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.