Two friends, actually.
I wanted to write a nice, thoughtful post today but here is what is on my mind:
1) It's my dad's 60th birthday this weekend. I have to run out today and get a gift but he is a man and he is 60. He just doesn't need anything. I guess it will be aftershave. Again.
2) I took Jake to Superstore yesterday to get frozen spinach and tziatiki. I ended up with two very large pumpkins, a decorative ghost and black cat, spiders and pretend webbing, and two more scarecrows, which he promptly named Idiot and TV. Anyone have a pet they need named? Because my children are gifted in that department.
3) When we bought the pumpkins, Jake suggested we make a pie. Ha! I can hardly stop laughing. Let's just say I'm not one to make pastry and leave it at that.
4) I have to take the kids to my mother's this afternoon. She is making their Halloween costumes and needs them to have a final fitting. The sewing gene completely skipped my generation. Once I sewed a button on my pants and somehow managed to cut a hole in the butt of them. Another time I tried the button thing and I ended up sewing the legs of the pants together and then completely tearing them when I tried to take the stitches out. I almost failed Home Economics in junior high. My best friend would sit at the sewing machine, making her actually-wearable t-shirt and shorts, and I would sit beside her, ripping out my stitches - again - until my t-shirt was a shredded disaster.
So, I'm off to get some aftershave, and not any more fall related decorations.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Fall Follies
So our September summer now appears to be emphatically over, so it’s time for me to put away those t-shirts and bring out my vast array of black, grey, and charcoal sweaters. Yes, I did make a distinction between grey and charcoal.
I’m not a huge fan of fall, perhaps because it begins and ends very suddenly here and then all we are left with is a long, long winter. If I lived in a more temperate climate, perhaps I would feel differently. One thing I do like about fall – other than pretty leaves and back-to-school – is preparing for holidays like Thanksgiving and Halloween, and that is in spite of the fact that I have a horror of Thanksgiving dinners. I have never liked meals that involve turkeys, or any meat that is so graphically displayed. Shudder. I realize that I’m in the vast minority with these feelings, mind you, so I really do understand if Thanksgiving is the highlight of your year – it’s just not my personal cup of tea.
Anyway, there really aren’t any good decorating holidays in the summer, so it’s kind of fun to break out the cool decorations for Thanksgiving and Halloween. My kids are now at the age where they are pretty excited to see severed arms, chainsaws, and whatnot in Wal-Mart, so I’m sure we will at some point end up with those festive arrangements on my front lawn. Here’s what we have so far:
That’s Jake’s Frankenstein monster, dancing in the (cold, cold) wind. I more or less told him the story of the Frankenstein monster, censoring it appropriately, of course. What has bedeviled him are the staples on the monster’s face. “Wouldn’t that hurt so much?” he asked. Uh, yeah, probably.
This is Mark’s Dracula. Nothing says Happy Halloween like a blood-thirsty vampire!
This fellow was named Dummy Jimmy Too Tall. My kids are awesome at naming things! This guy is about five feet tall, and scares the hell out of my dog.
Isn’t he cute? The scarecrow is in the front yard, which means the dog only sees it when we are going for a walk. The first couple of times he saw it he cried, whimpered, barked, and tried to run away – all at the same time. I laughingly told my husband about this, but Mark, overhearing, welled up and wanted to take the scarecrow back to the store so he wouldn’t frighten Barkley anymore. Aw. I told him Barkley would get used to it and he has, mostly just eying Dummy Jimmy warily as we walk by. You never know about those scarecrows! Sssspppooookkkkyyy.
I’m not a huge fan of fall, perhaps because it begins and ends very suddenly here and then all we are left with is a long, long winter. If I lived in a more temperate climate, perhaps I would feel differently. One thing I do like about fall – other than pretty leaves and back-to-school – is preparing for holidays like Thanksgiving and Halloween, and that is in spite of the fact that I have a horror of Thanksgiving dinners. I have never liked meals that involve turkeys, or any meat that is so graphically displayed. Shudder. I realize that I’m in the vast minority with these feelings, mind you, so I really do understand if Thanksgiving is the highlight of your year – it’s just not my personal cup of tea.
Anyway, there really aren’t any good decorating holidays in the summer, so it’s kind of fun to break out the cool decorations for Thanksgiving and Halloween. My kids are now at the age where they are pretty excited to see severed arms, chainsaws, and whatnot in Wal-Mart, so I’m sure we will at some point end up with those festive arrangements on my front lawn. Here’s what we have so far:
That’s Jake’s Frankenstein monster, dancing in the (cold, cold) wind. I more or less told him the story of the Frankenstein monster, censoring it appropriately, of course. What has bedeviled him are the staples on the monster’s face. “Wouldn’t that hurt so much?” he asked. Uh, yeah, probably.
This is Mark’s Dracula. Nothing says Happy Halloween like a blood-thirsty vampire!
This fellow was named Dummy Jimmy Too Tall. My kids are awesome at naming things! This guy is about five feet tall, and scares the hell out of my dog.
