Miss Me Yet?

I know, I know, I haven’t been writing much lately. Got one or two other things going around here. Love to tell you about it, but it’d be WAY too much information, and I’m going to spare you.

I’m having all these euphoric lovely thoughts these days about my friends and family. I want to send love letters to everybody. Is this a pre-labour thing? Or maybe you guys are just all really great.

I really don’t have that much to report. We’re at that stalled out last-week-of-pregnancy, don’t-answer-the-phone stage. Don’t answer the phone if you don’t want to answer the question, “Sooooo, anything yet?” And I don’t. Because no, nothing yet, and I’m really not that anxious about it, so let’s all just sit back and let this thing happen when it’ll happen, okay? Trust me, this baby will come out happily when it’s ready. I’ve been listening to this Ani DiFranco song (“Landing Gear”) about an unborn babe and just love the chorus, “For someone who ain’t even here yet, look how much the world loves you.” You guys are so cute, all excited about a new baby coming. I could just pinch your cheeks. Okay, okay, I’m a little excited too. Babies are great.

Oh, the latest in ultrasound news! So my most recent ultrasound added to the scepticism and did not reduce the cynicism at ALL. At 38 weeks, the baby is suddenly completely proportional with all measurements (head and abdomen) measuring 37 weeks. Is this a medical miracle?! Or is it possibly related to my earlier concern that ultrasound is highly subjective and not a reliable science? I’m going to have to say, I’m not planning on having any more babies, but I can really see how people get to the point where they’d want to do the whole unassisted home birth thing. Let me be clear here: I think that is a ridiculous idea, but I’m just saying. Medical science has me so jaded. The ultrasounds that mean nothing, the constant pressure and anxiety, it’s all IMO a product of our self-serving medical system. And it makes it impossible to discern if there is an actual problem, because everyone I know has had some sort of “problem” that has required some sort of intervention (i.e., an extra ultrasound, non-stress test, etc.). And remarkably, everyone is fine. I know, I know, sometimes this stuff is useful. Sometimes it catches problems early enough to intervene. It just seems there needs to be a better way to keep mommies calm throughout the process. Listen to me, all over-privileged and taking our healthcare system for granted. Boohoo SuperMommy, everybody is trying really hard to keep your baby safe. You poor, poor thing. Maybe you could find something more important to complain about, like the temperature Starbucks serves its mochas at. Darn things are always cold to me. And what's with gas prices these days? Douglas Coupland would shake his head sadly in my direction.

Well, I love you all. I don’t think I’ll be blogging again until after the babe comes, but you never know. This thing could carry on forever. Somebody get this baby out of me!!! Just kidding. Really.

When Housework Makes You Cry, It’s Time to Hire a Housekeeper

I shouldn’t be telling you this. We have a routine around here. My friend M calls it “pink jobs” and “blue jobs”. We have our respective colour-coded jobs and it works really well for us. Pink jobs around our home include grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning bathrooms, meal preparations, and just generally taking care of the housekeeping. Blue jobs include lawn-mowing, home renovations, car-washing, taking out the garbage, and all of those manly chores. AND loading up the dishwasher and turning it on after dinner. Really, I feel ridiculous even bringing this up. I know that there are women out there that would throw a parade if their husbands did a quarter of the things my guy does around here. I should just stop... but yet... I can’t.

So anyways, Tuesday nights are ball nights for David, so after dinner he plays with the kids for a bit, then heads for the ball field. He tends to not do dishes on Tuesdays. Now that I see it in print, I can clearly see that in itself is not a big deal. He’s had a long day at work, he gets a short time to play with the kids, and then he is off. And, at the time, it doesn’t bother me. Now, you may ask yourself why I don’t go ahead and load up the dishwasher myself on these evenings. I’ll tell you why. It’s a blue job. Blue. The problem doesn’t start until I wake up Wednesday morning. To that big stack of congealed dishes in the sink. The stack of dishes that have overnight hardened and crusted over and now will take a sandblaster to scrub clean. And I haven’t even made coffee yet—and I’ve TOLD you how difficult I find that task in the morning! So now, Wednesday morning, I start my day slamming dishes around, trying to make room in the sink so I can rinse out the coffee pot and in my mind I am grumbling, “BLUE job, BLUE job, BLUE job...” You get the picture. Not the most positive way to start the day.

