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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Ways Depression Can Save *YOU* Money! 1st Edition

[Quick edit: I am making light of something fairly dark here, but I am talking about the apathetic kind of depression... if you are in danger, crisis, you need help, or you need to talk to someone, please go HERE for Canadian support, or click HERE for options in the USA.]

You know, tears, sadness, hopelessness and helplessness aside, depression can provide some upsides.

It's just really hard to see it when you are in the midst of it. Positivity isn't exactly high on the list of side effects when you are down and out and chemically imbalanced.

BUT - HAVE NO FEAR! Have all the apathy you want... I mean... what do I care? I'm apathetic, too. But fear not! Here are some surefire ways you can turn that frown upside down (even though it probably will continue turning right back into that frown - but let's just grasp that moment where it resembles a half-assed smile!)

Now I'm not SAYING that free stock photography sucks, but...

Unrelated aside: I hate it when someone says a person has "done a 360" when they've totally changed their mind. That means they are back where they started and not, actually, 180 degrees away and doing the opposite. Anyway....

Ways that depression can save you money (fuck, there have to be SOME plusses, right? RIGHT? NO? Shit.):

   1. Toiletries. You will save a SHIT TON on toiletries. They will be used less often than military rations of food. Case in point:

      1a. Soap. You only use it up when you get your stanky ass in the shower. Based on personal experience, said showering can occur quite infrequently. Suck on that, Dove manufacturers! For every bar of soap I'd use up, the hubby would go through about 15. Yes, I'm gross. But if you laughed because you can relate, we should likely be gross together.

      1b. Shampoo. Same as above, but even THEN, when IN the shower, sometimes all that lathering on long hair is just SO MUCH EFFORT.

      1c. Conditioner. That shit is more rare than a whooping crane. Or whooping cough. Or something rare. Not only must you overcome the hurdle of soaping AND shampooing - you have to start all over with the conditioner. This is clearly reserved for extremely special occasions, like heading to the hairdresser (shit, I should TRY to appear normal) or you know, say, getting married.

      1d. Disposable razor blade ends. I can last on a free sample or clearance bonus pack for months. MONTHS, I say. My only real nemesis here is rust. Damn you, rust.

      1e. Expensive face wash. I use it, I love it, but again - it only works when a water source is involved.

      1f. Toothpaste. WAIT, WHAT?? You mean all that dentist's office propaganda is legit? I'm supposed to brush TWICE a day? Like, with real toothpaste and not just running the tap water to make it seem like I am concerned for my teeth and gums? Whoa.

      1g. Floss. I'm not even going to attempt to pretend here. Moving on...

   2. Long distance charges.

      Personal isolation has its pocket-book advantages! Withdrawing into oneself may be highly destructive, detrimental in the long (and short) term, and counterproductive for mood issues, but damned if I don't save myself a small fortune by not calling Grandma, Uncle Bob, or anyone I know/care for/love/associate with at 15 cents per minute!

Now, I'm not SAYING that this was on a 3-day showerless bender, and I am DEFINITELY not saying that the puppy was fully awake and aware before my BO knocked her unconscious in my arms. Nope, not saying a word on that.

   3. Entertainment Budget. 
      "What's that honey? You think it would be healthy for me to leave the house once this month? [Insert multitude of excuses as to why that would be a bad idea]. And what's that you say? It would be best if I considered showering before we left the house? Whoa no. That's just too much for one (depressed) plate. What's that you say? YOU showered AND left the house today and every day this past week? Well, that's why I love you, and clearly opposites attract!"

      You will save hundreds upon hundreds of dollars. That Marianas Trench/Maroon 5/Jay Z concert at $200 a ticket? Money in your pocket, because your shitty mood, horrible self care and unmanageable anxiety will keep you nice and firmly planted on your couch! Your partner should be THANKING you, really. That magic show? Eff that. Going to the movies? No way you want to cry in front of all those people - and no, it DOESN'T matter that it's an action movie, you will probably cry regardless.

Okay, yes I have felt this way, but clearly the stock photography place got it wrong. This woman is clearly not depressed because she took the time to braid her own hair. That's high functioning self-care, kids.

      That art festival? No, it would take too much brain power. That craft show? Too much fragrant potpourri, sparkles and sweatshirts with puff paint application. And all that sensory overload - you know, breathing air, talking to people and having to walk and be upright. Do I LOOK like a marathon endurance person to you? DO I??

Yeah, didn't think so.

Okay, that's it for the first edition. I have to pee and go to sleep. Priorities, folks.

