was saying "I'm a chip off the ol' block" and giving his dad a friendly knock on the chin. Only time will tell!

Sleeping Beauty

If I was one of the seven dwarves, they'd call me Sleepy. After years of enjoying a level of energy that has afforded me luxuries such as successfully functioning on as little as three hours sleep and never needing coffee to perk myself up in the mornings, I am now a slave to my bed.

Each night I find myself falling asleep reading, watching TV or holding my phone in the midst of a text exchange. After I do the dishes, I quickly change into my pyjamas, trade my contact lenses for my glasses and brush my teeth before the pregnancy-induced narcolepsy hits me unexpectedly.

Every parent scoffs at my whining about the fatigue: "Just wait 'til the baby's born!" Frankly, I'll take it. I'm optimistic that once I give birth two things will happen. One, I'll return to my former motto of "less is more" vis-a-vis sleep. Two, I'll be so excited to be a new mom and love my little monkey so much I'll want to be awake to observe, nuture and nourish my baby.

Let me have that...even if it's not true.

Noisy Toys

I've been pregnant for thirty weeks. Despite what I've heard about pregnancy taking forever, this pregnancy has flown by. Only ten weeks before baby arrives -provided he stays put until my fortieth week- and I feel like there are an infinite number of things to do before his arrival.

Babydaddy and I have registered for our baby shower. That process, which I think has taken us over five hours collectively, was fun and stressful. We want to cover all our bases and make sure baby has what he needs to be comfortable and cared for. We also don't want to appear greedy, maniacally rubbing our hands together and cackling at the booty we've amassed. Realistically, babies only need so much and we only have so much space to store baby's goods.

Looking at some toddler toys, just for fun, we saw a dolphin ride-on toy. Given the limited space in the house, this toy would never work for us. Babydaddy imagined the little monkey trapped in the hallway, sideways, à la Austin Powers in the first film. Our kid is lucky though. We don't hate musical, noisy toys. We like some of them. A lot. But we'll buy them. Don't buy them for us. We're good.

Bladder, where art thou?

For the first time in 28 weeks of pregnancy, I sneezed this morning and peed myself just a little bit. I had to laugh. No use getting upset over spilt...urine. Perhaps this is the transition from decent bladder function to avoiding funny situations in fear of piddling my pants. Maybe this is why my dad has been ordering free samples of adult diapers online and stockpiling them in the linen closet for the past few months.

Unfortunately this is not the first time my bladder has refused to cooperate with another bodily function. Specifically, during our babymoon, I threw up a fruit leather and the force of the vomiting was such that I full-on peed my panties. After cleaning up the mess on the floor, I threw the now-soaked undies into a plastic bag and tossed it in with the laundry. Note: I wasn't about to throw away those gems...they have a T-Rex on the bum with the words "Man Eater" above its head. C'mon.

When we got back to Winnipeg, Babydaddy wound up doing a load of laundry with the now-putrid panties festering in the confines of the plastic bag. When he opened the bag, instead of puking or throwing them away, he washed them -twice- and said he felt bad for his babymama and what I'm going through for our baby -"Poor Coco". When he told me that, I was reminded once again why I love him so much. I hope Little Monkey has a big heart like his/her daddy.

Chica-a-go-go

Other than the treacherous, death-defying freeways and the smell of poop on a particular stretch of the 55, Chicago is a lovely entertaining city. We saw a motorcyclist stand up on his seat while driving 50 miles an hour. Babydaddy sneaked a peek up the skirt of a giant statue of Marilyn Monroe. I dorked out at Oz Park, which featured statues of the so-called heroes from the Wizard of Oz -complete with Dorothy's ruby slippers!

The food was a second trimester dream-come-true. We ate delicious deep dish pizza from Giordano's -which gave me wicked heartburn thanks to our topping choice of "fresh garlic". I had the world's best coleslaw at Smoke Daddy's -although I took one bite of my pulled chicken sandwich and found myself full. We had hotdogs and cheese fries at The Wiener's Circle, the thought of which still makes me queasy. And Babydaddy's friend took us for sushi at his "first date" hotspot, Kin. Sure, the roof had caved in only months earlier, but it was BYOB, which suited the fellas perfectly. This lead to the one and only time I drove on the Chicago freeways; I'm still alive to blog this, so my time behind the wheel was a success!



Visiting every museum possible was my number one priority on this babymoon -besides petting goats in every state- so we made use of the City Pass and spent time wandering around the Shedd Aquarium, the Field Museum, the Adler Planetarium and the Museum of Science and Industry. We also visited the tallest building or structure or something in the world or North America or something; Willis Tower. Formerly named for Sears, this building is 103 stories of sheer elegance. Or something. 


Once we got to the top of the tower, after a nauseatingly long elevator ride, we snapped photos of Chicago from every angle. I started feeling a little off...nauseated, unbalanced...after we made our way around the entire tower and braved THE LEDGE. What's THE LEDGE, you ask? It's like a little solarium attached to the tower, 103 stories above street level, with a floor of GLASS. I backed out on THE LEDGE, imagining all the while the "BEEP BEEP BEEP" of a large truck in reverse. I gripped Babydaddy's arm and faked a big smile for the staff person who took a photo before I retreated to the safety of opaque ground. 


Exiting the building, we purchased the photos, partly to scare my mom -who predictably exclaimed "my grandbaby!" when she saw the risk we took with our unborn's life- and partly because we realized it was our anniversary and the date was printed on the photo. Nothing says "I love you" like standing on glass a mile above the ground. 

Coco Loves Goats

Babydaddy is perplexed by my fascination with goats. As a five year-old, I was attacked by a goat named Nanny at my Aunty Joyce and Uncle Edwin's hobby farm. It chased me onto the top of my mom's Cougar, rammed me with its horns and after I finally escaped to safety, destroyed my little sister's bottle. Still, despite this trauma, I love goats. Goats are funny, cute, smart and naughty. I have a loose goal of petting goats everywhere I visit. I've pet goats in Winnipeg, Brandon, Stonewall, Vancouver Island, Minneapolis, Shakopee, Wisconsin Dells and Amsterdam. I have every intention of petting a goat in Chicago. Just try and stop me, Babydaddy! Maybe once we have a kid (no pun intended), it will irritate him slightly less...