At this point you would probably expect that I would do the dishes. Oh no, dear reader, please don’t give me so much credit. That would be the rational, un-pregnant thing to do. Has the dish job miraculously taken on a new colour? No, that job is still blue. So instead of just doing the dishes, I start stressing out on the extra work I have to do. Not only do I have to do my regular chores--now I have to do BLUE jobs because somebody around here is clearly NOT PULLING HIS WEIGHT!!! Because today is the day that I clean the bathrooms, but I am paralyzed by the stack of dishes in the kitchen. I cannot move forward to do the other jobs, but I am resolute to not touch the dishes. I cannot clean the bathrooms because the kitchen is a mess. Are you beginning to see where my daughter has inherited her insanity from? So by the time David comes home I’ve worked myself into such a state that I can no longer make dinner (how could I make dinner with that mess in the kitchen?!). And I am crying. And the children are wondering why Mommy is crying. I've got to stop telling them it's because I'm pregnant or I'll never be a grandmother. They will think pregnancy is this horrible affliction that is visited upon you and DESTROYS YOUR LIFE.

The thing I really like about David is that when I have a nervous breakdown, he does the dishes. And then he laughs when I read my blog to him out loud. And says, “I hope you feel better now that you wrote that down.” And I do. I really do.

My Two-Year-Old is Insane

You would think that if you were chronically afflicted with the nastiest heartburn ever recorded in human history, particularly when lying down and trying to sleep, you would have more sense than to make and consume a lemon meringue pie at nine o’clock at night. Clearly not my most brilliant moment. I’m not sure how many Tums I fed myself throughout my sleep, but I do remember fumbling for the bottle a few times. And moaning. I must be an absolute pleasure to sleep with these days.

I woke up in the morning with the most sour, inhospitable stomach. Clearly it was not going to be a Coffee Day. It would not be a day which starts with the pleasant jolt of caffeine soothing my sleep-deprived mama brain. A day which starts with the bitter relief of the magic wake-ups. Alas, no, my sour stomach would only permit me a glass of milk. As I turned, bleary-eyed, to survey the rainstorm raging outside, I knew today was going to be difficult.

The morning actually went quite well. We had a great play at Strong Start, and it was one of those days when I was able to find a balance in playing with both kids. There were a few times when Skyler wandered off to do her own thing, but she let me come and play with her here and there. I should just appreciate that my daughter is able to entertain herself since my son so clearly is not, but I feel so rebuffed! Am I not fun? Do I not make good voices for the dollies? Am I really just getting in the way?

It was around lunchtime, back at home, that Skyler’s head started spinning 360 degrees. Because she is insane. She went from pleasant and happy and cooperative to raging, freaking insanity in 3.6 seconds. The thing is, she’s a very little girl. When she screams at the top of her lungs, it’s ineffectual. It’s just not that loud. I have to admit, I find it extremely difficult to not laugh at her when she is running from one end of the house to the other yelling, “NO NO NO NO NONONONONONOOOOO!!!!” Because she is just so little, and so ANGRY. A tiny little angry wingnut. It infuriates her more when I laugh at her, or when I try to hug it out with her, or talk to her, or interact with her in any way. I just have to let her scream it out. So I put her in her room, let her know to come out when she’s all done, and I find something to play with Marcus. And the two of us sometimes laugh about his crazy sister, because he can’t actually remember being two, and being insane. Then, after some time passes, Skyler comes out of her room and starts playing with us, as if nothing happened. Crazy. Person.

So after nap today, I had some more pie. It’s important to be a good role model for the crazy people too.

Winding Down

What was once a flurry of pre-baby activity has now ebbed into short bursts of motivation followed by long periods of rest. The energy that I was incredulous about and appreciative of has been zapped from my body. I fear that my days of swimming laps have ended.

Yesterday I melted down so completely into the couch and the book I was reading that David was forced to take the kids out to dinner and a movie (not that he minded that much!). I lied on the couch and read for five hours straight. Granted, it was a page-turner, but I can’t remember the last time I did that! Oh wait, I can, it was when I was on bedrest! Looks like that wouldn’t have actually been the worst pronouncement in the world after all. The kids had such a great time with Daddy, and he with them, that it made me realize that he doesn’t often get the opportunity to take them out without me. Sometimes we’ll split them up and take one or the other out, but most of the time it’s either me and the kids, or the entire family together. It was amazing to have some “Mommy time” here at the house without having to go find something to do, and I think the kids really enjoyed getting some real Daddy time.

Anyway, my point is, I need to stop asking that guy to do home renovations. I need to come to terms with the fact that by the end of the week, I need a break. It’s time to put my feet up, lie back, and embrace the fat sloth of pregnancy. That’s hot, right?

