Morning Greetings

There are many socially-acceptable ways to greet your fellow humans every morning. Hails such as:

Good Morning.

Guten Morgen.

Ah hoy there mayties.

Ciao.

But in a school, especially in the primary and junior wings, you'll get other first words sent in your direction by beaming smiles and expectant gazes.

My crayfish died!

I have rain boots.

and, of course, that timeless question...

Is wrestling a sport?

Love is a poop-filled diaper

This weekend, Mark and I visited Hilary and Chris and Jacob and Ella.

This morning, after we'd all worked together to prepare for the Christening reception and rotated taking turns entertaining Jake, we suddenly realized we had only a short time to all get dressed, get the kids dressed and to the church for the baptism itself. Hilary would be very busy dressing Ella and herself. Chris had to iron something. So I said, "I'll get Jake ready."

Just then, a waft of the most wretched, unmistakable scent of shat that I have ever laid nose on slammed through my congested nasal passageways and registered in my brain.
"Jake did you poop?"
But the answer was clear.
Hil was reluctant to let me re-diaper the lad. "It's so gross, Melissa" she warned.
"Oh, it's okay. Everyone else is busy."
"No, I'll get Chris to do it. Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis"
"I'm ironing" he called back.
Time was ticking and I knew it was fairly important we get out the door on time. So I took Jake, without another moment to protest, and we sped up the stairs to his room.

I put the change pad on the floor so he couldn't roll off. Well, so that if he did roll of, he wouldn't have far to fall. And he informed me that he likes to read a book while he gets his diaper changed. So I let him grab one. Then he laid down on the pad with his head towards me, so I had to pivot the pad around, toddler and all. I got down accessories like wet wipes and vaseline and Jake handed me a wash cloth, which is for patting dry the tush (I forgot this step, I'll admit it now). And there was exactly one diaper left, which was exactly what I needed.

Hil peeked her head in just as I was about to begin....just as I was noticing the tinge of the side of leg hole of the diaper which affirmed our grim suspicions...and I looked up and smiled bravely and told her I was just fine.

When the diaper came off though, I have never, ever smelled anything so terrible. Well, maybe I have, but I definitely didn't have to put my hands near anything so terrible. And to imagine such a sweet little boy had produced such a disaster was nearly unfathomable. I used far too many wet naps, but I explained to Jake it was just because I'm not a real parent yet and so I haven't perfected the art.

All the while I worked, and choked back my own lurching stomach contents, Jake gave me helpful instructions like, "Now diaper"

"Thanks bud, I would have forgotten that part."

Back at home this evening, Mark and I got into a conversation about parenting. We were following some prompts from a hand-out we'd received in prenatal class. You know, things like:
"Three things I liked about my childhood were..."
"Three things I will never do to my children are..."
"Things that will make me a good parent are...."

To this last one, I was having difficulty pinpointing exact traits. So Mark offered a few, including, "You'll make a good parent because you don't mind cleaning diapers."

I looked at him sternly, "Oh, I mind cleaning diapers," I corrected.

"But you did Jake's really poopy diaper this morning," he reminded me.

"Sometimes love means cleaning a poopy diaper....
even if it does make you want to....

... not clean it."

Thank You Taboo

I love finally getting your Thank You cards sent out after your bridal shower and feeling that sense of relief. Only to realize that you wrote in one "Thank you for the lovely picture frame"; but when you opened its wrapping just now you discovered it was actually an album.

Ella's BaptismMelissa sneaks a picture of her goddaughter-to-be

Jake rides to the church in style.

Hil and Chris and Ella

Jake being charming and his Papa falling for it.

We all promise to support Ella and help to raise her "consistent with our own faith traditions".

Battle of Wits

Frankie is getting fat again. Really fat.
So I tried to decrease her kibble intake yesterday.
She didn't take it so well.

All evening she screamed at me.
Finally I gave her a bit more kibble.
Still, she went to sleep hungry.

At 4 a.m., unable to sleep, I moved to my study and slept on the futon.
Frankie began to scratch at the door More food, please?