 Minnesota Renaissance Festival

True Love at Wisconsin Dells

Renaissance Magic!

The  Minnesota Renaissance Festival was everything I had hoped it would be. We saw women dressed as unicorns, a joust featuring a knight who looked exactly like a dude from Lost, brilliant costumes and an immersive setting that brought me back to the Elizabethan era. It also made me infinitely happy to be alive now...with the dusty roads and lack of plumbing, I would be the worst peasant ever. Every time I had to use the "privy", which was often as Baby pushes on my bladder constantly, the stank of the waste of thousands of patrons overwhelmed my senses and doubled me over with nausea. By the end of the day, Babydaddy and I were caked with dust and horse poop.

The people were friendly and the number of people who maintained their Minnesotan-laced British accents and 17th century personas was impressive. A boisterous fellow in a costume told Babydaddy and I to "Go forth and multiply...but I see you've already done that!" We ate pickles and fudge, beer and cheese soup and drank "Sir" Arnold Palmers. Babydaddy bought me a flower garland for my hair. We both tried out the archery and I was impressed with Babydaddy's ability to hit the target -we'd be eating good in the 1600s!

The one Renaissance-related goal we didn't achieve was the eating of a turkey leg, Henry the Eighth-style. Those legs looked gross and bloody and stringy. Babydaddy agreed. Instead of eating a turkey leg, I took a photo of a man named Tim, from Oakdale, Minnesota, eating a turkey leg on my behalf. Good as!

I'd go back to the Festival a thousand times over. Next time with little monkey in tow. Huzzah!

Tim from Oakdale, MN

At Broomhilda's

Babydaddy the Archer

Babymoon

Tomorrow Babydaddy and I leave on our long-awaited Babymoon! A babymoon, like its sister, the honeymoon, is a romantic getaway for a couple. Instead of celebrating a marriage, however, a babymoon is a cruel reminder that we might never get to travel alone ever again. I'm exaggerating, of course. There are kennels where you can board your kids during a vacation, right?

The babymoon involves a roadtrip with stops in Minneapolis, Wisconsin Dells and finally, Chicago. Along the way, we'll be knocking a big item off my informal bucket list; visiting a Renaissance Fair. I'm ridiculously excited to be stepping back in time to witness a joust, admire the period costumes and eat a turkey leg, Henry VIII style. It might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I like my tea nerdy, son!

In Chicago, we have a loosey-goose itinerary of museum-hopping, visiting and eating -I want to work my way through every Chicago delicacy, be it deep dish pizza or hot dogs. My favourite Chicagoan sent me links to her favourite restaurants which has acted like some sort of food porn for this usually-not-hungry pregger-MacGregor. I'm starving.

My biggest concern centres around the driving and my frequent and urgent need to piddle. Babydaddy, in all seriousness, suggested I wear an adult diaper. Because peeing myself in the car is exactly how I want to spend my romantic holiday! At least he cares about my urinary needs...right?

I'll be blogging when I can throughout the trip, but speaking of urination, I have to pee. And how!

Puppy-Baby Love

Some of the most interesting reactions to the baby aren't from the humans in our lives, but rather the animals. All three of the dogs that live in or frequent my house have their own unique approaches to the impending bundle of joy.

Molly, the miniature pinscher-chihuahua cross, is a mother herself. In her previous home, she was bred incessantly until her escape.  I ask her for mothering advice from time to time, but she remains pretty closed about her pregnancies. The other evening, Molly, who could moonlight as a heating pad, was sitting on my lap, nestled against my bump. After a few minutes, the baby started kicking Molly. She was completely unphased and relaxed as the baby continued his "attack".

Zoe, my "niece" chihuahua, had a completely different reaction to the baby's activity. While the baby didn't outright kick Zoe, every time he moved, Zoe would shake violently. Baby moves, Zoe sh-sh-sh-shakes. Baby moves, Zoe sh-a-a-a-akes. Eventually, finding our cuddling intolerable, Zoe jumped down and sat by herself on the loveseat. That night, however, Zoe had to share my bed and I woke up around five in the morning to her and the baby playing footsie through my abdominal cavity. I can't decide what hurts more: the foot of a 23 week-old fetus or a five year-old chihuahua. Jerks.

Brisco, the longest-standing member of the trio, and I have always had a love-hate relationship. I love him; he hates me. Whenever I would hold or kiss him, he would growl, show his teeth and wiggle to free himself from my grasp. However, he seems to be softening in his old age, allowing me to tug his ears, open his mouth and gently pull his tail in an attempt to acclimatize him to the potential "loving" he might receive from our curious baby. Brisco, however, may be jealous when my mom decides to take every conceivable opportunity to hold her grandbaby and not pet her beloved "Brizzy".

When my mom was expecting me, my aunt's boyfriend owned a pitbull named Tiger. Apparently Tiger would rub his face on my mom's belly whenever he'd see her. After I was born, Tiger recognized me, nuzzling his face into me as I lounged in my car seat. Pitbull. One week-old baby. Trapped in a carseat. Nice.

Pukes McGee

After a few days of good mornings, with no signs of morning sickness or nausea, I threw up this morning. It was only water, which I foolishly drank, thinking my body would cooperate with me, as it had in previous days. I felt a bit...gaggy and headed to the washroom, hoping it would pass, only to bring up the three quarters of a water bottle I had ingested fifteen minutes earlier.

This gives me hope, however, that perhaps from here on out, I'll have less morning sickness. That's better than a kick in the pants...or pee in the pants from heaving so hard.

Sugar & Spice & Everything Inquisitive

Working with kids has always been a font of amusing stories, strange revelations and astute observations. Being pregnant around hoards of five to nine year-old girls is turning out to be a hilarious (and adorable) experience.

Yesterday, three little girls sat down with me to make paper crystals at work. First, we talked about crystals, but the conversation soon digressed to discussing my marital status and baby-related questions. One little girl, McKinley, shares a birthstone with me. I told her I have a ring with a pearl in it.

