I Should Be Sleeping...

I am tired. Ever-so-tired.

Yet I am awake, and debating whether or not to finish this glass of red wine.

It came from a box.

I'm a classy   ho   woman.

You guys have NO IDEA how many blog posts I have written in my head as I have been trying to sleep. Or not sleeping. Or nearing sleep. Or feeding the baby with my ever-deflating boobs.

Yet I never seem to make it here to publish ANY OF THAT GENIUS content.

Things like my dog randomly shitting on the floor. My child randomly puking on my chest. My husband randomly getting me pregnant again.

Hahaha, just kidding, that last one is disgusting. And also untrue.

I seem to be living in a world where meals are luxury and taking a poop is only negotiable depending on the mood of the kid.

Don't get me wrong, lil blue eyes here is totally worth it. It's just an adjustment. And I may have been selfish and selected this pic because I don't look horrid in it. She is adorable, if not startled a bit by the flash, lol.

And I have sort of turned into the mom-blog, much to my dismay, simply because that wasn't what I set out to do here (not that there is anything wrong with mom blogging, but my existing.. uh... customer base? Following? Mom and Dad who still read this? Probably aren't interested in my such mundane adventures.)

I feel like it would be really beneficial for me to get back to the what-the-f_ckery of my posts of days past. But time is at a serious mothers_cking premium, because I can never seem to get my shit together (or the laundry done, for that matter). All I can do is try, but I SUCK at follow through.

How was your Christmas?

I got a Keurig, and I am so happy that I will hopefully not make a shitty cup/pot of coffee again. My poor new mom friends have been subjected (more than once) to me losing count of the spoonfuls of coffee grinds in my old machine, to horrendous results.

Anyway, I hope to make it back more often, even if that means less sleep. I got a new fangled iPad mini for Christmas (total luxury splurge) and I hope to find a program where I can draw on it with a stylus (anyone know of such an app?). You will all be subjected to my shit animations, like this old classic.

Okay, so this post was about nothing, but I am interested to hear about your holidays. You know, if anyone else out there still reads me.

Happy Yule Logs, etc.


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Expectations: Dinner

I'd like to share how my expectations have evolved (devolved? disappeared?) over the past few years.

What I'd Expect Of A "Nice Dinner":

2010:

Perhaps a fancy restaurant by the water somewhere. Mood lighting that makes me look half do-able to the hubby (though, if you asked him, I'm sure sunlight, flourescent, candle, lamp, overhead ceiling fan, and flash lighting would all be acceptable on that front. He's easy to please, lol). A server who flings out the FABRIC napkin on one's lap (if the concept didn't creep me out and I didn't grab it lightning-ninja-fast-style and place it on my own lap first). At least a half bottle of wine to split, at the obscenely marked up price at whatever overpriced restaurant we were at for the special occasion. A starter salad, with difficult-to-pronounce fancy lettuces and stinky cheese. Gluten filled deliciousness for a main course (to be passed with tremendous bloating and gas the next day or two in private, at my leisure). The oft-disappointed, overly-inflated restaurant dessert (Horizons, I'm looking at you, $17 for a banana split? Fo rizzle?). Nicely, leisurely stretched out to fill the evening.


2013 (45 minutes ago):

A gluten-free microwaveable frozen dinner (We have too many friends and outings these days - no two day private farting opportunities any longer, nor the luxury of feeling like crap by choice when dealing with an infant all day and night long, every day), eaten by the dimmed light of the laptop, on the floor, beside my bed where a sleeping baby lies. Also? Eaten cold still (between dashes down to the kitchen to throw it in the microwave, and the return sprint upstairs to make sure said baby isn't smothering herself in the comforter, or rolling off the bed in her sleep), and eaten quickly, so she doesn't detect my absence and/or awaken prematurely from her nap.

Napkin? I don't need no stinkin' napkin. My shirt is a battleground of puke and BO, anyway.

Dessert? A gnawed off fingernail edge, as I lay beside her worrying about the messy house, the to-do list, and the frustration of not being able to nap beside her while my mind runs a mile a minute.

I still consider this a win, since I actually INGESTED dinner. And before 10pm at that. I'm practically Charlie Sheen winning ALL OVER THIS MAWFACKAH.

My, how times have changed!