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Things No One Told Me About Pregnancy

I feel like all the mothers out there secretly snicker to themselves when they see one of us "newbies" coming along. Some mothers aren't even secretive about it, but I can identify the smirk that falls upon their mouths when I share that I am pregnant for the first time.

I KNEW it would be uncomfortable.
I KNEW it would be hard.

But I THOUGHT it would be glowy, and maybe a teensy bit softly romantic, and fascinating.

It is not. At least, not for me.
Being pregnant is BULLSHIT, save the reward at the end. No, not the vein-popping, vagina-ripping delivery "reward at the end" part. The part when that is over and you finally get to meet the squirmy blob that has been taking residence in your midsection for 9 months, stealing all your vitamins and nutrients.

I've wanted to write this post for a while, but kept hesitating because of friends who have had sad things happen.

Then I realized that I need to voice this toxic shit before it eats me ALIVE.

Things no one told me about pregnancy (aka likely knowingly withheld from me so as to not give me reason to never reproduce):

   1. For whatever reason, you will become a drizzly, drippy pee-er, and will constantly have to go. **Bonus points for creative ways to wipe without throwing out your back.

Ready? AIM! Splaaaaaatter!

   2. Even the most seasoned-hemmorhoided-vet cannot prepare for the carnage a growing fetus will have on your rectal region. A baboon has got NOTHIN' on a third trimester pregnant woman.

Even the obstetrician baboon on the right is shocked at the size of her arse balloons.

   3. While possibly not commonplace for most women, it is possible (as with me) to have CONSTANT abdominal pain and ache. 24 hours a day. With no relief.

   4. Throw in the fun and good times of an umbilical hernia just behind the ole belly button, and you've got yourself a freakish baby bump, extreme pain, inability to exercise or meet others at pre-natal fitness events, full-on uselessness, and the inability to do anything that engages the core/abdominal muscles. I'm sure you can all see how this is going to end well after the baby is born. Better yet, just imagine all that pushing with completely flaccid, unused-for-9-month ab muscles. Expect a horrifyingly graphic post on this come June.

You may be asking yourself, "Self, what the f_ck does this graphic have to do with an umbilical hernia and pregnancy?"... At least, that's what I said when the free image site gave me this when I searched "hernia". Oh well. Too bad. It's free, so it stays.

   5. Sleep. Hahahahaha. Propping up with pillows? Nice try. Recovery position? Nope. Side sleeping? Well, I can be on my side, but I'm still missing the sleeping part.

   6. Some/many/most? obstetricians don't give a flying fuck. You get a 7 minute appointment time, and you'd best talk fast. The best gem so far from my OB when asking about safety of medications and supplements: "Well, pretty much anything is safe to take". Really? SERIOUSLY? Are you fucking for real? Because I am pretty damn sure that is not accurate. But I'm going to go drink some Drano and take a boatload of Advil and get back to you. (Note: I'm kidding. Don't touch Advil if you're pregnant, or Drano if you value being alive. Both of 'em can be dangerous).

   7. Whining. So much whining. Hungry, thirsty, not thirsty, no room to eat, need comforting, can't get comfortable, back aches, feet are swollen, tailbone feels bruised, baby is painfully kicking my vagina/bladder/uvula....

   8. That "pregnancy glow" everyone is referring to is just a fancy term for too-goddamn-hot. I sweat like a waterfall. I need to tear my shirt off at random times because I am totally overheating. The more hot I am, the less I drink, and the cycle worsens and repeats!

I'm pretty sure he's got that pregnancy glow. AMIRITE?!?!

   9. The fatigue. Oh the fatigue. And the iron loss. I think a normal level for iron is supposed to be above 50, even better if it's closer to 100. I am sitting at 12. I can't take iron pills and I can't keep the liquid iron down. At all. And I've shared this with my doc many times. Low iron can result in low birth weight for baby, possible increased blood loss/need for a transfusion during delivery, possible increase in the likelihood of post-partum depression, and an increased risk of still birth. But hey, my OB doesn't care. Her solution? Take iron pills. Thanks.

   10. The weight gain. I was perhaps slightly underweight before the Hubs knocked me up. I have since had temporary, drastic changes in my nausea and ability to eat. I capitalize on those moments, and have managed to pack on about 40 lbs. in 6 months. FORTY POUNDS, YO. And I still have 3 months to go!!! I am going to be a tank come delivery time, and who knows how long it'll take to lose... especially if I have hernia surgery in there, too!