"Are you married?" she asked, wide-eyed. "No, I'm not" I replied. She tucked her hands under her chin and tilted her head to the side. "Are you dating?" she inquired, dreamily. I told her yes and that maybe one day I might get married, after my baby is born. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity.

Next came a barrage of questions from Sandrine about the baby. "Do you know what you'll call the baby?" Sandrine asked, followed by the ever popular "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" I said no and McKinley piped up, "She hasn't had her x-ray yet!" I laughed and said I did have my ultrasound, but we want to be surprised. "What do you thiink I should have?" I pressed. "Hmmmm. A girl!" all three declared almost simultaneously. "Why?" I asked. "Boys act like gangsters," one replied matter-of-factly. Like Al Capone? Or Coolio? I was confused.

Today, I visited our daycamp to do some science experiments with the group. The girls had a ton of baby name questions for me as I was cleaning up the elephant's toothpaste and lithium chloride mess. I asked them for suggestions, which was met with a variety of normal -Emma, Brittany- to pretty -Ariana, Lily- to Disney -Ariel- to off-the-wall -Ferret. "Ferret?" I asked. "Yup!" the little girl replied. "Like the animal?"..."Uh huh!"..."Yeah, maybe not Ferret." No one can say she wasn't thinking outside the box...or the cage...on that one. Besides, if we were going for animal-inspired, I think "Little Monkey" would be a better choice.

Roughin' It

Babydaddy, tasked with packing the car for camping, encountered a few delays and challenges while I was working on Friday. His Oma needed some medical expertise and assistance, which he provided willingly. I forgot our bathing suits at my parents' house, which he needed to go pick up, along with a jar of my mom's famous pickles. He also found himself trapped in a long line at the Tim Horton's drive-thru. By the time we left for West Hawk, it seemed as though we had everything we needed to survive the weekend.

When we arrived at our very open, poorly situated campsite, we opened up the car and I pulled out the tent. It seemed very light, as I was able to toss it onto a patch of grass with ease. "Honey?" I asked. "Did you bring the poles?" Babydaddy stared at me with wide eyes. "Aren't they in there?" He ripped open the bag and unfurled our tent. Nary a pole in sight. Crap. I started crying, of course, and Babydaddy frantically patched together a plan.

That night we "roughed it" by staying in a motel. With a decent bed and an indoor washroom and a fridge. The following afternoon, Stinky and my BIL came out with a huge tent, their dog Zoe and no pillows to stay the night with us. I played with Zoe while the Three Stooges set up the tent and then we all had a nap. On the trusty Coleman stove -that took four people with seven degrees between them too long to start- we made a dinner of rice, smokies, chicken, veggies and corn on the cob. Babydaddy did the washing up and shortly thereafter, once we realized we could see our breath, we all hunkered down for the night to prevent frost bite.

I fell asleep first. Then the fun began. Every couple of hours, I woke up, freezing, with a full bladder that required immediate evacuation! I would reluctantly get up, put on some shoes and stagger to the washroom -watching out for bears- to relieve myself. A few hours later the cycle would start all over again. And again. How much did I have to drink?!

Once the sun rose, Babydaddy got up to use the washroom too. As he was helping me off the air mattress, I felt something weird on my side. I put my hand up my shirt to find a plastic bag full of tea bags stuck to my skin. Babydaddy said that the bag had fallen out of his hoodie pocket during the night. I asked him if he would brag to his friends that he teabagged me during our camping trip?

Sure, I complained during the trip. I even cried. But at least I can say I did it. I camped during my second trimester. And we're all still alive to laugh about it later.

A-camping we will go...

Babydaddy, being the brave soul he is, has agreed to take me camping this weekend. He's pretty sure I'll complain the entire time and whine about sleeping on an air mattress. Far be it for me to prove him wrong, so I make no promises...but I'm actually very much looking forward to a little camping adventure. The fresh air, chipmunks and proximity to the lake are exactly what I want right now.

We're bringing along everything but the kitchen sink; including more pillows than two adults should need, a pile of books and smores supplies. I'm finding myself so hot lately -my temperature is high, too!- that I've packed a wide range of outfits to accommodate for sweating, stretching and general annoyance with whatever is covering my body. Too bad West Hawk has a pesky clothing non-optional policy!

Just a few more hours til "take off" and I can't wait to argue while setting up the tent and then kick back with our feet up, enjoying the outdoors and some cold juice or beer -depending on whether you're talking about mommy or daddy. Update to follow, provided we don't get eaten by bears!

Duck Duck Doctor

When we went to our first prenatal appointment, Babydaddy and I were surprised when my OBGYN walked in the exam room with a huge baby bump of her own. When she offered us a congratulations, we responded in turn, with trepidation in our voices...who will deliver our baby? Do we need to find a new doctor? Are we being callous? The doctor recognize our unspoken panic and assured us we would be assigned to a new doctor. A relief swept over me, but I was concerned -I like my doctor and was comfortable seeing her instead of a midwife when Babydaddy voiced his preference for an MD.

The first few appointments were with the original doctor and yesterday we met with our new OB for the first time. She was great! During our usual barrage of questions, she was patient and addressed all our concerns. She seems to genuinely enjoy her job and I left feeling comfortable and happy with our doctoral luck!

Ultra-cool-and-exciting-sound

Yesterday, we got to see our baby for the first time at the ultrasound! The entire day leading up the appointment, I was a ball of nerves, anxiety and anticipation. Part of me was worried we wouldn't be allowed to see the baby for one reason or another, or the sonographer would be a grouch and not appreciate the emotions attached to this momentous pregnancy milestone.

Kim, the sonographer, was actually incredibly nice...and patient, because apparently our little monkey was moving the entire time, making it challenging to get all the right images for the doctor. This meant that the exam took longer than a typical ultrasound; Babydaddy was so excited and nervous, he peed twice during the half-hour wait before he was called into the room.