No! I hissed at her.

Silence. Then more scratching at the door until it opened. Then the click click of little claws tapping on hardwood as she paced the room.
In and out.
In and out.
Click, click, click.

More food, please?

Frankie, go away!

I lifted her onto the bed and tried to smother her between me and the pillow.
She just purred.
Then finally broke free and hopped down.

She jumped up onto my desk chair. Afraid she would walk on my laptop's keyboard, I got up and set her back down on the ground.

More food, please?

FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-NKIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Go to sleep.

But it's almost 5 a.m., Melissa.

I pushed her out the door and shut it tight.
I was finally dozing off when I heard the all-too-familiar heaving sound of bowels being spilled in the hallway. This mostly happens around 5 a.m., if she's very hungry.
I squinted as I turned on the hall light and rummaged around in the closet for a paper towel.
She grinned at me smugly, knowing that I'd give her food to not have to risk her vomitting again.

More food, please?

!@#$@# off, Frankie. You win.

Let it be known

Take note. The first time I thought about enrolling my future-munchkin in the Kids of Steel Triathlon, I was 33.5 weeks pregnant. I had not even seen if he was going to have hair yet or what size of swim cap the little gaffer was going to need. I just thought, what kid doesn't want to be the fastest? And what Type A mom doesn't want to grab her toddler by the armpits, drag him, coughing and sputtering, through the water, throw him onto a tricycle on which he cannot even reach the pedals, push him with his helmet falling crookedly over his eyes through a crowd of other similarly disoriented children on bicycles and then cheer as he hobbles with stiff, chubby toddler legs across the finish line?
You see, it's all about the children.

Apparently
floating blood
is bad.

Floating poop
is good.

Ma-like

Sometimes I used to wonder why my mother did things a certain way. Now I know her so much better because I become more and more like my her every day. I had two moments of such a revelation just recently.

One came when I discovered that I very rarely shut the door when I'm using the bathroom any more. It's MY house after all.

The second came when I was walking along a path and saw a plentiful apple tree and I began to devise stealthful plans in order to collect a few bushels inconspicuously for apple pies.

miscommunication

Yesterday, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed with decisions I have to make about contributing to my pension plan while I'm off on maternity leave. These are hefty decisions and they were taking a toll on me. Mark and I chatted for a long time and then, feeling exhausted and emotionally drained, I phoned my mother for some advice.

She wasn't home, so I left a message on her answering machine. Not even trying to hide my exhaustion, I simply said, "Hi Ma. Just calling for some advice."

Then Mark and I went out for the evening to prenatal classes. The topic of the night was Birth and Delivery. Some highlights included graphic videos and discussions about fear and pain-relieving methods that might or might not work or which might or might not leave you paralyzed. When I got home, I went straight to bed. I didn't phone my mother despite the fact that she'd phoned my cell phone once and my landline twice.

In the morning, we left for work at 6:45 as we always do. I didn't phone my Mom because I thought I was being generous and sensitive. Not everyone is awake as early as I am.

I had a staff meeting after work and after hitching a ride to a friend's house, I walked the remaining way. I didn't get home until nearly 6 p.m. By then, when I listened to the most recent phone message from my mother, she sounded a wee bit panicked as she begged, "Melissa...Mark....Please phone me back tonight!"

So I finally dialed her number. When she heard my voice, her first words were, "Is everything alright?" followed by a very quick "You SCARED me."

Apparently, "Just calling for some advice" sounded to her more like, "I'm being admitted early to the hospital due to some unforeseen complication in the pregnancy." Now that I know how that can be misunderstood, I'll have to be much clearer next time. Perhaps I'll begin every phone call with,"I'm not in labour and I'm perfectly healthy....."
She said that it would be better if I did.

If you find yourself on an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond...

Note: This blog reflects stories I heard at prenatal class. It does not, in any way, reflect how I feel about my mother-in-law who is one of the most considerate people I know.