Though, I still plan on having a honkin' glass of wine later on tonight. You betchur ass I am.
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Starbucks Is Ridiculous

That's right, I said it.

Now wipe your non-fat, no-whip, no water, half caff latte foam off your nose and listen up.

I feel like such an utter idiot when I walk up to order coffee at Starbucks.

First of all, Y U NO HAVE NORMAL SIZES STARBUCKS!?

Y U MAKE ME FEEL DUMB?!?

I know it's supposed to be like an authentic cafe experience, with the barista and fancy Italian-ish names, but, let's be honest here, you started in Seattle.

And the worst part is that when I just ask for "the smallest size" or "a medium", the barista almost ALWAYS shoots back some foreign-ish, totally meaningless word back at me. I glaze over, much like a terrified deer in headlights. I usually explain at this point that, well, I'm not sure. Which cup is that?

*DERP*.

I can already hear the snickers of the seasoned coffee-goers behind me in line. It's like I'm wearing a neon sign labelling myself "STARBUCKS NEWBIE. BE GENTLE."

I ask to see if I can get something without milk (since I am currently off of dairy for the baby, and her rapidly pooping bum). "Can I get it with soy milk, though?" I ask, fearing the barista may lean over and slap my foul mouth for requesting such an atrocity.

Instead, she gives me a smile that says "Oh, you pathetic little soul, OBVIOUSLY you can. You PAY for crazy requests here. It makes you feel special!"

I'm not sure... do they only have one kind of coffee? Is there decaf drip coffee, for us elderly fogies who shouldn't consume caffeine after 3pm if we want to have any hope in hell of sleeping? (The answer to that around these parts of BC is that, no, they DON'T have decaf coffee which is weird. Decaf Americanos are always offered instead, at a higher price. They are watered down decaf espresso and I personally think they taste like poo, and I'd rather lick my dog's butt. Probably).

Anyway, if I have to drink the caffeine, I want a nice dark roast. I always ask "Do you have a dark roast?" and I never get an answer, just that weird, knowing barista smile again. It almost feels like I ask about 6 questions at the register, yet leave even more confused than when I came in.

Hmph.

So, I finally figure out the puzzle, (Not really, but I order SOME type of hot beverage [I assume]) and ask for hot water in a cup to warm up Baby D's milkies.

We sit. I warm. She eats. I drink my coffee.

And I listen to the throng of people coming through. And here is where it gets even more odd.

I listen to people bark out orders like the barista is THEIR BITCH. I mean, total cool ignorance, haughty even. I've never ever heard more complex beverage orders in my life. And EXPENSIVE ones at that!

One lady ordered herself a tea (I think) that consisted of about 6 special thingies, and the two small children she was with got some soy hot chocolate specialty drinks. They were very young. And her order was over $13. SAY WHAT?! I'm pretty sure she ordered something chai, with no water, with extra foam, with possibly the tears of an angel mixed with a smattering of sugar-free methadone. Something like that.

I told the Hubs that Baby D gets no-name brand hot chocolate out of a packet when she's older, and she's gonna love it. F_ck this $6 hot chocolate bizznazz. You know the kids will have that liquid gold spilled before they even get to the car.

Another lady bought 8 vanilla bean scones. I'm pretty sure she had to take out a second mortgage on her home.

But yeah... so after this weird social observation, I came home and relayed it to the Hubs. He was equally perplexed at the complexity of some of the drinks I spoke of.

Fast forward two days, and we walked down to the Starbucks not too far from our house. I run through my gamut of confused-question asking clarifications.

"Can I please get a caramel brulee latte please?" (Already I feel pretentious, those are fancy-soundin' words, y'all).

I also say it with a lilt in my voice in case I am pronouncing it wrong.

"In the largest size, please?"

She replies "Venti?"
I shrug and nod.

"But could I please get it with soy milk instead of regular milk? I can't have dairy."
"Oh and would it be possible to just get it half decaf stuff? And half regular?"

She says some words that don't make sense.
I nod again.

"Half sweet?" She says.
What?
Who me?
Huh?

"Did you want it half sweet, too, or just half caf?"

I explain I didn't even know half-sweet was an option, but no, thanks, I want full sweet. This ass doesn't keep its commanding size with half-sweet. Word.