Once he was standing at my side, Kim turned the monitor to us and showed us our baby for the first time. The first glimpse I got was a tiny, adorable bottom. "It has your bum, honey!" I said. But the baby moved before Babydaddy could even focus. From there, it laid on its back and wiggled around, moving its arms. What struck me was how long its legs appeared. Babydaddy is definitely long in the trunk, but I'm mostly tall in the legs; the baby appears to have taken after me. Point Mommy!

We bought a sample of photos and promptly showed them off to our parents...apparently grandmas like feet or "feetsies" as they're also known. My dad was impressed by the baby's straight spine and Babydaddy's dad "mistook" the lower leg for a penis. Oh baby!

Celebrate!

To acknowledge the achievement of our 20th week of pregnancy, Babydaddy and I packed a picnic and drove to Winnipeg Beach for the evening. By "packed a picnic", I mean ordered sushi. And sunomono salad. And got a rootbeer Slurpee. It was heavenly.

After we ate our fare, suspiciously eyeing the gang of seagulls shiftily circling our picnic table, we delved into the Baby Name Wizard to continue our quest for the perfect girl's name. Chortling at gems such as "Essence" and "Ethel", we finally hit upon a name that struck a chord with both mommy and daddy. The name stuck with us the rest of the weekend and it appears to be a front runner for our little monkey.

We stayed late at the beach, hoping to catch the Perseid meteor shower, but the brightness of the Moon dashed any hope for a show. Babydaddy went off to piddle against a wall and thinking I could sneak a peak at his junk, I wandered over to glimpse over the wall. A strategically placed hole in the ground thwarted my attempt and I tripped, crushing my ulna and the cookies I was carrying. I scared Babydaddy and cried a bit, mostly because of the cookies.

On our way home, post-failed attempt to view the meteor shower, we were sailing down Highway 8 when something hit the side of Babydaddy's car. We were both startled, but it wasn't until we reached the city that I realized a reddish substance was dripping down my window. "I think it's blood! Maybe a bird hit the car," I said. We laughed that perhaps a severed head had hit the car, but upon arrival at home, realized someone had shot our car with a paintball. SHOT. PAINTBALL. Seriously.

Babydaddy turned into Papa Bear and started making threats to the unknown culprits for potentially endangering the life of his babymama and unborn child -admittedly that shot to the head would've hurt like a sumbitch. I appreciate his protective nature and helped wipe up the mess, after snapping a photo (to be posted!)

The mishaps of our well-intended evening just made for a more memorable celebration. "Remember that time you tried to look at my dink..."

Vomitus Pukus

Each morning I awake with the renewed hope that today's the today I will stop throwing up in the mornings. Each morning I am sorely disappointed as I retch and gag into the sink/toilet/towel.

Sometimes, like this morning, I can predict that I'm going to toss my cookies. A nausea sweeps over me as I rub my eyes and get out of bed. Other mornings, like Saturday, I wait the appropriate amount of time -after 9 am- to eat my breakfast. I feel great. That toast with crabapple jelly was delicious! Milk does a body good! Then I head to the washroom to brush my teeth and before I even put the paste on the brush, I bring up the milk. And then the toast. And more milk. Without warning. Or nausea. Tears streaming down my face -a reflex of the heaving, not a response to the disappointment- I brush my teeth and ponder the waste of time that was bothering with breakfast at all.

Alas, I'm still optimistic that this cycle will end -in December when the baby makes its grand arrival?

Underwear? Underthere...

Finding myself at odds with my changing body, clothing my lower half has been somewhat of a slapstick comedy. My maternity skinny jeans are too big in the hips and bum -which is a miracle of nature, given my typical troubles finding pants to accommodate my expansive hips. I frequently pull my pants up throughout the day, figuring that they will fit better as the baby and my bump grow.

Keeping my underwear up is another story altogether. Some of my pre-pregnancy underwear still fits, but the majority of it has entered a semi-retired phase in the dresser drawer. I've graduated to some ill-fitting bikini briefs, which my body has rejected like an unsuccessful organ transplant. Over the course of the day, the panties kept making their way past my hips and despite my insistence to STAY UP, were compelled by gravity to GO DOWN.

After work, walking to the bus stop, I could feel the panties inching lower and lower with each step. By the time I reached the bus shack, my panties were rolled up under my bum cheeks. There was no polite way of putting my hands down my pants and yanking up my gitch, so I made sure my shirt covered the tell-tale bulge of fabric and sat down. Something about my panties hovering beneath my hips amused me. I giggled a little uncontrollably right there on the bus. By the time I arrived at my front door, the underwear was somewhere closer to my knees. At the rate my panties are dropping, going commando might be the way to go. 

Dream Weaver

My reputation as a vivid dreamer is widespread. I can recall the content of my dreams in great detail and have freaked out a number of people with my nocturnal adventures. After a dream-filled night, I find myself exhausted from being tormented by a giant iguana trying to get into my car or fighting zombies. Some dreams are lovely, like a series of dreams about my grandma after her passing.

When I got knocked up, I read that one of the "symptoms" of pregnancy is crazy dreams. I laughed and thought "Bring it on!" How much weirder could my dreams get? While I think my dreams have been less frequent than any other time in my life, the ones I remember top the charts for their absurdity.

I've had a number of dreams about Baby; he's always a boy. Once I dreamt instead of a baby, I got an orange kitten. The kitten was very bad and I can't remember how it ended. Another recent dream, which disturbed me very deeply, involved me breastfeeding my parents' dog, Molly. I admit I was reluctant to pick her up the next day.

Last night I had an elaborate dream where I was at a retirement home with a big group of elderly women who all wore matching pink nightgowns in a fuzzy material. The nightgowns also had pink lace on the back, at the shoulders. I thought they might be retired nuns, but there were a number of widows in the bunch, so their identity remained a mystery. In the dream, my dad brought them a big flat screen to replace their old TV. He set it up and left. I kept adjusting the TV so all the ladies could see the screen, but everytime I changed the channel, the TV would reorient itself against a wall making it impossible for the majority of the audience to see it. This repeated over and over until my alarm startled me awake. In retrospect, I should've just moved the directions of their chairs.

Babydaddy dreamt that our one-day-old son could hold up his own head. Something, he said, he discovered after forgetting to support the baby's head. I probed him for more details, but as someone who notoriously forgets his dreams, all he could tell me was that the baby had a head full of dark hair.

