Thursday Oct 30th, 2008
Dear BP,
It is __ days before you were born and I am excited because I am going to carve the pumpkin tonight. I am excited to express my creative side and your dad is excited to eat roasted pumpkin seeds. Your dad and I have already discussed the kinds of costumes we will dress you up in when you are a kid. You should be happy to know that your dad is very adamant that we not embarrass you. However, you will be disheartened to know that I am determined to embarrass you despite what Dad thinks. I feel it is a necessary rite of passage and the pictures from your first Halloweens when the embarrassment is sure to be most intense because your input will be minimal are the ones that make the best slideshow pictures at weddings.
It is a very healthy thing to learn to laugh at yourself. We all need to learn to do that. Halloween is just the beginning, kiddo.
One more day of work for me. The doc says that only 10% of babies arrive after their due date. I can't imagine that's right, however, she IS in the business of delivering babies. She ought to know. Here are your possible estimated times of arrival according to the family:
Nov. 4th (Great Uncle Rod predicts you'll arrive on his birthday)
Nov. 5th (Porpor Alice gave birth to me a week early, so she says this is the day)
Nov. 6th (Nanna Maggie's prediction)
Nov. 7th (Daddy's birthday is on Nov. 21st and a third of 21 is 7 and somehow that makes sense to us so here is our pick)
Nov. 9th (Uncle Ben and Hailey)
Nov. 10th (Aunt Mary)
Nov. 11th (Uncle Jay, Connor, Grandpa Dave and Aunt Andrea)
Nov. 12th (your due date, therefore, the doc's prediction as well as Aunt Michelle's, Great Uncle Kevin's and Kokum Carmen's predictions)
Nov. 13th (Papa Larry's prediction)
Nov. 15th (Great Aunt Liz's prediction)
Nov. 16th (Hilary's prediction)
Nov. 17th (Great Aunt Jo and Aunt Mary Elaine's prediction)
Nov. 19th (Aunt Sheena's prediction)
Nov. 21st (Daddy's birthday and it's his day so you'd better come before then!)
Who are you going to prove right?
Love,
Mum
p.s. Frankie keeps wandering into your room and looking around and asking us why the big transformation.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Little Things
Tuesday, Oct. 28th, 2008 (__ days before BP's birth)
Dear BP,
Today was the last Tuesday of work, for me, until my maternity leave begins and I am so preoccupied with tying up loose ends for work that I sometimes forget I'm pregnant (well, except for the way you make me waddle from side to side when I walk down the hall).
Last week, I was very focussed on you. I felt like you were just minutes from being born and I was certain that I would deliver you this week. But now this week is here and I am engrossed in report cards and marking late assignments and making phone calls to students' parents. I had trouble sleeping last night because I was worried about these things....these trivialities...these little things.
Deb said that her father, who seems to be a very wise man, always says that there is one thing every day that is more important than all the rest of the things and if you get that done, then it's a good day. So I go over, in my head, my list of tasks-to-complete and I wonder how on earth I could pick just one to be the most important thing of the day. But truly, I know that I need to take those words to heart, give myself credit for all the things I do get done and then let go of some of this desire to control the world.
I wonder if I am holding on to these Little Things because they are tangible and logical and I know how to readily fix or solve them. They preoccupy my mind, perhaps, from the larger questions and scarier less controllable issues that I'll be facing shortly.
My world is about to get its priorities shuffled. I think it is about time.
I can't say I'm ready, but I might be as ready as I'm ever going to be.
Love,
Your Mom
Tuesday, Oct. 28th, 2008 (__ days before BP's birth)
Dear BP,
Today was the last Tuesday of work, for me, until my maternity leave begins and I am so preoccupied with tying up loose ends for work that I sometimes forget I'm pregnant (well, except for the way you make me waddle from side to side when I walk down the hall).
Last week, I was very focussed on you. I felt like you were just minutes from being born and I was certain that I would deliver you this week. But now this week is here and I am engrossed in report cards and marking late assignments and making phone calls to students' parents. I had trouble sleeping last night because I was worried about these things....these trivialities...these little things.
Deb said that her father, who seems to be a very wise man, always says that there is one thing every day that is more important than all the rest of the things and if you get that done, then it's a good day. So I go over, in my head, my list of tasks-to-complete and I wonder how on earth I could pick just one to be the most important thing of the day. But truly, I know that I need to take those words to heart, give myself credit for all the things I do get done and then let go of some of this desire to control the world.
I wonder if I am holding on to these Little Things because they are tangible and logical and I know how to readily fix or solve them. They preoccupy my mind, perhaps, from the larger questions and scarier less controllable issues that I'll be facing shortly.
My world is about to get its priorities shuffled. I think it is about time.
I can't say I'm ready, but I might be as ready as I'm ever going to be.
Love,
Your Mom
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Waiting Place...
Dr. Seuss put it well in the book entitled "Oh the Places You'll Go".
He says that there is a most useless place called The Waiting Place...
"...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for a Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting."
It's a very real place...The Waiting Place....and we've all been there.
My very good friend is trying to get pregnant. And she and I count her cycle days and then we wish for the next day and then we wish for the next day and then we wish for the day when she can take a pregnancy test. I remember playing this game too. I remember the disappointment of the negative pregnancy test and then wishing for the next cycle to come and go so I could test again.
Then I got pregnant and I thought "Good Lord What Have I Done?" I don't regret a single thing about getting pregnant, however, I do look back on all my angst and eagerness and think that I could have just been happy for where I was at that time in my life. I could have just relaxed a bit and enjoyed the ride.
Then, in the early weeks of pregnancy, you just keep wanting the weeks to go by so you can feel certain that your wee one is past the twelve-week safe zone. You want the next doctor's appointment to come and go so you can hear his or her heartbeat on the Doppler. You wait impatiently for an ultrasound so you can see his little face and hands. Then you eagerly await the first kick.