There's more, including reading stuff that indicates passing things larger than a mango AFTER the baby is born could mean trouble (W. T. F.?????!???!)... I just don't even know how to cope with these last months. And it only goes downhill from here...

Time to syphon that pint of cotton candy ice cream into one side of my mouth while I comfort myself with pineapple I will regurgitate shortly on the other side of my mouth.

Honey? Have you seen the antacids anywhere???

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Angry Meter Maid is Angry...

Bwahahaha, someone posted this on Facebook and I had to share it.

I've used old tickets on a whim and a prayer when totally out of change before... and once I turned an old ticket upside down (I got busted for that one and got a $45 ticket). But this... THIS IS BRILLIANCE, and worth the ticket:

How much time you willing to spend, hmmmmmmm?

I want to be a troll  when  if I grow up.



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Sh*t My Husband Says

No word of a lie.

Today, I missed catching the garbage truck. My hubs always collects and puts out the garbage and recycling (sometimes I assist), but I got up later than planned and couldn't throw out my moldy, rotted flowers in with the trash.

So I improvised.

We have this high-falutin' food chewer-and-spitter-upper in the sink in our new place. It's called an InSinkErator, or garburator, and once I got over the insane guilt it caused me for not green-binning the organic waste, I started to kind of love it.

I'm evil, I know.

Stinky food peels? Garburatored.
Shit like cores and inedible vegetable parts getting in my way when I am (trying to) cook? Garburatored.

Mildewy flowers that have clouded their vase and are emanating a horrible rotten smell? Well, I would normally say garbage. But... I missed the truck and those babies smelled like rotten alien poo laced with a maggoty barn.

So... I figured... since I was sorting through what was still alive and salvageable right there at the sink... that... well, hey there, garburator! Flowers aren't so different from vegetables, right?

I'm sure you've handled worse, Garburator! In fact, the old owner of this house said there was nothing you couldn't chew up! So...

I started jamming rotten flowers down the sink. Despite my common sense telling me that it probably wasn't wise.

(Re-reading that caused me to break into laughter. Dear gawd this baby is going to be so screwed once it is born...)

Though, it was fun to watch the longer stems spinning around chaotically while the garburator did its thing... I kept squinting, half expecting daisy shrapnel to find its way back up and into my eyes.

So... the really hard stems still went in the garbage, which was okay because they weren't stinky. I threw a few more things in the sink as I sorted. Then I realized that some of them actually had a thin green wire threaded through them to keep them Viagra-proud and upright.

SHIT.

Pretty sure metal wire is NOT garburate-able.

Though I am 99% sure that I hadn't tossed any wired flowers down there, I was still convinced I had somehow busted our new-fangled fancy sink doodad. It seemed like stuff was still spinning, and water was spitting back at me when it shouldn't be. Dammit!

Fast forward to when the hubs is home.
I admit I shoved flowers down the sink. He looks at me in disbelief, probably remembering how impossible many of the stems were to trim, on the night he brought them home to me when I was quite sick.

I hadn't explained that I threw those super tough motherf*ckers straight into the garbage.

His next comment?

"Did you put your hand into the garburator to see if there was anything stuck?"

Seriously.

I mean, really, seriously.

Hahahah, yeah right, like I'd have a manicured nail like that. If I did, I'd be keeping it far away from the garburator.

Anyone who knows me knows EXACTLY how that scenario would have ended up. I would be raising this kid eventually with one hand and one prosthetic limb. All for the sake of a kitchen doodad.

No, sorry honey, I didn't put my hand into the terrifyingly whirring, spinning, bladed, sinkhole of destruction. For once, just ONCE, I realized that the potential gain did not outweigh the more-than-likely loss.

Ah, husband. I should have gotten rational points for that one. Really.
Seriously.

So he shoved his hand down there.

Into the garburator, I mean, you pervert.

And he declared that was what they did when stuff got stuck in their garburator growing up, but that it felt like it was all clear.

Hmph.

Last time I'm honest about jamming inappropriate things down the garbage disposal.


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Tinfoil Security AKA Batsh*t Crazy

I don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but I am educated in architecture. I took architectural history courses, but still couldn't tell you the difference between the Pantheon and the Parthenon. Shit like that comes in handy when playing trivia board games. Or, at least I assume it does, but I didn't retain the knowledge either way.

I always wanted to be in something construction related. My Dad always had an interest and a gift for building things, including designing and physically building his own house with the help of my naive and terrified mother.

So, after a stressful run at advertising in the big city of Toronto, I went back to school for Architectural Technology.