At prenatal class this week, the nurse discussed various "new parent" situations that could cause stress in a marriage and we brainstormed coping strategies. One of the situations involved an overly-present mother-in-law who would arrive unannounced into the house of the new parents. She would look around disapprovingly at the mess and chaos and at the recently devoured bucket of KFC chicken and say, "I had FIVE children and WE never had to resort to take-out."

This brought about a story of a friend of the nurse's. The new parents were an Italian couple (this already sounds a bit like Everybody Loves Raymond) who had parents living just a few doors down from them. Apparently the wife found her mother-in-law would show up unannounced for very frequent visits once the baby was born, which began to get exhausting.

One day the wife phoned our prenatal nurse and said, "Well, I finally did it!"

She had been in the living room and she'd seen her mother-in-law coming up the driveway. So she removed all of her clothing and stood naked in the front entranceway. The mother-in-law opened the door to find her as bare as the day she was born. And she never showed up unannounced again.

Half Marathon Equivalents

I used to train for half-marathons. I remember starting out on a Sunday morning in my running gear and how exhausted I'd feel when I returned two to three hours later.

Nowadays, I have different sorts of battles going on. Of late, the two most noticeable are putting on socks and getting out of the car.

I find myself, sneakers in hand, staring loathingly at the socks in my other, pondering, "Just how BADLY do I want these on?"

veggie

Mark and I have begun prenatal classes. And they are definitely more engaging than reading a baby or pregnancy book. I like that they involve discussion with other folks that are going through the same kinds of things. And that we can ask the nurse specific questions.

Last week, we discussed how to have a healthy pregnancy. Along those lines, the topic of nutrition came up. And I disclosed to Mark that getting the requisite number of servings of fruits and vegetables is my nutritional weakness. So, in a very loving way, ever since that day, he has been gently asking me every evening if I succeeded in getting between 5-10 servings of fruits or vegetables. Sometimes if I want a bowl of chips, he'll ask if I'd prefer to have a peach. Usually the answer is NO and I eat the chips anyway. But it is nice that he is showing care and concern. It also makes me feel a little bit guiltier than I'd like to feel. Sometimes I reflect on all those stories of the women who eat a kilo of ice cream every day of their pregnancy or who send their husbands out at 3am for pizza and pickles and I think that he is very, VERY lucky that I am only having a rice bowl-sized portion of chips as a snack after work. That's very tame indulgence, even for non-pregnant Melissa.

Two days ago, I was lying in bed, half-asleep after work, listening to Mark putter around the kitchen making korean beef and noodles. I could hear him grating carrots. Then he came upstairs and gently placed three carrot sticks gently into my snoring mouth and tip toed out.

Inclusivitiy

The Green Party's leader, Elizabeth May, is being denied the opportunity to participate in what is supposed to be a National Debate. Stevie Harper said he doesn't want to come to the party if she's going to be there. And Dion has said that if Stevie doesn't go, he won't go.

I have read all of the arguments. Harper says that her viewpoints are just another Liberal platform and it is, he feels, unfair to have two Liberal candidates in a debate. But in denying her the right to participate, suddenly there is no representative for the Green Party.

The whole idea of excluding a candidate - that the rest of the leaders have actually been given the POWER to manipulate the debate in this way in order to do so - is preposterous. CBC should be brave enough to say, "Oh you really think you won't show up, Stevie? Okay then, don't come! Your loss!" Sure, leaders should have the right to decide whether they will participate in an event such as a debate, but they shouldn't have the right to exclude another significant party leader. As a Canadian with voting powers and the right to be informed about my leaders, I take severe offense! Stevie and Stephane, you can go sulk in the corners if you're so upset about it. But my feeling is, if Ms. May was coming to the debate, you'd suck it up and get your bottoms there any way.

There's Something About Lars

Lars and the Real Girl was recommended to me by my sister. Otherwise, I doubt I would have felt any strong inclination to watch it. Even in Blockbuster, I looked at the pink cover with the guy with the goofy smile on the front and thought, "Do I feel like another silly romantic comedy?"