Then she asked if whip was "still okay?". I had to pause and think for a moment. Whip... hmm... are we talking like some kinky sexual coffee stuff? I drag my mind out of the gutter (albeit briefly) and realize she PROBABLY means whipped cream. Unless she winks at me.

I wait a moment. No wink.
Whipped cream it is.

I clarify that I can't have that either.

I FINALLY get my drink. Don't even get me started on how many cup lids I have to try and fail at before I finally find the one that fits my cup.

I go back outside and reunite with the Hubs and the dog (baby's been on my chest and embarrassed at my lack of Starbucks-lingo skills all along).

He asks me what I got. I stop myself from rambling through my entire series of questions... and then I realize I am just as bad as everyone else. I have BECOME ONE OF THEM.

Carefully, I explain that I ordered:

"A half caff, venti caramel brulee latte, no dairy, soy milk, no whip."

The Hubs smirks.

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Is There A Failing Olympics?

I know we've already discussed my efficiency and mastering of napping. Well, at least the old me.

But I have another issue on my mind. Is there a failing Olympics?

A real, true, gathering of the failing minds and bodies of all of us souls out in the world who seem to suck at all they do?

Because, I hate to say it again and rub your noses in it... but... I'd OWN that shit.

My newest (and wonderful) Mommy friends (who may or may not read this) seem to have it together. And while we talk about this and they do explain that isn't the case, I still feel like what the f_ck is wrong with me?!?

I don't make my hubby dinner.
Like... ever.

I got all nesty and tried a few recipes back in mid-pregnancy. I gave the poor bastard hope. Then dashed it all every day since then.

I don't even grocery shop any more. I am always with the kiddo. I have started to sort of accomplish laundry (two full flights of stairs while putting the baby somewhere away from my nutty dogs). You know, if carrying the hamper downstairs counts for one day. And maybe sorting it on the basement floor two days later. And then MAYBE remembering to put a load in the washing machine a day or two after that. And it's a damn miracle if I switch that sweet load over into the dryer on the same day. (hehehe "sweet load" made me giggle.)

Actually returning it upstairs and folding it is just going to cause me a panic attack, so let's just say laundry takes about a week to get done. I'm pretty sure we have lots of floor space in our bedroom for the sole purpose of clean laundry storage. Right? Uh.. yeah.

So, yeah, I'm a domestic hero/goddess. OBVIOUSLY.

But my friends... my friends bake cookies. And homemade numminess. And large family dinners. And they knit and/or sew and/or crochet and/or win at life. And they go to the store. And they shop for things. And drive places without (I assume) having a scream-filled SUV of unhappy teething baby misery.

I bought a cross-stitch starter kit geared to eight year olds to bring to our Mommy crafts day tomorrow. (Shut up, don't judge, that frog will GLOW IN THE MOTHERF_CKING DARK, YO). These ladies can sew gorgeous blankets and I have a sneaking suspicion that this frog is going to own me and I will throw it out before the afternoon is done. You know, assuming all goes well.

I know I'm too hard on myself. I just thought this life-is-crazy-there-is-no-order business was supposed to end after the insane newborn stage. But we didn't get that memo, me and Baby D (name withheld).

Other moms apply nicely done make-up. They dry their hair and their babies don't seem to want to rip it out like mine ALWAYS does. They look FANTASTIC and rock bikinis to mom and baby swimming (which they damn well should! Good for them!). They don't seem chained to their nurseries like I do. They vacuum. They might even DUST. (I heard that's a thing?)

And you know what? They don't seem to judge me. They don't say "wow, you really DO suck!". They encourage and laugh alongside and speculate that things will get easier for me and it will happen. I need to stop being so mean to myself. Ah well.


I'm just always so serious.

Ooooh oooh eeee eeeee aaaah aaaah aaaah. You going to eat that flea or shall I help myself?

Clearly.

What do the people around you do that make you doubt your fit-ness for things? What event would you win gold at in the FAIL Olympics?

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Insomnia Breeds Insomnia

In the days of my youth, had there been a napping Olympics, I'd have owned that shit hands down. I mean, epic levels of Michael Phelps gold-age. A 20 minute nap was a joke; you'd best give me a minimum of three hours or I could possibly throat punch you.