Pretty.Bad.Error.

Not my cup of tea. Not only do I NOT understand many of the concepts, I also happen to SUCK at retaining information and feeling comfortable alone with a dude or bunch of dudes on a job site.

However, in the years I did work in the field, I learned a few things. One of those things?

Architects can really be assholes.

Really.

Some have their big, grand ideas and not a lick of sense when it comes to practical layouts and functionality.

Now that you are all asleep at your computers, I will get to my next point:
Windows in bathrooms. More specifically, windows in motherf*cking showers.

Who thinks this is a good idea? I am not an exhibitionist (unless I have had a few too many vodka and cranberries, current belly situation excluded).

I am also not fond of mould, mildew, rust, and rotten wood frames.

Whoever believes a window in a shower is a good idea is, quite frankly, a dipshit. Unless the window is sealed properly, and the layout is designed with water infiltration in mind, it is going to fail.

In our rental house, I present exhibit A:

Shower to the left, and window to the right. Large window, at that.

But it gets better. First off, these aren't privacy mini-blinds - you know, the kind with the sealed holes where the string lines up. But even BETTER, I present exhibit B:

It could be said that with the blinds down someone PROBABLY couldn't see in, but I have way too many trust and body issues and far too much paranoia to just believe that.

That's right. Just outside that window is the top of the stairs where our front door sits. So if anyone is standing there, they could, realistically, look left and see you in the shower naked, even with the blinds drawn. The holes where the strings go could easily display some nipple. And the strings are all stretched out of shape and ready to fail, as they are not intended to be wet all the time.

Not only that, the metal blinds that are in there have rusted, and always stick together, making it impossible to raise the shade when you are looking for some grey BC daylight.

Not that you'd want someone to be able to watch you on the crapper, too, but I digress.

Seriously - an elderly lady lived in the house before us. Who redesigned her bathroom and felt this was a good solution?

So how did I handle it? Logically and maturely, of course. I brainstormed with my mom and decided plastering tinfoil would solve my problems. (Well, not ALL my problems... wouldn't that be nice? No, just my fear-of-displaying-nipple-at-the-front-door problems). So that is what I did. I used some packing tape and made it impossible for the UPS man to watch me suds up my pregnant belly. At least, you know, from my front door.

The webcam shows I do are TOTALLY different.
At least those are on my terms.
Heh.

So at least now I am quite certain that tinfoiling over a window puts me in the "undeniably f*cking batshit crazy" category, instead of your ho-hum "major depressive disorder" kind of instability.

But stop me if I start wearing it on my head.

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I Moved, I Saw, I Have Not Yet Conquered...

I have been utterly absorbed in my move.

Life has revolved around packing tape, cardboard boxes, lost utility knives, and furniture assembly.

Throw in a little falling-down-the-stairs action and chasing-the-dog-up-slippery-rocks-while-too-pregnant action, and you've got yourself my existence since the start of February.

I had sort of felt invigorated and ready to write lots again after you and I had that chat about my not being sure of what to write about. Then the move came and bitch-slapped me onto my (growing) ass.

The new house has stairs. Lots of them. Some more slippery than others. But at least my glutes are finally getting some exercise (unless eating ice cream bars counts as ass exercises? No?)

I had taken lots of pictures of random things to share with you, but now all I can focus on is the 1,405 loads of laundry that need to be done to wash the musty smell of two houses ago out, along with the moldy death smell of the last house. I can set the load up with my eyes closed, source the Tide and the Borax, and haul shit up and down two full flights like a champ.

Unrelated - don't try to run down stairs with your eyes closed.

Oh, right, and I'm not supposed to be lifting anything at all.

Anyway, just felt the need to assure you all once again that I am still alive, just terribly distracted and terribly tired.

What's new with you?
Know of any ice-cream related ass exercises you'd care to share? You know, ones that involve eating the ice cream?

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Defcon Level Food Whore

I had been trying to deny it for some time.

I hadn't looked my situation on, straight in the face.

Unless said face had mashed potatoes dripping from its chin. Or maybe some milkshake. OR BOTH.

For years, as many of you already know, I've struggled with horrific nausea. I can't eat wheat without rotten consequences and Guinness-book world record level bloating. Dairy sometimes hits the "undo" button immediately after ingestion. Sometimes it sits okay, I just don't feel great. Food is a struggle. Sometimes I would eat far too much for too long, other times I was eating far too little for too long.