But Lars and the Real Girl is not a rom com. It's funny. Don't get me wrong. I found myself laughing hysterically at parts. But it was not funny in that overly dramatic, walking into walls, or getting one's private parts stuck in their zippers way. It was funny in a mildly painful, extremely awkward way that I find quite clever, when done properly, in the film business. (The Office is another show that is funny in a very awkward and painful way). Lars is a drama more than a comedy, despite it's high points. And it's poignant and sweet and moving. Even when you read the plot line on the back of the DVD case, you'd never think the story could ever be a serious one. But it is.

Lars is about mental illness. It's about family and tragedy and grief. But mostly it's about community and the goodwill and love of people.

Everyone needs to see it at least once.

Somebody, PLEASE, teach my cat about weekend sleep-ins!

New Friend

I went walking around the block tonight. It is shocking what passes as exercise these days. I just gaze merrily at fence designs and flower gardens and ponder life passively. I came upon an older lady who was standing on a bridge overlooking the creek. I stopped to look over into the water and she said, "I like the sound of the water." I smiled. And then she asked, "Do you think it will rain?"

Thus ensued a conversation about pregnancy, her family, her dreadful daughter-in-law, the grandchild she can't see, her experiences as a former kindergarten teacher and her 35 year wedding anniversary etc. We wandered around the block slowly and finally she stopped in front of a house and said, "This is where I live." I must admit, I was a bit sad. She said that if I wanted to walk with her again or talk, she could come by my house and knock on my door around the same time another evening. I told her my address without a second thought.

On my way home, I wondered at how easily I had told a perfect stranger where I live. I wondered at how she had not only offered me her first name but also her last name when she'd shaken my hand. And, she had shown me where she lived too (we were standing right in front of it).

Then I thought, "Ah, she's a sixty year old lady who is a foot shorter than me. What harm could she be to me?" And, come to think of it, she probably felt safe divulging to me too. After all, I'm nearly 8 months pregnant, she probably figures she can take me.

Pee On This

Today I had my visit with the obstetrician. The secretary knows me by name. I am becoming a more and more familiar face to her. And I'm starting to know the drill.

I walk in. I wave at the secretary. She says, "Hi Melissa." Then I go to the washroom and I pee on a little paper tab with two little colour-changing squares. I note which picture they match on the plastic container in which the paper tabs are found, and then I tell the obstetrician what the results are.

This seems fairly simple. If you are a man, you're probably thinking it might even be fun, peeing on a paper tab. Even if it's a very small tab and the target zone is even teensier, you're probably relishing a bit in the challenge. However, there are a few difficulties with this feat for a pregnant lady.

First of all, you are on a time limit! You only have so much pee and some time in that window of urination, the pee must make contact with the target zone of the paper tab. If you are 30 weeks pregnant, you probably have to pee quite frequently. Your bladder is squished and doesn't hold very much. So you might have peed just a mere 30 minutes earlier as you were leaving work. It was that, or wet the passenger seat of your car. Now there's just not much left. So your time limit, the urination window if you will, is very, very small. You have literally a fraction of a second to connect pee with paper.

Secondly, you can't SEE anything. Your belly is getting bigger and bigger. Tying your shoes has become difficult. In fact, bending in that direction at all is nearly impossible. You may have even had to recline the car seat that very morning to reduce heart burn and to alleviate the difficulties with breathing that have come up recently. Your belly button is about the southern-most tip of what is still in your eye-line. So now, not only are you trying to quickly pee on a paper tab, it is a paper tab that is invisible to you and the stream of pee is quite invisible to you also.

And so, boys, if you think that this peeing on a tab business with really no big deal. I encourage you to attempt THIS simulation. Stand blindfolded, holding your peeing-organ and have someone else, stand two feet in front of you, holding a bull's eye. The dimensions of the bull's eye should be approximately 3mm by 3mm. The assistant should be wearing a rain jacket and humming the jeopardy theme song in fast forward. Then, we'll talk.