Ah, the good ole days.

The days of yore.

The days I could sleep.

Now, you all know I am a new mom. But this seems to be entirely independent of that.

Kiddo is sleeping and here I sit. Awake. Staring at the ceiling.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm almost always on my side or my tummy, so it's usually staring at the wall or the goddamn mocking/glaring numbers on the alarm clock.

Deep breathing just makes me dizzy.
I can't keep my mind focused enough to count down from 500.
If I count sheep, I inevitably start thinking about farms and factory farming and vegetarianism and blah blah blah.

Progressive muscle relaxation almost always leaves me with a kink in my neck, or the need to get up and stretch.

I really, REALLY suck at putting myself to bed.

.... and "if the baby doesn't need to eat for another ____ hours"

I do a list of things I need to get done the next day, then toss in the stress of knowing that I won't remember what those tasks are, and that even if I *do* remember, I probably won't have the time/energy/fortitude to get.that.shit.done.

And on the nights when I have the luxury of a dinner out, you bet your ass I am taking in a fountain Coke or Pepsi, and making good use of a free refill policy. You know, because I heard that copious amounts of caffeinated sugar do a body good.

Amirite?

So. Here I sit at 2am. My uterus hurts. My body is tired. My mind won't shut the f_ck up.

I suppose I will take comfort in the fact that I've managed to purchase a Halloween costume, lumbar pillow, Christmas present, milk cooler bag and cell phone cover online today. That is some type of lame ass accomplishment, right? (Hubby - if you are reading this, no, I have no idea what those charges are from ebay and that deal site. Nope. No idea. Carry on as you were).

How do you fall asleep when your mind is as active as Miley Cyrus' butt?

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That Moment: Feta

That moment when you are eating pizza, you look down and see some crumbled feta that you pop into your mouth... only to quickly discover it is, in fact, a chunk of your strawberry scented Lady Speed Stick deodorant.

Clutch.


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My Baby, The Dictator

It's true.

She rules with a teeny, tiny iron fist.

There is no negotiating with her, no reasoning - her word is the final word. Er... well, rather her coos, cries and screams are the final coos, cries and screams.

Pleading is futile. Begging will get you nowhere.
Fast.

She is drunk on power. (Technically "power" means "breast milk" in this instance)

She came into her powerful role by means of excessive force and violence (via my... well, you know).

Just stare into her fierce blue eyes and dare not bow down to her adorableness.

She mocks you by sticking out her tongue.

You are welcome.

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Holy Hell

There have been so many times I would like to blog, but things like keeping this tiny little human alive, fed, comforted and safe got in the way.

Dang responsibilities.

Haha, just kidding, motherhood is awesome.

Some things I've learned in the last 12 weeks:

- Water can, and does, feel like cutting razorblades on sensitive nipples. Either that, or the Hubs installed a Ginsu showerhead one of the times I was hospitalized.
- Yea, ONE of the times. I didn't realize that labour for me would mean SO MANY INFECTIONS post partum. And multiple hospital stays.
- I hate my OB. She sucks and let me go on with a bad urinary tract infection for TWO MONTHS that is now making me incredibly sick as I start antibiotics. AGAIN.
- Caffeine does get into breastmilk. And a baby who only power naps for 10 minutes is loveable, but exhausting for Mamma.
- I've only lost about 25 lbs of my 55+ pregnancy weight gain. I am the antithesis of sexy.
- This kid's current life goal is to rip out every last hair from my scalp. EVERY.LAST.HAIR. Motherhood has been comprised of constantly wet hair up in elastics, to save that painful tug. Man it hurts.
- I have the capacity to love more intensely, fiercely and unselfishly than I EVER thought possible. I would die for my little monkey if she needed me to. After I ripped the face off of whatever the threat was.

Out in BC you have to watch out for bears. But beware the even deadlier, more insane MAMMA BEAR. I'll f*ck you up.

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My Labour Story: Part Three... Phantom of The Opera Style

So they had the anesthesiologist come upstairs to poke a huge needle into my spine for the epidural. (I KNOW, right? Labour is so effing comfortable and AWESOME!). He kind of looked like Live Schrieber as he punctured my skin.

