Help Find Trina Hunt - Missing Person in Port Moody, BC, Canada

Hello all,

I wanted to make this important post, in the off chance someone has seen something or recognizes Trina.

From the Police:
The Port Moody Police Department is attempting to locate Trina June HUNT, aged 48 years. Trina was last seen at her Heritage Mountain residence on the morning of January 18, 2021. She is believed to be wearing a black North Face jacket, with a teal green collar, and pink and purple Cloudflyer shoes. She is 5 feet 4 inches tall and weighs 120 lbs.

She is believed to be wearing a black puffy North Face jacket and purple/pink running shoes, as seen in this photo.

The community was out in full force searching the forested areas, creeks and bridges near her home. Neighbours were seeking out, noting and submitting doorbell and dash cam footage from January 18, 2021 (the day she went missing). Her community desperately wants to see her come home. She left the house with no phone, wallet or keys, which has added to the confusion of how she disappeared. 

I had originally hoped they could ping her phone, or get a notification off of a credit card, but neither of those things seem possible.

A community Facebook page was also established by family and can be found here.

If you have seen anything that could be helpful in locating her, please contact the Port Moody Police at 604-461-3456. 

I can't stop thinking about this woman and her family. Heartsick doesn't begin to describe the feeling. I so deeply hope she is safe and well somewhere and this will all make some sense soon.

Please take care everyone.

_________________________

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So Apparently Investing Isn't Just For Rich People? Here's An RRSP Calculator...

 Hello all,

I'm still kicking over here. How are you all? I've been spending most of my time on TikTok and Instagram, mostly to keep me from feeling the deep and unsettling boredom and doom that months and months and months of a pandemic has brought forward. Not even posting... just mindlessly scrolling because I want something to distract me from the anxiety.

Anyway, I wanted to come on and mention a website that helps with Canadian RRSP (Registered Retirement Savings Plan) stuff. (No, I am NOT getting paid for this and I don't benefit at all if you click through - you're a strong, independent Reader - I'm not gonna tell you what to do).

This has ALWAYS intimidated me. Anything investing. Anything taxes. I even get scared filling in the blanks in the automated online tax program we use every year. But I started talking to the Hubs and I realized that I know JACK SHIT about the right way to save up for later on, and I've always felt too intimated and stupid to look into it or get official financial advice.

Toss in a pandemic, and I'm not going ANYWHERE or INTO ANYONE'S OFFICE to ask questions.

This site lets you put in your income, how many soul/energy sucking tiny humans children you have, spouse income and CRB (not CERB!) info to tell you how much money it makes sense to deposit in your RRSP. You need your tax notice of assessment ("NOA") from last year that tells you how much "room" (aka how much you can make it rain, aka the actual MAXIMUM number of dollars the ol' government will LET you put in that RRSP) this year.

Screen shot of the RRSP Calculator (Source)

It's actually pretty cool because after using the little calculator on the site, I realized that at a certain point, it doesn't make sense to put money over a CERTAIN amount in there because the benefit to me drops off. The Hubs was faster/better at understanding and explaining it to me, but it was neat to see it laid out, and in chart form. You know me, easily distracted by colours and/or shiny things.

I always thought investment stuff was only for rich people, but an RRSP is something that anyone can start, and if you can figure your shit out, the government will actually cut you some tax breaks. 

Anyway, hope it helps. Life is pretty depressing right now. We still have to file our damn taxes. I hate taxes, but little tools that one make it suck a little less certainly don't hurt.

________________________________

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Keeping Up With The Times?

I keep getting notifications that my blogger setup is all messed up. Wrong widths and gadgets that don't work. Or widgets? I don't even know. Some crazy shit about ads. Ads that have generated about $34 of revenue in the past 5 years. Lolololol. And they only pay out when it hits $100. Hopefully it'll be good to go by the time the baby is ready for college.

I started this blog years ago, when I was living in Ontario, for shits and giggles. I had really enjoyed reading a few other peoples' blogs and thought I would write the stupid things that came to my mind.

I actually researched and figured out how to personalize the template and add some "flair" so people might be able to find certain content when they search google. Now... now I have no idea what is what. I'm scared to restore to plain blogger because I may lose all my stuff. You know, all the stuff that no one reads anymore unless they happen upon the site by accident, or a disappointing Google search.

Anyway, if anyone still enjoys reading this and can't seem to actually view it on your computer or phone, drop a comment and I will actively try to re-educate myself to right it. Otherwise, I assume it is good enough because I am exhausted, lazy and short on time.

I do want to start writing again. I know just about every blogger who starts to collect dust will write that on their newest update after 6 months, but I do miss it. I'm trying to shift my thinking to not be so mean to myself, but that really doesn't make for fun reading. And this was never intended to be a blog about parenting, but it just so happens that it has become the only thing that I do all day, so obviously my content is going to be skewed.

Ah well.

Writing is good for me, so I should put more of an effort in. The nightly hour(s?) of scrolling Instagram aren't particularly helpful to my overall outlook so maybe you will see me back again soon.

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Wistful but lucky... Depression and two kiddos...

I really want to get back to writing. I miss having a creative outlet.

Just wanted to get some feelings down now, but Baby X has consistently woken from his nap whenever I have opened up Blogger.

Here goes nothing.

With Baby X over a year now, it's kind of crazy. I know I have love in my heart for more kids, but realistically I don't think I could handle more. My depression and anxiety just can't seem to be managed well. Exercise helps with the "big feelings" as I call them around here, but I've been sidelined with the worst back injury of my life since mid June and it's crushing my spirit (and my disc, too).

I was driving back from errands today, Kiddo D at a camp and Baby X briefly calm in his seat. It was a respite from his shrieking and my negotiating in the stores and the parking garage. My sunglasses were cloudy and smudged with tiny fingerprints. Baby X loves to pull off my shades and then forcefully "put them back on for Mommy" which entails jamming the arms into my mouth/nose/eyes and holding them there. It's cute. It's silly. It makes every pair bend and smudged.

I smiled. And I haven't been doing that much these days.

He doesn't sleep well. It's been getting better, but I'm still exhausted most mornings... hell, most days, all day. My coffee intake has skyrocketed in the most literal sense. I go through coffee beans like a newborn and diapers. Or a toddler with toilet paper. Or a kindergartner with liquid soap or toothpaste.

I thought that at this stage in the game I would have had a better handle on two kids. That I'd be less bitchy and have found more of a rhythm, as the saying goes. Mind you, miracles don't happen, so I'll ALWAYS be part bitch, but... ya know, less grumpy and quick to go off on Kiddo D.

Not sure if I have mentioned here before, but antidepressants seem to make me incredibly sick. I have multiple chronic conditions, including one that holds medication sensitivity as a symptom. I've done enough therapy to teach classes and write hardcover books. I mean, the classes would suck and the books wouldn't sell, but I COULD probably do it. There is essentially a holding pattern of sticking through it all, but no real improvement in sight. Not here, not in the horizon, not in the far-distant future. And that's sad. I used to think apathy was so lame... giving up. But there are certain realizations I have made now that just ARE. I'm certain my mood and anxiety will ebb and flow. There will be better days and weeks and months, and the not-so-great ones. I wish there were a magic pill that would help it... reduce it... perk me up. But I have tried almost all of them. NO JOKE. My file is a thick one, spanning decades and provinces. I am a health insurance company's worst nightmare.

But the physical side effects are intolerable. Not even just the first few weeks. It seems to get worse the longer I am on the medication, and then coming off of it it just HORRIFIC. Brain zaps and nausea and wishing death would make it stop because it's so physically uncomfortable and debilitating.

I tried a bunch of meds when Kiddo D was a baby and toddler. I was always feeling sick. It was no way to live.

Now, I have two kids to take care of, so feeling physically ill every day, even if my mood is slightly elevated, is not worth that trade off. Exercise is my best tool, but it's a tough balance between overdoing it and feeling more exhausted, and moving enough to put a dent in the stress hormones and anxiety.

I hope my kids don't look back and think I was a fool for not medicating. That my prissiness and short temper aren't a life sentence for both of them for therapy. I keep trying to be more patient and less RAGE-FACE with Kiddo D. I don't know that I am succeeding.

I always have brain fog, I can't focus, I'm SO SO SO sensitive to noise. It makes the agitation go to unbearable levels. I want to give Kiddo D my attention, but Baby X is NEEEEEEDY and curious and gets into EVERYTHING. I can't look away. So I hope, in my heart, that as he gets less motivated to kill himself at every given opportunity, that some semblance of giving both kids equal attention will come to be.