And before you even know what has happened, you find yourself with four days left of work, 38 weeks pregnant with swollen feet, no clothes that fit, aching joints and a hot water bottle perpetually glued to your lower back, wondering if this will ever be over. But any mother will tell you not to wish it away. They will tell you that you will miss this, despite how hard it is to believe. You'll miss feeling the tumbling movements and the mystique of what is causing the bony protrusion next to your navel. You'll miss the nocturnal kicks and the night-time cravings. You think you're sleep deprived now, they say. You'll miss all this glorious sleep you are able to get now. You'll love your new family, but you'll also miss all the glorious together time of just you and your spouse. You'll miss conversations about things other than diapers and the consistency of shits and sore nipples and the cost of diapers.
So, whether you find yourself wishfully on cycle day 2 with a hopeful uterus just eager to get growing or whether you find yourself potentially 15 days from a brand new family, or wherever you find yourself, just be careful not to wish away the best days, the best moments, the best sensations, the best parts of your journey.
Dr. Seuss put it well in the book entitled "Oh the Places You'll Go".
He says that there is a most useless place called The Waiting Place...
"...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for a Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting."
It's a very real place...The Waiting Place....and we've all been there.
My very good friend is trying to get pregnant. And she and I count her cycle days and then we wish for the next day and then we wish for the next day and then we wish for the day when she can take a pregnancy test. I remember playing this game too. I remember the disappointment of the negative pregnancy test and then wishing for the next cycle to come and go so I could test again.
Then I got pregnant and I thought "Good Lord What Have I Done?" I don't regret a single thing about getting pregnant, however, I do look back on all my angst and eagerness and think that I could have just been happy for where I was at that time in my life. I could have just relaxed a bit and enjoyed the ride.
Then, in the early weeks of pregnancy, you just keep wanting the weeks to go by so you can feel certain that your wee one is past the twelve-week safe zone. You want the next doctor's appointment to come and go so you can hear his or her heartbeat on the Doppler. You wait impatiently for an ultrasound so you can see his little face and hands. Then you eagerly await the first kick.
And before you even know what has happened, you find yourself with four days left of work, 38 weeks pregnant with swollen feet, no clothes that fit, aching joints and a hot water bottle perpetually glued to your lower back, wondering if this will ever be over. But any mother will tell you not to wish it away. They will tell you that you will miss this, despite how hard it is to believe. You'll miss feeling the tumbling movements and the mystique of what is causing the bony protrusion next to your navel. You'll miss the nocturnal kicks and the night-time cravings. You think you're sleep deprived now, they say. You'll miss all this glorious sleep you are able to get now. You'll love your new family, but you'll also miss all the glorious together time of just you and your spouse. You'll miss conversations about things other than diapers and the consistency of shits and sore nipples and the cost of diapers.
So, whether you find yourself wishfully on cycle day 2 with a hopeful uterus just eager to get growing or whether you find yourself potentially 15 days from a brand new family, or wherever you find yourself, just be careful not to wish away the best days, the best moments, the best sensations, the best parts of your journey.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Too Hungry
Don't let a pregnant woman get too hungry. Do not deny her proper nutrition for extended periods of time, or you might be at risk of a binge. And, ironically, the binge may not include "proper nutrition".
The binge could include an hastily consumed half bag of sour cream and onion chips. It might be followed with a large glass of chocolate milk to tide her over until juice can be properly mixed from concentrate. It could then include a proper meal of four meatballs and some broccoli gratin because she might have a conscience after all. And that could be quickly followed with a Super Jos Luis eaten properly on a white dinner plate with a fork. The entire process could take up to an hour and a half....or less....depending on just how famished you have let her become.
Don't let a pregnant woman get too hungry. Do not deny her proper nutrition for extended periods of time, or you might be at risk of a binge. And, ironically, the binge may not include "proper nutrition".
The binge could include an hastily consumed half bag of sour cream and onion chips. It might be followed with a large glass of chocolate milk to tide her over until juice can be properly mixed from concentrate. It could then include a proper meal of four meatballs and some broccoli gratin because she might have a conscience after all. And that could be quickly followed with a Super Jos Luis eaten properly on a white dinner plate with a fork. The entire process could take up to an hour and a half....or less....depending on just how famished you have let her become.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Snore Monster
The latest issue is NOT that I snore at night and wake Mark from a dead sleep. It is not even that I snore at night and keep Mark from falling asleep. No, no. The biggest difficulty recently is that I fall asleep so early in the evening that Mark cannot even watch the evening television line-up in peace. Or he'll be reading and trying to block out the sound of the chainsaw next to him. He sometimes says it startles him.
So he'll lean over and gently stroke my face or rub my back in an effort to make me sleep less soundly. But I wake up. And then I'm irritated because no one wants to be woken from a happy slumber. And certainly an exhausted 37-week-pregnant lady doesn't take kindly to it.
So what can stop a snoring Loftus? You can ask my Aunt Liz and she probably already knows.
Not a Breathe-Right nose strip.
Not Vicks Vapour Rub under the nose.
Not switching sleeping positions.
Not being in the room next door.
Not even being in a room on a different floor.
No, it turns out that there is NOTHING that will stop a snoring Loftus.
The latest issue is NOT that I snore at night and wake Mark from a dead sleep. It is not even that I snore at night and keep Mark from falling asleep. No, no. The biggest difficulty recently is that I fall asleep so early in the evening that Mark cannot even watch the evening television line-up in peace. Or he'll be reading and trying to block out the sound of the chainsaw next to him. He sometimes says it startles him.
So he'll lean over and gently stroke my face or rub my back in an effort to make me sleep less soundly. But I wake up. And then I'm irritated because no one wants to be woken from a happy slumber. And certainly an exhausted 37-week-pregnant lady doesn't take kindly to it.
So what can stop a snoring Loftus? You can ask my Aunt Liz and she probably already knows.
Not a Breathe-Right nose strip.
Not Vicks Vapour Rub under the nose.
Not switching sleeping positions.
Not being in the room next door.
Not even being in a room on a different floor.
No, it turns out that there is NOTHING that will stop a snoring Loftus.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Breakfast Food
This morning, I was rooting through the fridge looking for something to break my fast. I came across the lemon meringue pie I bought last night (apparently best before Feb 16, 2009 - I was so impressed I took a picture).
