two L's please

I Thought I Told You That I Needed You Just To Keep Breathing

2012-01-18T23:36:00.001-08:00

It's a funny place to be, this space between barely functioning crazy and still crazy but not Crazy crazy. I catch myself holding my breath sometimes, like even I can't predict my reactions. I worry about Shawn and Grady. I worry that Shawn is tiptoeing around me. I'm terrified that Grady will grow up afraid of my crazy.

Things are getting better. The sadness and anxiety that held me hostage through the summer and autumn are retreating. I barely remember the days spent hiding in my bedroom because the world was too scary and unpredictable. I spend more time smiling now than crying.

But here I am, holding my breath.

We're starting Grady on solid food next week. I'm heading back to work in a few weeks and Shawn is leaving his job to be home with Grady. I'm dieting and exercising to try to get my pre-pregnancy body back and I'm scared that doing so will affect my milk supply. Last month a meth lab was busted in our building (on our floor!) What would have been my Gram's 96th birthday just passed. My brother hurt his back so badly that he can barely walk. I can't breathe through these things. I try to ignore them because thinking about them twists me up and pushes me back towards barely functioning crazy.

So I don't think about them. Instead, I hold my breath.

Hop On The Bus Gus

2012-01-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

He wakes up cheerful and smiley every morning. He spends a lot of time cheerful and smiley, until he is pissed off. Then he is the ragiest, pissed of baby I have ever met.

He weighs 19lbs and he is not yet six months old. He has the most delicious thigh rolls and butt dimples. He has my eyes and his daddy's ears.

He giggles when he farts. He says mamamamama and bababababa and loves to hear himself shriek. He loves to hear laughter. He's my little ham.

He spends about 30% of his waking hours with Sophie clamped between his gums. He has two little teeth and occasionally he bites himself while sucking his thumb. He cries big, sad tears when this happens because it confuses him.

He won't drink from a bottle and he still won't take a soother but that's okay. He's still the smartest baby I know. He's my little Gus Gus. And I love him.

C'mon Baby Let The Good Times Roll

2011-12-20T18:52:00.000-08:00

My world has kind of shrunk since Grady was born. I'm all about the babies now. Baby this and baby that. I'm okay with it. I know it won't last forever.

With the lack of travel and parties and disposable income in my life, I find myself getting jazzed about all things baby. Like the onslaught of 2012 babies.

There's Lisa's baby. Leah and Jonna's babies. Kristin's baby. There's an Awkwardly Social baby. A Fab Brunette baby and a Mama in the City baby. Lots of babies. So many babies that I'm probably forgetting a few (sorry! Baby brain!)

But you guys. There is one baby in particular who is making me clenchy with excitement. Turtle is having a baby! Big sister, best friend, heart person, Turtle is due in May with either my second niece or my first nephew (ultrasound has confirmed there is only one.) And? She totally knows if it's going to be my second niece or my first nephew but she won't tell me. She won't tell anyone, so I'm not taking it personally. I'm trying to patient until she feels like she's ready to share the news. (Yes, Turtle, sending passive aggressive emails is my way of being patient. Next week? My way of being patient will include phone calls.)

Babies! Wheee!

Perhaps I'll Take A Holiday And Get As Far Away As I Can But Then I'd Just Be Far Away

2011-12-10T22:27:00.001-08:00

Two months after Grady was born, after weeks of tears and yelling and distorted thinking, I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety with a side of postpartum depression and just a dash of postpartum obsessive-compulsive disorder. Though I did manage to skip the compulsions part of the ppocd (lucky me?)

The doctor who delivered Grady was the person who got me the help I needed. When I saw her for my followup appointment, she saw that I wasn't coping. She referred me to a psychiatrist at a reproductive mental health clinic. She also referred me to a counsellor specialising in cognitive behavioural therapy. For weeks after taking the first step of getting help, I felt so positive that I was making the right changes. I dove headfirst into therapy. I was going to earn straight A's in therapy. My psychiatrist and counsellor were going to be amazed at how hard I was going to rock therapy. I was going to get one hundred therapy gold stars.

Which is something they warn you about when you start cbt. They told me to take it slow. To work at it gradually and consistently so that I didn't have a huge high followed by a huge low. I don't listen well, though. I'm stubborn. I was going to show them.

For a while it worked. The obsessive thoughts that plagued me since Grady's birth disappeared almost completely. I no longer had a panic attack when I walked within six feet of the patio guardrail because I no longer saw, in graphic detail, my baby sailing over the side and falling fifty feet onto the concrete below. I could walk by the kitchen counter and not shudder because I no longer imagined my baby rolling off and landing on the ceramic tile underneath. My disturbing, illogical (I don't put the baby on the counter, I never would put the baby on the counter, and yet every day, a hundred times a day, I would picture my baby (who can't even roll yet) rolling off the counter) thoughts were gone.

My anxiety lessened. With the urging of my counsellor, I joined a yoga studio. Once a week, I'd leave Grady with Shawn for almost two hours and go to yoga. Coming home to a happy baby and a condo that hadn't turned into a disaster zone in my absence helped to reassure me that Grady doesn't need me all day every day. I can still have my life and it can be a little bit separate from my baby.