He's awake now. I should go.

But I do want to say... I am grateful. I am grateful I have these two wonderful, healthy, intense children. I am grateful I get to spend my time with them. I wish I could be a better version of myself. It's so sad to be in therapy and uncover all the layers and layers of shit you were subjected to as a child. For the therapist to say that you're doing incredibly well considering what you're dealing with. But to still fall short in so many ways.

I love my family with all of my cracked, duct-taped, dusty heart. I enjoy the moments when I can make them laugh. So so so deeply. I want to enjoy these days as much as I can. I want to be there for them emotionally - support them POSITIVELY, ask about their day, about their feelings, be able to focus and HEAR what they are saying, and often what they aren't saying, too. Sincerely. I don't want them to act in a false way to make me happy. I need to embrace the fact that they are their own little people. It's so hard. And we model what we know from when we were little. I have so much unlearning and so much learning to do...

I hope I figure it out for their sake... and soon.

______________________________

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Parenting can be isolating... parenting with anxiety and a tough baby is even more lonely

Hello all,

Needing an outlet so wanted to write. These chances are few and far between these days. I'm on borrowed time, in a much needed hot bath, propping my Mac up and hoping it doesn't become a tub toy.

I've been feeling quite isolated lately. With Baby D in school and Baby X just wee (yet an absolute adorable, non-stop HANDFUL), there isn't much time to socialize.

Many of my mom friends who I connected with, through Baby D and her friends, have returned to work or other daytime responsibilities now that their kids are at school in the day. There are still a few friends around some days of the week, but with Baby X's naps and our walk to and from school twice a day, there isn't a ton of time for getting together. Add to that the fact that Baby X can easily take 60-80 minutes for his meals... and... well... yeah.

Parenting is a challenge. It doesn't matter if you are working or staying at home. I think it feels harder the more you care. And it is definitely harder the more you overthink things and the more you worry.

I have been very, very unsuccessful in managing those last two things. And it is tough.

I know exercise has always been helpful in battling the blues and my anxiety demons. I have been working towards working out more, but it is hard when Baby X cries so much if I am not giving him my full attention.

I can run for short runs in the basement while I ply him with Mum Mum crackers and little puff snacks in his booster seat with the Wiggles cranked loud enough to both be heard over the noise of the treadmill and cause some hearing damage for good measure. But it lasts only so long, he throws everything off of the tray, I stop and play snack fetch repeatedly, then eventually he starts to wail because he can see me, but I'm not holding him.

I go to a mom and baby fitness class where we are all in one big room, but again, he last only so long before he totally loses his shit. I've had to wear him in a carrier for part of the class before. The two childminding ladies there generally split the rest of the babies. One lady gets Baby X, and the other lady gets ALL THE REST OF THE QUIET AND CONTENT BABIES. Le sigh.

I'd like to leave him at the gym childminding, but I just can't. He screams and wails with other people. He may let someone other than family hold him briefly, but it goes downhill quickly. I can't go exercise knowing he'd be so upset. And what about all the germs? The cases of measles in my neck of the woods that he is too young to be vaccinated against? The older kids trying to poke, prod and touch him? And before you think I'm imagining that risk, I literally have to block kids at Baby D's school regularly from touching him when he's in the stroller. There is something about him that makes people want to touch him (his face and hands especially!!) and it drives me up the goddamn wall.

I'm trying to make some new mom friends, but even things like going for coffee are tough now. All Baby X wants to do is crawl and move. He will not sit happily in his stroller, ever, unless he is watching the kids at the school. He hits his max tolerance around 15 minutes. So then I end up avoiding those situations, or going and being totally stressed while he starts to cry and shriek and I try to console him and get all frazzled and leave.

I wish I cared less if he was a bit distraught. He's safe, fed, nursed, loved, and tended to so often. But when he cries, my anxiety goes sky high. Adding to that is when miserable strangers glare at me, like I'm prodding him with hot coals to make him cry at Starbucks.

People with "easy" or calm babies don't get it. People with anxiety don't understand. And lots of people tell me to just "teach him he doesn't call the shots" like he is a king manipulator when he is a small person who is clearly upset and doesn't have adult skills to cope with his big feels.

So I exercise through chronic pain and rush around his tears. I feel tired and worn down. I know this stage won't last forever. And I do adore my kids. He is just so precious and hearing him giggle is one of the cutest things ever. Even cuter when it's Baby D making him laugh!

Not a funny post. Nothing great to see here. But needed to get that off my chest.

This too shall pass.
Right? RIGHT?!?!

________________________

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When You Have ALL THE THINGS To Do... Do The Stupid Thing

I've wanted to write so badly.

If you can call this malarkey I type "writing".

Pretty sure I have no fucking clue when it comes to grammar and syntax and proper use of the comma. I love me a comma. I will use that little bastard whenever I feel like it.

Anyway.

YOU GUYS. YOOOOOU GUUUUYS. The few of you that still read, and those of you who come upon this blog by accident by searching a vague porn term and are immediately and wholeheartedly disappointed: Life is chaos.

My little guy is so cute. I mean really really adorable. (Comma there? See, I refrained because I figured you were judging me for my comma use, and now I don't even know. And I just used one there.) He's so sweet when he is not crying or screaming. BUT.HE.HAS.BEEN.CRYING.AND/OR.SCREAMING/MOST/OF/THE/DAYS/ALL/DAY.

It is totally exhausting.

He generally will only catnap around 33-47 minutes. YES. I track it. And he will generally only do that if he is contact napping, meaning being held or lying beside one of us. He's so sweet and these days won't last forever, but man. I get NOTHING done.

This is the best you get because he's going to hate me when he's older. Because I consist of, and spew forth, embarrassment. Oh, and privacy and stuff. 

So, little dude has napped a little, and sometimes had a 3-4 hour stretch of sleep once I finally get him down at night.

AND THEN I SURVEY MY MAIN F*CKING FLOOR. And I withhold the immense urge to weep and light the place on fire. So much mess. So much clutter. So many random kid things strewn about the floor. And that is with me TRYING to put shit back immediately, and keep a hamper on the main floor for his dirty clothes and cloths, and gather up Baby D's stuff as soon as I see it somewhere it shouldn't be.

So I have some time to FINALLY accomplish something. ANYTHING. SOMETHING REALLY GODDAMN FAST BEFORE HE WAKES!! And do you know what my brain does? My lucky brain that can finally wash dishes, or clothes, or vacuum, or wash the floor, or put all the toys away, or tidy the art supplies and paper, or gather the items and (corresponding receipts) bought without being able to try them on at the store because he was screaming, or clean the toilets, or wipe down the sinks that have an IMPRESSIVE amount of toothpaste spray and spittle from Baby D?

My brain gives a hearty, intense DEEEERRRRRRRP.

I fucking BLANK OUT. I start something and see something shiny and fucking throw my chance away. I don't go to bed. I rarely watch TV (I miss the odd mental checkout of Chicago PD or Jim Jefferies). I just fucking blank out and scroll my phone and start three things and finish nothing. Then realize I haven't gone pee in 7 hours, so I do that for the first time by myself all day. Then grab junk food because that is all I feel like and have the time and energy to "prepare".

And I PISS THE MOTHERF*CKING OPPORTUNITY AWAY. And the GUILT. Oh man, the guilt. But I cannot emphasize enough how utterly draining it is to have a baby that doesn't want to sleep and cries so often in the day. I love him so much and it breaks me that I can't make him happier in the day. Holding him in my arms is the best solution, but it has a time limit. He is heavy. I have another kiddo. I have to eat and poop and SOMEHOW shove coffee into this gullet.

Those who don't have "high needs" babies have NO FUCKING CLUE how good they have it. Everyone has issues, and motherhood/parenthood is hard and requires sacrifice no matter HOW you slice it, but goddammit having a baby that won't let you be more than 1' away, that cries all the time... that is a serious brain drain. Emotional drain. And my anxiety just soars.

So anyway, here I sit. He actually stayed asleep after the initial put down in the crib for the first time in... seriously I'm trying to calculate but my brain is slow and mashed potato-like. I think in ever. He always wakes multiple times after the initial put down, until 11 or 12. Then it's every 45 minutes to 2 hours. And I poured the last of my red wine and sat to blog. Because I really wanted to. Assuming I'd get 20 minutes and start more again in three weeks. (I know, you're thinking - it took her more than 20 minutes to put this garbage together?!?!) And I have nearly a full post, and an empty glass, and no more red wine (WHAT THE FUCK, THAT'S NOT FAIR).