My first tip to a labouring woman: Ankle socks are the dumbest f_cking idea EVER, if you can only limply/minimally slide your leg(s) along bunched up sheets in bed. They WILL.NOT.STAY. And it will annoy the hell out of you!

Okay, so... antibiotic drip? Check.
Oxytocin to start whacked out contractions by 10am? Check
Epidural and delicious pain medicine to maintain  recover  create  sort of keep sanity? Che-- oh... wait a second...

Now they give you info sheets telling of the risks of an epidural during labour. They tell you every possible scenario as a just-in-case thing. I read that sometimes the medication can be patchy or lopsided. For me, that meant that ONLY MY RIGHT SIDE WAS FROZEN, people.

My left side didn't want to miss out on the party, so it decided to give a middle finger to the pain managing drugs, and allow me to continue to feel, ache and Charleston kick through the labour pains.

I think my first labour nurse (who was wearing PERFUME for eff's sake) didn't believe that I could feel my left side. Like this baby was just an elaborate ploy to get increase after increase of pain medicine. I can, however, confirm that lefty was totally moveable, usesable and ALIVE with feeling.

They would run ice up me to see where I could feel to. And that would be everywhere, thanks for asking. Then I would be given a suspicious glare. *sigh*

After trying to lay on the left side, and the nurses telling me conflicting info, and no numbness coming, Dr. Leiv Schrieber had to come back. He had to adjust the hole in my back to "redirect" the needle. Like it took a left turn at Albuquerque.

This wonderful adjustment essentially included a free partial back wax, as the adhesive dressings that covered half of my back were peeled off and re-applied. I was picking gummy adhesive boogers off my back for two weeks. (You know, in addition to the regular boogers that build up there and need removing).

From here on out there were hours of awkward small talk with my not-authentic first labour nurse. The hubs left at some point to let the dogs out and gather NORMAL GODDAMN SOCKS for me. My slide-y right leg was pissing me off because I could still feel that my sock was only half on. For some reason, he returned, which worked out well for me and the baby. It was his chance to bail. Ha.

I kind of consider myself a hero, in that I had enough feeling to tell the nurse when I needed to pee, and I could do it without a catheter. However, that being said, I had to do it on a bed pan because of righty, and had to be sprayed down with water and wiped by the nurse. It was both an amusingly proud moment, as well as a nice preview to my future days in the nursing home once this baby ships me off and out of her life. (I assume).

By the time afternoon had rolled around, I was in PAIN on lefty. It hurt. Holy hell, mad props to women who labour for hours with oxytocin and don't get an epidural. MAD PROPS.

There was one stretchy elasticized band that held a monitor that tracked baby's heart rate, and another that tracked mine. I think Satan himself was the architect of those bands because they were so goddamn itchy and scratchy that I could barely take it by the 23 hour mark. No, not the 2 to 3 hour mark, the 23 hour mark. Added to the comfort was that conductive gel they use that kept drying out and getting re-applied. Oh it was so nasty. I think I wore down my fingernails from all the scratching.



I just realized it looks like I'm giving you the finger.

I was given a pain pump, where I could push a little button to get a boost of pain meds. By the early evening, it was doing NOTHING for me. If I pushed it too early (before 15 minutes) it would do nothing, and I would feel unhealthily and incredibly sad and disappointed.

The shift changed at 7pm, I think, and I got the most amazing, fantastic, wonderful labour nurse at Royal Columbian Hospital, named Alice. She was so genuine, so efficient, warm and wonderful. Her and the Hubs kept me going through it all. I feel totally and completely grateful that she was my nurse. I need to find out her last name and get her a nice card and gift. She was so so so awesome.

She encouraged me to breathe through the contractions, and I have to admit I was a f_cking rock star when it came to that. Through the tears and the spitting up, I did it, and it really does help. All those years of yoga paid off for the breathing part, anyway. Not so much for the acrobatics later when delivering. I found the "crouching mama, hidden baby" position to not feel all that serene.

I couldn't eat. Could only take small sips of water, and I had a few Jolly Rancher candies over those 23.5 hours. I was tired. And I was dilating, but baby's head was facing the wrong way. I don't know which way that was, but she was twisted a bit... when I did start to push, it would start to turn the right way, then she would shoot back up my hoo-ha, to the safety of her placenta sleeping bag, rendering my pushing useless.