Isn’t he cute? The scarecrow is in the front yard, which means the dog only sees it when we are going for a walk. The first couple of times he saw it he cried, whimpered, barked, and tried to run away – all at the same time. I laughingly told my husband about this, but Mark, overhearing, welled up and wanted to take the scarecrow back to the store so he wouldn’t frighten Barkley anymore. Aw. I told him Barkley would get used to it and he has, mostly just eying Dummy Jimmy warily as we walk by. You never know about those scarecrows! Sssspppooookkkkyyy.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Canadian Hero
Mark ran in his very first Terry Fox run yesterday. It was such a gorgeous sunny day and it was so inspiring to see the kids bringing in Toonies for Terry, running their hearts out, proudly collecting their hand stamps for each lap completed. Privately I looked at the size of the field and wondered how many laps the kindergarteners would actually complete, but Mark ran seven, and I was so proud of him.
The remainder of the day, predictably, was spent discussing Terry Fox’s legacy. I don’t know about you, but I really struggle with finding a balance between being honest without being frightening, especially at this age, where kids tend to be so black and white. I myself was the type of child who would focus on imminent disaster and worst-case scenarios. I clearly recall Fire Safety Week at my elementary school, when a visiting firefighter casually mentioned a statistic that all Canadians would at some point be affected by a fire in their lives. He may as well have told me that my house was going to burn down tomorrow. I was terrified about fire for years after and had frequent nightmares. I also have a major thing for firefighters. Is it the uniform? The ability to save people? The bravery? I don’t know, but hubba hubba.
Back to the subject at hand. How do you talk to young children about death and illness? I told them that when Terry Fox was doing the Marathon of Hope, people gave him money which he then used to help sick people. The questions kept coming all day, including “How did he get cancer?” I had been fairly clear and honest about all previous questions, but that one threw me. I tried to focus on his heroism, but I found it impossible to keep from getting teary-eyed.
Terry Fox was someone’s son, someone’s baby. He was a true hero. Later, I watched the boys in the back yard running laps, playing “Terry Fox Run”, I looked at their healthy bodies, their healthy legs, and I cried with gratitude.
The remainder of the day, predictably, was spent discussing Terry Fox’s legacy. I don’t know about you, but I really struggle with finding a balance between being honest without being frightening, especially at this age, where kids tend to be so black and white. I myself was the type of child who would focus on imminent disaster and worst-case scenarios. I clearly recall Fire Safety Week at my elementary school, when a visiting firefighter casually mentioned a statistic that all Canadians would at some point be affected by a fire in their lives. He may as well have told me that my house was going to burn down tomorrow. I was terrified about fire for years after and had frequent nightmares. I also have a major thing for firefighters. Is it the uniform? The ability to save people? The bravery? I don’t know, but hubba hubba.
Back to the subject at hand. How do you talk to young children about death and illness? I told them that when Terry Fox was doing the Marathon of Hope, people gave him money which he then used to help sick people. The questions kept coming all day, including “How did he get cancer?” I had been fairly clear and honest about all previous questions, but that one threw me. I tried to focus on his heroism, but I found it impossible to keep from getting teary-eyed.
Terry Fox was someone’s son, someone’s baby. He was a true hero. Later, I watched the boys in the back yard running laps, playing “Terry Fox Run”, I looked at their healthy bodies, their healthy legs, and I cried with gratitude.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Heat Wave!
Alert! I am going to talk about the weather! I have become your grandma and I’m going to discuss the current weather conditions!
We are having a heat wave! In Calgary! In September! It’s glorious, I tell you. Other than spotting my neighbour shirtless, it has been one lovely day. For one thing, we are all back to our normal state of health, which is pretty nice. For another, I am wearing Capri pants, sandals, and a sleeveless top and it is SEPTEMBER! Given we had frost on Monday, that feels extremely luxurious, like if I wasn’t actually in my own house on a residential street, I might think that I had somehow hopped on a plane to somewhere exotic. Or at least somewhere that has pleasant weather conditions.
We spent the afternoon at a friend’s house. You know what’s really nice? When your friend’s kids are your kid’s friends. It makes a lovely playdate when you can catch up with a friend and your children are not squalling in the background, or asking when it’s time to go home, or some other such scenario.
So we had a lovely day, complete with sprinkler and sandbox, and despite the fact that the leaves are falling with rapidity, and there are frost warnings in the five-day forecast, I could pretend it was still summer.
We are having a heat wave! In Calgary! In September! It’s glorious, I tell you. Other than spotting my neighbour shirtless, it has been one lovely day. For one thing, we are all back to our normal state of health, which is pretty nice. For another, I am wearing Capri pants, sandals, and a sleeveless top and it is SEPTEMBER! Given we had frost on Monday, that feels extremely luxurious, like if I wasn’t actually in my own house on a residential street, I might think that I had somehow hopped on a plane to somewhere exotic. Or at least somewhere that has pleasant weather conditions.
We spent the afternoon at a friend’s house. You know what’s really nice? When your friend’s kids are your kid’s friends. It makes a lovely playdate when you can catch up with a friend and your children are not squalling in the background, or asking when it’s time to go home, or some other such scenario.