In truth, I've been so wiped out, this past week is the first week I've had wine in over two months.

Anywho.

I had the chance. The laundry hampers creaked. The table barely had enough room for me to push my laptop on top of shit to type. The floors are covered in baby food splatter. And I typed.

The mess is overwhelming. The sense of failure and disappointment is heavy.

My brain? She sends out a solid DEEEEERRRRRRRRRP.

__________________________

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The Reality of a Baby That Won't Sleep

I do want to blog more.
But life is a touch insane right now.

Baby X has a real problem with this one little, teensy thing we do sometimes. You may have heard of it? It's called sleep. I think, anyway. I haven't really experienced it for months so I'm pretty sure that's what it's called. I think you pronounce it "slay-eep", but again, sort of a vague concept at this point.

Little dude is amazing. So goddamn cute, seriously. If I didn't respect his whole and complete embarrassment of being associated with me in his older age, I'd be plastering his adorable mug all over this blog. You betchur ass I would.

Anyway, he's a gem, but he F*CKING HATES SLEEP, unless he is attached to me via my nipple, and even then the naps are sporadic, short, and I usually can't indulge because
A) he's attached to me,
B) I'm terrified of smothering him,
C) I'm worried I'm going to miss school pick up or not hear my alarm or (fill in the blank with any scenario an anxious person could worry about, and
D) if I AM able to relax, I generally start to drift off just as he wakes up.

I am not emotionally able to do sleep training, at least for now, but every single other adult I ever utter the word "tired" to has informed me that I'm foolish and that it is my only option. Not there yet. Whenever he cries for more than a little bit (think seconds, maybe a minute), it makes me feel physically ill. If he's just whining a bit and I HAVE TO do something else, I can tolerate it, but he tends to panic/hysterical cry once it's dark out/bedtime/in his room and I just can't stomach it.

So, for now, I am the master of my own misery. Unless the Hubs can start to lactate, I'm in a bit of a baby prison. A very cute, adorable, snuggle-bug baby prison. It could be worse. I'm just so so sleepy.

SO, I think somewhere deep down inside of me I am capable or blogging again. I do enjoy it. I just never have any time. But I will get back to it. When he doesn't cry if I am more than one foot away from him. So... by 15 or 16... years?

_______________________

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Preschoolers, Consent, Needles & a Trigger

[Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault]

The title may seem unrelated and odd. And until tonight, I would have agreed with you. But being a survivor of rape and being a parent is not mutually exclusive.

Now, I've had my second baby. We survived and it was scary. I can write about that later. And I SHOULD be sleeping now because both kids are sleeping, but I can't get this out of my head and I don't want to talk about it aloud.

I find writing is helpful. This blog is one of the few outlets I have for getting shit off of my chest.

So... here goes.

Ever since Baby D (who really isn't the slightest bit of a baby any more and should probably be renamed on this blog for increased accuracy) was old enough to talk about feelings, we have hammered home the idea of consent. Of permission. Of allowing or not allowing any other person to make her feel uncomfortable or touch her in any way if she doesn't want it.

It broke my heart nearly a year ago when we found a new hairstyle with multiple elastics to use on her hair that she loved... that she suddenly stopped wanting me to do. I could not understand why, as she really fancied the look and people commented on it often. After MUCH coaxing, she finally told me that people (mostly her young friends at junior kindergarten) kept touching her hair and the elastics, even when she told them no/not to/that they didn't have her consent, that she didn't like the way that felt - that they ignored her and her wishes - so she didn't want her favourite hairstyle any more.

At four years old, my baby girl was already modifying and altering her wants and needs because other people weren't hearing her and were touching her and making her feel uncomfortable. AT FOUR YEARS OLD.

Anyway, we talked about how her friends may not understand what "consent" means, and that she can explain that she doesn't say it is OK/doesn't give permission for them to touch her, and that if she doesn't like it or want it that they should listen to her words and STOP. That she could always get a teacher or trusted grown up for help, too. I spoke with her teachers, but they downplayed it and said she was inseparable from her friends and she didn't seem to mind (WTF?). Anyway, she has only worn her hair like that once since - and that really sucks.

But I digress. The point is that our four year old daughter understands the importance of body autonomy and that she decides who touches her, or when and if she wants to dole out hugs or kisses to people. I suggested high fives as an alternative, too, because the kiddo never has to give affection to anyone if she doesn't want to. It's her body and she owns it. I told her the only time that Mommy and Daddy get to "overrule" or do something she doesn't want, is if it is an absolute matter of dire health or safety, which she seemed to get. She has better comprehension than Harvey Weinstein, or many of the men I have met in my lifetime.

Fast forward to tonight. She was set to get scheduled vaccinations. We talked about it in advance, and she knew the needle would pinch and hurt for a little bit. She wasn't looking forward to it, obviously, but she knew it needed to happen.

As we sat, before the nurse administered the drugs, I could see the fear in her face growing as the nurse legally disclosed all of the horrible reactions and outcomes that could happen in those rare adverse cases. Neither me or The Hubs had considered for a moment that this legal disclosure preamble would actually be TERRIFYING and completely UNDERSTOOD by Baby D. She was much younger for her previous vaccination appointments. She went from apprehensive, to scared, to freaked-right-the-fuck-out. It was awful. Then the panic tears started, and our girl is one of the bravest little kids I have ever met. She was really concerned.

She sat on The Hubs' lap and the nurse instructed him to pretzel around her arm to hold it in place. The nurse was nice enough, but explained that Baby D had to stay still or else she may accidentally scratch her, etc., which she didn't want to do.

THEN, IT HIT ME.

Baby D had her arms restrained. She was tense. She was crying, and it was growing louder and more strained with fear. She was held down, helpless, so scared. And then the nurse gave the first needle and she cried out and started yelling "NO! STOP!"
Her face went red and her voice got louder.
"STOP!"
"I SAID STOP!"

I was sitting beside her, nursing the baby. I felt helpless all of a sudden.
I was slammed into a flashback. I was back in that room of the cottage where I was being raped. I was yelling NO, being held down. Ignored, terrified, feeling alone and hysterical and helpless. It took every last ounce of my pretending to be a responsible grown up to not vomit all over the floor.

I could sense Baby D's terror, mind you I realize the situations were very different, yet the emotions were identical.

I wanted to cry and grab her and run out.

I slammed my foot into the ground to literally try to ground myself and force my brain back into the present moment.

I could see the nurse just wanted to jab the last injection quickly to get it over with but I HAD to hear Baby D, I HAD TO STOP her panic and let her know it was OK. So I told the nurse we needed to stop for a minute, I may have raised my voice a bit, it may have been shaking, I'm not sure.

I looked at Baby D, and I asked her to look into my eyes, and I told her I needed her to hear my words. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I told her that I know we told her that consent was SO IMPORTANT. And that we also heard her saying NO and to stop. But that even though we understood she didn't want the needles, and that it was not fun, that Mommy and Daddy needed her to get this special medicine because it was SO important to keep her healthy. That we understood that she was scared, but that the diseases and sicknesses that she could get if she didn't get the vaccines could make her very very sick or possibly worse. I promised it was the last needle, that it would be over quickly, and that it was important to keep her healthy. And... that there were gummy worms in the car for afterward.

She cried a little more, but agreed, and then cried more as the nurse went to jab her. She then cried out that it REALLY hurt, but then it was over. We praised her for being brave and getting the medicine even though it hurt and was scary.

She was brave. She literally stared that needle down, but took it. The ordeal fucking sucked. And now I've been slipping back into flashbacks tonight and having bouts of panic as both scenarios replay in my head.

As parents we can't be hypocrites. I am sure that I have been more often than I would like to admit. But even a small child knows what doesn't feel right and is scary. When you tell them they have control over their body, and then a stranger is essentially hurting them as they shout a sincere, scared STOP, it isn't right. I feel like puking still.

They deserve to be heard and respected. NO ONE wants to feel terrified, helpless and ignored. I feel like maybe I didn't handle it right, or that I could have done something different or better, especially from the get go, to have calmed her or set the tone better. I'm not sure what, though.