The first three months of pregnancy were horrific for me. Between the fatigue (couldn't do a half set of stairs without crying, usually) and the extreme nausea, I was a weak and thin shell. A weak shell with a mad carbohydrate craving. If I did eat, I had one insane, unavoidable craving and I had to give in to it or else I was the most miserable bitch ever. And I could only seem to eat after 7pm.

Then - the second trimester started. It was rough at first, and it still has many-a-challenge... but one MAJOR shift has taken place.

ALL I THINK ABOUT IS FOOD NOW. ALL.THE.TIME.

Classy shit like this should only comfort others and reinforce that Imma be a great mom! HA!

When I am out of the house, in the car, I am inventory-ing every single goddamn fast food place I pass, envisioning a food (or foods) that would really hit the spot. I will tune out conversation. I will not hear the dialogue on the radio. I will briefly consider the lack of nutritional value, then give myself a free pass because, you know, BABY.

I'm bringing the hubs down with me. He has no excuse for his newly-acquired horrific eating habits, except for the obvious Not-Wanting-To-Deal-With-A-Whiny-Hungry-Determined-Pregnant-Wife. He's a trooper.

But I am dragging him down this Skittles-streaked ditch with me. We're leaving trails of melted ice cream and Orange Julius fruit smoothies on our heels.

If I agree to go out somewhere, I am already mapping out what food places we pass, what I can get on the way home, and then I fixate on it like nobody's business. I recently went to Maui (more on that later) and the size of my carry-on shoulder bag was impressive. It was comprised of approximately 90% food products and 10% reading materials. I even planned for the return flight.

I am not myself. I am achy, tired, creeped out, sluggish, inactive and overwhelmed. But I won't be swayed, oh no.

Even the most severe constipation can't slow me down. Well, okay, yes it can. And actually literally DOES. But I will continue to stuff food into my stomach even when my brain is screaming "STOP, You CRAZY Bitch!"

I can now admit it: I am an utter food whore.

I'd type more, but this cherry applesauce is staring me down. Hey, at least it has carrot in it. 
I think.

I plan to inhale it after I finish my vanilla milkshake. Though, actually, I just realized that my sweet potato fries are getting cold... and where the hell did I put the ketchup??

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Random Adorableness

I was reading Hollywood Gossip the other day, and I actually may have squealed.

Very loudly.

Very, very loudly.

"Oh. HAI."   (Image Via The Hollywood Gossip)

This thing is called a Quokka according to the article, and it looks totally Photoshopped.

It was just so damn cute, I had to share it. It actually looks like it is smiling.

The cute little buggers are considered "vulnerable" and are usually eaten by bigger predators.

:(



All together now:

One part eager friendliness, one part Jack Nicholson a la "The Shining".  (Image Via The Hollywood Gossip)

Aaaaaaaaaw.

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Lost: My Touch

So I've been thinking about what the hell to write about on here for the past few weeks.


I remember back in the day, being selfishly disappointed when a favourite blogger announced they were knocked up and were either:
A) Starting a new, separate mommy blog;
B) Starting a new, separate mommy blog while poorly and sporadically updating their wonderful/funny/expletive-laden current blog;
C) Quitting blogging altogether to harness their energy into raising their soon-to-be snot-nosed little baby.

I initially vowed I would do none of those things.

But you know what? I can't think of a DAMN thing outside of my current pregnancy misery and joy. I didn't want to turn mommy blog. My perverse sense of humour, my horrific language, and my general disdain for most things on earth don't seem to mesh well with a blog about growing life inside of me.

The reality is that I will be the same person no matter what, but at the same time, I can't honestly think of other amusing things to write about.

I have lost most regular readers and commenters. Most of my blog traffic is misplaced searchers, leaving us both sorely disappointed when they search terms like "sexy socks".

I have, quite possibly, lost my touch.

When I leave the house, it's either for house move related things, or else baby things. Doctor's appointments. Prescription refills.


There is a fear that I shouldn't get too invested in relationships here because I will only become a housebound, hermit zombie after this babe is unearthed from my nether regions.

I haven't joined prenatal classes because I have a horrific hernia, I'm a wuss, I'm weak, and the amount of body pains I am experiencing because of the bloody "miracle of birth" is astounding. No one, and I mean NO ONE, even hinted that it could be this hard physically. And I'm only half way there.

So... yeah. A part of me wants to tell other stories. Tell more things about life outside of this. But it just feels like there isn't much to say.

I used to be funny. I think. At least a little. Then the husband stopped laughing when he read my posts. And many readers left. And life carried on.