My anxiety didn't disappear completely, though. I got very good at tamping it down. I focused on my victories (I joined a yoga studio and continue to go to yoga weekly even though I am complete rubbish at it! My kid is giggly and smart and happy! After a rocky start, I now breastfeed like a motherfucking champ!) while completely disregarding the nagging anxiety and depression at the back of my mind. I blamed my daily meltdowns and crying jags on my grandma's passing. I refused to acknowledge that I was slipping. I couldn't accept that I wasn't winning at therapy.

My depression consists of a lot of guilt. Guilt that I'm sad even though I have a healthy, happy, beautiful baby. Guilt that Grady has me - fucked up me - for a mom. Guilt that there are so many people who would give anything to be in my position. Guilt is a useless emotion. I know that my feeling guilty serves no one and fixes nothing. Yet here I wallow.

This week was a low point for me. Maybe the lowest since the early hormone-addled days. In hindsight, there were a few weeks of build up. I was crying a lot, forgetting things, not sleeping well even when Grady was asleep. I crashed in a spectacular blaze of crazy this week. I thought of the meanest things I could possible say to Shawn. And then I said them. I spent a lot of time lying on the bathroom floor, crying. I declared war on Christmas, friendly grocery clerks, and kind strangers because they all obviously exist to highlight my own failures and make me feel bad about myself.

Tuesday is therapy day. I'm holding on until Tuesday. I'm taking deep breaths and relishing the feeling of clarity that comes after I have a meltdown. The dam broke but I am not broken.

I need to write this for me. I need to be able to look at this in a few weeks or a few months and see that I was so low but I found my way out. More importantly, I need to remember this feeling just in case it rears its bastard head again.

Show Me Your Teeth

2011-12-05T12:10:00.001-08:00

When Grady was born, he was given a Sophie the Giraffe toy. I'd seen Sophie while shopping for baby stuff and I was surprised that someone had spent $25 on a teething toy. I put Sophie on the shelf and forgot about her.

Grady has been a fussy drool machine for a couple of weeks so I decided to see if he was interested in Sophie. You guys. We cannot get Sophie away from him. Sophie goes wherever Grady goes. We're thinking of buying another one just in case something tragic befalls the original (Stella has been plotting Sophie's demise since hearing the first squeak.)

Saturday morning, 4 months and 1 week after he was born, Grady bit me with his first tooth. A tooth! My little (erm ... 17lb ... not so tiny) baby has a tooth! I'm not ready for this.

Miniatures Disasters And Minor Catastrophes Bring Me To My Knees

2011-11-30T14:07:00.001-08:00

My grandma's memorial service was yesterday and you guys, it was bad. Like, laughably bad.

There was the minister who pronounced "peace" like "piss" and sang parts of the hymns with comical vibrato and forgot the words to other parts (even though he had a hymnbook right in front of him.) There was the 200-year old organ player who fell asleep in between songs and who played the wrong notes so often that the songs were unrecognizable. Seriously. He played Pachelbel's Canon in D which is like, the most recognizable song ever and I couldn't tell what it was without reading the program. There was the 30-minute long eulogy that my aunt delivered (the same aunt who prevented the memorial service from being on a weekend because it would interfere with her Christmas craft fair schedule) that covered - in great detail - the generation before my grandma but failed to mention, you know, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Oh no wait, the eulogy just excluded my dad's children and grandchildren, not my aunt's child.

So yeah, the whole day was one big "wtf?" moment. But! After the service, after the church basement tea party, after getting stuck in a traffic jam for two hours - with both bladder and boobs threatening to burst - my family and I gathered at my parents' house and ate yummy food and remembered my gram. And it was good.

Four For A Boy

2011-11-27T09:45:00.001-08:00

Four months. He's added shrieks and squeals to his vocabulary. He's found his toes. He loves to make people laugh. He's a performer. He's my little ham.

I Whip My Hair Back And Forth - Updated

2011-11-15T10:11:00.001-08:00

I got a haircut fairly early in my pregnancy. And then I swore off haircuts completely because of all the smells. So many smells. By the time strong smells didn't make me want to die, I was too huge to enjoy a good shampoo / cut / dry so I decided to put it off until after the baby was born. Which, haha, was 16 weeks ago.

So! Today! Today I am getting a haircut. I just ... don't know what to do with my hair. It's likely been a year since my last cut. I have split ends like you wouldn't believe. I'm losing clumps of hair daily because it's not enough that having a baby made me flabby and insane, I'm also going bald. (Okay, not really bald. I'm told that the hair will stop falling out at such an alarming rate. I remain skeptical.)

I tried taking a picture to show you guys but the results were grim. Too grim to post on the internet. I feel bad enough about myself already, okay? So instead, I give you this:

This is childless, mortgage-less me. The me who used to spend $175 every three months getting highlights and low-lights and a stylish cut. The me who used to be 20lbs lighter than my current weight. The me who is actually in Mexico in this photo. So. Fuck that me. Right? But! That me has hair that is about the same length as the current me. (Though current me has hair that is much, much darker after a home-dye-job incident.)