I know I'm an empath. I feel things deeply, and often feel what others are feeling. Not in a psychic kind of way, just in an I-easily-put-myself-in-their-shoes kind of way. I felt her pain. She was fine within two minutes. At least on the outside. I hope that she doesn't remember that feeling inside, even if the actual vaccination appointment memory is long gone. In that moment I feel like I failed her, but I tried to right it as soon as I recognized it.

I hoped I would feel better typing it out. I don't. It likely wouldn't have impacted me so deeply if it wasn't a trigger for the other stuff. Now I'm trying to process this after having a horrific dream this morning of a family member fatally injuring the baby. It hasn't been a good day.

___________________________

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Damn. D Day Is Near.

Well everyone... I'm still alive. For now, anyways.

The day is drawing near that the obstetrician plans to open me up like a walnut and get this baby out. His abdomen is huge. So large that for the gestational age estimate, they have only listed "n/a". We asked, and that is NOT a good thing.

And this is with MANAGED gestational diabetes. My midwife all but ignored my concerns until I got my own glucose meter after family and a family friend said it was pretty obvious that baby's abdomen measurement meant I had diabetes. I can only imagine what things would be like right now had I not started testing and drastically changing my eating. (Spoiler alert: They denied that I had it and said I was referred to the diabetes clinic because I was anxious about it. Are you fucking kidding me? I ate a banana and my sugars went through the roof, I was huge! They caused a lot of grief with this during labour. It's safe to say I hate my midwives for the treatment I received...)

At my last ultrasound last week, they could tell my fluid levels have gone up another 50%. My own belly is measuring at 42 weeks. That's insanity. I'm so uncomfortable and the pressure is so intense, I vomit every time I lay down. I wish I were exaggerating. Following my stomach check and measurement at the OB's office the other day, I promptly scanned the room for a garbage and when I couldn't find one I proceeded to puke a few times in his sink. Proud moment. I may have scarred his accompanying resident student.

This photo was taken the day I wrote this post, which also happened to be the day I ended up in the hospital! Spoiler alert: WE BOTH SURVIVED BUT IT WAS SCARY AS HELL!!

I love my little kiddo, Baby D. I hope that a new baby doesn't change things too much for her. I want her to know and feel how loved she is, no matter how needy the new baby is and how tired and totally depleted Mommy and Daddy are. It's going to be a tough transition, I have no doubts about that. And I am not looking forward to recovering from surgery... I'm such a wuss. I know we will get through it but man oh man, it's gonna be painful and bumpy.

Next post: We survived.

___________________________________

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My Scary Pregnancy Stuff - Part 3

It just keeps getting sweeter. And by sweeter, I mean more stressful. And, technically, less sweet. Sugar free even.

I'll try not to be too bodily-fluid focused on this post, but some of the scary stuff IS related to fluids so my hands are a bit tied.

I had my 32 week ultrasound to see if my placenta previa has moved. (Quick recap: Placenta previa is when the placenta covers the opening of the cervix, where baby would be making their way out of mama at some point. If the placenta is blocking the exit, it becomes dangerous, there is a much higher likelihood of bleeding - sometimes severely - and mama needs to have a C-Section to get baby out).

Usually they have to do a "TV" ultrasound to see exactly where the placenta is sitting, but the tech happily told me that he could see it clearly through the standard abdominal ultrasound. I thought that meant I was in the clear! I was so excited that I didn't have to worry about bleeding out any more and that I wouldn't have to be the biggest suck on the planet recovering from surgery once baby arrived!

Dude just literally meant he could see it clearly because the baby was sideways and it was totally visible.

SO... yeah, still need a C-Section. Still risk hemorrhaging. Still can't relax.

The midwife also told me that I had a high amniotic fluid volume and that there was nothing I could do to help that, but that they would monitor it. She never even mentioned to me that the ultrasound also showed that the baby's abdomen is in the greater than 90th percentile for size. That's not good. It means little dude is probably drinking a ton and not even able to pee enough of it out.

High amniotic fluid is called polyhydramnios, and it occurs in about 1% of pregnancies. That's right. Super lucky up in diss bitsh. Often it is due to gestational diabetes. Reading about it is scary because it, too, carries a greater risk of placental abruption. Slap that on top of the previa and I picture myself kind of exploding like an epic, gooey water balloon.

Anyway... I only read that about the baby's abdomen when I requested a copy of the ultrasound. The midwife didn't even want to give it to me. HELLLLLLOOOO, it's my body and my baby, thanks. Turns out a family member who is a doctor, and her good friend who is an obstetrician, told The Hubs straight away that it sounds like I have diabetes.

BUT NO. I thought. I failed the first diabetes test, but passed the two hour glucose screen. I was in the clear. Just barely. But both docs insisted that reducing my sugar and carbs would help with the fluid situation.

I emailed the midwife asking if further investigation would be useful. I didn't want to be eating the wrong food or doing anything to harm the baby, obviously. I just barely passed the 2 hour diabetes test. Maybe it was worth doing the test again, or getting a glucose meter to test my levels?

She was pretty rude, said the test had a range for a reason and I passed it so that was that. If I happened to have a glucose meter lying around, I could knock myself out, but that it was a non issue. And if I was concerned, I should ask the obstetrician at my next appointment. (Hello, she is my primary care provider? And quick to pass the buck?)

So I went and spent $100 to get a meter, test strips, and lancets (technical name: stabby stabbers).

GUESS WHO FUCKING HAS GESTATIONAL DIABETES?

Yeah.
I googled a wee bit for glucose ranges, then ended up talking at length with another mama who had gestational diabetes. She was kind enough to send me a bunch of information and guidelines from the diabetes clinic and there was no doubt that anything with wheat or sugar was spiking the SHIT out of my blood levels.

CUE SAD VIOLIN MUSIC.

This pregnancy I have survived almost entirely on wheat and sugar. And Gatorade.

So... yeah.

So now I get to stabby stab myself 6 times a day, I'm eating shit like all bran buds and PLAIN Greek yogurt, I still look motherfucking MASSIVE because I have extra fluid (and everyone and their brother is sure to let me know whenever I dare set a swollen foot out in public. Thanks y'all, I didn't realize how big I was. I just assumed ALL pregnant ladies resort to wearing tents and tarps in their 7th and 8th months...), may still bleed out, and have to have surgery.

I have a tentative date to remove this baby from my guts, but the operating room was apparently booked so it is pretty much just a pretend date right now. (Um, thanks?)

That date is also 2 weeks after when my daughter chose to show up (a month early). So I don't actually expect to make it to the C-Section date. I bawled my eyes out when the doc told me the timeline. I don't want to bleed out at home, especially in front of my daughter. He told me I wouldn't, and that it never happens (please see my last post, it does happen, and I watched my sister almost die from the same condition).

So, let's hope this baby gives me some kind of warning with a milder bleed, or something that gets me to the hospital before all hell breaks loose. I want to be alive for Baby D and to meet this kid, too.

I have one more ultrasound in a couple of weeks to see if things have moved. I really really really hope that the placenta takes a hike because I am dreading a C-Section. UGH.


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My Scary Pregnancy Stuff - Part 2

[EDIT: Be warned this post discusses a lot of blood.]

So, at 6 weeks I at least knew that I was cleared of an ectopic pregnancy. Thank goodness.

Then, as things progressed, I had all the awful physical side effects as listed in one of my previous posts. But the good ol' scary question marks have reared their ugly heads twice more now. instance number one is as follows:

When I went in for the anatomy scan at 21 weeks, they found I had a Grade 3 placenta previa. That means the placenta is being a dick and is sitting at the opening of the cervix. While your eyes just glazed over there, I can sum that up to mean that if blood vessels rip there and/or shit doesn't move out of the way on its own, I'm in big trouble. You can hemorrhage out and in extreme cases, Mom can die within 10 minutes from blood loss. Things get pretty grave for baby, too. Your body still keeps pumping blood to the placenta to help the baby, but it's essentially like a garden hose just spraying out of control with the tap turned to full blast.

If they know you have it, but you don't go into early labour, your doc will book a planned C-section so no one dies and bleeds out. If you go into early labour, or you have placental abruption, shit goes bad fast and an emergency C-section is necessary to save mom's life.