As I was cutting myself a breakfast-sized portion of the pie, I was slightly saddened at the idea that in about three weeks, I may have to start being more disciplined in my eating habits again. Pregnant ladies just get away with more, don't they? I heard the voice in my mind say, "In about three weeks, pie for breakfast will no longer be acceptable." Then the same voice in my head cleared her throat and in a very Loftusy tone went, "HOLD ON A MINUTE! Pie has ALWAYS been acceptable breakfast food."
So I reflected on breakfast foods of my pre-pregnancy era and realized that I was far more conventional during my pregnancy than before. I have been known, in my 30 years pre-pregnancy to eat, for breakfast, hamburgers, leftover spaghetti, freshly-made garlic bread, pies of all sorts or half a shrimp ring.
My father, a HUGE breakfast advocate and connaisseur, has for a long time been preaching the doctrine which I hold so very close to my heart: Any Food Can Be Breakfast Food.
Monday, October 20, 2008
My husband - My hero - and the Furnace Adventure
It's getting a bit cold and we stuck it out as long as we could but finally, on Sunday, we thought we ought to turn on the furnace...if not for just a few degrees of heat for an hour or so. Nothing too crazy.
So we flicked the switch of the thermostat from AC to Heat and waited. The big monster began to wake up and breathe life through the ducts.
It only occurred to me three hours later that the house didn't feel warmer. I finally put my hand on a vent and felt only cool air. Hmmmmm.
Mark and I went downstairs with a flashlight and looked for knobs and switches on the furnace. "It's probably something very simple," Mark remarked. I agreed. Too bad we weren't sure what that simple something was.
We discussed how we could have the same dude that came to fix our condensate tube of the air conditioner in the summer come and do a "tune up" on the furnace and then we could non-chalantly say, "Oh, and while you're here, would you mind just...you know...turning that bad boy on."
Remembering our dryer fiasco, Mark checked the fuses.
Carolyn said it might be the pilot light. She said she had to get down on her belly and look through a vent to see the one in her house. "I'm not gettin' down on my belly," I informed Mark.
Then Mark did some research on-line. He came up to my study and said, "It's the pilot light. It's out."
"Oh?" I replied, "How do we start it again?"
"Well, it could just be a switch that's off," he began, "or it could be the thermo-flux-capacitor." We both smiled.
"Uh huh."
He disappeared back downstairs.
I went to the store. I bought a green pepper, a frozen lemon meringue pie and a $2.99 pumpkin. I also rented Run Fatboy Run.
When I returned, I announced proudly as I entered, "I BOUGHT A PUMPKIN!"
"I fixed the furnace!" he called back.
"WHAT????!!!" I ran downstairs....well, I walked very quickly downstairs. We went into the furnace area. He squeezed in behind the water heater to where he'd removed the back panel of the furnace. I was just a few inches too round to make the same maneuver, so I just peered in the direction of his flashlight beam. Sure enough, now there was a blue flame where before there had been none.
"How did you know what to light?" I asked.
He dismissed it as all about the home repair website. He mentioned how he just figured these three tubes were gas input, which made this a shut-off valve and he figured these were wires so there wouldn't be a fire there and then that left these two tubes and he figured this one was far more substantial and it led to this spot, so he'd figured it must be the pilot light. Then he'd just held down the pilot valve thingy for 10 seconds and used the lighter and that hadn't worked, so he'd just figured to hold it down for longer and.....the rest is history.
I stared at him dumbfounded. When he came out from behind the furnace I gave him a huge, happy hug of relief and called him my hero and peppered his face with kisses.
"You're fantastic," I said, "I can't BELIEVE you fixed the furnace."
He grinned sheepishly but he said, "You don't have to be quite so surprised."
It's getting a bit cold and we stuck it out as long as we could but finally, on Sunday, we thought we ought to turn on the furnace...if not for just a few degrees of heat for an hour or so. Nothing too crazy.
So we flicked the switch of the thermostat from AC to Heat and waited. The big monster began to wake up and breathe life through the ducts.
It only occurred to me three hours later that the house didn't feel warmer. I finally put my hand on a vent and felt only cool air. Hmmmmm.
Mark and I went downstairs with a flashlight and looked for knobs and switches on the furnace. "It's probably something very simple," Mark remarked. I agreed. Too bad we weren't sure what that simple something was.
We discussed how we could have the same dude that came to fix our condensate tube of the air conditioner in the summer come and do a "tune up" on the furnace and then we could non-chalantly say, "Oh, and while you're here, would you mind just...you know...turning that bad boy on."
Remembering our dryer fiasco, Mark checked the fuses.
Carolyn said it might be the pilot light. She said she had to get down on her belly and look through a vent to see the one in her house. "I'm not gettin' down on my belly," I informed Mark.
Then Mark did some research on-line. He came up to my study and said, "It's the pilot light. It's out."
"Oh?" I replied, "How do we start it again?"
"Well, it could just be a switch that's off," he began, "or it could be the thermo-flux-capacitor." We both smiled.
"Uh huh."
He disappeared back downstairs.
I went to the store. I bought a green pepper, a frozen lemon meringue pie and a $2.99 pumpkin. I also rented Run Fatboy Run.
When I returned, I announced proudly as I entered, "I BOUGHT A PUMPKIN!"
"I fixed the furnace!" he called back.
"WHAT????!!!" I ran downstairs....well, I walked very quickly downstairs. We went into the furnace area. He squeezed in behind the water heater to where he'd removed the back panel of the furnace. I was just a few inches too round to make the same maneuver, so I just peered in the direction of his flashlight beam. Sure enough, now there was a blue flame where before there had been none.
"How did you know what to light?" I asked.
He dismissed it as all about the home repair website. He mentioned how he just figured these three tubes were gas input, which made this a shut-off valve and he figured these were wires so there wouldn't be a fire there and then that left these two tubes and he figured this one was far more substantial and it led to this spot, so he'd figured it must be the pilot light. Then he'd just held down the pilot valve thingy for 10 seconds and used the lighter and that hadn't worked, so he'd just figured to hold it down for longer and.....the rest is history.