So we had a lovely day, complete with sprinkler and sandbox, and despite the fact that the leaves are falling with rapidity, and there are frost warnings in the five-day forecast, I could pretend it was still summer.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sick Day
The thing about back-to-school is all the back-to-illness that seems to come with it. “Hey, Mom!” Mark said gleefully, “You’ll never believe it! The school has water fountains and I can drink from them whenever I want to!” For someone like me – and I say this without pride – the knowledge that Mark has been drinking out of a public fountain practically necessitates the consumption of a tranquillizer. I could almost visualize the germy viruses entering his body via the water fountain. What I’m saying is that I have a teensy bit of a germ phobia. And by teensy bit, of course, I mean that I’m having a love affair with hand sanitizer. I love hand sanitizer so much, I want to take it out back behind a middle school and get it pregnant. On that note, anyone know when the season premiere of 30 Rock is on?
Anyway, Mark has been in school for almost a month and is sick, again. The first time was a very minor case of the sniffles, and the second time – the current incident – was a cold that morphed into a gross, hacking cough. It was worse on the weekend, but this morning he woke up pale and hollow eyed and said he wasn’t sure he could go to school today.
And I let him stay home!
By 9:30 he was playing happily with his brother, coughing only sporadically and making me feel like I just allowed my five-year-old to play hooky.
It seems that I have two little Nicoles on my shoulders: one who thinks, austerely, that unless a child is vomiting, feverish, or completely incapacitated, he should attend his learning institution without fail. The other one thought about all the other pale, coughing, hollow-eyed kindergarteners lined up for class and thought maybe everyone deserves a sick day now and then.
It’s a hard call, this middle ground. I mean, I don’t want to send a slightly sick child to school and then have it morph into a massive, feverish illness that makes me feel completely negligent, not to mention responsible for the infection of all his classmates, but I feel silly keeping home a slightly sick child who becomes, apparently, JUST FINE. I guess the latter scenario has much less dire consequences. Anyway, I will chalk this up to a day of rest and send him to school tomorrow – because the other Nicole? The little austere one on my shoulder? She’s killing me!
Anyway, Mark has been in school for almost a month and is sick, again. The first time was a very minor case of the sniffles, and the second time – the current incident – was a cold that morphed into a gross, hacking cough. It was worse on the weekend, but this morning he woke up pale and hollow eyed and said he wasn’t sure he could go to school today.
And I let him stay home!
By 9:30 he was playing happily with his brother, coughing only sporadically and making me feel like I just allowed my five-year-old to play hooky.
It seems that I have two little Nicoles on my shoulders: one who thinks, austerely, that unless a child is vomiting, feverish, or completely incapacitated, he should attend his learning institution without fail. The other one thought about all the other pale, coughing, hollow-eyed kindergarteners lined up for class and thought maybe everyone deserves a sick day now and then.
It’s a hard call, this middle ground. I mean, I don’t want to send a slightly sick child to school and then have it morph into a massive, feverish illness that makes me feel completely negligent, not to mention responsible for the infection of all his classmates, but I feel silly keeping home a slightly sick child who becomes, apparently, JUST FINE. I guess the latter scenario has much less dire consequences. Anyway, I will chalk this up to a day of rest and send him to school tomorrow – because the other Nicole? The little austere one on my shoulder? She’s killing me!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Weekends
Saturday morning I saw my neighbours – a younger couple with no children – loading up their vehicle to go hiking in the mountains. I felt odd, like I was viewing some strange yet familiar ritual from another country that I used to inhabit. My husband and I used to head out nearly every weekend to the mountains, with our hiking boots and backpacks filled with extra clothes, water, and a lunch. We would choose a hike from a guidebook, and it would usually be around 10 km in length, and after that we would stop in a pub on the way home for a beer and dinner. It was a part of our lives, the lives we had before children.
We took the kids and the dog to the mountains for a “hike” this summer. I wore sandals, and we walked a total of less than one kilometer.
I knew a number of people who, while pregnant, were firm in the belief that the impending baby was not going to change their lives. Not at all. They would still travel to exotic destinations, work slave-like hours at their jobs, maintain rigorous levels of athleticism, and do all the same things on weekends that they did before. Their lives would be exactly the same, but there would be a baby with them to live those lives.
To me, this way of thinking indicates either extreme fear of the unknown or extreme stupidity. Things change. To imply that a person, a baby no less, will not have any impact on your life is disrespectful. I read a beautiful piece by the lovely Beck, who said, “…we change and our hearts change right along with us”. That resonated with me as I do feel like my heart has changed, it has opened in a way that it couldn’t before. I won’t be that girl with the hiking boots and guidebook again, and although sometimes I think her with longing, I wouldn’t change places with her for anything.
We took the kids and the dog to the mountains for a “hike” this summer. I wore sandals, and we walked a total of less than one kilometer.
I knew a number of people who, while pregnant, were firm in the belief that the impending baby was not going to change their lives. Not at all. They would still travel to exotic destinations, work slave-like hours at their jobs, maintain rigorous levels of athleticism, and do all the same things on weekends that they did before. Their lives would be exactly the same, but there would be a baby with them to live those lives.