I discovered that there were risk factors that increased my chances of having placenta previa. They include: 

• Being old as fuck while pregnant (that's me, so yep, check)
• Having had a baby already (here's lookin' at you Baby D, check)
• Previously having a D&C (had that 12 days after delivering Baby D, check)
• Previous scarring in the uterus (likely from infection after Baby D, check)
• Late implantation of the fertilized egg (seems that way based on dates, so check)
• Cocaine use (wait. No. Goddamnit I never have any fun.)

And while it often CAN self-correct, and you assume that description is a worst case scenario that likely never happens, I can tell you that I sat with my sister's legs elevated on my shoulders as she bled out on her bedroom floor in this exact scenario while pregnant with her second child. It was utterly fucking terrifying. And there was nothing we could do for her but hope the ambulance would arrive soon and somehow fix things. 

I remember chatting with my 2 year old niece at the time, pretending EVERYTHING WAS NORMAL and okey dokey so she wouldn't feel scared, while her Dad was on the phone with 911 running all over the house trying to find my sister's health card. It was surreal as my sister went in and out of consciousness. It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. I felt terrible that I was acting so nonchalant with my sister essentially dying on the floor behind me. I was just so determined not to let my niece see how dire the situation was. 

I eventually took her out to the backyard to play on the swings before the EMT technicians came in, until her Mommy was in the ambulance. We stayed out until it was dark. I vividly remember the ambulance lights flashing in the night sky from the driveway out front. I had to wait until they pulled away to go back into the house. And my God, all the blood. It was everywhere. The bedroom, the hallway and all down the stairs. And they would have taken her out by stretcher... so, WTF.

I don't remember putting my niece to bed, but I did, then I began sopping up the blood in a kind of numb state. We didn't all have cell phones then. I couldn't text or call anywhere for an update. I remember her neighbour came over and asked what was going on, as she proceeded to tell me it was God's will, blah blah blah as I wiped up pool after pool of blood. My sister was only 34 weeks pregnant so it was not a good situation.

They survived. She needed a blood transfusion. Her baby had to go to a specialized hospital. They were both so very close to dying. We later met up with the EMT to attended to her that night and heard even more horrifying details of what happened and just how close we were to losing her.

So as soon as I heard that I had previa, I have been on edge and afraid. In BC, where I live, they don't even consider it an issue until a scan confirms it is still present at 32 weeks - OR - you have bleeding (or a "sentinel" bleed which is like a warning that shit isn't quite right) at some point before that. Relatives (who are doctors) in another province were aghast that I wasn't being followed before that with regular ultrasounds with an obstetrician and that I wasn't put on pelvic rest, either. (No exercise, heavy lifting, sexy time, etc).

Apparently, as the uterus stretches and grows as you get farther along, the placenta can eventually move up and not be in the way. It's clinically insignificant what it's doing before 32 weeks, because the body won't have enough room for it to self-correct before then. So extra ultrasounds may show things improving a bit, or may not, but it doesn't really matter until further down the line. Makes sense, but it definitely not comforting to say the least.

I can tell you that it is a loooooong wait between 21 and 32 weeks. I still have almost three weeks until this scan. Until then, I can't fly, can't be too far from the hospital, can't do road trips, all that, in case I start to bleed. I continued doing spin classes, being careful not to slam my junk down hard on the seat or anything (since my midwives said to keep exercising as normal).

My body totally gave up on exercise just after 24 weeks. The anemia, sciatica and hip/butt pain have made it totally impossible. In the last four days just walking 20 feet I have almost passed out three times. No joke.

That can be attributed to my anemia. My levels are brutal. I am supposed to be getting an IV iron infusion very soon. It also carries risks, and can result in anaphylactic shock or severe allergic reaction. It's scary, I'm scared, but my levels are dropping too fast and my body is not tolerating the oral pills or liquids. Further that, if I DO get a sentinel bleed, or have previa that doesn't resolve, the already low blood and iron levels can mean an even more dangerous situation for me. So, fingers crossed that my body accepts the iron IV with little to no side effects, and I can carry on with this pregnancy hopefully better off and not scared to move, walk or drive.

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My Scary Pregnancy Stuff - Part 1

I am a blob.

A pregnant, dizzy, pukey blob.

I've been hesitant to write anything here because none of it is particularly enjoyable or positive. But then again, this blog has been a useful outlet for me over the years so to not write is essentially defeating the purpose. Derp.

I wrote my last post around the difficulties I'm having with being pregnant. The plot has thickened further so I might as well keep going with it. Let's take a look back to see where my mind was and where it is at now.

If we go back, way back, way way back to after Baby D was born (4 weeks premature with a stint in the neonatal intensive care unit), I was in a significant amount of pain even 10 days after she was free of my belly. The public health nurse at the time told me that the amount of pain I was having didn't seem normal and that I should get checked out. My family doctor could not have given less fucks, and I ended up back at the hospital emergency department.

I waited for hours, still in pain, and the doctor I saw was very dismissive as well. He asked a few questions, squished my post-baby belly but did no exam. He said to come back the next day for an ultrasound, IF I WANTED TO BOTHER, and that was that.

When I had the ultrasound the next day, the tech's face went serious and she told me not to go home but to proceed back to the emergency department straight away. OH, GOOD, I thought. I'm sure they tell that to everyone that is healthy and normal. The panic started to set in.

I went back to emergency and explained the deal. I assumed the ultrasound report was already there, or at least on its way. After hours and hours of waiting in the waiting area, I finally called the on-call OB (obstetrician, aka baby doctor) number I was given pre-labour and left a message begging for some help. The pain was getting worse, and I was sitting in the waiting area seemingly forgotten.

A resident doctor called back and said she would be down to help me. She examined me and immediately noticed that I was still 4 cm dilated with a clot!! It was visually obvious. It was not good. And my body essentially thought I was trying to push out another baby! Nucking futs if you ask me!

From there, I needed a D&C to get rid of whatever squatters were hanging out in my uterus without a lease agreement. It's the post-delivery surgical equivalent to using a spatula to get all the cake batter out of the bowl when baking. It was awful. I was readmitted to the hospital while my 11-day old newborn and husband were left to fend for themselves. I needed to pump my ginormous milk-filled boobies but by the time I was actually brought to the ward, the lactation consultant wasn't on duty and apparently morphine is readily available, but the breast pumps are on goddamn lock and key. I hadn't eaten. I was alone. I cried myself to sleep that night in pain, scared, missing my family, wondering what was going to happen to me.

Though this type of procedure happens pretty often, I was really worried I would die. Labour was traumatic, Baby D's heart rate skyrocketed and she was whisked away to the NICU. I bled so much. I felt like she was going to die or I was going to die. I had just gotten over that emotional hurdle and then had to go under anesthetic and hope things went ok.

My Mom actually had to meet Baby D at the hospital. She flew in and everyone met up there so I could be a part of it. Not stressful AT ALL. Nope. Good times.

Anyway, fast forward a bit and I had infections post procedure, illness and all kinds of troubles. My OB at the time was a fucking moron and I ended up needing IV antibiotics in-hospital for over a week because she didn't culture anything and the 4 different oral antibiotics she put me on were ineffective. I was the lucky recipient of an infection that caused scarring in my Fallopian tubes. And who says being female isn't awesome?

When I finally saw a competent OB, he explained that I likely had scarring and I would need to be careful and monitor early if I were to get pregnant again because I was at greater risk for an ectopic pregnancy. That's where the fertilized egg gets stuck in one of the two Fallopian tubes and starts to grow, but eventually it runs out of room and bursts. An ectopic pregnancy can never survive, and it often results in serious blood loss and is potentially fatal for the mom. I know someone who nearly died from it a few years ago. You typically end up losing that tube and it can reduce the chances of getting pregnant in the future, too.

So once we found out I was really pregnant, I remembered that advice, and went to my family doctor. While it is almost impossible to see a 4-week embryo on an ultrasound, there is a possibility of seeing a 5 or 6 week embryo. Sometimes the ultrasound technician is able to rule out anything growing in the fallopian tubes, but usually the technician is looking to see is a tiny yolk sac in the uterus. At least then they know that it isn't dangerously growing in a Fallopian tube.

I had researched this and knew it was important. Often times if the tube bursts, mom can get incredibly weak and have a high volume of internal bleeding before she even knows to call for an ambulance. It is scary shit. It is time sensitive and some women don't know there is a problem until someone finds them passed out on their bathroom floor. There is absolutely no warning signs, and nothing that a mom can do to prevent or help an ectopic pregnancy.