So tell me - what would you do with my hair? I need to keep it long enough to pull up in a ponytail because Sir is a puller. I'm adverse to bangs because of the upkeep (I'm not going to lie - some days I'm working with third day hair.) And I need to keep it fairly simple because I'm not going to a fancy salon; I'm going to a neighbourhood joint that had a groupon this week ($20 haircut! What can go wrong?!)

*** Updated ***

Thanks for your comments / ideas! I really wanted to go with a bob but I've got partially grown out bangs to contend with. We chopped five inches off the bottom and layered it around my face to blend in the bangs. I'm really happy with it (I say on day one - talk to me after I wash it and attempt to get it this straight again.)

I've Got The Words In My Heart But Not In My Brain And Now I'm All Tongue Tied

2011-11-12T23:26:00.001-08:00

One year ago today, I woke up and peed on a stick (well, four sticks of varying brands and formats) and our lives were changed forever. I'm tired and sometimes I am so anxious I want to scratch my way out of my own skin, but I am so happy with my dudes.

Come To Think Of It I'm The One Who's Letting You Down

2011-11-08T22:35:00.000-08:00

The thing about going crazy is that once you're not crazy anymore, or at least not as crazy, you start to realize what a negligent asshole you've been. I have been so disconnected from my world. Well, my world outside of Twitter. Grady's demanding nursing schedule means that I spend a lot of time scrolling through Twitter on my iPhone. But still! Disconnected.

I mean, some of it is to be expected. You have a baby and your life is turned upside down. You're not expected to reply to emails in a timely manner or remember birthdays in time to mail a card. But there comes a point when life returns to normal (or as normal as it can get) and you realize that everyone and everything kept keepin' on without you and you don't know how to insert yourself back into your own life.

Life isn't normal. Not yet. But I'm getting there. I'm starting to feel more like myself. I feel like I'm getting my head back. Now I just need to figure out how to get my life back.

Gratuitous baby in teddy bear jacket picture!

No I Don't Want To Have To Be The One Who Has To Lose You

2011-10-31T23:26:00.001-07:00

My grandma turned 95 last January and shortly after her birthday, she had a stroke. I wanted her to hold on to meet my baby and she did. She fought. She held my baby many times and near the end, when she was confined to her bed and she barely had the strength to stay awake, he gripped her finger and gave her a wide, gummy grin. I couldn't ask for anything more. I couldn't wish for her to get better.

She gave me her pumpkin pie recipe and her snappy tongue. I have her love of dogs and her wonky thyroid. I use Ivory soap because of her. Shortbread cookies covered in red and green sugar will always take me back to her kitchen.

My grandma was not an affectionate lady. She didn't call us "sweetie" or bestow us with kisses or cuddles. I never once heard her say "I love you" to anyone - ever - but I never doubted that she loved us all, fiercely. She was strong. The strongest lady I've ever known. I hope she gave me even just an ounce of her strength.

Easy For You To Say Your Heart Has Never Been Broken

2011-10-26T09:09:00.001-07:00

Shawn and I saw the Foo Fighters last night. We skipped the opening acts, I didn't drink any $9 beers, and we left before the encore (I don't even know who I am anymore!) but I'm still calling the night a success. Grady stayed with Auntie Turtle and her fella and everything was swell. I emailed them approximately 87 times and I did my fair share of fretting, but I did not cry or panic once. I'm taking minuscule baby steps but I'm slowly making my way back to normal.

And Sadness Is A Silent Right A Moth Is Not A Butterfly

2011-10-24T22:32:00.000-07:00

I have good days and I have some not-so-good days and I have the occasional I-can't-breathe day but overall, things are improving. I'm happy. Even when I start to slide back into my anxiety, I'm happy. I couldn't say that a month ago.

There are so many things I want to talk about but I struggle to find the words. Someone recently said to me that the best parents are those without children. It makes me giggle but also cringe. Pre-Grady I was such a good parent. Full of "my child will never do this" and "my child will always do that." If there's one thing becoming a mother has taught me, it's that I may be playing a guessing game and fumbling my way through parenting, but so is everyone else. I'm learning to be more gentle on myself but at the same time, I'm learning to be more gentle on others.

It's humbling, this parenting gig. Admitting that I know nothing. Trying to accept help from well-meaning people without feeling too defensive or judged. It's been rough but I still feel so lucky because reaching through my sleep-deprived haze are the chubbiest baby arms, ready to wrap themselves around my neck and make me feel like the most important person in the world.

I'm In The Pocket Just Like Grady Tate

2011-10-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

If Grady turned out to be a lady baby, we would have named her Mabel. Shawn was pushing for Penelope but I would have won the lady baby name battle (we almost named Stella Penny and that would be weird in my head.)

Shawn and I had a lot of difficulty picking Grady's name. We started off at completely different ends of the baby boy names spectrum. When forced to define our naming styles, Shawn's choices fell into the "future rockstar" category while mine were more "fancy little gentleman, preferably with a British accent." Veto power was not used sparingly is what I'm saying.

We could not find a middle ground. Shawn continued to come up with rocker names (Axel, Maverick, etc) and I continued to love my little gentleman names (Finnian, Milo, etc.) It wasn't just our naming styles holding us back, though. We also had a few naming clauses that tripped us up.