What other bizarre dreams await me this pregnancy?

Halfway Musings

Today marks the halfway point in my pregnancy. At 20 weeks, Baby is 10 inches from head to heel and weighs over half a pound. Impressive, considering this life started out as a poppyseed. Little Monkey has been quite the mover the past few days and seems to be a creature of habit. I can usually count on movement at certain times of the day or after different activities. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to be up much at night, which could mean a good sleeper!

A coworker told me that children often display preference for food you craved during pregnancy. Her son is a big fan of milk and other dairy, for instance, which she consumed heartily while gestating. Because I generally don't care what I eat, will I have an easy-to-please kid? Or a rootbeer addict with a penchant for sunomono salad -Daddy better teach you karate young, 'cause that's one pretentious sounding lunch!

This morning, one of my volunteers at work nodded his head towards a group of preschool visitors and said "There's a glimpse into your future, eh?" I had to laugh and admire his cute observation. Although I'm looking forward to the baby stage, I can't help up find myself longing for the type of interaction and hilarity a three year old offers.

This weekend, Babydaddy and I will celebrate our pregnancy by...well, I'm not sure how we'll celebrate. Hopefully there will be food involved. Maybe a drive. Maybe an activity. I like...stuff.

Bus Etiquette

For the first few months of my pregnancy, we lived and worked in Brandon, where parking is cheap and bus service leaves a lot to be desired. I drove to work or carpooled with Babydaddy, happily. Returning to Winnipeg and my downtown job, resuming my life as a transit user seemed like the best option. With parking scarce and running no less than eight bucks a day, busing is certainly cheaper. And when the conditions are right, being able to relax and listen to Podcasts or read is lovely.

But the bus has a dark side. During rush hour, when I return home from the museum, the bus can be packed like a clown car. I specifically choose buses and arrange my schedule to avoid peak times and crowds. Yesterday, however, my normally quiet and empty bus was jam packed with patrons. I made my way into the aisle and held onto the handles on the backs of the chairs to brace for the twists and turns as the bus rocketed down Higgins.

My purse repeatedly moved into the space of a seated rider, who scoffed loudly each and every time my bag came her way. I wanted to smack her upside the head. Let's blame the hormones. Or the fact that the previous day, she and a friend were talking so LOUDLY on the bus that I had difficulty hearing my iPod at its highest volume. Either way, I'm 20 weeks pregnant, standing on a speeding bus, as it jerks and slams its brakes. Your comfort, lady, means little to me.  

For years, as a courteous rider, I have surrendered my seat to many a senior, pregnant woman, parent with small children and those with physical limitations. I have done so without question or resentment because standing on the bus is torture. And I loathe to become a forty-something woman who works downtown and commutes by bus, because those people have it rough. They must be unable to stand for any extended period of time and suffer from dementia, since they can't remember what it's like to be pregnant. I still have a good decade ahead of me until it's all downhill.  

F*ck You, Grand Forks

Yesterday, my parents and I headed down to Grand Forks for a day of shopping. My sole intent was to purchase maternity clothes and, if the price was right, pick up some Cherry Dr. Pepper for Babydaddy. We left as the sun was rising, after a night of last minute babysitting for my cousin. I was exhausted before I woke up.

Our first stop was Target. I meandered through the cosmetics section, picking up some perfect grey nail polish and some Yes to Cucumbers face wipes, pleased with my early success. My happiness was short lived as I reached the long-awaited maternity section. The plethora of beautiful, cotton maternity tank tops promised on Target.com was a myth, not unlike the majestic unicorn. In its stead, was a smattering of poly-blends and clearance items that were either transparent or ugly. I tried on a few items, although nothing struck my fancy and I left feeling disappointed.

My Dad decided he wanted to visit Menard's, so I was dropped off at Old Navy, whose maternity section was sure to be more fruitful than Target's. The minute I walked in the door, a friendly greeter asked me if I was looking for anything in particular today. I said "Yes, the maternity section!" She frowned. "We sent all our maternity to Fargo." Oh. My heart sank. I phoned my parents to let them know and then wandered around Old Navy, aimlessly, for half an hour. The baby clothes were adorable, but without knowing the gender of Little Monkey, my options are limited.

Finally, after a pointless stop at Kohl's and TJ Maxx, we arrived at Wal-mart. I hate Wal-mart. But I was hopeful that Wal-mart, of all places, would have a few maternity shirts to tied me over until early fall. The minute I walked in the door, I was hit with the unseemly stench of BO. It wasn't a deodorantless customer, but rather the smell of Wal-mart. How apropos. I grabbed a cart and made my way to the women's section. I circled around and around, looking for the maternity section. No signage anywhere. Unable to locate an associate, I went to the fitting rooms and asked if I could be directed to the maternity area. The employee looked at me and said "We don't have one." I swear my mouth must have dropped open and I exclaimed "What? You've got to be kidding me! This is the only reason I came to Grand Forks! What do your pregnant ladies wear?!" She shrugged "People ask us about the maternity section all the time." Nice. Thanks, Wal-mart.

I blinked back tears and went over to the grocery side of the store. Maternity shopping might have been a bust, but at least I could still make Babydaddy happy with some Cherry Dr. Pepper, right? Apparently not. A box of twelve cans was a whopping $4.38. I know he would never spend that kind of money on pop, so I walked away. Even K-Mart, which claimed to be "BIG" on their sign, had nary a pregnancy outfit in the store.

I slept most of the ride to the border. When we went inside to pay duty, the officer looked at me with my pathetic receipts, and asked "Is this all you spent?" I pouted. "Sadly, it is." He pushed the receipts and my passport back to me and said "Have a good day!" At least I didn't have to pay duty. Falling into bed around 9:30, I slept for eleven hours, catching up on the winks I lacked the night before.

Next time, I'll be making the extra jaunt to Fargo. And f*ck you, Grand Forks. You pregnant-women-hating mecca of doom.