So at my doctor's appointment, with my 4 year old in tow, that same family doctor once again gave zero fucks, despite what I told her the experienced, well-respected OB had told me years before. Her response?

"At 4 weeks they can't see anything anyway. Yes, it could burst and you could die, but what can you do?"

SERIOUSLY. I started crying immediately. My poor daughter looked so concerned and asked what was wrong, why I was crying. Ugh. It was just so cold and dismissive.

Luckily for me I had signed up with midwives while the pee was still drying on my positive pregnancy test, and they saved the day, sending me for a scan to be booked between 5-6 weeks. They hadn't even met me yet but they went above and beyond to help me out and relieve my fears of bleeding out and dying in the night.

The technician was able to see the yolk sac in a safe place. So I could breathe a sigh of relief instead of wondering if my tube was going to explode at some point between 4 weeks when I found out I was pregnant and my first dating ultrasound at 9 weeks.

And so it began, the wondering if my body would turn on me, not having any way to check or know for myself, relying solely on how seriously my care providers took the situation, and waiting for the scan to hopefully provide more information. It was a very stressful start to what should feel like an exciting time.

And then, the anatomy scan decided to turn things upside down again...

To Be Continued...


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Why I F*cking HATE Being Pregnant: A Rant

Hey, yeah, so... SURPRISE! I'm growing another human being. I bet you are just as shocked as I am. Even though we actually intentionally made this happen, it's kinda like... well... WHOA.

Before I delve into my personal pregnancy hell, I feel it necessary to point out that I am not a completely heartless asshole who realizes the pain, sorrow and heartache that many families endure through infertility, loss and complications. I am one lucky motherfucker to have life growing in me, healthy life, and I know I should count my lucky stars. To anyone who has had a heart-wrenching experience, I sincerely apologize deeply for your suffering.

I am grateful for this life in me, just not the goddamn process to get there.

So, if we are being honest, it is safe to say that it is NOT socially acceptable to convey anything more than mild dissatisfaction about heartburn or frequent urination while pregnant. It seems as though society has assumed that you are an angelic, uber positive matron saint when growing a human and that everything is rosy and glowing and vibrant and wonderful.

I'm here to tell you, in no uncertain terms, FUCK THAT SHIT.

Some women DO truly enjoy pregnancy and have very few negative experiences, pains and suffering. They are the elusive pregnancy unicorns, and good for them. But just because some people think it's great, doesn't mean that is my experience, or another woman's. And people look down their noses at a woman who has anything negative to say about it.

• Well, why did you get pregnant then? ('Cause I keep scouring Amazon but they NEVER have my biological baby available for delivery. Not even with a Prime subscription. SMH.)
• You had to know what you were in for. (So... that means that I'm supposed to enjoy the misery? Here, you sub in for my body for a minute and see if deciding to have a child means it's TOTES cool to feel like complete shit for 9 months. I'll wait.)
• Why wouldn't you hire a surrogate? (Um, I looked under the bed and we didn't have $20,000. Dammit.)
• Can't you just keep it to yourself? (Sure, but if you ask me how I'm doing, why I can't meet up with you, what's wrong, why am I so green/white/pale, or perhaps ask if I've had any morning sickness, then you kinda opened that can yourself. If you don't actually care, then don't actually ask mmmkay?)

Those are just a sampling, but you get the idea.

So... what's so awful about pregnancy, you ask? Why do I fucking HATE being pregnant with a passion? How on earth could something so joyous seem to turn me into a venom-spewing demon?

Well, for starters, all that VENOM SPEWING. I'm well into my second trimester and I fucking puke. EVERY DAMN DAY. Often. And it's hot and it burns and I can't lean forward after eating or else I get food V2.0. On the strongest anti-nauseant available. They have some cute little medications that have antihistamines and B-vitamins in them called Diclectin. That shit made me sleepy and did fuck all for my nausea and puking. As did the second line of defence, Maxeran/Metonia. And of course, with any medications come risks to this little human growing... but when you have a four year old and can't just curl up in bed for 9 months, Mama needs to find some options. (Cue the entirely different group of judgers who are drug-free in their pregnancies and assume I am worse than Satan for poisoning this child. Thanks. Ok, moving on).

I'm sure before I endured pregnancy I assumed puking often wasn't THAT horrible. I mean, you get a cute little human at the end. Indeed, if we are lucky and things go well, we WILL get that human. But I can tell you that my body is utterly exhausted from all the vomiting. It's so gross. And when I'm not ACTUALLY vomiting, I feel like I am ABOUT TO vomit, or else just feel like there is a live wire in my stomach.  Yesterday Baby D was kind enough to tell me I was disgusting after puking multiple times in the Benjamin Moore parking lot. The entire highway got to witness the glory. Such joy.

POOPING. OR NOT POOPING, I GUESS. Ahh, pooping. Such a lovely, functional, necessary thing. When I get pregnant:

My Body: "Huh? What? Pooping - what's that? Sorry, no comprende. That doesn't happen here anymore. Save your energy. Just puke if you have to. Consider your bowels to be a concrete landmine until sometime in late 2018". Um. Okay.

Me: *consumes any and all forms of approved fibre, laxatives, suppositories, enemas and milk of magnesias approved and available*

My Body: "Nah."

Me: *consumes decaf coffee, waits, consumes caffeinated coffee, waits, exercises, waits, prays to the fecal release Gods, waits*

My Body: "Solid effort. Nah. We got you covered"
My Body: *vomits*

Yeah. So.

HEARTBURN. Burny, raging, painful reminders of all that spicy stuff you just ate. You know, white person spicy like multigrain bread and ranch dip. Or just looking at orange juice. Even with twice a day medication, my esophagus is just a waterpark consisting of purely lava. And the slides defy gravity and go uphill. Super fun. 24/7.

DEHYDRATION. You'd think that drinking liquids is sort of a natural, no-brainer-type life supporting activity. And while I AM actually fairly bad at hydrating at any time of my life, apparently my body feels the output of vomit somehow fills the daily-liquid-in-the-esophagus quotient for my body and essentially gags or refuses adequate hydration. I try. I drink. Some. If I drink when I eat, I puke. If I drink too much at all, I puke. If I drink and lay back or lay down, I puke. This snazzy little pregnancy bonus has led to 5 hospitalizations for I.V. fluids/nausea meds. You'd think I would learn and just drink, but I enjoy going 30 minutes away, paying $40 to park, and sitting or laying for 6 hours while I get rehydrated. SO MUCH MORE CONVENIENT than just, you know, keeping a goddamned Gatorade down.

FATIGUE. Like, next level fatigue. Like, I've struggled with fatigue for years due to a number of health conditions, the dog or Baby D or insomnia keeping me awake for large chunks of the night. But this. THIS is like no other level of knuckle-dragging survivalism. I regularly fight back tears because I feel like my body is going to collapse into itself. Exercise can help at times, but if I ride the endorphin wave and skip the chance for even a short nap, whoa Nelly, the rest of the day results in an increased level of vomiting and sensory processing issues.

SENSORY OVERLOAD. At first I thought I was just cranky. Then I realized that I have far far less tolerance for things like loud or repetitive noises, rough fabrics or repetitive touch, lights. Seriously. It's like my sensitivity dial upped itself to maximum and nothing I can do seems to stop it or lessen the agitation it creates for me, no matter what I try to do. I just need to lie down in a dark, quiet room. It's brutal. And I am much shorter with Baby D which sucks and makes me feel terrible, but I'm working on it and she's a pretty chill and understanding kiddo, so we work together on it.

ANEMIA IN PREGNANCY. Oh yeah. I've been dealing with this for years, and about a year ago my ferritin (iron stores) were at 12. That's low. I started 'roiding myself up with bovine-blood-sourced iron pills (*hurl*) to help because every other supplement under the sun seemed to have no effect. After months and months of taking the pills I finally reached 32, which is still kinda shit. It's suspected iron deficiency below 50. Well, when you are pregnant, your body creates up to 50% more blood to keep the little human alive. And aforementioned little human leeches all they need from mama's blood supply, so guess who is anemic again? All my levels are dropping or are at the literal lowest "safe" number. I know that low iron affects me immensely, more than most, and more than the ranges of acceptable blood work. So iron infusions will likely be in my future to hopefully save me from pre-term delivery again, and improve my chances of not hurtling down the rabbit hole of postpartum depression and anxiety (low iron FUCKS YOU UP, Bruh).