Clause #1: name must not be 1-syllable because of longstanding family tradition-mandated middle name of Shawn (tradition is that firstborn son is given his father's first name as his middle name. So ... sorry future hypothetical partner of Grady who has to work with Grady as a middle name for their hypothetical firstborn son.)

Clause #2: name must not end in "an" or "en" sound because the last syllable of Shawn and Grady's 2-syllable last name is "an" and is way too rhymey with names like Brendan or Aiden.

Clause #3: name must be Irish or at least feel Irish. (Shawn's clause.)

Clause #4: name must not be too Irish because of Shawn and Grady's extremely Irish last name. (My clause.)

Clause #5: name must not be Willie or anything else that sounds like, or can be rhymed with, any slang word for penis (Shawn's BULLSHIT clause.) (Willie is a rad name and I would have loved to name Grady Willie but whatever, I've never been a boy on a school playground so FINE, SHAWN, I respected this clause.)

I halfheartedly suggested Grady about halfway through the pregnancy. I honestly wasn't that into it but Shawn loved it. I didn't hate it, it just didn't feel like it was the name. I was waiting for an aha! moment I think (which is silly because I've never really been an aha! person.) We continued to fall in love with completely different names (him: Maximus and Ewan, me: Leo and Bennett.) Shawn kept coming back to Grady, though.

Roughly eight weeks before Grady was born, I saw Grady suggested to a reader on Swistle's baby name blog. Seeing it in a different context, with the other names Swistle suggested alongside it, made me see the name Grady in a new light. I decided to get serious about Grady. I needed to either love it or veto it but I couldn't keep maybeing it. I already knew about Big Sugar's Grady (Shawn's a fan, I'm eh) but in my Grady research, I discovered Grady Martin. As a session musician, he played guitar on many of Willie Nelson's albums and later toured with Willie's band. Not only that, he helped shape Willie's song On the Road Again.

On the Road Again is a song that will forever remind me of my dad. When I was a kid, we used to go camping every summer. We'd pack up the station wagon until it was busting at the seams, all six of us would pile in, and we'd set off for 5 hours of cramped, sweaty driving until we reached the campsite. Dad would always put the Willie Nelson cassette into the tape player and blast On the Road Again and sing along and car dance while pulling out of the driveway.

Finding out about Grady Martin was sort of my aha! moment. Grady isn't named after Grady Martin or Big Sugar's Grady (or Grady Tate, for that matter) but it's our way of finding meaning in his name. I'm nostalgic about Grady Martin's connection to Willie Nelson and Shawn is pleased with the connection to talented musicians.

After our maternity photos were done, I didn't let myself think about names again.

Twenty-nine Pearls In Your Kiss A Singing Smile

2011-10-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

Today I am twenty-nine. A year ago, children were in the "some day. maybe" category. This morning I woke up to baby giggles in my ear. It was a nice change from the baby shrieks that woke me multiple times last night.

I don't know what the next year is going to bring but I'm excited to find out.

Especially if what it brings is more sleep.

And We Won’t Spit With Our Mouths Or Draw Lines In The Dirt With Our Heels And Every Single Day We’ll Just Wait And Hope To See The Next One

2011-10-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

I went a little crazy after Grady was born.

At first I felt like a goddamn warrior for birthing my 8lb 6.5oz baby without an epidural. I was on a new baby high for days. I felt like I could do anything.

The nurses told me to expect to feel a little "blue" and after a few days I did start to feel weepy and low. It didn't get better, though, the way they told me it would. The sadness didn't go away. The anxiety didn't abate.

Looking back, I can see how certain situations contributed to my crazy (Shawn got a grand total of 4 days off work after Grady was born; Wolfgang got very sick when Grady was 12 days old and for a week we didn't know if he was going to pull through; my maternity leave application was held up with no explanation and Wolfgang's unexpected $1,000 vet bill put a serious dent in our bank account; after a mild summer, we had two weeks of hot temperatures which, combined with the hormones, made me a literal hot mess) but at the time I couldn't identify and deal with them individually, it just felt like one thing after another piling on top of an already unmanageable situation (because newborns? Refuse to be managed. Grady has earned his nickname of Little Tyrant.)

I tried to convince myself that what I was feeling was normal. That the anxiety that prevented me from leaving my bedroom for days, the crying that left me red-faced and gulping for air on the bathroom floor, and the guilt that I was somehow harming my baby by being such a failure, were all just part of the "baby blues" that the nurses had warned me about. And for a while I succeeded. Shawn would come home from work day after day to find me huddled in the dark, rocking Grady and crying, and he would ask me if we needed to call the doctor. I would get very shrill and tell him that this was normal and nothing was wrong with me and why wasn't he on my team (my crazy makes me manipulative. I'm not proud.)

The thing is, even though part of me knew that what I was feeling wasn't normal, the other (crazy) part of me was convinced that I didn't need help. The nurses in the hospital and the pamphlet sent home with me made me think that unless I was about to hurt myself or someone else, I didn't need help. Which isn't logical. I know that now. But in the throes of my crazy, I was able to convince myself that as long as I wasn't suicidal, I was okay and what I was experiencing was normal and fine. I didn't want to be the lady who couldn't handle having a baby. I was ashamed that my anxiety was dictating my life (and Grady's life.) I was locked in this horrible spiral of "what if" thinking (what if I drop the baby? what if I go to the grocery store and someone steals the baby? what if I'm driving and someone hits me and the baby?) and I didn't know how to stop it but I was too scared to ask for help (what if I tell my doctor and they take away my baby?)