Marcus: Bestower of the Insincere and Random Compliments

Marcus, when feeling particularly generous or gregarious, often likes to randomly compliment people. Most of the time it’s the shirt you are wearing, as in, “I like your shirt, Mom!” but often (perhaps if he has already complimented your shirt, or if you are wearing a shirt which in some way displeases him), he branches out and compliments you in more obscure ways. David bought me some flowers the other day, and Marcus has been complimenting them profusely. “I real like your flowers, Mom.” I always say thanks even though I know I shouldn’t take credit for them, but you have to acknowledge a compliment. The other day, to David, “I like your big feet, Dad.” David must have been sporting a very disagreeable shirt that day. Then, today, upon entering the van and having to squeeze past my large-ish abdomen, he pats the beast a few times and says, “I like your big fat belly, Mommy.” Oh. Dear. That may become an issue. So of course I had to let him know that it is never okay to call somebody fat, because it may hurt their feelings, but then I inadvertently hurt HIS feelings, because he was just trying to compliment me after all. He got all offended and settled into his carseat, folded his arms on his chest, knotted his eyebrows together, and declared, “Well, I’m a big fat Marcus.”

David just got home, so Marcus came out of his bedroom (I guess no nap today) and said, “Dad.” “Yes son?” “I like your cellphone.”

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Marcus: Excuse me.

Skyler (little Miss Echo): ‘Scuse me

Marcus: No. You don’t GET to say excuse me. YOU didn’t toot.

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Skyler’s new game is to get right in Marcus’s face. Marcus starts with, “Excuse me, Skyler.” She says nothing, just sits in his way and looks at him. Marcus’s voice rises, “I SAID, EXCUSE ME SKYLER.” Completely stoic. This goes on for several more rounds, with Skyler as the clear victor. Then Marcus hits or pushes her out of the way and Skyler gives the loudest fake cry, then runs to Mommy or Daddy screaming, “Marcus hit me! Marcus hit me!” I hope that eventually she will choose to use her powers for good instead of evil.

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Why do kids, regardless of age, always wait until the LAST POSSIBLE MOMENT to empty their bladders? Why do they wait until they have to squirm their pants down with their knees laced together, or in Skyler’s case, until the pee is already trekking a rivulet down her shin? What is it about peeing that causes such an adverse reaction in those under three-and-a-half feet high? Because son, when you are holding yourself and wriggling your body and can’t sit still on the couch even though your very favourite episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is on, even I can see that you have to pee, but you insist that your body is not telling you it’s time. And if I pause the show to ask you if you’re sure, you become furious and tell me you will NEVER PEE AGAIN.

IUGR Update

Well, the new obstetrician has a very different philosophy than the guy I saw with Skyler. I'm not going to get into talk about percentiles and all that, but this guy has a way more relaxed approach. This means that although he notes the disproportionality between the abdomen and cranium, he thinks the disparity needs to be quite a bit greater than it is before it's a cause for concern. He's going to send me for another ultrasound 3 weeks from now (at 38 weeks), but unless we dip down into uncharted territory, he will let me carry to term (although probably not too far over). Fingers crossed I get to go into labour naturally with this peanut!

Getting a second opinion is always interesting, because we're talking about two medical professionals with similar educations. There are no right and wrong answers, just different approaches with different levels of caution. When I told my dad about this guy's view, my dad figured I should get a third opinion. I guess my dad is worried that I've just gone ahead and found a doc that is telling me what I want to hear. Perhaps it's true. I'm okay with that. ;)

Happy Insurance Renewal Day!

How to tell when you are taking the kids to too many fun places on a day-to-day basis: today I told Marcus we’d be hanging close to home to try and get caught up on the laundry and his response was to go running to Skyler and say, “Skyler! Guess what? Today is a special day! We get to stay home today!”

Well, I kind of lied, anyways.

Oh lovely day! Once a year, this special day comes around, where I must bravely enter the insurance office and renew my vehicle insurance. It sounds like such an innocuous holiday—however could this be blog-worthy?

Let’s start by examining how this particular day started with a few chips against me. First of all, David had told me that I have BCAA insurance and that makes it cheaper because that’s what our house insurance is through, so it is definitely worth the extra ten minute drive to get it from BCAA. When we got in the van I looked at the insurance and realized that it was regular old ICBC insurance, but if David says it will be cheaper from BCAA then I should surely listen to that guy. Fine, we’ll drive to BCAA, and I will save my family some money because I am frugal and responsible and all of the other important attributes that it takes to run a family well. That’s me. SuperMommy.