PEEING. ALL THE TIME. ALL NIGHT. ALL OVER THE PLACE. And don't get me started on the hormonal mood swings, body pain, painful kicks, breathlessness, itchy skin, boobs the size of an independent nation, nipple sensitivity, leg cramps, strangers trying to touch your body, and a slew of other "joys".

I will likely write another post of the complications I've already endured that are both potentially fatal. I successfully dodged the first bullet after my family doctor told me that yes, the FEARED THING could happen and the embryo COULD burst and I COULD die, but what can you do. (Side note: A FUCKING early ultrasound. That's what you can do. Christ. And she said this in front of my 4 year old as I burst into terrified, hormonal tears.)

So there's also this fear that the little baby is plotting my death, though kiddo can't really help it so I'm holding no grudges. It's just fairly frightening to know your body can turn on you so fast and the possibility of expanding our family could end up with the Hubs and Baby D on their own if I died. Hopefully very unlikely at this point, but still possible. Yay?

Geriatric pregnancy looks soooo good on me. Have I mentioned that I fucking hate being pregnant to you yet?

It doesn't help that I am an older mom and it can make it really tricky to manoeuvre with this big bump and my walker and stuff. You know how it goes.

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Random Compliment... So Appreciated

We went out for dinner tonight... the Hubs, Baby D and me.

Baby D is always super stoked for the kids' treasure chest at Swiss Chalet because, well, free toys. Or, treasure I guess.

I am a disgusting fiend when it comes to that dipping sauce. I will dip anything and everything in that hot salty bath. It's revolting. I leave a trail of little dipping dishes behind me in disarray. The servers are exhausted from the excessive trips to the kitchen to fill my trough with the sauce. There can often be few survivors in my path.

But I digress.

When we arrived, Baby D was quick to survey the treasure box and to select a pack filled with jewelry. A rainbow bracelet, ill fitting ring, and sticker earrings lit her eyes up as we proceeded to our table. She was quite pleased with her find. I love that I can ask her to go with me and she never hesitates because of that treasure box and the inevitable Skittles delicacy offered at the end of her kid's meal.

She excitedly put on the bracelet and ring while I tried to carefully peel off a pair of sticker earrings from the backing. It was harder than expected, but I didn't back down in the face of adversity. Baby D's puppy dog eyes watched me intently as I painstakingly peeled and scratched. I assumed it meant they had some decent staying power to them at least, so they wouldn't end up in her hair in 2 seconds flat (I was correct, they lasted at LEAST 60 seconds).

She proudly showed off her ears, and we acknowledged their neatness, but also said we love her and she's wonderful with or without decorations on her.


Boring feminist parenting aside: I amp up the importance of superficial things like clothes, hair styles and accessories, jewelry, etc., as being merely decorations on us. They aren't what makes us beautiful, and we aren't better or worse with or without them. Everyone is so quick to praise a young girl and tell her she is SO PRETTY with whatever she has of those things...  I personally think that is bullshit and it encourages and reinforces the idea that she ISN'T pretty and wonderful as her own self, without the glittery shit. People mean well, but it reinforces the having-to-improve-your-looks-to-be-validated stuff that I abhor. And little girls are also so much more than pretty. If you tell my kid she looks incredibly brave, or strong, or powerful - THEN you've won my heart, dear friend. Anyway...

She was quite excited and showed her new earrings and those left on the cardboard backer with the family at the table beside us. The Dad said they were very pretty but that he didn't have any. The Hubs offered him a pair, which he politely declined, then Baby D suggested that the other Daddy go get himself a pair from the treasure chest at the front. He explained he was too old to enjoy the gifts, as they were meant for kids, but we praised her good problem solving skills.

Fast forward near the end of dinner. Baby D was tired, I was oblivious to the time change and realizing it was actually an hour past her bed time, and we were all fading. But dinner went well. We all chatted, reminded her not to talk with a mouth full of food, reminded her that the protein in her chicken strips had to get in her belly before the Skittles could, and all that.

At one point in the meal the neighbouring family was brought an extra sauce of some kind (I was proudly on sauce six. So gross. I know. #sodiumlover), and Baby D proudly said "Hey! I can give them this!" proudly about to share her plum dipping sauce she hadn't used. (My love for Chalet dipping sauce is only surpassed by Baby D's love of ketchup and all vehicles used to get ketchup into her mouth. She comes by it honestly).

We stopped her politely by explaining that it was really nice of her to want to share, but that people that don't know each other generally don't share open food. That it was different from trick-or-treating because people give out sealed food. But I told her it was very kind of her to want to share. She really gets kindness and she genuinely has a good heart. Of all the preschoolers I have met, she's one of the best at peacemaking and sharing toys/food/art supplies, etc.

So we are about to leave and the Dad from the neighbouring table explains he just has to tell me something. I'm hoping that it wasn't that I should be ashamed at the sheer amount of sodium I just rammed in my gullet. It was not. I was so surprised, and touched.

He said that Baby D was so articulate and had such good manners that he wanted to say it was so nice to see. He said he was a police officer and deals with the public all the time. He said he's never seen such an articulate child that is so polite. He said he worries with what he sees today, and that his wife gets embarrassed when he comments to other families, but he just had to let us know. I said she had tried to share her sauce earlier and he said he heard the entire exchange.

I was honestly so touched. People rarely go out of their way to say nice things any more. He could have observed and carried on with his evening. He could have smiled and waved at her. But he let us know that he thought she was wonderful and that he thought we've done a good job teaching her manners. It was just so heartwarming. It made me so proud of her, of the wonderful little person she is, of all she is and all she is becoming. It was small, but at the same time it was huge to hear someone validate my thoughts on Baby D after sitting beside her for an hour and a half.

Anyway, not huge blog material, but just something really special. I'm so proud of her. And not simply because a stranger thinks she's sweet, but because I know she is. She has a good soul and a kind spirit and I always want to do my best to encourage that in her. Reinforce her. Lift her up. When I'm not a tired emotional haggard bitch myself.


Sweet dreams. Time to bloat with all the sodium. And to try not to be a bitch.


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I Am Actually Proud

I don't say that often. That I am proud.

I don't even know if I've ever said it but not really meant it. It feels like just saying "I'm Proud" is so cocky... and pretentious.

(Well THERE'S a sad, small glimpse into my confidence, psyche and upbringing. But anyway...)

I'm often proud of the people in my family. It's a pride I feel FOR them, and a happiness I feel for their accomplishments.

This time, I'm actually proud of ME. And it feels strange to type it. I don't know that I've even said it aloud. Maybe to The Hubs, but that's even doubtful.

This past weekend I competed in my second sprint triathlon. It's my third triathlon this year, (well, EVER) but the first one was a "short" distance. The sprint is longer and consists of a 750m swim, a 20km bike ride, and then a 5km run. Like, all at once. On the same day. Back to back. Moving non stop. (Who chooses to do this shit you ask? I dunno, seriously.)

Me and The Hubs had talked about triathlons in 2016. He signed up for an Olympic (Standard) distance lake race in the fall of 2017. I had (breathlessly, slowly, poorly) completed the Whistler Mudderella course in fall 2016 when other ladies there were talking about triathlon. It seemed interesting - the sports involved were far less likely to cause surprise injuries or rib sprains or torn quad muscles like the obstacle race bullshit always ended with me.

Me + FUN, not-typical physical exertion/race = FAIL

Source (I think, I'm not sure, I fucking hate Pinterest and its pop ups....)

The seed was planted, but I knew that I wasn't fit enough. Or strong enough mentally. I had finally put my butt back on a bike for the first time in TWO LITERAL DECADES in spring of 2016 and the idea of 20km seemed like a distant dream. It was the first bike I'd ever used with hand brakes! Then I was extremely ill with a chest infection for October, followed by a solid month of virus in our household for December.

The idea of completing something that seemed so massive just seemed impossible. Those around me (not The Hubs) were quick to tell me it would be stupid, that I do things like that and get hurt, that I couldn't do it. And so I believed that. I decided I wasn't capable.

Source: My Happy Place (Tumblr)

And with all my aches and pains and health problems, I went on a run on vacation in January. And my stomach pain temporarily subsided. I felt so sluggish, out of shape, and pathetically slow compared to the patient (and not even REMOTELY out-of-breath) Hubs, but I did it. In the sun. There were walk breaks, but it was the only time on vacation when my stomach didn't feel terrible.