Three weeks ago I went for my followup appointment with the doctor who delivered Grady. Before starting the exam, she sat down and asked how I was doing. And then she sat with me for the next hour while I cried and admitted to every single destructive thought I'd had over the past seven weeks. Instead of doing my physical exam, my rockstar doctor came up with a plan and gently but firmly told me what I was going to do. It was exactly what I needed. I needed someone to say "this isn't normal and this is what you are going to do to fix it."

I've been working to fix myself for three weeks. I have a plan and I have support. For the first time since Grady was born, I feel like I'm seeing things clearly. I'm not there yet - I don't feel like me - but I'm on my way.

I'm so glad because I get to enjoy this guy even more.

Two Now That I'm With You Another Point Of View

2011-09-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

Grady turned two months old on Monday.

He started off as an 8lb 6.5oz chicken-legged skinny baby.

Then he started to fill out. His teeny tiny belly started to get rounder.

And now he's got two chins and the most delicious chubby thighs .

And the most beautiful smile that makes the sleepless nights seem easier.

He's a tyrant. But he's my tyrant. My smiley thunder-thighed tyrant. I couldn't love him more.

Baby Baby Don't Be Late World Is Ending I Can't Change The Way I Feel About You Now - Part 3

2011-09-23T10:56:00.000-07:00

I didn't have a birth plan. Which is strange, I know. I'm a planner. I plan everything down to the smallest detail. I write lists and analyze the possible scenarios and outcomes. Living life as it comes is not an option for me. I need to know what's going to happen and when it's going to happen so I can plan accordingly.

However. I felt that writing a birth plan would be setting myself up for failure. I knew that if I took the time to think about every possible scenario and write a plan based on the various outcomes, I would be disappointed when things didn't go exactly as planned (which they wouldn't. I'm not foolish enough to believe that the birth would follow my precise directions.)

So I didn't have a birth plan.

Shawn and I talked about what we wanted / didn't want and we relied on each other for support. Shawn knew he was in charge of preventing the doctor from giving me an episiotomy and I knew that he didn't want to cut the umbilical cord and we both knew we had each other's back. (In the end it didn't matter because it turned out the doctor who delivered Grady was staunchly anti-episiotomy and when it came time to, Shawn actually did want to cut the umbilical cord.)

I'm getting ahead of myself.

By the time we were in an actual delivery room, I'd been labouring in the hospital for over four hours. I tested positive for group B strep which meant that to prevent infection, my doctor didn't want to break my water or check the progress of my dilation too often. So when Shawn got back from giving his mom our house keys, it was 11pm, I was standing in a hot shower, my water had not broken, and the last time my cervix had been checked was 4 hours before and was between 4 and 5 cm dilated. The gas had lost efficiency by that time but the mask had become my security blanket. I took it into the shower with me, I dragged it behind me as I paced the room, I loved that gas mask.

When I got out of the shower, my nurse checked to see how far I was dilated. She said that because my water hadn't broken, it was impossible to tell accurately how far I was dilated but that she estimated I was between 6 and 7 cm. I was in so much pain and the contractions were coming so close together. I was devastated that I wasn't further along. I told Shawn I couldn't do it anymore. I needed the epidural. Shawn and I both knew that the epidural was an inevitability. My pain tolerance is low and his watching-the-wife-in-pain tolerance is low so we agreed that I would have an epidural when things got bad. I was hoping to make it to 8cm before requesting it because I didn't want to get it too early and end up stalling my labour, but I couldn't imagine being in that much pain for much longer.

The tech came in to do the blood work but I couldn't stand still long enough for her to do it. I was standing at the end of the bed, hunched over my giant belly, screaming at the nurse that I needed to push, when my doctor came in to check on me.

Brief side note. I went to an obstetrical clinic with 8 doctors. The clinic did not assign doctors, you saw the doctor that was in on your appointment day. I ended up seeing 3 of the 8 doctors during my prenatal visits but I really connected with 1 of the doctors. By some happy twist of fate, she was the doctor on call that night and she ended up delivering Grady.

So my doctor came in to check on me, saw how frantic I was, and decided it was time to break my water to get a true assessment of how far I was dilated.

I was 9.5cm dilated. One contraction later, I was 10cm dilated. Too late for the epidural. Time to push.

I cannot accurately describe how much fear I felt when my doctor told me I couldn't have the epidural. The epidural was what I was holding onto through the hours of pain leading up to the delivery. Not having an epidural was not an option for me. I was ready to throw in the towel. Except that you can't actually quit labour. You're kind of stuck by that point.

Fortunately, I had no time to dwell or panic. It was midnight and I was starting to push.

Another brief side note. My doctor was the Monday doctor. During the whole "you can't have the epidural" debacle, I was also panicking because I thought that my doctor was going to leave right before the delivery and the Tuesday doctor was going to take over. Like, at the strike of midnight. It's funny now but at the time it was devastating. (My doctor did not leave. I'm assuming the doctors on-call status changes at a more reasonable hour and not at midnight.)