I stared at him dumbfounded. When he came out from behind the furnace I gave him a huge, happy hug of relief and called him my hero and peppered his face with kisses.
"You're fantastic," I said, "I can't BELIEVE you fixed the furnace."
He grinned sheepishly but he said, "You don't have to be quite so surprised."
On Bellies
They look strange. I was examining my pregnant belly shots (posted below) and it occurred to me that all those times when I watched movies and the hollywood actresses were sporting those strangely molded bellies with protruding belly buttons and an oddly eerie smoothess to the skin and I was scoffing and saying, "That belly is soooooooooooooooooooooooooo fake," well, maybe I was wrong. Apparently the realest of bellies can look very pretend.
Also today I think I realized that BP is running out of space. You hear and read about it. They (all the websites and such) say that the movement peaks around week 32 or 34 or something like that and then he starts to get kind of cramped in there. I mean yes, I still feel lots of moving around, but there aren't those sporadic wind-up-and-let-er-rip kicks anymore. And I began to wonder about how I still have several weeks (in theory) left in my pregnancy and I thought about just how squished a little guy can get. Then I thought....hey now....couldn't I just keep expanding to give him more space? How does my body know when to stop ballooning? Does the uterus actually have an upper limit to its stretchiness? (If you've seen the beginning credits to Jon and Kate Plus Eight, you might be inclined to think no). And if he had space before, what was making me expand so readily if not his body pressing up against my uterine lining? Just the water? Man, that's water pressure!
They look strange. I was examining my pregnant belly shots (posted below) and it occurred to me that all those times when I watched movies and the hollywood actresses were sporting those strangely molded bellies with protruding belly buttons and an oddly eerie smoothess to the skin and I was scoffing and saying, "That belly is soooooooooooooooooooooooooo fake," well, maybe I was wrong. Apparently the realest of bellies can look very pretend.
Also today I think I realized that BP is running out of space. You hear and read about it. They (all the websites and such) say that the movement peaks around week 32 or 34 or something like that and then he starts to get kind of cramped in there. I mean yes, I still feel lots of moving around, but there aren't those sporadic wind-up-and-let-er-rip kicks anymore. And I began to wonder about how I still have several weeks (in theory) left in my pregnancy and I thought about just how squished a little guy can get. Then I thought....hey now....couldn't I just keep expanding to give him more space? How does my body know when to stop ballooning? Does the uterus actually have an upper limit to its stretchiness? (If you've seen the beginning credits to Jon and Kate Plus Eight, you might be inclined to think no). And if he had space before, what was making me expand so readily if not his body pressing up against my uterine lining? Just the water? Man, that's water pressure!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Ambiguity
A few mornings ago, I was in the office at school preparing for the day. A father came in, his arms filled with props for his child's health presentation. Following closely behind him was a child carrying the rest of the props.
The man looked unsure about what he should do next, so I offered my assistance. He replied, "My daughter has a health presentation this morning and I need to drop these off in her classroom."
I was caught a bit by surprise. The child who was carrying the rest of the project had first struck me as a boy - prepubescent probably - but still a boy. I would have put money on it. Oh well, I thought. I've been wrong before.
I turned to the child with unjudging eyes and said, "Who's your teacher?"
The child just looked at me, dumbfounded.
The father piped up, "Uh, Mr. Robertson."
"I'll take you there," I offered. I began to march up the hallway, the father and his "daughter" in tow.
But as we were walking, I heard them conversing inquisitively, "Hmmmm, these rooms are numbered oddly," said the father. "Yes, the school is laid out strangely, I wouldn't have thought to go this way," replied the youngster.
"Uh, there is a first floor even lower down..." I began to explain.
"Oh, now THAT makes sense," they agreed loudly to each other.
It was then that I realized that neither of them were familiar with the school. That meant that the poor young lad who was carrying his sister's project was merely here in a support role and had probably been surprised that I'd asked him which classroom was his when his father had indicated that the project belonged to his daughter.
Maybe he knew that I had assumed he was a girl.
I prefer to think that he assumed I was just a terrible listener.
A few mornings ago, I was in the office at school preparing for the day. A father came in, his arms filled with props for his child's health presentation. Following closely behind him was a child carrying the rest of the props.
The man looked unsure about what he should do next, so I offered my assistance. He replied, "My daughter has a health presentation this morning and I need to drop these off in her classroom."
I was caught a bit by surprise. The child who was carrying the rest of the project had first struck me as a boy - prepubescent probably - but still a boy. I would have put money on it. Oh well, I thought. I've been wrong before.
I turned to the child with unjudging eyes and said, "Who's your teacher?"
The child just looked at me, dumbfounded.
The father piped up, "Uh, Mr. Robertson."
"I'll take you there," I offered. I began to march up the hallway, the father and his "daughter" in tow.
But as we were walking, I heard them conversing inquisitively, "Hmmmm, these rooms are numbered oddly," said the father. "Yes, the school is laid out strangely, I wouldn't have thought to go this way," replied the youngster.
"Uh, there is a first floor even lower down..." I began to explain.
"Oh, now THAT makes sense," they agreed loudly to each other.
It was then that I realized that neither of them were familiar with the school. That meant that the poor young lad who was carrying his sister's project was merely here in a support role and had probably been surprised that I'd asked him which classroom was his when his father had indicated that the project belonged to his daughter.
Maybe he knew that I had assumed he was a girl.
I prefer to think that he assumed I was just a terrible listener.
BP's Palace
Borrowing a strawberry-shortcake covered glider from a friend. Mark keeps asking me to re-cover the cushions. Doesn't everyone love strawberry-shortcake?
Overnight bag is sitting on the change table. Mark repainted the dresser in six coats of paint.
Car seat complete with instruction manual.
Diaper genie with touchless motion sensor feature. BP's fancy-shmancy diaper bag.
Note to remind myself to feed FC before we leave for the hospital.
Got lots of wash cloths. I've learned that parents need lots...though I'm not 100% sure exactly what for.
Trying out the crib and Mary's quilt.