To me, this way of thinking indicates either extreme fear of the unknown or extreme stupidity. Things change. To imply that a person, a baby no less, will not have any impact on your life is disrespectful. I read a beautiful piece by the lovely Beck, who said, “…we change and our hearts change right along with us”. That resonated with me as I do feel like my heart has changed, it has opened in a way that it couldn’t before. I won’t be that girl with the hiking boots and guidebook again, and although sometimes I think her with longing, I wouldn’t change places with her for anything.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Post-Birthday Depression
I knew today would be a bad day. I wonder if that is a self-fulfilling prophecy? I mean, if you think a day is going to be bad, does that mean that karmically you are making your day bad? I’ve been reading this interesting book called “How Yoga Works” and it talks about sowing seeds, positive and negative, and I can’t help but think that if I believe a day is going to be bad, then it will be bad.
It’s all my fault anyway. I was talking to a friend on Monday and I said that I couldn’t believe how well Jake was doing with all this birthday attention. He had been looking forward to his own birthday for about seven months, and I thought with all the buildup there would be a major letdown. That hasn’t happened, I said happily to my friend, I keep waiting for the ball to drop. And let me tell you, people, the freaking ball has dropped. It dropped hard. It dropped so hard it left a big, smoking hole in the ground and all that is left is me, wondering when I will learn not to bring curses upon myself.
Last night there was the post-birthday meltdown and ensuing sadness “I don’t want it to not be my birthday!” that kept Jake up an hour past his normal bedtime, which is highly unusual for him, being the type of kid who falls asleep seconds after going to bed. Needless to say, he was pretty tired today, and started to cry when I left him at school. It’s so heartbreaking to watch a four-year-old stoically wiping away silent tears, walking in his lineup with his giant backpack on. I felt totally deflated, despite knowing that after I left, he would be just fine. And he was, but the rest of the day was one big roller coaster of emotions. It’s hard to blame the kid: he’s exhausted after all, plus he has post-birthday depression. After four days of various celebrations, one is bound to succumb to the doldrums.
But the celebrations were great, especially the one that included eight small kids and a clown. If you live in the Calgary area, I would really recommend Button the Clown – she was very entertaining for that age group, and not at all creepy. Just make sure you call her Button, not Buttons. When I called to confirm, I got her husband (and I’m not making this up) Buddy the Clown on the phone. He tersely said, “Her name is Button. She is not plural.” Oh, snap! When I related this conversation to a friend, she said, “Button the Clown is married to Buddy the Clown? I wonder if they have clown babies.” And I will confess that the image that immediately popped into my head was so incredibly disturbing that I had to question my own mental stability. Again.
Anyway, I’m going for an early bedtime tonight and I’m going to sow the seeds of positive thoughts for a better day tomorrow. Repeat after me, it’s going to be a good day….
It’s all my fault anyway. I was talking to a friend on Monday and I said that I couldn’t believe how well Jake was doing with all this birthday attention. He had been looking forward to his own birthday for about seven months, and I thought with all the buildup there would be a major letdown. That hasn’t happened, I said happily to my friend, I keep waiting for the ball to drop. And let me tell you, people, the freaking ball has dropped. It dropped hard. It dropped so hard it left a big, smoking hole in the ground and all that is left is me, wondering when I will learn not to bring curses upon myself.
Last night there was the post-birthday meltdown and ensuing sadness “I don’t want it to not be my birthday!” that kept Jake up an hour past his normal bedtime, which is highly unusual for him, being the type of kid who falls asleep seconds after going to bed. Needless to say, he was pretty tired today, and started to cry when I left him at school. It’s so heartbreaking to watch a four-year-old stoically wiping away silent tears, walking in his lineup with his giant backpack on. I felt totally deflated, despite knowing that after I left, he would be just fine. And he was, but the rest of the day was one big roller coaster of emotions. It’s hard to blame the kid: he’s exhausted after all, plus he has post-birthday depression. After four days of various celebrations, one is bound to succumb to the doldrums.
But the celebrations were great, especially the one that included eight small kids and a clown. If you live in the Calgary area, I would really recommend Button the Clown – she was very entertaining for that age group, and not at all creepy. Just make sure you call her Button, not Buttons. When I called to confirm, I got her husband (and I’m not making this up) Buddy the Clown on the phone. He tersely said, “Her name is Button. She is not plural.” Oh, snap! When I related this conversation to a friend, she said, “Button the Clown is married to Buddy the Clown? I wonder if they have clown babies.” And I will confess that the image that immediately popped into my head was so incredibly disturbing that I had to question my own mental stability. Again.
Anyway, I’m going for an early bedtime tonight and I’m going to sow the seeds of positive thoughts for a better day tomorrow. Repeat after me, it’s going to be a good day….
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Labour Stories - Part Three, Jake's Birthday
As I vaguely remember from my days as one gainfully employed, getting called into work is no fun, in fact, it is enough to ruin your day. At the very least, it doesn’t bring out the best in you. That sums up the scenario with my delivery nurse, Cheryl. You see, when I was in labour with Jake, the hospital was packed with labouring women and women waiting for scheduled c-sections. This is what you get for getting pregnant at Christmas. All these women getting a little present from Santa, and nine months later hospitals are experiencing a mini baby boom. So what I’m saying is that the morning I arrived at the hospital, there was a shortage of rooms and nurses. So Cheryl was called in early, and not all that happy about it. To be fair, my delivery nurse with my first baby was Shannon, a youthful and eager nurse who held my hands during each contraction, and who set the expectation bar pretty high. All I clearly remember about Cheryl, really, is that she had a fabulous manicure. Her nails were gorgeous, and after each contraction she would look up from them and say “Was that a bad one?”