Pushing is a blur. I remember my nurse was a rockstar. She coached me brilliantly (Shawn told her she should consider joining the Canadian women's curling team because she was so good at yelling "HARD!") I remember crushing Shawn's hand. I remember indescribable pain. I remember screaming. A lot. I remember the burny burny pain of crowning. I remember the huge feeling of relief of my final push. And at 1:07am on July 26th, Grady was born. The exact hour and minute that my little sister's baby had been born 23 days earlier.

They put Grady up on my chest and Shawn cut the cord. My little man was born but he wasn't crying. My doctor and nurse were rubbing him with warm towels but his face stayed grey and his arms and legs stayed blue. That's when they took him away from me. My doctor kept calling over to me, "he's safe, he's safe" but I still made Shawn go hover over her shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later I had my baby back. My beautiful little cone-headed, lizard-eyed baby.

taken half an hour after birth

Baby Baby Don't Be Late World Is Ending I Can't Change The Way I Feel About You Now - Part 2

2011-09-11T22:30:00.000-07:00

When I woke up, Shawn had fallen asleep beside me. I felt huge and uncomfortable so I went outside and started doing laps around our courtyard. Very slow laps.

I woke Shawn up at 5:30 and told him we needed to go back to the hospital. I'd told Shawn to try to talk me out of going to the hospital too soon and bless his heart, he did try. Poor guy. The morphine had completely worn off by that point so I may have used a few firm words to indicate that perhaps we should head back to the hospital immediately.

So we did. By 7:00 I was admitted and was between 4 and 5 cm dilated.

Labour and delivery was very busy that night. I ended up in a bed on the ward, with only a curtain separating me from the labouring woman beside me. There were four of us in a row and I remember being so amused by the different sounds of our labours (until my labour got so intense that I was no longer laughing and was moaning and groaning along with my fellow labourers.)

For hours Shawn ran back and forth between me and the sink at the end of the ward, replenishing the cold compresses on my forehead and neck. The nurse would come every half an hour to check the baby's heart rate, my pulse, and my temperature but we were left on our own for most of the night. I had the gas by that point so whenever a contraction would hit, I'd smack the mask against my mouth (I'm surprised I didn't chip a tooth - the contractions would hit me so hard and so fast that I pretty much punched myself in the face with the gas mask every single time) and breathe my way through it.

I didn't want Shawn to tell our families that I was in labour too soon. I had visions of our parents showing up when I was 3cm dilated and camping out in the waiting room until their grandchild was born. I knew that I would feel pressured and anxious so we held off telling them until we needed someone to go look after the monsterpups. Shawn's mom came to the hospital but because we were still on the ward, she wasn't allowed to see me (thank you, 1 visitor at a time rule.) Shawn went out to the parking lot to give her our keys and it was at that precise time that a delivery room freed up for us. The nurse didn't want to wait for Shawn to get back so she made me shuffle through the halls to our room. It wasn't a long walk, distance-wise, but it felt like it took hours.

As difficult as it was, the walk was a positive thing. Gravity ramped up my labour with gusto. By 11:00pm, Shawn was back and the nurse was urging me into the shower to ease my labour pain.

Sir demands attention - part three to come.

I Know You've Grown Tired Of Trying To Fix Me And I Know By Now My Best Years They Are No Longer With Me

2011-09-08T09:49:00.000-07:00

I thought that when Grady was born, I'd still be me, just with a kid. I was completely unprepared for how not me I'd feel. I've still got all the pieces of my life - Shawn, my family, my friends, my body, my job, and so on. They just don't fit together like they used to. I feel like an orange. The separate pieces of my life used to make a whole. Now I feel peeled and segmented. My pieces don't fit together to make a whole anymore. How do you put an orange back together? I'll never be an orange again. I'll be an orange held together with tape. Some of my pieces might need to be smushed a little to fit back in. Some might need to be left out completely. Which is fine, really. I can handle that. I just don't know how to find the tape to hold myself together again. I'm desperately trying to hold on to all of my pieces so I don't lose any before I figure that out.

Baby Baby Don't Be Late World Is Ending I Can't Change The Way I Feel About You Now - Part 1

2011-09-05T22:25:00.000-07:00

I woke up on July 25th feeling crampy and annoyed. I'd been feeling crampy and annoyed all week though, so I just got up and carried on with my morning. I had a doctor's appointment at 10 and since my doctor wanted to discuss induction, Shawn had taken the morning off work to go with me.

I had no idea what contractions were going to feel like. I mean, I knew that active labour would be painful but I didn't know what to expect with early labour. It wasn't until we left for the doctor and I had to sit still in the car for 15 minutes that I realized that I was in labour. Those 15 minutes were torture (which is laughable now, considering just how intense and painful real labour ended up being.)

My doctor confirmed that I was in labour and told me I was 2cm dilated. She recommended that we go for a walk because her office is right across the street from the hospital and she predicted that I'd want some pain relief pretty quickly. Being a stubborn asshole, I asked Shawn to take me home. I didn't want to go to the hospital at 2cm dilated. I knew that I wouldn't be admitted until I was at least 3cm and I didn't want to be the wimp who showed up begging for drugs before I could even be admitted.