Borrowing a strawberry-shortcake covered glider from a friend. Mark keeps asking me to re-cover the cushions. Doesn't everyone love strawberry-shortcake?
Overnight bag is sitting on the change table. Mark repainted the dresser in six coats of paint.
Car seat complete with instruction manual.
Diaper genie with touchless motion sensor feature. BP's fancy-shmancy diaper bag.
Note to remind myself to feed FC before we leave for the hospital.
Got lots of wash cloths. I've learned that parents need lots...though I'm not 100% sure exactly what for.
Trying out the crib and Mary's quilt.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Adventures of a Local ThanksgivingThough our guests came from as far as Calgary, Alberta, the food itself had a lot less distance to cover. The Loftii held their very first annual Local Thanksgiving in Peterborough this year. The idea came about from Maryann's reading of the 100 Mile Diet.
Featured at our table, besides our honoured guests Maggie & Larry Knorr, was Zeke the Organic-never-seen-the-inside-of-a-freezer-Turkey complemented by Carmen's own wild-rice stuffing, Maryann's special salad and the Roebuck's super secret apple and squash mash, Jay's How-Dare-You-Doubt-My-Culinary-Prowess mashed potatoes with bacon, Dad's Yes-Local-Beats-Don't-Need-to-Be-Microscopic beats'n'orange dish and Melissa's local apple pie and The-Splenda-May-not-be-local-but-the-pumpkin-is diabetic pumpkin pie.
There were many warm memories made in the preparation of this wonderful and momentous gathering. Melissa was saved from throwing herself through her kitchen window when trying to make pie dough by her lovely mother-in-law. Maryann struggled with finding appropriately-sized beats at the local farmer's market. Dad went to collect the beloved Zeke at the crack of dawn. And Jay, well, no one was sure whether he'd step out of that car with a bag of potatoes or a dish already-mashed to perfection. The doubters had to eat their words and do all of the Thanksgiving dishes.
Thanks to Carmen and Dad who graciously hosted the event and who were open to the new concept. And thanks to Maryann for being daring enough to broach the subject of a local theme for Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks to everyone for having an open mind and a flexible and fun-loving spirit about the whole affair. Maybe that's what Thanksgiving is all about.
Monday, October 13, 2008
On Election Day...
In order to exercise your democratic freedom and have input into the future of your country, please vote on Tuesday.
I received my voter's card in the mail and, of course, I read it thoroughly. There is an extensive information brochure included about how now, in order to vote, one must provide TWO pieces of government issued I.D. confirming your identity and your address. It then provided a very detailed list of the types of I.D. which would be acceptable.
OR....(and there was an option in case you didn't have two pieces of I.D. confirming your name and address), you can bring along a buddy to confirm your identity ... and swear an oath.
In order to exercise your democratic freedom and have input into the future of your country, please vote on Tuesday.
I received my voter's card in the mail and, of course, I read it thoroughly. There is an extensive information brochure included about how now, in order to vote, one must provide TWO pieces of government issued I.D. confirming your identity and your address. It then provided a very detailed list of the types of I.D. which would be acceptable.
OR....(and there was an option in case you didn't have two pieces of I.D. confirming your name and address), you can bring along a buddy to confirm your identity ... and swear an oath.
The Month We Don't Get Credit For
On Tuesday, I will be 36 weeks pregnant. Divide 36 by four (the average number of weeks per month) and that makes me 9 months pregnant. Yes, I will be 9 months pregnant (that means I'll be finished nine months of pregnancy) and still be four weeks away from my due date of Nov. 12th. Therein lies the irony of the month not known about.
People ask, "How far along are you?"
"Oh, nine months."
"So.....your due date is....today?"
"Nope. Four weeks away."
A strange awestruck confusion follows. And who can blame them. No one has told them. They're just wondering how they could have lived so long and not have been told about that last month of pregnancy.
I'd venture to say it's one of life's best-kept secrets.
On Tuesday, I will be 36 weeks pregnant. Divide 36 by four (the average number of weeks per month) and that makes me 9 months pregnant. Yes, I will be 9 months pregnant (that means I'll be finished nine months of pregnancy) and still be four weeks away from my due date of Nov. 12th. Therein lies the irony of the month not known about.
People ask, "How far along are you?"
"Oh, nine months."
"So.....your due date is....today?"
"Nope. Four weeks away."
A strange awestruck confusion follows. And who can blame them. No one has told them. They're just wondering how they could have lived so long and not have been told about that last month of pregnancy.
I'd venture to say it's one of life's best-kept secrets.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
My Jewish Brother-In-Law
Benjamin is a wonderful brother-in-law. One of the things I love about him (and there are many) is his ability to laugh about things. He can also make everyone else laugh, which is always enjoyable.
At Thanksgiving dinner, we were discussing the wonderful ethnic mixes that our kids will be. Maryann and Ben often giggle that their kids will be Chi-jews because Maryann is half chinese and Ben is...well....not Jewish. However, EVERYONE assumes that he is. The possibility does exist considering he had a mysterious, not-talked-about grandfather whose background is unknown. In fact, recently, Ben's mother said something about the fact that this grandfather may very well have been Jewish after all.
Ben used to be a tour guide for Ottawa. One day he was showing prospective students around the Ottawa University Campus when a gentleman leaned in to ask him a question somewhat privately. "You'll be sure to be able to answer this, I'm sure..." he began "What's the Jewish life like on campus?"
There was another time when Mary and Ben were guests at a lady's house. She took one look at him (and he has been said to have a Jewish nose...whatever that is), heard his name was Benjamin and said very matter-of-factly, "Well, I guess I won't be serving you any pork!"
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Birth - The Aftermath
Last night was prenatal night. As Mark and I walked into the building, we were reflecting on the last two evenings of prenatal. One had been on the topic of labour and delivery. The other had been a detailed look at breastfeeding (along with discussions of mastitis and clogged ducts etc.) Mark thought aloud, "I hope this week's session is less gross than the last few."
The first topic was Physical and Emotional Changes After Delivery. That sounded harmless enough. "Changes" is a nice, neutral word. Change can be good, right? WRONG!!!!!