When we got to BCAA I noticed a few things right away. Took my little mommy inventory, if you will. First I noticed that the place was very busy, that you had to take a number, and that there was a constant flow of people coming and going in and out of a fairly narrow office space. I corralled the kids in and wrangled a chair. There was a hostess-type lady who came up right away and said hi to the kids, who of course both gave her the stink-eye immediately. I have very friendly children. She offered the kids a balloon, and I raised an eyebrow. I don’t know if she thought that maybe giving them something to play with would make them more agreeable to the entire process, or if she just thought, “Hey, kids! Kids like balloons! I have balloons! The kids will surely like these!” Maybe she had a picture in her head of my kids sitting happily, cradling the balloons in their arms, and smiling at her. That is not what transpired. I had a picture in MY head of my kids running rampant throughout BCAA, chasing after balloons, and getting underfoot. Right on! Because running errands with two turkeys in tow is not nearly interesting enough—it’s much more fun to throw a new wrench in the mix.

Right about then I made a conscious decision to not get riled. Sometimes you have to make that a conscious choice. As in, “I’m pretty sure this is going to go poorly, so I’m going to deliberately not make eye contact with any of the adults in this place, I’m going to put a goofy grin on my face, and I’m going to pretend my children are not driving me insane at this moment in time.” Every time Marcus lunged after his balloon and directly under the legs of some very important person coming in or out of BCAA, I smiled lovingly at him. I said things like, “Marcus, you need to look out for people. You need to remember to look both ways!” I strongly resisted all urges to grab the balloon and crush it in a brilliant display of mommy-tantrum. The highlight was when Skyler wandered behind her balloon right up to a man who turned to walk out of the place and tripped right over her. He managed to side-step her but she still made sure to work up a good cry, just to let him know who he was messing with. He started to say something to me, but either the look on my face or Skyler’s inconsolable sobbing caused him to instead back away slowly. Good choice, my friend, good choice.

So then I’m at the teller, and I tell her that my husband has car insurance with them, and our home insurance is through them, and I’d just like to get my van insurance through them too. She tells me that she can give me a quote, but since the van is in both our names, I would need my husband to come in with me and sign. Okay then. I will just pack up my stuff and go, because I am done. I am not interested in a. Chasing him down, b. Coming back, and c. Dealing with insurance ever again in my entire life. I will choose to walk or cycle. This is surely not worth it. She replies, “Are you sure? Because it may save you money to go through us.” Argh. That’s right, my frugal and responsible duty. So, because I am thirty-three and do not have a cellphone, I ask if I can use her phone to call my husband on the off-chance that he may be in town, close enough to drop by and sign. She seems to find it an odd request, but she complies, and he agrees to stop by if indeed it is worth buying it through them. So I get off the phone and ask her to go ahead and give us that quote. After about ten minutes of her typing happily into her computer, she says, “Are you sure his car insurance is through us? Because our insurance is for our (BCAA) members only, and I can’t find him in our system.” Hmm, that doesn’t sound right. I know for a fact that we don’t have BCAA because we both have new vehicles with roadside assistance plans. What possible explanation could there be? Oh wait, I know! My husband is a liar! He does NOT have insurance through BCAA. By this point both kids are careening off of each other, bouncing off the legs of any person that dares to make their way past, and intermittently screeching. For no apparent reason. I have decided on a new tactic of pretending they are not actually my children. Marcus’s balloon goes up, over the counter, and onto a teller’s keyboard. She is on the phone. I turn my head quickly so it looks like I didn’t see it.

My teller takes pity on me and tells me finally that she can process my ICBC insurance—there is no need for me to go elsewhere. I borrow her phone again to tell David we won’t be needing his “help” after all. Thank you very much. I keep telling the kids (and myself), “Just a few more minutes. Just. A. Few. More. Minutes.” Sign the papers, get my sticker, turn around, and see that both kids are now sprawled out in the middle of the floor. Apparently napping? People are literally stepping over them to get through the office. Awesome. “Okay kids, time to go! You did really well! Thank you for being so patient!” (There’s that big goofy faking-it grin again). Skyler starts crying loudly and moaning, “I DON’T WANT TO GOOOOOOO! I DON’T WANT TO GOOOOOOO.”

I love insurance renewal day. Such a great adventure.