So... I think I've lost my touch.

_________

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Walnut Pelvis

Is it just me, or do cracked walnuts look eerily like the human pelvis/pelvic bone?

Seriously.

Apparently a sideways pelvis at that.

Once the connection was made in my mind, it somehow felt wrong crunching and chewing it up.

What's that? It IS just me? Okay, fine then.


_______

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First Trimester Survival Guide & Tips: Crazy Style

A few tips on your first pregnancy  semester  trimester, from a  terrified, uncertain, sickly  seasoned  pregnant  crazy  lady:

[NOTE: First photo is slightly NSFW]

• Get used to resting. That full flight of stairs? HAHAHAHA. That apple you were going to slice? Think again. All your human power will be sent to fuel your fetus.
• Brace yourself for insomnia. Especially if you go through withdrawal from your medications. You will enjoy tons of extra quiet, thinking   lonely, terrifying, endless   "me" time as you lie awake and consequently shop for boots online at 4am for weeks. 
• Hunker down for the strangest breast changes humanly possible. Those cute things that sometimes worked in a v-neck shirt? Yeah, they will now look and feel like superhumanly sensitive sideways footballs with pancakes for nipples. That hurt. BADLY. And your partner may want to play with them, so be prepared to bitch slap at a moment's notice, too.

Touchdown? What? Touch mah boobies and I'll kill you. Sponsored by the NFL and Aunt Jemima's pancake syrup.

• Prepare yourself for fetus-indicated prohibition. Do not drink alcohol, at least in your first trimester. This one is nearly killing me. Don't smoke either, that shit is awful for a growing kid. Also a good idea to check immediately if any medications you are on are unsafe in pregnancy. You may need to stop them ASAP.
• Expect to do a shitload of laundry. Your hair will be greasy as hell, your pajamas will be saturated in sweat in the night and need changing, and your body will be producing the most acrid sweat you've ever leaked. Punch anyone in the face who jokes "you are getting trained for when the baby comes, haha".
• Cry. At Anything. And Everything. You will recognize this hormonal surge for what it is, approximately 15 minutes after you have cried/made an ass of yourself over something silly. I may have cried more than once because of the damn apple in the first bullet point, among other ridiculous things. More ridiculous than even MY ridiculous. 

I cried when my watch slipped onto the ceramic tile and broke. My husband thought I was injured getting out of the shower. Nothing like SOBBING HYSTERICALLY crying wolf over something stupid.

• Do NOT read tips on the web, or you will be afraid for anything and everything. Pushing, pulling, moving, sporting, sleeping, waking, bathing, cleaning, breathing. And that is NOT an exaggeration (though   most of the rest of    all of   some of this is). No website or advice column will commit to anything, likely due to liability, so you'd best get comfortable with the phrase "but check with your doctor to be sure!"
• Have a liner-free, easily rinseable can/container specifically for puking. You will thank me for this one. You can wash it down your utility sink without having to fish out tissues and clothing tags. Also, if you take a morning vitamin, try to take it early and sleep through when it starts to digest in your stomach. Again, trust me on this.
• Accept that food cravings will be insane, intense, and un-ignorable. Also realize that most food will be utterly revolting, and the same food you craved yesterday can induce horrific queasiness and send you puking today. There's a ton of food, drink and herbal stuff you're supposed to avoid, too.

Ugh. Blech. Utterly revolting in the first trimester, until you crave it*. Then it's deliiiicious!   *Excluding eggs, those f_ckers are still revolting.

• Be prepared for hot flashes. Overwhelming, sickening, pants-wetting hotness and sweating that will force you to remove clothing in restaurant bathrooms to save yourself. Always wear a tank top, just in case.
• Your pee will be cloudy, your body will feel like a foreign entity, and the concept of sexy time may, in fact, cause you to cut a bitch.
• Prepare for the baby by acting like a whiny one yourself. Okay, not really. But I hope you have a good/decent partner who will help you function for the first few months when you are too sick to drive, too nauseated to shop, and too tired to clean. And too sexy for your shirt.
• Don't get dehydrated. I did many times. Water was revolting, as was ginger ale, juice, milk, and all things liquid. My saving grace was fruit juice cut with soda water, rocket popsicles, and chocolate soy milk (which makes me just queasy now, thinking about it). Nausea gets worse and worse the more dehydrated you get. TRUST ME. Though I *DO* look sexy hooked up to IV with vomit dribbling down my chin. Right honey? HONEY?

May the force be with you.

________________

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