I spent the entire class with my heart and mind ping-ponging between two very different states: mortified terror and uncontrollable giggling hysteria. I was shocked at the information, as well as the candidness with which this nurse (and mother) was describing the "physical and emotional changes after delivery".
First of all, there is swelling. Well sure. I guess that makes sense. (Friction causes heat, baby.) I'd heard about the frozen maxipads which very kind nurses will offer at the hospital. But, as our prenatal nurse put it, she found herself wondering for how long her labia would be at her knees.
Also, she mentioned the importance of religiously doing one's kegel exercises. I guess I'd always been of the mind-frame that incontinence could not happen to me. Or, at the very least, that I was in the midst of the most difficult part right now...you know....fetus parked fairly heavily upon my bladder as we speak. But no, apparently the bladder has not had practice filling to its full capacity in quite some time, therefore, when the baby is gone, the bladder can then rebel. Our prenatal nurse confided without hesitation that she'd be like, "I have to pee" one minute; she'd take a step and then, "OH, I already went." And this is a beautiful, young, vibrant woman! This is an Incontinence-Can't-Happen-To-Me Woman. This was when one of my uncontrollable giggle fits began. However, even before I had the laughter under control, I was already doing kegels. And I looked around the room in the fit of my hysteria and wondered how many other women had, in that instant, decided to do theirs too.
Poops. Apparently this becomes a huge deal after having had the vaginally mutilating experience of childbirth. Apparently, it's not uncommon to go four days without a poop. Our nurse said that it's a myth that you have to pass a poop before they'll let you leave the hospital (or we'd be there a lot longer). No, she said, you just have to pass gas! That's enough of a tell-tale sign that your gut is in movement. Yay for peristalsis!
But when the pooping moment comes, it is evidentally like giving birth all over again. People feel their insides are ripping out again. This brings us to the age-long debate: To take stool-softeners or not to take stool-softeners. This topic is one of the very few (and I do believe in open discussion about nearly everything) that is really not necessary to discuss with one's partner. Sitting there in the classroom, I felt a bit badly that Mark had to learn that I was going to have to go through some major trauma to pass a bowel movement at some point just after having had a child. He looked a bit distresssed.
The last two topics were hemorrhoids and squirt bottles.
I knew a bit about hemorrhoids. My friend had told me that all the pushing could cause them. She said there were creams one could take. I just didn't know that one of those creams was called ANUSOL! Could it be more self-explanatory? I mean, where do I put it, wait, I think on my ANUS-ol. No one's going to mistaken that for toothpaste. But our nurse took it one step further. She described hemorrhoids as part of your intestines poking out your rectum. She even said sometimes you can just take your fingers and POP them back in. POP...just like that. Handy to know. "They look like grapes," she described. Women around me nodded seriously.
And at the hospital, apparently they give you a squirt bottle or perineal bottle. When you pee, you fill it with warm water and squirt it on your sore areas to keep the pee from burning and, get this, you continue to use it for a week in place of toilet paper! I think I gasped aloud, "I CAN'T WIPE????" The nurse even added, "If you've got two bathrooms in your house, see if you can score two squirt bottles so you don't have to yell HONEY, COULD YOU PLEASE BRING ME MY PEEING SQUIRT BOTTLE.... I LEFT IT IN THE OTHER BATHROOM." Also, she noted, when you're done, perineal bottles make great rice shakers for toddlers.
Last night was prenatal night. As Mark and I walked into the building, we were reflecting on the last two evenings of prenatal. One had been on the topic of labour and delivery. The other had been a detailed look at breastfeeding (along with discussions of mastitis and clogged ducts etc.) Mark thought aloud, "I hope this week's session is less gross than the last few."
The first topic was Physical and Emotional Changes After Delivery. That sounded harmless enough. "Changes" is a nice, neutral word. Change can be good, right? WRONG!!!!!
I spent the entire class with my heart and mind ping-ponging between two very different states: mortified terror and uncontrollable giggling hysteria. I was shocked at the information, as well as the candidness with which this nurse (and mother) was describing the "physical and emotional changes after delivery".
First of all, there is swelling. Well sure. I guess that makes sense. (Friction causes heat, baby.) I'd heard about the frozen maxipads which very kind nurses will offer at the hospital. But, as our prenatal nurse put it, she found herself wondering for how long her labia would be at her knees.
Also, she mentioned the importance of religiously doing one's kegel exercises. I guess I'd always been of the mind-frame that incontinence could not happen to me. Or, at the very least, that I was in the midst of the most difficult part right now...you know....fetus parked fairly heavily upon my bladder as we speak. But no, apparently the bladder has not had practice filling to its full capacity in quite some time, therefore, when the baby is gone, the bladder can then rebel. Our prenatal nurse confided without hesitation that she'd be like, "I have to pee" one minute; she'd take a step and then, "OH, I already went." And this is a beautiful, young, vibrant woman! This is an Incontinence-Can't-Happen-To-Me Woman. This was when one of my uncontrollable giggle fits began. However, even before I had the laughter under control, I was already doing kegels. And I looked around the room in the fit of my hysteria and wondered how many other women had, in that instant, decided to do theirs too.
Poops. Apparently this becomes a huge deal after having had the vaginally mutilating experience of childbirth. Apparently, it's not uncommon to go four days without a poop. Our nurse said that it's a myth that you have to pass a poop before they'll let you leave the hospital (or we'd be there a lot longer). No, she said, you just have to pass gas! That's enough of a tell-tale sign that your gut is in movement. Yay for peristalsis!
But when the pooping moment comes, it is evidentally like giving birth all over again. People feel their insides are ripping out again. This brings us to the age-long debate: To take stool-softeners or not to take stool-softeners. This topic is one of the very few (and I do believe in open discussion about nearly everything) that is really not necessary to discuss with one's partner. Sitting there in the classroom, I felt a bit badly that Mark had to learn that I was going to have to go through some major trauma to pass a bowel movement at some point just after having had a child. He looked a bit distresssed.
The last two topics were hemorrhoids and squirt bottles.