My labour was going quickly, so that it was not long after arriving in my delivery room that Cheryl looked up from her nails to say that the contractions were too close together for me to even get checked out, and she called the doctor. Now, I don’t blame Cheryl for her lethargy. Probably she was overworked and tired. Also I was just there, less than 18 months before, having a baby, so the whole process was still quite fresh in my mind: it wasn’t like I was a first-timer. The person I blame is my husband. He actually had the audacity to complain of being tired. Tired! I leave my response to the reader’s imagination.
On September 15, at 10:45 a.m., Jake was born. Our Jake. He is four years old today and a joy in my life: funny, smart, and loving. When he was born I said, with my usual grace and composure, “Thank God I’m not doing that again!” But what I meant was, Jake completed our family, and brings happiness to our lives every day. Thanks Cheryl, for helping him into this world, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
My labour was going quickly, so that it was not long after arriving in my delivery room that Cheryl looked up from her nails to say that the contractions were too close together for me to even get checked out, and she called the doctor. Now, I don’t blame Cheryl for her lethargy. Probably she was overworked and tired. Also I was just there, less than 18 months before, having a baby, so the whole process was still quite fresh in my mind: it wasn’t like I was a first-timer. The person I blame is my husband. He actually had the audacity to complain of being tired. Tired! I leave my response to the reader’s imagination.
On September 15, at 10:45 a.m., Jake was born. Our Jake. He is four years old today and a joy in my life: funny, smart, and loving. When he was born I said, with my usual grace and composure, “Thank God I’m not doing that again!” But what I meant was, Jake completed our family, and brings happiness to our lives every day. Thanks Cheryl, for helping him into this world, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Labour Stories - Part Two, The Hospital
I fully support women who choose to give birth in places other than a hospital – their own homes, a birthing centre, or, in the case of an amazing You Tube video I saw, the Mediterranean Sea. A Russian woman traveled to Israel to give birth in the Mediterranean and it was astonishingly beautiful, the woman the picture of grace and strength. I fully agree that pregnancy is not an illness, and childbirth not – in most cases – an emergency, however, a woman like myself, who makes fifty to-do lists a week and panics over the unlikely scenario of twenty people being simultaneously unavailable to babysit, well, a hospital is my birthing place of choice. I find immediately available medical attention and equipment to be as soothing as the sound of ocean waves. But that’s just me.
Also, I secretly love hospital food. I love getting food on little trays, everything in its own little compartment. I love that the hospital staff brings you a bedtime snack, even if it is a bizarre combination of bran muffin, cheddar cheese, and orange juice with Metamucil. After I had Mark, they brought me a tuna salad sandwich and let me tell you, dear readers, this was the tuna salad sandwich to end all tuna salad sandwiches. This was the greatest tuna salad sandwich of all time. When I was pregnant with Jake, I dreamed about one day getting another such tuna salad sandwich. Nine months, I thought about that sandwich. Then when I had Jake, it was egg salad day. Wretched egg salad. However, they did bring me a Salisbury steak (I still ate meat at that time). It was a tremendous Salisbury steak experience. Angels sang around that Salisbury steak.
Later, as I was recounting this incredible meal, my husband said “You know it’s just a hamburger patty with gravy, right?” Oh, but what a hamburger patty with gravy.
The downside of giving birth in a hospital is, of course, the possibility that you can spend hours in triage, which is precisely what happened to me. Triage was packed, packed with women with scheduled c-sections, women in the early stages of labour, and women in the “MOTHEROFGOD, MAKE IT STOP!” stage of labour. Those in the latter group were quickly wheeled into delivery rooms, prompting my husband to suggest that perhaps I should add a little, shall we say volume to my contractions and although I am capable of dramatic screaming, I felt unable to rise to the occasion at the time.
My doctor came by to check in with regards to what is euphemistically termed “pain management”. Since I had no drugs with Mark, I felt that I should do the same with this baby, not just to quell arguments and sibling rivalry down the road (“Ha ha, you made Mom get an epidural!”) but also because I had the well-authenticated concern that having an epidural would slow down my labour and I wanted to finish and have the baby quickly so that Mark could come and visit in the hospital after his afternoon nap. Yes, you read that correctly. That was my actual concern. Yet another reason to make up a birth plan: when you are in labour, you are simply incapable of rational thought.
Speaking of rational thought, here’s another tidbit: if they offer you a wheelchair, take the wheelchair. I speak from wretched experience. When I was assigned a delivery room at about 7 centimeters, I refused the wheelchair. It’s just down the hall, right? Twenty minutes, several very loud contractions, and 8.5 centimeters dilated later, I finally made it to my delivery room. Why, you may ask, didn’t someone bring me a wheelchair? After all, I was crawling down the hallway, shrieking with a contraction every couple of minutes. I do not know the answer to that. Maybe they thought I would rip the wainscoting off the wall and begin beating people with it? Or maybe the staff is just used to hormonally crazy pregnant women and didn’t notice. All I know is that I was about to meet Cheryl, my delivery nurse, and that is a story for another day.