So we went for two more runs. And for a fleeting moment, I felt STRONG when I was running up an incline. It was quick, but it was an incredible feeling.

And so, that began my training.

Spin classes in the pouring Vancouver rain, running around an indoor track, and swimming. Oh dear lord the swimming. I still so totally and completely SUCK at swimming, but even there I've made leaps and bounds.

I have very vivid memories of beginning to drown in a pool as a child. My mom couldn't swim so couldn't jump in to save me. I remember it all so clearly. And it's never left me.

So I learned to swim with my head above the water at all times. My front crawl (or freestyle?) was like that of a lifeguard, where I keep my face up and out of the water the entire time. It was exhausting. The back half of my body is angled down, and basically acts like a dickish anchor, impolitely slowing me the f*ck down no matter how hard I swim.

The short triathlon was hard. It was a 50m long pool and I took long breaks at the end of each lap. I still need breaks now after every 25m. Yup, every.single.frikkin.one. But I'm doing it still. I swim the 25m in about 29-31 seconds consistently. Any slower and I seem to sink. Can't really go much faster. But I need a break at the end of the lap because I'm not breathing properly.

In April I finally forced myself to learn to swim with my face in the water, properly(ish), and it was AND CONTINUES to be wholly terrifying. No exaggeration, the entire swim is a full blown panic attack for me, every time.

This liquid is going to swallow me. (Source)

But I'm not giving up, motherfuckers. Nope.
Yippy kai ay.
I have no idea how that is actually supposed to be written and I'm too bloody lazy to google it.

So I completed this sprint triathlon. My swim was slow. And I have to put myself in a slow bracket because my overall time IS around 26 minutes. But my laps are fast so I'm gurgling and looking for the swimmers in my lane that are actual NORMAL swimmers who don't freak the fuck out and breathe normally but just swim more slowly. I have to haul ass and then rest at the wall. It's not ideal but that is where I need to be. I'm eating feet and then passing if I can, just so I don't sink, and even though I tell my lane mates my weird system, I'm sure I'm annoying them. But that is how it is, and I do all I can to stay out of the way.

I got my bike, and went for it.

I had completed a 55km bike race in July where shit went sideways for a multitude of reasons, and I thought I was having a stroke. Turns out it was a migraine with aura, which took most of my vision away for the last 5km of the race. I was worried that it would be another exercise induced deal at the triathlon, and was prepared to stop and leave the race if I had to.

This was the first race where I was able to pull and drink from my water bottle, and grab chews from my jersey WHILE CYCLING. Laugh if you want, but this was a big deal for me. Before I was too forward/arm heavy and would appear to be suffering from spontaneous electrocution on my bike before fantastically crashing to the ground because I'd tip sideways. I did end up stopping for water for a minute or two at the turnaround point aid station because the Gatorade I had was tasting slightly like ass and bad breath. Mmmmmmm.

It felt like I was moving much slower than my May race, but it turns out I actually went quite a bit faster. I didn't know until I was done. And that was on my hybrid bike. I still really want a proper road bike and clip-in cycling shoes. But baby steps for now.

Then, the run. I suck at running, but I have been trying to keep at it. I'm not the fastest, and my post-baby bladder sometimes likes to just fuck with me and decide I need an ISTA-PEE, regardless of my surroundings or proximity to an ACTUAL TOILET. But, I digress.

Actual photo of me on my last training run. (Source)

This run had hills. One really big one. And I HATE running up hills. I had to take a few walk breaks and figured I shouldn't be in the race. It felt like the opposite of those slopes on vacation. I stopped for water. I couldn't maintain my pace, and felt like I had blown it.

Then I forced myself up the last hill and in another half kilometre, I was done.

I looked at my watch - I had shaved 14 minutes off of my time from three months prior.

I thought I made an error on my watch. But I hadn't.
I actually started to cry a little. I hadn't passed Hubs based on our swim start times (before he had always passed me once or twice which was the motivation I needed to keep strong). I didn't know anyone else, had almost not signed up because I was literally so scared of the swim, afraid that I wouldn't be able to finish, worried that I'd be a joke to those who enjoy seeing me fail. I didn't sleep the night before. My already constant-in-every day anxiety was so insane. I hadn't been able to train as much due to illness, heat, air quality and scheduling with Baby D.

And I crossed that finish line STRONG. I was scared, but I was brave goddammit.
And I can say, for the first time in a very, very long time, that I am proud.

And that's a big deal.


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A Sad Heart & Broken Pencil Crayons

This is another one of those probably-too-hard-on-myself things, but it is still my reality and so I'm going to write about it here.

I've recently learned a new name for my bullying myself. It's called harsh superego and it fucking sucks. But more on that another time.

I struggle as a mom to Baby D to give her all she needs to thrive. I have fairly extreme fatigue, I'm training for my second (YES - SECOND!!) triathlon, I'm working through abusive/narcissistic parent issues in therapy, and I have treatment-resistant depression and anxiety.

Before Baby D, I had a hard time getting up and out of bed. I've never had energy. I have never in my teens or adult life woken refreshed. Or ready to seize the day. EVER.

But that is the reality of my life, and my health and my body. So I zone out sometimes, I'm always tired, in chronic pain, and I'm fighting some serious demons from a really sad childhood. There are new revelations every day and it is just draining.

Is that an excuse to be a shit mom? NOPE. Am I ALWAYS a shit mom? NOPE. But I know I let the fatigue take over and I don't want to play on the play room floor or draw. The kind of things that Baby D's Aunts and loving Grandparents (read: not my father) would be all over.

It pains me to write it, but it's true. Playing in the play room is the last on my list of things I want to do. I love to snuggle her, and tickle and fling her around the living room. I love to bike with her, or pull her in the trailer. I love to walk with her, but she usually resists me like I've asked her to floss my teeth with live electrical wires. I love when she will just talk to me and ask questions and we can look at the world. We play pretend superheroes with our hands and she loves it. We can play board games or read as long as she is willing. But the play room. I hate the play room.

I used to like to sit on the floor or draw, but she has a way of making me just sit and watch. Or I get a feather to play with and she gets the good toys, lol. I used to love to draw but she stopped working with me. I lost interest fast.

So today I sat in the play room while I was doing some bill payment/internet-y stuff (no, not porn). We talked while she drew and she told me what she was doing and showed me her work. It seemed like a decent compromise. I noticed a few of the pencil crayons she picked up were worn down.

Then, it was off to swimming lessons. Usually I do laps at the same time, but I'm recovering from the flu and just getting her to the pool took gargantuan effort today.

Fast forward to tonight. She was in bed. I'm still having post-surgery pain from February of last year. Yeah. I really wanted to sit in a hot epsom salt bath, but I figured I would stay downstairs to keep our senior, borderline dementia dog company for a while. Buy a few hours for later when he barks for company in the middle of the night.

And I remembered the pencil crayons.

I grabbed the sharpener I bought specifically for keeping those babies at the ready, and went to the play room to find a few.

All but five were broken off or worn down. And it hit me hard.

It might not seem like much, but it actually says a lot.

If I had drawn with her, even just one of the last six times the kid had asked me to.... when I was tired and late off the draw, scrambling to make dinner in reasonable time... when we got back from somewhere after I'd exercised and I was feeling utterly spent... when the laundry pile was overflowing onto the floor and couldn't be ignored anymore... when I had to clean up the dog's incontinence for the third time that day and start bleaching down the floors... when she had been previously been giving me all of the threenager sass and attitude I could stand and I just needed some separation from her... when I desperately just needed to finally eat and maybe rest on the couch for 20 minutes...

All those times that it would have taken a little extra effort, but not THAT much effort...

I would have seen that she couldn't even draw with them. I didn't give her that time. I didn't give her even a few minutes to draw. And that's not okay.

Yes she had crayons overflowing, and the few markers left that were miraculously capped and not dried out. But the pencil crayons were my love when I was a kid, and I gave them to her. And then I ignored her and them.

I will never catch up to the housework. I will never be clutter free, or a good cook. I feel so much guilt around not being better domestically and keeping on top of things. But this kid is only going to want to draw with Mommy for a while. She will only be this little, and this creative and interactive NOW. I keep hoping that soon I'll "feel better" and have more energy. The reality is that she deserves the energy I have, and we will NEVER get this time back together.

Tomorrow we're going to fucking draw. You bet your ass. With a boatload of sharp, fresh pencil crayons.


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