So Shawn took me home and made me chicken noodle soup while I tried to watch television to take my mind off the pain. I lasted an hour before I was begging Shawn to take me to the hospital.

Shawn and I took a childbirth class a few weeks before Grady was born. The midwife who ran the class drilled into us that we couldn't go to the hospital before we reached 4-1-1: contractions that were 4 minutes apart, were 1 minute in duration, and had followed that pattern for 1 hour. She even gave us a magnet with the 4-1-1 information on it to hang on our fridge as a reminder. Which would have been really helpful and great, had my labour even remotely resembled that. My contractions came fast and hard with only 45 - 90 seconds separating them. Also, they didn't hit a minute in duration until I was well into active labour. I was so focused on the 4-1-1 rule that I started panicking on the way to the hospital, convinced that the short space separating my contractions meant that I was further along than we expected and I would end up having a baby on the side of the road.

And then we got to the hospital and learned that I was still only 2cm dilated.

I felt defeated. I'd been labouring hard (or rather, I thought I'd been labouring hard because I had no idea how hard labour would become) for over an hour since leaving my doctor's office and I was no further along. A nurse offered me a morphine shot and even though I felt like a failure for accepting it, I did. It turned out to be a wise decision. After being monitored for a short while to make sure I reacted well to the morphine, I was allowed to go back home. The morphine didn't take away the pain but it took the edge off and allowed me to sleep for three glorious hours.

More to come...

We Get To Carry Each Other Carry Each Other One

2011-08-28T10:32:00.001-07:00

Grady turned one month old on Friday. It seems like just yesterday he was born but at the same time I feel like he's always been here. The hours are long but the days are flying by.

The physical recovery was something I was prepared for and it turned out to be much easier than I expected. What I wasn't expecting was how long it would take me to recover emotionally. Not just from the hormones or the intense feelings of becoming a mom and being responsible for this tiny, helpless baby, but also from a birth experience that left me feeling helpless.

I think the hardest part is not feeling like me anymore. I will never be the same person as I was before Grady was born. And that's not a bad thing. It's just been difficult to figure out how to be good for him when I don't even know who I am.

I wake up to this face every day, though, so life is definitely good.

You're Only The Best I Ever Had

2011-08-04T22:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Shawn,

Three years ago we did this:

Nine days ago we did this:

It just keeps getting better and better.

Love you, dude.

You're What's Happenin' Baby

2011-08-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

It took a while but he's here. All 8lbs 6.5 ounces of him.

Grady Shawn arrived on July 26th at 1:07am (the exact time of his cousin's birth, just 23 days later.)

More details to follow, just as soon as I can tear myself away from these chubby cheeks.

Now I Was Sitting Waiting Wishing That You Believed In Superstitions

2011-07-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

The pregnancy iPhone app I downloaded on a whim at the start of my pregnancy tells me that today Willie is roughly the size of a pumpkin. My first part-time job in highschool was actually at a pumpkin patch and you guys, I have seen some freakishly large pumpkins.

Last Monday, my doctor told me to go ahead and make this week's appointment but that she would be "shocked" if I actually made it that long without giving birth. Which was exciting to hear at the time but is now just massively annoying, seeing as this week's appointment is in an hour.

I know that due dates are not an exact science and Willie will come when he's ready and I'm lucky to have a full-term baby, etc. I know. I'm just having a bit of a Monday morning pity party. Who wants to join me? What's currently chapping your ass?

He Sang Nursery Rhymes To Paralyse

2011-07-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

When we moved, the second bedroom was already decorated as a nursery. The previous owners left the tree decal on the wall and we decided that leaving it up would be easier than taking it down. We didn't really have a plan for the nursery, though, apart from not wanting to spend a lot of money. This week we finally pulled the room together:

I dragged Shawn to Ikea's midnight madness a few weeks ago and we snagged the crib for $59 (marked down from $199.) The dresser was in our old bedroom but didn't fit in our new bedroom. The clock is my favourite nursery purchase.

The Harley Davidson lamp is Shawn's favourite nursery purchase. It can be used as a lamp or a night light (the headlight and brake lights light up.) I actually made the wooden airplane when I was a kid and my mom saved it for me.

The changing table was a bit of a sore spot for Shawn. He thought a change table is an unneeded luxury. He also didn't want to pack up his electric drum kit that was occupying that space. Fortunately my parents have a basement of extra furniture they saved from when we were kids and they gave us the dresser for free. Shawn can't argue with free. I bought a change pad for the top and claimed victory. The prints on the wall are the result of an afternoon spent on Etsy. The shelves are more freebies from my parents' basement.

We bought a glider and felt like a pair of 80-year olds doing so. I'm not going to lie, though; I freaking love the glider. It's just so ... glidey.

So now we just wait. My due date is tomorrow. I'm uncomfortable but I've not yet reached the point of needing Willie to get out. Mainly I'm just tired. Tired and enjoying some quiet time with the pups before our world is turned upside down.