Time Warp

At 19 weeks pregnant, I find myself vascillating between two very differing points. One is that I'm barely halfway through my pregnancy and I'm tired. My feet are sore from days of standing and walking, although fortunately, I show no signs of swelling. When I am hungry, I feel like a voracious bear ready to kill anything -or anyone- standing in my way. Otherwise, it takes me forever to eat and other than sunomono salad, nothing particularly appeals to me. Recently, a stranger said that my due date is "so far away"...who's thinking about Christmas and New Year's in August? Ugh!

Another part of me can't believe how quickly the summer is slipping through my fingers. My last haircut, in early May, feels like yesterday and yet I'm in dire need of another one. Between now and Little Monkey's arrival, I have so much to do...research and purchase a car seat, stroller and crib. Take the prenatal and infant classes we've signed up for. Enroll in a second prenatal yoga session. Work. Plan our trip to Chicago, go on said trip. Register for baby things. Do all my Christmas shopping and wrap gifts. Knit. Make the most of my free time before it's eaten up by breastfeeding, laundry, diapering, cuddling and staring at the baby.

When I was seeing Harry Potter on the weekend, I caught the preview for the new Sherlock Holmes movie. It looks great. And is coming out in December. "December?" I whispered to Niki. "What's that supposed to mean?" He responded, "Probably Christmas Day." I looked down at my bump and begged "Please wait 'til Mommy sees Sherlock Holmes in the theatre, ok?"

An acquaintance I ran into asked my due date. When I told her the end of December, she said, in all sincerity, "Wow, that's coming up quick!" Which is it? Quick or not? Why is time so subjective? And do I want to rush through my pregnancy or take it slow? Given how the heat is getting my goat, I'd opt for fast. Bring it on, Fall!

Maternity Wear (and When)

At the beginning of my pregnancy, I thought I'd be able to wear my regular clothes throughout the summer and into early autumn. Apparently, I was mistaken. For over a month, a pile of unwearable formerly loved clothes has accumulated in my bedroom. Babydaddy ripped a shirt out of the pile in its earliest incarnation, declaring "I love this shirt on you...don't throw it out!" I laughed at him. "Honey, I just can't wear it right now; I'm not throwing it out!" Also, what about all the other clothes in the pile?!

That said, I've collected a few maternity items, including a pair of skinny jeans that don't quite stay up and a few shirts that are either more autumnesque or too big for my current bump. As the weather continues to bless us with high temperatures and a Humidex that routinely soars well above thirty, I find myself wanting to wander around in ill-fitting panties and a bra. I've been told, however, that is not "appropriate" for work or other social settings.

This weekend, I've bookmarked time to acquire a few extra maternity shirts to see me through the summer...and then I'll be on the hunt for cold weather clothes, including the elusive maternity winter coat. Being pregnant over several extremely different seasons is proving to be one of the biggest challenges...as my bathing suit struggles to contain my growing belly, I cross my fingers that my feet don't swell so I can still wear my good old winter boots.

Astro Baby!

Baby is becoming more and more active lately...mostly doing somersaults and tumbling acts, using my bladder as a safety net. Certain activities or stimulation seem to set him on a high-wire adventure, ricocheting off the side of my uterus in a happy rhythym.

The first time I felt a real, honest to goodness movement was during the Beatles Matinee Laser Show down at the ol' planetarium. I had done the show a few times already and was comfortable to sway to the stylings of John, Paul, George and Ringo. The song made me think of Babydaddy and how much I love him...When I'm 64, which we sang together once on one of our many trips to Winnipeg when we lived in Brandon. Perhaps it was my joyful state, the sound of the music or a crazy coincidence, but Little Monkey choose that time to attempt his first foray into acrobatics.

Since then, I can count on some movement following the Beatles show and lots of movement during and after my live planetarium shows. Does Baby love astronomy that much? Or is it my booming, microphoned voice he has come to know and (hopefully) love? I'm sure this child will display signs of nerdery from an early age, but hopefully it's Mommy's voice that fuels the circus in my womb.

You're a Wizard, Baby Name Book!

Post-first viewing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two, my friend Niki and I went to McNally for a peruse. I decided it was time to officially purchase a baby name book, instead of relying on iPod apps and the Internet. There were plenty of name books to choose from, boasting of pages laced with 15,000 choices or unique names or revival of old-timey names reviling the common names of today.

My quality-control technique consisted of me picking up a book, looking up my favourite girl's name and rejecting it on the spot if it wasn't there. Furthermore, I thought, what good is a book with such lucrative "information" as sixteen alternate spellings for a regular ol' name? As someone with an alternatively spelled first name, I find nothing innovative or unique about Wyllyam vs. Wilium vs. WILLIAM. You're only setting your child up for a lifetime of "Actually, it's W-Y-l-l-Y-a-m" and trust me, it's disheartening.

I picked up a lovely looking book called The Baby Name Wizard by Laura Wattenberg, flipped to the girls section and VOILA, there was my girl's name. Instead of a list of weird spellings, this book features categories, elaborated in the book's narrative, detailing the general feeling and impression of the name, nicknames, suggestions for sibling names, meaning if pertinent and other social-historical contexts. Each name also includes a graph detailing when -if ever- the name was most popular.

It must hold some clout; I looked up one of my sister's names and among the sibling suggestions was my name! Needless to say, I bought the book and immediately started researching potential names. Narrowing down choices might be more difficult than I initially thought!

Super Smeller

If I had a super power right now, it would be super smelling. Let me clarify; I'm not super smelly, my nose just happens to pick up every odour, good or bad, within a three kilometre radius.

Given my druthers, super smelling would not be my super power of choice. Sure, perhaps I could act as a drug-sniffing dog for the fuzz, or determine the expiry dates of unlabeled food. But what good would a floaty cape and tights be then? 

The bus ride to work has become a game of "guess that smell"...each house offering a new and unique opportunity to hone my olfactory system. Sniff, sniff, smokers live there. Sniff, sniff, someone is Nairing their legs. Sniff, sniff, cooking garlic! Passing by a meat shop, I was treated to an early morning whiff of pepperoni and it was delightful!