So the pushing did begin around 11pm.

In the prenatal video I watched, they said the only thing NOT to do during delivery is to hold your breath and push really hard during a contraction, because it can hurt ya.

Unfortunately, that's how they roll at RCH, so with every contraction, I had to take a deep breath, put my chin to my chest, and bear down with enough force to vaginally lift an imaginary tanker truck off a puppy (the puppy was real, though. Probably). THREE TIMES for every contraction. THREE M-EFFING TIMES.

The amount of energy required to do that was incredible. They said that it usually takes a first time mom an hour or two of pushing to get baby out. And for me, the doc checked and had me keep going after the first hour.

And the second hour.

And I was tired. And her head was still turned.

And then still at 2.5 hours (because I was "soo close").

And still, more, at the 3 hour mark.

I used a labour bar, holding my legs up in the air at the thighs. I sat on the bed, on a stool, balanced on the labour bar pushing. I flipped onto all fours and pushed backwards. I pushed and pushed and pushed. As far we know, I never pooped the entire time. YAY ME! The benefits of crippling pregnancy constipation couldn't even be ruffled by three hours of puppy lifting pushing!

And, still pushing at 3.5 hours.

And then shit went wrong. And the Hubs could see and I didn't realize it.

To be continued...

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My Labour Story: Part Two... Bitchy Nurse

Okay, so Part One is below.

We had been hoping that my in-laws would be able to drive to our place and take care of the dogs during our hospital stint. Thing is, I was in there 4 weeks before my due date, so no one was expecting it. My in-laws were in another province, and my mother-in-law was set to be staying a few more days to help out my sister-in-law. She had literally changed her return ticket the day before to extend her stay.

My MIL had even called to make sure I wasn't hospital bound. At the time, I wasn't, so it was all good. Turned out we needed to call them ASAP to see if they could make it back to help us out.

We were in the hospital assessment room. It was more of a group exam room - at least 5 beds laid out in close proximity, with the ever-so-private curtain between. I was grateful that I was the only one in there, though I do enjoy a good overhearing-about-others'-vagina-issues eavesdropping under normal circumstances.

The Hubs got on the phone to notify his parents and see who was coming back to BC, and when.

As an aside: I had no birth plan per se. I think mapping out a totally unpredictable scenario is a bit like intentionally setting yourself up for major disappointment. I figured that shit would get crazy at some point and either me or the Hubs would have to make some major decisions on the fly. That's how I roll. But I was specific about two things: no students, and no males wherever I was given the choice.

The Universe laughed at me, as it ended up being a male OB who delivered her. (Notably checking my cervix every 2 minutes to see where the baby was... and for those of you who aren't aware, "checking my cervix" is a nice way of saying "jamming his hand up my hoo-ha").

In truth, aside from the man-handling, he was a top notch doctor and he did right by me and Baby D.

Anyway, the bitchy nurse came back and said that the initial OB on duty wanted to send her MALE STUDENT to come and take my background info. I am horrible at stating my needs and wishes, and Hubs was on the phone. I had to tell her I wasn't comfortable with that (I had already told her about no students and no males). She said "Well, that's what the OB wants".

I told her again I wasn't okay with that.
She told me too bad.
I told her no, I was not okay with that.

She rolled her eyes and left me.

However - small win, the female OB ended up coming to us herself. PHEW. Glad that worked out.

No one could figure out how the baby was laying. It had been a source of major stress for me in the month + before - my other pregnant friends here had been shown how the babies were sitting, but I looked like I had a two-butted baby, and the movements made no sense with where a baby's limbs should be. After baffling my own OB, the nurse at ER a few weeks before, the nurse in labour & delivery, and the OB there, they decided to do a bedside ultrasound.

THANK GOODNESS baby was indeed head down. They said she looked like a heart in my belly. I was just so glad that we had a shot at a normal "natural" (read: through my hoo-ha) delivery. If the baby had been in a whacked out position, my only option would have been a c-section.

(You guys all know how I'd recover from THAT. Read: not well. Though, turns out a vaginal delivery still had lots of surprises and recovery for me as well).