Also, I secretly love hospital food. I love getting food on little trays, everything in its own little compartment. I love that the hospital staff brings you a bedtime snack, even if it is a bizarre combination of bran muffin, cheddar cheese, and orange juice with Metamucil. After I had Mark, they brought me a tuna salad sandwich and let me tell you, dear readers, this was the tuna salad sandwich to end all tuna salad sandwiches. This was the greatest tuna salad sandwich of all time. When I was pregnant with Jake, I dreamed about one day getting another such tuna salad sandwich. Nine months, I thought about that sandwich. Then when I had Jake, it was egg salad day. Wretched egg salad. However, they did bring me a Salisbury steak (I still ate meat at that time). It was a tremendous Salisbury steak experience. Angels sang around that Salisbury steak.
Later, as I was recounting this incredible meal, my husband said “You know it’s just a hamburger patty with gravy, right?” Oh, but what a hamburger patty with gravy.
The downside of giving birth in a hospital is, of course, the possibility that you can spend hours in triage, which is precisely what happened to me. Triage was packed, packed with women with scheduled c-sections, women in the early stages of labour, and women in the “MOTHEROFGOD, MAKE IT STOP!” stage of labour. Those in the latter group were quickly wheeled into delivery rooms, prompting my husband to suggest that perhaps I should add a little, shall we say volume to my contractions and although I am capable of dramatic screaming, I felt unable to rise to the occasion at the time.
My doctor came by to check in with regards to what is euphemistically termed “pain management”. Since I had no drugs with Mark, I felt that I should do the same with this baby, not just to quell arguments and sibling rivalry down the road (“Ha ha, you made Mom get an epidural!”) but also because I had the well-authenticated concern that having an epidural would slow down my labour and I wanted to finish and have the baby quickly so that Mark could come and visit in the hospital after his afternoon nap. Yes, you read that correctly. That was my actual concern. Yet another reason to make up a birth plan: when you are in labour, you are simply incapable of rational thought.
Speaking of rational thought, here’s another tidbit: if they offer you a wheelchair, take the wheelchair. I speak from wretched experience. When I was assigned a delivery room at about 7 centimeters, I refused the wheelchair. It’s just down the hall, right? Twenty minutes, several very loud contractions, and 8.5 centimeters dilated later, I finally made it to my delivery room. Why, you may ask, didn’t someone bring me a wheelchair? After all, I was crawling down the hallway, shrieking with a contraction every couple of minutes. I do not know the answer to that. Maybe they thought I would rip the wainscoting off the wall and begin beating people with it? Or maybe the staff is just used to hormonally crazy pregnant women and didn’t notice. All I know is that I was about to meet Cheryl, my delivery nurse, and that is a story for another day.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Today's Date is 9/9/9!
I’m having one of those “It’s already Wednesday?” type of Wednesdays. Because, in addition to mooning about Jake’s birth, there is his actual birthday to prepare for, which is in six days, but also not one but TWO birthday parties this weekend, one of which involves eight children aged five and under and a clown, and also there are cupcakes to make and a cake to order and sugar cookie dough to prepare and groceries to shop for and sugar cookies to bake and decorate, and we all know that decorating things is not my forte, and volunteer committee meetings, already, and a movie screening to attend. Did I mention that I was an extra in a movie? Well, that movie is being screened this weekend, right after the clown leaves our house and (I can only imagine) the children will collapse from their sugar high, but I may never be in a movie again so to the screening I must go.
So that outlines my next six days.
The birthday party thing is the bane of my existence. It all stems from my complete incompetence with cake decorating and my lack of creativity and imagination, which leads to canvassing people for ideas and trolling the internet at all hours. I have a new friend, who is amazing with birthday party ideas, and uses words like “fondant” and “royal icing” whilst I use words like “cake mix” and “creamy deluxe versus whipped”. Just saying.
Also, and this has nothing to do with birthday parties or the many, many volunteer committees I’m suddenly on, but I almost broke my nose yesterday! It was a lovely Calgary day with winds gusting 70 km/hour, I was parked on a slight angle, I was opening the car door and a wasp flew in my face. I brushed it away while letting go of the car door and smash! Door in my face. Fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, which took the brunt of it. I don’t even have a black eye, which I think would have made me look like the tough mom in the neighbourhood, and would have probably circumvented my appearance on any more volunteer committees.
So that outlines my next six days.
The birthday party thing is the bane of my existence. It all stems from my complete incompetence with cake decorating and my lack of creativity and imagination, which leads to canvassing people for ideas and trolling the internet at all hours. I have a new friend, who is amazing with birthday party ideas, and uses words like “fondant” and “royal icing” whilst I use words like “cake mix” and “creamy deluxe versus whipped”. Just saying.