When the odour lingers, however, my little game becomes a battle of wills...the will not to call out fellow passengers for their overpowering perfume, stale stank of cigarettes or rancid B.O. Breathing through my mouth feels unnatural and dries out my already dehydrated piehole. Nausea takes hold and on more than one occasion, I've burst off the bus at my stop, gasping for fresh air.

Work also provides a number of peculiar olfactory experiences...from the overwhelming fug of children's sweaty feet emanating from the Matrix to the lingering odour of an ill-maintained shared fridge. More times than I count on my fingers, I've gagged or held my breath before escaping to a less offensive environment.

Hiding my distaste and masking my reactions is a challenge; I'm waiting for the day I projectile vomit as a result of an olfactory assault. Maybe that's the ticket!

Rootbeer!

Babydaddy picked me up from work yesterday -we spent the evening making my mom's famous garlic dill pickles with my parents. He surprised me with a bottle of A&W Rootbeer...I can't decide what to do with it! Ice cream float? Homemade Slurpee? Popsicles?

I love you, Babydaddy! And little monkey says "thanks, Dad!"

Name Game

Naming another human being is a HUGE responsibility. One that I'm not taking lightly. I think I can say the same thing for Babydaddy, when he's not suggesting such gems as "Frank Sandbeans" or "Theman". Say them out loud. I dare you.

After panicking about the lack of unique, decent boy's names, we quickly came up with a shortlist of mutually-agreed-upon names for our would-be son. After a little discussion, one name emerged as "the one" and all we have to do is pick out an equally awesome middle name and we're set.

Our rush to find a boy's name was partly spurred on by the fact that we have a long list of girl's names we like - in addition to separate lists of names that neither of us can ok. After semi-agreeing on a name we had batted around since the beginning of the pregnancy, Babydaddy has asked that we rethink the name. He presented the reason behind his request, which I definitely understand. But I can't help but feel a little disheartened. It seemed like the only name we both truly loved. Now I might give birth to a no-name baby, packaged in yellow until we give her a fancy brand name.

Chances are we'll find another wonderful name or decide that our original girl's name is the right fit. After all, we have a whole five months to find a moniker that will suit our child whether she's a lawyer, a teacher, a writer, a dancer, an Olympian, an actor, a doctor or a baker. Maybe Frank Sandbeans isn't so bad after all?

Cravin' Haven

Ok, so I do have a few little cravings...nothing that haunts my dreams and puts me into a fury until I've been sated...but a few desires nevertheless. One thing I want regularly is sushi. Not particularly surprising, as I love sushi. Sunomono salad makes me salivate. I'm selective with what I eat, for the safety of little monkey. The lack of "raw" is rough...I told Babydaddy that when I give birth, I want a tuna bakudan from Sushiya as my first meal post-pregnancy. 

The other craving I've experienced is especially odd, since I've never been a fan...but apparently I like rootbeer now. When other kids would tear each other apart for a sip of the sickly sweet brown stuff, I would turn the other cheek. I've delved into my parents' deep freeze, picking out the rootbeer Freezies, gone to A&W specifically for rootbeer and sought out rootbeer Slurpees. 

Typing this makes me want a rootbeer. Babydaddy?

Anti-cravin'

Instead of having awesome, indulgent cravings, my pregnancy has been riddled with "no-longer-cravings".

First thing Babydaddy noticed was the chocolate. Prior to getting knocked up, I would routinely eat chocolate in nearly every form. I, indeed, craved it. Nearly every trip to the grocery store, I would peruse the candy aisle in a dreamy trance, like a child visiting Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Call me Augustus Gloop, because chocolate was my vice. Apparently, little monkey does not care for chocolate...which could mean wonderful dentist visits or a bountiful haul for mommy and daddy at Hallowe'en! 

Next up came the chicken. I didn't crave chicken prior to pregnancy, but since reverting from my former pescatarian lifestyle last summer, it was a staple in our kitchen. After a bad encounter with a chicken burger late one night, I was off the stuff for several weeks before slowly re-introducing it into my routine.

And sadly, my love of cheese has taken a backseat as I have little desire to eat the stuff. Perhaps it's partly the kibosh on soft cheeses such as Brie, Camembert and Chevre during pregnancy. Perhaps the baby is lactose intolerant like Daddy and can't abide by its creamy goodness -more cheese for mommy! Either way, 156 days until I can eat a nice Brie, spinach and Dijon mustard sandwich on a baguette.

Snips & Snails or Sugar & Spice?

Unlike what feels like 75% of parents-to-be, Babydaddy and I have decided to wait until the birth to find out the sex of our baby. When people first learn of our pregnancy, the first question isn't "When are you due?" or "Where do babies come from?", but rather "Are you going to find out?"


I've been inclined to use the pronoun "he"...which promptly elicits "it's a boy?" Even from strangers. Why do people want to know so badly? We want to be surprised; when people find out the gender, pick a name and then publicly announce all these things in advance of the birth, the arrival of the baby seems...less exciting. What's left to learn? The weight? The length? Unless your baby weighs 11 pounds or is three feet long, it means nothing to most people.


There's something to be said for parents who find out and keep the sex a secret until the birth...that takes willpower! That can definitely be applied to the social experiment undertaken by these Toronto parents, who have chosen to conceal their third child's gender from the world until he/she decides how to construct his/her gender.  http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/relationships/news-and-views/judith-timson/the-genderless-baby-well-intentioned-but-wrong/article2036155/


As a feminist and humanist who was raised in a home where "boy's stuff" and "girl's stuff" didn't exist (I learned to use a circular saw when making my own Barbie furniture and my giant-moustache-wearing, outdoorsy, power tool collecting Dad darns his own socks), I find this deeply disturbing. Certainly, gender is often dictated by social structures and choices presented; presenting a child with no options whatsoever and leaving up to him/her is the equivalent of letting a child learn to bathe him/herself. I won't give my child the option of playing with guns or expressing his/her anger by hitting or kicking; does that mean I'm stunting his/her potential as a sniper or a boxer?