The nurse was a total bitch when I told her that I knew I was GBS bacteria positive with the pregnancy. (It's a relatively common thing that affects preggers women). I was told I would need antibiotics when my water broke in order to keep the baby safe and greatly reduce the chances of passing infection on. The nurse told me there were no records and I "would have been swabbed".

I told her I was positive, it was from a pee test SUPER early in pregnancy, and that I was sure of it. I even knew the approximate date and the ordering doctor. She continued to not believe me and be a bitch. She told the OB I was "under the impression" that I was positive, but that there was nothing in the chart. After a quick review, and me reiterating the details of the date and findings to the OB, she found it in my chart. The nurse laughed it off and said she "read it but didn't see it". Bah.

I know people can make mistakes, but I understood it was important to get it started, and she just kept treating me like I had no idea what I was talking about.

So, my MIL changed her ticket to come back that afternoon, the Hubs was off the phone, the OB decided to induce me.

There was talk of putting some kind of baby-forcing-outage gel in my inner depths, but then they decided against it since my water had already broken and it could introduce some nasty shizz in there.

So... they decided to start me on Pitocin/Oxytocin (a drug that starts strong and/or more painful contractions) post-haste and start the delivery rolling. But because:
A) I'm a wuss
B) I have an existing pain condition
C) Inducing drugs cause massively painful contractions,  and
D) I'm a wuss
E) (see A and D)

they planned to start me on an epidural at the SAME time as the Oxytocin.

And here I am before the agony started:

You may notice my barf tray. You're welcome. Also? I can rock a muthaf_ckin' blue gown, yo.

To be continued...


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My Labour Story: Part One... No, I didn't pee myself, thanks.

I had been feeling overly sleepy all day. Had meant to Skype with a friend from Ontario, and ended up falling asleep in a chair a few times. I had finally cleaned up the miscellaneous items and boxes that were at the side of my bed since our move in February, and it took all the energy I had. I was 36 weeks pregnant that Friday. Babies are considered full term from 37 to 40 weeks.

I ended up laying back down and didn't get to Skype. The Hubs came home from work and we chatted for a bit and watched a bit of TV, but I had to come up to bed. I think I may have coloured for a bit, napped, read, napped, and just fought to get up to go the washroom. The poor Hubs ended up spending HOURS assembling a porch glider on the living room floor. He didn't end up in bed until 1:30am or so.

That weekend we were going to install the car seat, pack the hospital bags. Our hospital tour was scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday. The Universe laughed at us.

I had been to the washroom and was finally falling back into that crippling-hip-breast-pain side laying position on our shitty, faulty Kingsdown mattress from Sears (post to follow, but Sears sucks ass and their customer service is horrible). Sleep was light. And my water broke.

My immediate reaction: W.T.F.?

I hopped up (it was, quite possibly, the fastest I moved my entire pregnancy) and proceeded to penguin waddle to the bathroom (easy-to-clean tile floors and all) as the water continued. I think I passed my mucous plug. I tried to pee. And then I remembered I was supposed to note the time and sit down, so I did on the floor. More water puddled out, and it actually felt surreal, like I was dreaming.

Now, because I had been so   energetic   vivacious   seizing the day   exhausted the days before, I was ripe for a shower. The concept of 72 doctors and nurses all over my unshowered hoo-ha for the next whoever-knows-how-many hours was not appealing. I did know though that I needed to go to the hospital at some point for the required antibiotics for Group B Strep once my water broke (or at least, that is what one resident told us previously).

It was 3:20am on May 25th, 2013.

I decided I would slowly have a fast shower (lol) and then go down the two flights of stairs to wake the Hubs and likely scare the shyte out of him with the news.

Waking him was cute. I was in my shower robe, and I said really calmly (and probably very cute-ly, if I do say so myself) "Hi hon, my water broke".

He sprung up into this crazy feral on-all-fours position (after clarifying with me that I was not, in fact, joking). I think the two hours of sleep, and four weeks earliness, sent him into a wee bit of a tailspin. It was really quite adorable and an incredible shift, because he is ALWAYS the calm one and I am ALWAYS the crazy/dramatic/high-strung one.