I knew a bit about hemorrhoids. My friend had told me that all the pushing could cause them. She said there were creams one could take. I just didn't know that one of those creams was called ANUSOL! Could it be more self-explanatory? I mean, where do I put it, wait, I think on my ANUS-ol. No one's going to mistaken that for toothpaste. But our nurse took it one step further. She described hemorrhoids as part of your intestines poking out your rectum. She even said sometimes you can just take your fingers and POP them back in. POP...just like that. Handy to know. "They look like grapes," she described. Women around me nodded seriously.
And at the hospital, apparently they give you a squirt bottle or perineal bottle. When you pee, you fill it with warm water and squirt it on your sore areas to keep the pee from burning and, get this, you continue to use it for a week in place of toilet paper! I think I gasped aloud, "I CAN'T WIPE????" The nurse even added, "If you've got two bathrooms in your house, see if you can score two squirt bottles so you don't have to yell HONEY, COULD YOU PLEASE BRING ME MY PEEING SQUIRT BOTTLE.... I LEFT IT IN THE OTHER BATHROOM." Also, she noted, when you're done, perineal bottles make great rice shakers for toddlers.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Scandellous
I spent a few days last week teaching at a different public school, due to a Fifths disease scare. While I was there, the staff welcomed me warmly. One particular teacher was a mother of a set of twins that Mark and I had taught in our second year of teaching. When we made this connection, we began to catch up a bit. I was giving her a quick update on some of the staff at Hillcrest that she might know...among them, I mentioned that Delia had had her first baby in June.
She flashed me a grin and said, "Wasn't she the teacher who was engaged but then broke it off and then married another man? It was quite the scandel."
I thought for a second, "No, that wasn't Delia."
Then I made the connection and I couldn't help but grin.
"That was me!" I said to her, watching her face transform with discomfort.
"And yes," I breathed, "It was quite scandellous."
I spent a few days last week teaching at a different public school, due to a Fifths disease scare. While I was there, the staff welcomed me warmly. One particular teacher was a mother of a set of twins that Mark and I had taught in our second year of teaching. When we made this connection, we began to catch up a bit. I was giving her a quick update on some of the staff at Hillcrest that she might know...among them, I mentioned that Delia had had her first baby in June.
She flashed me a grin and said, "Wasn't she the teacher who was engaged but then broke it off and then married another man? It was quite the scandel."
I thought for a second, "No, that wasn't Delia."
Then I made the connection and I couldn't help but grin.
"That was me!" I said to her, watching her face transform with discomfort.
"And yes," I breathed, "It was quite scandellous."
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Would the Real Mouser of the House Please Stand Up?
This morning, someone at our place caught a mouse and it wasn't the feline, who is supposed to be perfectly designed for hunting on such rodentary prey. No, it was my husband, who, it should be noted, has always claimed he has the reflexes of a jungle cat.
He was going down to the lowest basement level of our house, "Markville", if you will, when he saw it there on the landing and without missing a beat, he tossed at it the only weaponry he had readily available to him....his pants. He was carrying pants and a T-shirt; I assume he was taking them down to the laundry room.
He called to me, "There's a mouse!"
And I called, "Where?"
He replied, "I've got him."
"How? In a box?"
"No," he replied, "He's under my clothes."
I had to go downstairs to see what was going on. We pondered putting a laundry basket overtop of the pile and I imagined slipping a piece of cardboard underneath to trap the thing. But Mark simply found a small, foot cubic box that used to contain kitty litter. He held it at the edge of the landing, lifting the pants and swept the small intruder easily into the holding cell.
"Huh," I was quite impressed.
We took him outside to examine him more closely.
"He peed in the box," Mark remarked.
"I think that's a fairly natural reaction. Where do we put him?" I asked.
"Far from the house," Mark replied.
"It would probably be logical to kill him," I began, "But I can't kill him."
"Let's just put him out by the flower garden near the shed."
So we did. And he ran away towards the neighbour's house, which stand's vacant and for-sale.
"He didn't look all that menacing," I mentioned.
"Yeah, more like a pet than a mouse," He added.
I guess we need to be careful. Despite our family's now-proven mousing skills, we wouldn't want to inadvertently end up with a whole mischief of mice as pets.
He was going down to the lowest basement level of our house, "Markville", if you will, when he saw it there on the landing and without missing a beat, he tossed at it the only weaponry he had readily available to him....his pants. He was carrying pants and a T-shirt; I assume he was taking them down to the laundry room.
He called to me, "There's a mouse!"
And I called, "Where?"
He replied, "I've got him."
"How? In a box?"
"No," he replied, "He's under my clothes."
I had to go downstairs to see what was going on. We pondered putting a laundry basket overtop of the pile and I imagined slipping a piece of cardboard underneath to trap the thing. But Mark simply found a small, foot cubic box that used to contain kitty litter. He held it at the edge of the landing, lifting the pants and swept the small intruder easily into the holding cell.
"Huh," I was quite impressed.
We took him outside to examine him more closely.
"He peed in the box," Mark remarked.
"I think that's a fairly natural reaction. Where do we put him?" I asked.
"Far from the house," Mark replied.
"It would probably be logical to kill him," I began, "But I can't kill him."
"Let's just put him out by the flower garden near the shed."
So we did. And he ran away towards the neighbour's house, which stand's vacant and for-sale.
"He didn't look all that menacing," I mentioned.
"Yeah, more like a pet than a mouse," He added.
I guess we need to be careful. Despite our family's now-proven mousing skills, we wouldn't want to inadvertently end up with a whole mischief of mice as pets.
Note: To any potential visitors. We believe this was an isolated incident. I suspect that I have left the front door open one too many times.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Crib Woes
Mark and I purchased a crib a few months ago from Sears. My mother has generously sponsored our crib-buying (and other furniture-buying) expenses and we are very grateful. In an effort to save money, I purchased a lower-end crib. I figured, hey, they all have to meet Canadian Safety standards or they wouldn't be allowed in the store, right?
So our crib finally arrived at the Sears store near us in early September. I was so excited. This was the last piece of the nursery puzzle. Well, except for the baby itself, that is.