The "genderless" parents are putting their youngest child in a very awkward and unfair social situation. What washroom will he/she use in public? What about medical care as he/she reaches puberty? People encountered in everyday life, at the grocery store, at the park, at the museum, will have a hard time connecting to the child, nervous about making gender assumptions or making the child feel weird and sad. The majority of my coworkers have encountered similar situations with seemingly genderless children, who typically take offence when associated with the wrong sex.


We'll find out the gender when the little monkey makes his/her first appearance...and then we'll shout "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!" from the rooftops.

Gas Station

The gaseous phase of my pregnancy appears to have kicked in. After optimistically bragging that I had farted no more than usual since getting knocked up, the gas building up in my bowels has turned paramount. Working directly and constantly with the public, in addition to riding transit to and from work, has cultivated a gas-centered anxiety in me. When will I be able to fart freely without the scrutiny of my coworkers? Where is the ideal place to let ‘er rip? Releasing this painful and odorous build up is, apparently, an art. Waiting for optimal moments in planetarium shows, where audio is especially loud, and finding low-traffic areas where coworkers are unlikely to stumble and bear witness to the olfactory evidence has become my obsession. I feel like a closet alcoholic, stealing away to feed my addiction.

Pancakegate

A week after the positive pregnancy test, the vomiting began. I threw up orange juice, watermelon and toast with Cheez Whiz. Those were unpleasant, to say the least, but harmless. My mom sent me back to Brandon with a big container of frozen blueberry pancakes after one of our trips into Winnipeg. I decided to eat three small pancakes for breakfast one morning, which turned out to be the biggest mistake of my pregnancy to date. I headed to the bathroom to pee once more before leaving for work when the pancakes reared their ugly heads.

In my family, we all have our own special talents…drawing, knitting, projectile vomiting. The latter falls to my youngest sister, who has thrown up on multiple continents and off the bus during the winter. I dare say, on the morning I ate pancakes, I rivaled her in a marvelous, messy way.

I first threw up in the sink. Fearful I would bring more, I turned to the toilet. As I reached for the lid, I spewed out a liquid akin to pancake batter in taste and texture. It ricocheted off the lid, onto the side of the bathtub, the wall and pooled on the floor. I managed to pry open the lid before the final go. After I was completely empty, I sat on the edge of the tub and sobbed. Not because I puked, but because I had to clean it up.

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Our first prenatal appointment was scheduled in my fourteenth week, later than most pregnancies. I decided it wasn’t worth starting my prenatal care with a doctor in Brandon, when we’d be moving back home within six weeks. Although I felt nervous about leaving it so long, so far everything had been going well, pregnancy-wise.

All the routine tests were performed...Pap test, breast exam, blood pressure check. The fun stuff. Finally, the part I was hoping would happen but wasn’t sure would be possible at this point in the gestation…checking for the heartbeat.

It was taking the doctor a long time to find it and I’d all but given up hope we’d get to hear it. Suddenly, we heard a little “whoosh whoosh whoosh” and the doctor said “That’s baby”. I looked at Babydaddy and he was beaming. I teared up…I never thought a little sound would have so much meaning. Babydaddy jumped out of his seat and gave me a great big kiss. It was perfect.

Grandmas

Next to Uncle Johnny’s joy, the reactions of our mothers definitely take the cake.

Babydaddy’s parents were given an anniversary card from our fetus…his mom started jumping up and down screaming “I’m going to be a grandma! I’m going to be a grandma!” and hugged the daddy-to-be for a good long time. Yes, you’re going to be a grandma!

I bought a Grandpa-specific Father’s Day card for my dad, signed “Love, Baby…can’t wait to meet you in December!” My dad opened the card, read it, said “Hmm!” and handed the card to my mom. She read it, cried and said “I told you, Eugene! I told you!” According to my mom, “a mother always knows!” Knows what? That her daughter’s birth control failed?

We were then presented with a still-in-the-package Winnipeg Jets baby bib. Fortuitous given that only weeks later, the Jets were brought back to our fair city.

A (Little) Monkey's Uncle

A week after my sister’s wedding, Babydaddy and I decided to tell my new brother-in-law about the baby. I unceremoniously informed my sister she would an aunt for the first time over the phone. She had procured a bottle of gin for my exclusive consumption at her reception which I clearly wouldn’t need. A champagne toast was planned for her as we dressed for the ceremony…I couldn’t bear to lie to my sister about my lack of alcohol abuse, especially because I’m so bad at it. Lying, not imbibing.

We met at their apartment and I announced that I finally had the perfect gift to welcome my BIL to the family…I was going to make him an uncle! His reaction was definitely one of the top five since announcing the impending arrival of Little Monkey. He jumped up off the couch, ran over with a HUGE smile on his face to hug both of us and offered congratulations.

With the pregnancy being such a surprise for everyone, especially us, reactions have varied a great deal…but Uncle Johnny’s (future teacher of skating and costume-wrangling) excitement and enthusiasm has invigorated this mama.

Oh Shit.

The first sign was the heartburn. Every evening after dinner, I popped antacids two at a time to quell the fire climbing my throat. Babydaddy asked about the date of my last period, which was decidedly late. The stress of my sister’s upcoming wedding was surely to blame. Between acting as a “mom buffer”, to protect the bride from a maternal insanity of epic proportions, and planning a shower and stagette, I wasn’t surprised that my cycle was off.

Next came the suspiciously accurate sense of smell. Babydaddy gave me a kiss when I came home from work and the trace of pickle on his lips was overwhelming. After being intimate, the smell of my beloved’s fluids wafted right to my nose, prompting him to state, matter-of-factly, that I must be pregnant. Not in this uterus.

The wedding approached, Babydaddy pushed me to take a pregnancy test. Fine, but I’m not pregnant, I said. I peed on the stick, placed it on the side of the tub and returned to the living room to wait out the three minutes. I don’t remember what we talked about. Babydaddy decided it was time to check the test. You look at it, because I’m not pregnant, I insisted. A deafening silence emanated from the bathroom, followed by a “Honey…there’s two lines.”

I panicked. I cried. He had to go for a drive, returning some forty-five minutes later with four pregnancy tests and a box of chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches. I took another test in the morning. And yet another in the afternoon. Yes, I was definitely knocked up.

Oh shit.