One of us realized we were supposed to call the hospital, so we called labour & delivery. The nurse said that it wasn't "alarm bells and whistles" but to head down to the hospital to be checked out. We tried to gather the few baby things I had set out, some clothes and socks for me, bedding and stuff for him, and tried to proceed calmly. It didn't feel like we were in a hurry, but he was quite absent minded and very cute. I had an eerie calm about me. Perhaps a little relief that the horribly uncomfortable interpretive-dance-ninja in my inner loins was finally going to be sprung free into the world. Or maybe I was just too tired to think. Could have been either.

Our dogs knew something was up instantly and they were barking their fool heads off outside at 4am. We made our way to the hospital around 4:30am or so. Registered at the emergency desk, then the Hubs wheeled me up to the labour floor.

There, we were promptly ignored and put into a group exam room. The nurse at the desk acted like I was foolish for being there and let us wait until nearly 5:30am before tending to us. From there, she checked with a little litmus-like paper strip to see if my waters were in fact amniotic fluid that had broken. She genuinely appeared surprised when the strip registered a deep purple, confirming that baby had really and actually sprung a leak.



THEN she stopped being a bitch and paged the OB (Obstetrician).

Shit was about to get real.

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I Birthed, Yo.

I have about 3.4 seconds to write this post, but wanted to update y'all.

I gave birth to a beautiful, wonderful, snuggly, amazing little girl in the wee hours of May 26, which was 4 weeks early.

It was a terrifying, painful, amazing thing. I will post a shizz ton of detail in the future, but wanted to sum that up now.

She shall be called "Baby D" from here on in.

I look forward to sleep sometime in the next two decades?



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Cracking, Breaking, Broken.

For once, I am not referring to myself.

WHOA. I know.

I've been sucking fairly heartily at posting on the regular... and I'm guessing I will get no better. That being said, I've been trying to do things in real life, outside of the internet, once more.

It's a mad, mad world, I tell ya.

Running errands, buying stuff for the house, trying to unpack and organize, and trying to do extreme sports like, oh, I dunno... going up a flight of stairs or bending over to pick something off the floor - all these things can wear a girl out.

And they have.

BUT, while I've been doing that, our spiffy new house has decided that it would like to further challenge me on a day to day basis.

Over two weeks ago now (maybe three?) our furnace kinda sorta decided to stop working. Three technicians and multiple charges later, they say we need a new one and THINK they know what the issue is.

Oh JOY.

Two days after getting that wonderful ($$$) news, the "up" button on our oven display just collapsed into its own housing. Everything else works fine, we just can't increase the temperature to above the starting temp of 350F, or use the timer. You know, unless we are setting the timer for 0:00, in which case we are SOLID.

Figuring that we could replace it ourselves, or MacGuyver a ghetto button in there until the stove dies, I was badly mistaken and have spent far too long hunting down the part and trying to find tutorials on how to take apart the front of the gas stove.

No big deal, right? WRONG. That part is over $315. A new stove starts around $1800 and goes up to $3000 depending on the features.

Well, what a relief that we have no other major expenses to worry about. Oh... right... except for the crib, the baby's dresser, the glider and nursing ottoman, change pad, crib mattress, sleepers, onseies, socks, diapers, butt cream (me AND baby, thankyouverymuch), stroller, carseat....

You get the idea. Living in a new city means no wonderful hand-me downs from friends and family. And finding baby consignment stores within a 20 minute drive is impossible.

I don't even have nice pictures for you for this post, because I am too lazy to grab a camera or download from my phone.

I'm pretty damn pooped, being due next month, but I think that my VISA may need to be hospitalized for exhaustion.

How are you guys out there doing? Ever been hit with a shit-ton of expenses all within a short period of time?

Being an adult is hard. How do I CTRL+Z this biznazz?

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Fisting: Now with more strawberry!

We've all seen it at one point or another.

Don't try to deny it.

Sitting, or standing, watching in awe. That something SO LARGE could fit into such a small opening.

It's astounding. It can be revolting, but it's mostly a marvel.

I feel embarassed to admit it, but this time, after I saw it, I was actually drawn to it. I was nearly salivating because I wanted it so badly.

It was huge and freakish and odd and beautiful.

Yeah, I'm sure there was no genetic modification involved in this freak at all. (And by freak I mean the strawberry, not the blogger holding said strawberry).

What, what were you expecting?

I can only imagine the level of disappointment someone is feeling if they ventured here on a much different Google search...


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