Also, and this has nothing to do with birthday parties or the many, many volunteer committees I’m suddenly on, but I almost broke my nose yesterday! It was a lovely Calgary day with winds gusting 70 km/hour, I was parked on a slight angle, I was opening the car door and a wasp flew in my face. I brushed it away while letting go of the car door and smash! Door in my face. Fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, which took the brunt of it. I don’t even have a black eye, which I think would have made me look like the tough mom in the neighbourhood, and would have probably circumvented my appearance on any more volunteer committees.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Labour Day and Labour Stories - Part One
Jake’s fourth birthday is less than two weeks away, which has had me reminiscing about, appropriately enough, his birth. I LOVE birth stories, labour stories, pregnancy stories. I love hearing about them. If you want to share, I promise to be a rapt audience. I love the ordinary run-of-the-mill birth stories, the grisly birth stories, the weird labour experiences, the pregnancy-related aches and pains. The only thing I do not like about labour stories is the term that is frequently employed, “birth experience”. I don’t know, that term conjures up the same feelings that “synergy” and “optionality” did in my long-ago working days.
You know when you see an enormously pregnant woman, and her behaviour is incredibly irrational and insane, and you know with the benefit of experience that any minute now, that woman will be going into labour, but when you are that enormously pregnant woman, you believe your behaviour is perfectly normal and reasonable, and everyone else around you is crazy? That was exactly my situation prior to going into labour with Jake.
The day before I went into labour I was at the hair salon, which was incredibly fortunate as I did not want to be an exhausted mother to a newborn and a toddler who was not yet one and a half with three inches of grey roots. I really needed those roots covered to rise to the situation. Thank you Dad for those genes. Anyway. In retrospect I should have guessed I was about to go into labour. I hated everyone in that salon. Every single thing bothered me but I had to hold everything inside because really, who wants to annoy the woman with the scissors? So I seethed on the inside. What is with the insipid chatter, I thought. Why is the smell so bad in here? This is an OLD issue of People! If they hadn’t been so behind, I wouldn’t be driving at this time of the day, I fumed in the traffic on the way home. I was so irritable and uncomfortable I decided to try to sleep on the couch. My husband checked on me when he heard my uncontrollable sobbing. He probably thought something was horribly wrong.
“WHAT IF NO ONE IS AROUND TO TAKE CARE OF MARK WHEN I’M IN LABOUR?” I sobbed. This was my fear: that I would go into labour and no one would be around to take care of the toddler. Side note: my parents live twelve minutes away, less if my lead-footed father is driving. My husband pointed out this fact, and also the fact that my elderly neighbour had specifically said she didn’t want to see me on the news as someone who had given birth in a taxi, so if my mom couldn’t come right away to call her. Also, I had been so paranoid that I had made up a list of people who could possibly look after Mark, starting with my best friend and my brothers and ending with almost every neighbour on my block and a couple of his co-workers. Still, I would not be dissuaded. I was convinced that everyone on that list would be unavailable all at the same time. Either I was going to go to the hospital by myself while Rob looked after Mark due to NO ONE else being available, or we would have to take Mark with us and he would be scarred for life watching his brother exit his mother’s vagina. There could be no other options. I cried until I fell asleep.
Then I woke up, at 4:30, to let Rob know we should call my mom to come over and take care of Mark.
You know when you see an enormously pregnant woman, and her behaviour is incredibly irrational and insane, and you know with the benefit of experience that any minute now, that woman will be going into labour, but when you are that enormously pregnant woman, you believe your behaviour is perfectly normal and reasonable, and everyone else around you is crazy? That was exactly my situation prior to going into labour with Jake.
The day before I went into labour I was at the hair salon, which was incredibly fortunate as I did not want to be an exhausted mother to a newborn and a toddler who was not yet one and a half with three inches of grey roots. I really needed those roots covered to rise to the situation. Thank you Dad for those genes. Anyway. In retrospect I should have guessed I was about to go into labour. I hated everyone in that salon. Every single thing bothered me but I had to hold everything inside because really, who wants to annoy the woman with the scissors? So I seethed on the inside. What is with the insipid chatter, I thought. Why is the smell so bad in here? This is an OLD issue of People! If they hadn’t been so behind, I wouldn’t be driving at this time of the day, I fumed in the traffic on the way home. I was so irritable and uncomfortable I decided to try to sleep on the couch. My husband checked on me when he heard my uncontrollable sobbing. He probably thought something was horribly wrong.
“WHAT IF NO ONE IS AROUND TO TAKE CARE OF MARK WHEN I’M IN LABOUR?” I sobbed. This was my fear: that I would go into labour and no one would be around to take care of the toddler. Side note: my parents live twelve minutes away, less if my lead-footed father is driving. My husband pointed out this fact, and also the fact that my elderly neighbour had specifically said she didn’t want to see me on the news as someone who had given birth in a taxi, so if my mom couldn’t come right away to call her. Also, I had been so paranoid that I had made up a list of people who could possibly look after Mark, starting with my best friend and my brothers and ending with almost every neighbour on my block and a couple of his co-workers. Still, I would not be dissuaded. I was convinced that everyone on that list would be unavailable all at the same time. Either I was going to go to the hospital by myself while Rob looked after Mark due to NO ONE else being available, or we would have to take Mark with us and he would be scarred for life watching his brother exit his mother’s vagina. There could be no other options. I cried until I fell asleep.
Then I woke up, at 4:30, to let Rob know we should call my mom to come over and take care of Mark.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The fat guy in the red suit
Mark and I were reading on the couch, and talking about superheroes and villains. “Of course, this is just a story,” I said, “Sandman is not real.”