So I hopped into my car and drove to the store loading docks.
"Was this crib purchased through an on-line catalogue?" the shaggy-haired dude at the loading docks asked.
"Yup."
"Well then you'll have to go upstairs to the Catalogue area of the store."
So I parked the car, found the escalators and went upstairs to the Catalogue area. There, they gave me a piece of paper that confirmed that I had paid and that yes, the crib was for me. And they said, "Now you can go pick up your crib in at the loading docks."
Feeling a wee bit frustrated with the system. I went back down the escalators, drove my car around to the loading area and handed shaggy-haired dude my confirmation slip. He wheeled my crib out to the car and put it in. Sadly though, the door wouldn't close. We tried to shimmy and shake the crib. We tried to squeeze it and adjust it. But the thing was not going to fit. I even considered asking the boy if I drove really slow with the crib on my roof, if he'd run next to me and make sure it didn't fall off.
"I'll be back," I told him.
I went home and phoned my friend Deb who owns a minivan. She would be delighted to help me out, she said.
So in a few hours, she and I were in her minivan, driving to the Sears store again.
Same shaggy-haired dude loaded the crib into the minivan without a problem. He waved good-bye. I mistakenly thought that would be the last I'd see of him.
A few hours later, I was assembling the crib when I noticed that the darn thing was crap! There were paint chips peeling off of the footboard and headboard. Now I'm no expert, but children swallowing paint chips, even if they aren't toxic, seems like a terrible idea.
I phoned Sears and communicated to them my deep dismay in the quality of their product. I reported I'd be returning the item and I wanted credit. I also said there was no way in hell I was putting the pieces back in the box.
Mark and I loaded the parts of the crib into our car, which, luckily, could house all the parts of the crib if they weren't in the box.
I drove back to Sears. Shaggy-haired boy looked at me questioningly. "Crib's crap," I said, "I'm returning it."
"You'll just have to go upstairs to the Children's department for your refund."
"Of course," I said.
I went upstairs. I waited in line. I got my refund.
I went home. I searched on-line for a nicer crib....also from Sears. I purchased it.
The new crib arrived at the Sears store last week. I went to pick it up on Monday. The box would be at least the same size, if not bigger, so I had to ask my neighbour, with her SUV to drive me to the store.
And wouldn't you know it, Shaggy-haired dude was working again. He looked at me with recognition as I approached the desk.
"You'll have to go up to the Catalogue area..."
"You're KIDDING me," I exclaimed. I'd forgotten this part. Brenda was waiting at the sidewalk with her hatch open.
I raced to the escalators, found the Catalogue area again and got my stupid confirmation slip.
I returned downstairs. They loaded my new and improved crib into Brenda's SUV. We took it home.
We unloaded it from the car. I settled in for an evening of crib assembly.
And wouldn't you know it?
There's a piece missing.
Mark and I purchased a crib a few months ago from Sears. My mother has generously sponsored our crib-buying (and other furniture-buying) expenses and we are very grateful. In an effort to save money, I purchased a lower-end crib. I figured, hey, they all have to meet Canadian Safety standards or they wouldn't be allowed in the store, right?
So our crib finally arrived at the Sears store near us in early September. I was so excited. This was the last piece of the nursery puzzle. Well, except for the baby itself, that is.
So I hopped into my car and drove to the store loading docks.
"Was this crib purchased through an on-line catalogue?" the shaggy-haired dude at the loading docks asked.
"Yup."
"Well then you'll have to go upstairs to the Catalogue area of the store."
So I parked the car, found the escalators and went upstairs to the Catalogue area. There, they gave me a piece of paper that confirmed that I had paid and that yes, the crib was for me. And they said, "Now you can go pick up your crib in at the loading docks."
Feeling a wee bit frustrated with the system. I went back down the escalators, drove my car around to the loading area and handed shaggy-haired dude my confirmation slip. He wheeled my crib out to the car and put it in. Sadly though, the door wouldn't close. We tried to shimmy and shake the crib. We tried to squeeze it and adjust it. But the thing was not going to fit. I even considered asking the boy if I drove really slow with the crib on my roof, if he'd run next to me and make sure it didn't fall off.
"I'll be back," I told him.
I went home and phoned my friend Deb who owns a minivan. She would be delighted to help me out, she said.
So in a few hours, she and I were in her minivan, driving to the Sears store again.
Same shaggy-haired dude loaded the crib into the minivan without a problem. He waved good-bye. I mistakenly thought that would be the last I'd see of him.
A few hours later, I was assembling the crib when I noticed that the darn thing was crap! There were paint chips peeling off of the footboard and headboard. Now I'm no expert, but children swallowing paint chips, even if they aren't toxic, seems like a terrible idea.
I phoned Sears and communicated to them my deep dismay in the quality of their product. I reported I'd be returning the item and I wanted credit. I also said there was no way in hell I was putting the pieces back in the box.
Mark and I loaded the parts of the crib into our car, which, luckily, could house all the parts of the crib if they weren't in the box.
I drove back to Sears. Shaggy-haired boy looked at me questioningly. "Crib's crap," I said, "I'm returning it."
"You'll just have to go upstairs to the Children's department for your refund."
"Of course," I said.
I went upstairs. I waited in line. I got my refund.
I went home. I searched on-line for a nicer crib....also from Sears. I purchased it.
The new crib arrived at the Sears store last week. I went to pick it up on Monday. The box would be at least the same size, if not bigger, so I had to ask my neighbour, with her SUV to drive me to the store.
And wouldn't you know it, Shaggy-haired dude was working again. He looked at me with recognition as I approached the desk.
"You'll have to go up to the Catalogue area..."
"You're KIDDING me," I exclaimed. I'd forgotten this part. Brenda was waiting at the sidewalk with her hatch open.
I raced to the escalators, found the Catalogue area again and got my stupid confirmation slip.
I returned downstairs. They loaded my new and improved crib into Brenda's SUV. We took it home.
We unloaded it from the car. I settled in for an evening of crib assembly.
And wouldn't you know it?
There's a piece missing.
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