The good doctor, in the meantime, breaks me from my daydream to call me into her office. I am hoisting myself onto her examination table and she asks, "Did you pee on the paper tab?" And I say, "Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn't."

Lessons from the Uterus

There are many things that being pregnant can teach a person. Big is Beautiful, for instance. But after spending two months on summer vacation and returning to work today, seven and a half months pregnant, two very big lessons stand out in my mind. And, these were lessons that I really did need to learn.

The first is this: It's okay to ask for help. I used to do everything myself. It was often easier to just do things myself than to ask for assistance. I hated waiting around for someone to have time to show me something or to help me carry something. Suddenly, I have no choice. I simply can not do it all, all by myself.

The second lesson though, is the one that has really hit home. If you know me, or my past blogs, or my sister or my mother, you'll know that we are efficiency-loving people and we sometimes go into hyperdrive or supersonic speed mode. We race around in what an inexperienced eye might call "a frantic state" when really we are relishing in the number of mini tasks we are completing in a given time allotment. Never do I use my hyperdrive more than when I am teaching. It is, in a strange and grotesque way, comforting and relaxing to me that I have this seemingly endless supply of energy and speed, into which I can dip at any given moment if necessary. When it's one versus thirty, or you've got two separate lessons to teach to a split class, using two separate projectors, supersonic speed is more than just your friend. It becomes indispensible.

Today, however, I had to take on an entirely different approach. I had to move slowly and methodically. Every moment had to be calculated, because my energy was not endless. And my girth has somewhat increased in size, which has added to some clumsiness. This new speed (if it can even be called that), would normally be excruciatingly frustrating to me. But this is my new zen state. I must be in the moment only - which means, contrary to my past teaching experiences, being in only one place at any given moment.

There may be a time for hustle again in my life. Likely when I am chasing a snotty-nosed, grubby faced, jam-handed toddler. But for now, I must surrender to The Uterus.

Saucy Saucy Beasts

Ribfest in Burlington, as far as I'm concerned, didn't come to be until I arrived on the scene. Who knows how long it's been around in reality, but in my reality, I had never truly had ribs until yesterday.

Ribfest is very much Go Big Or Go Home. There are bajillions of fold out tables and chairs, freshly sqeezed Alabama lemonade, funnel cakes, beaver tails (or Jumbo ears as they call them), and of course, meat. The rib stands are HUGE, framed with dozens of signs proclaiming their specials and fun sayings and pictures and which red-neck state they're from (the Turtle Jacks of Burlington stand wasn't exactly requiring crowd control). Tables were set up in front of Ribber's Row, with the trophies that each establishment could boast. Texas, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina were all present.


We picked one of the longest line-ups and took a waiting stance. At the grill, we noticed, was a girl no older than 10 years old. She was dipping a small mop into a vat full of sauce and slopping it ontop of the meat. Meat and meat as far as anyone could see. Untainted by fries or other things here in rib alley. Some signs mocked "Vegetarian's Nightmare" - a 3 meat special of pulled pork, ribs and bbq chicken.


As I made my way to the front of the line (Mark had gone to get us freshly squeezed lemonade), I began to rub my pregnant belly strategically. The meat cutting gal flashed me a grin knowingly, put the full rack of ribs that we'd ordered into our paper box, then threw in an additional 1/3 of a rack.

We hardly made a dent, but we sure had fun.


Note: I was particularly impressed that all of the food containers were paper instead of styrofoam and there were huge recycling tents where volunteers were diligently picking through the waste in order to properly compost or recycle every bit of waste possible.

www.canadaslargestribfest.com

Duncan Hines

If you are baking a french vanilla Duncan Hines Moist Deluxe cake (the original recipe, not the light recipe) from a box, and you are using a bundt cake pan (the one shaped like a wreath), you might discover, upon looking at the baking times instruction box, that you ought to cook it for 38-43 minutes if you are cooking in English. If you are cooking in French, however, you should cook it for 45 - 50 minutes.