“Just like Santa Claus,” Mark replied.
Startled, I looked down at him and he smiled his angelic, gap-toothed smile. I went back to reading about Spiderman and Sandman.
I have a feeling this is not unrelated to the loss of his two bottom teeth. When they fell out, I told him that we could put them under the pillow and the tooth fairy would come.
The fallout from that was tremendous. “TOOTH FAIRY? I don’t want the TOOTH FAIRY to come! I don’t even want a fairy in my ROOM. PLEASE don’t make the TOOTH FAIRY come here!” I looked at my husband a little helplessly. His inspired answer? “Don’t worry, Mark. The tooth fairy is really just Mom and Dad, and we’ll give you money for your tooth.”
Mark was instantly relieved. I, however, was a bit anxious he would shatter everyone else’s tooth fairy dreams, although this has not yet happened. I’m all for being truthful, but is five too young for abject cynicism?
“Just like Santa Claus,” Mark replied.
Startled, I looked down at him and he smiled his angelic, gap-toothed smile. I went back to reading about Spiderman and Sandman.
I have a feeling this is not unrelated to the loss of his two bottom teeth. When they fell out, I told him that we could put them under the pillow and the tooth fairy would come.
The fallout from that was tremendous. “TOOTH FAIRY? I don’t want the TOOTH FAIRY to come! I don’t even want a fairy in my ROOM. PLEASE don’t make the TOOTH FAIRY come here!” I looked at my husband a little helplessly. His inspired answer? “Don’t worry, Mark. The tooth fairy is really just Mom and Dad, and we’ll give you money for your tooth.”
Mark was instantly relieved. I, however, was a bit anxious he would shatter everyone else’s tooth fairy dreams, although this has not yet happened. I’m all for being truthful, but is five too young for abject cynicism?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The store in Yellow Grass is actually called "The Store in Yellow Grass"
I just returned from a weekend in Estevan, Saskatchewan, celebrating my grandfather’s 95th birthday! The birthday itself was wonderful, such a joy for my grandparents to have so much family and friends around. It was great to see all of my cousins, who I see rarely, and many of whom now have families of their own, which is touching and beautiful.
It was the first time ever that we stayed in a hotel with the boys, and despite the fact that our hotel was mostly inhabited by rig workers – several of whom witnessed me, disheveled, braless, and in my pajamas getting coffee from the lobby and then looked away quickly and silently – it was really fun. Fun until the trip home today.
We were delayed in the Regina airport for three hours, which is a very long time to be stuck in the Regina airport. A very long time. Since we had already driven two hours to get to the airport, the day started to feel long indeed. Jake began to morph into some kind of enraged little demon, ranting sporadically about not liking ANYTHING AT ALL, and Mark started to unravel. “How many minutes until the plane is here? How many minutes until we are on the plane? How many minutes until we will be at home? Okay, I’m ready to go. When are we getting on the plane?” I started fantasizing about drinking heavily.
Perspective, Nicole. Really, traveling with kids is not that bad these days, is it? I mean, when I was a kid we used to drive ten solid hours from Calgary to Estevan and back several times a year, which was inevitably hell, what with me in the backseat of a sedan with two brothers and a dog (“Stop touching me! He’s looking at me!”), my mother who would either be smoking heavily or in nicotine withdrawal, and my father driving, grim-faced and fanatical looking (“We are going to get x miles to the gallon.”). The highlight of the trip would be eating Life Savers. Looking out any window, the vista was field after endless field, punctuated by pumpjacks and small towns with names like Yellow Grass and Drinkwater. Compared with those memories, I think my kids have it pretty good.
Now, how many minutes until bedtime?
It was the first time ever that we stayed in a hotel with the boys, and despite the fact that our hotel was mostly inhabited by rig workers – several of whom witnessed me, disheveled, braless, and in my pajamas getting coffee from the lobby and then looked away quickly and silently – it was really fun. Fun until the trip home today.
We were delayed in the Regina airport for three hours, which is a very long time to be stuck in the Regina airport. A very long time. Since we had already driven two hours to get to the airport, the day started to feel long indeed. Jake began to morph into some kind of enraged little demon, ranting sporadically about not liking ANYTHING AT ALL, and Mark started to unravel. “How many minutes until the plane is here? How many minutes until we are on the plane? How many minutes until we will be at home? Okay, I’m ready to go. When are we getting on the plane?” I started fantasizing about drinking heavily.
Perspective, Nicole. Really, traveling with kids is not that bad these days, is it? I mean, when I was a kid we used to drive ten solid hours from Calgary to Estevan and back several times a year, which was inevitably hell, what with me in the backseat of a sedan with two brothers and a dog (“Stop touching me! He’s looking at me!”), my mother who would either be smoking heavily or in nicotine withdrawal, and my father driving, grim-faced and fanatical looking (“We are going to get x miles to the gallon.”). The highlight of the trip would be eating Life Savers. Looking out any window, the vista was field after endless field, punctuated by pumpjacks and small towns with names like Yellow Grass and Drinkwater. Compared with those memories, I think my kids have it pretty good.
Now, how many minutes until bedtime?
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