You Can Kill A Lot Of Time If You Really Put Your Mind To It

2011-07-13T20:03:00.000-07:00

Willie is due in a week. One week. I'm finally on maternity leave, trying to get the nursery organized, and failing miserably at staying focused. My head is in the clouds. Part of me wants Willie to stay put where's he safe and protected. And then there's the part of that is almost giddy at the thought of having my body to myself. (Which isn't an entirely reasonable thought, I know, seeing as I'm hoping to be able to nurse Willie.) There are a lot of unknowns in my immediate future. I'm trying to savour each day that I have and not wish my time away. Willie will arrive when he's good and ready. All I can do is wait.

Madeline Here We Go 'Round Again

2011-07-03T19:52:00.001-07:00

My niece(!) arrived early this morning. She's beautiful. She's healthy. My sister is doing well. Today is a good day.

Everyday You've Got To Open Your Eyes

2011-06-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

It kind of figures that the day you have to ask your doctor if you're leaking amniotic fluid or if you've just peed yourself, is the day that your regular doctor is away and Dr. Beautiful is her replacement.

My water? Remains unbroken. So. That was fun.

(Also? Dr. Beautiful is suddenly less pretty in my eyes after he compared Willie's head to a bowling ball.)

You Know Our Hearts Beat Time Out Very Slowly

2011-06-21T13:20:00.000-07:00

I am a bear. A giant, lumbering bear. I grumble. I grunt. I swat at anyone foolish enough to get in my way. I plow through my day with a snarl ready on my lips. Shawn and Stella have learned to steer clear of my volatility but Wolfgang, sweet Wolfgang, is not the brightest pup. He follows me around from room to room, waiting for me to sit down so he can jump up and perch his tiny little puppy bum on my Willie-bump. He covers my face in kisses and makes tiny little grunty noises when I scratch behind his ears just so. He's driving me insane and keeping me sane (well, as sane as I can be) at the same time.

In an effort to feel less like a bear and more like a glowy pregnant lady (ha! am so not a glowy pregnant lady!) I made an appointment with a photographer friend of a friend to have some maternity photos done. Which is one of those glowy pregnant lady things I said I'd never do. Not that there's anything wrong with maternity photos, I just never thought they were something I'd consider doing. I have friends who have had them done and the photos are gorgeous and my friends look like beautiful earth mamas wrapped in flowy scarves and translucent fabric and I appreciate the beauty of the photographs while knowing that it's just ... not me. At the same time, I was tired of feeling like a giant, lumbering bear. I wanted to remember this pregnancy for more than just extreme mood swings and a horrible aversion to toothpaste (which is now back, in full force, after a lovely months-long break.)

I'm so happy with the photos. It's all about perspective. I feel large and heavy and slow but when I look at the photos I see a beautiful, healthy baby bump. Less bear-like, more glowy.

(all photos by the lovely Alanna Dyani)
(mustache teething toy by little alouette)

Pills Enough To Make Me Feel Ill Cash Enough To Make Me Well Take Me Take Me To The Riot

2011-06-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

We skipped the hospital tour to watch the Stanley Cup final last night.

The Canucks lost.

The good news? The name Stanley is 100% off the table.

The bad news? The city lost its damn mind.

It's difficult to describe how disappointed I am. Not about the game - the Canucks had an amazing season and losing the final doesn't take away from that - but about the absolute stupidity of a handful of people. Vancouver is an amazing city but today we look like fools.

She Likes Hockey And Summers By The Lake

2011-06-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

image credit

The Vancouver Canucks are playing in the Stanley Cup Finals. They've won three games to Boston's two. The Canucks have never won a Stanley Cup. The last time they made it to the finals was in 1994. If they win tonight, they win the cup. Tonight's game is kind of a big deal is what I'm saying.

If the Canucks lose tonight, the series will go to game 7 (and my head will melt.) If necessary, game 7 will be played on Wednesday. Wednesday is also the night of our hospital tour. The hospital tour that is impossible to reschedule. So can we all think happy, winning thoughts for the Canucks tonight? Because I am 99% sure that I will chose hockey over the hospital tour if forced to chose and I am 100% sure that I will feel like an asshole for doing so.

Take A Little Time Walk A Little Line Got The Balance Right

2011-06-08T10:45:00.000-07:00

My obstetrician belongs to a practice of eight doctors. My initial plan was to book my appointments on varying days of the week so that by the time Willie was born, I would know all of the doctors. Instead, I was so comfortable with the Monday doctor (she is seriously rad) that I've ended up booking every appointment with her. Which is a bit silly, I know. There is a very good chance that Willie will not be born on a Monday and I will end up with a stranger all up in my junk (though I'm pretty sure that having a stranger all up in my junk is going to be the least of my worries when I'm actually in labour.)

Anyway.

Yesterday I was having some pain. Not the usual pain (ligament pain, back pain, hip pain, boob pain, you name it, I've had it.) This was worrisome pain (spoiler alert: everything is fine.) I really didn't want to be that pregnant lady, you know? The hysterical "mah baybeeeee" pregnant lady. So I consulted Dr. Google and confirmed that I was either totally fine or facing imminent death and went on with my day. Willie was active (more active than usual, actually) so I didn't call my doctor's office until late afternoon when the pain had spread. Which is how I ended up with a Wednesday morning doctor's appointment with a doctor I've never met before.

You guys. He was gorgeous. Like, uncomfortably attractive. Tall and dark and chiseled. The office was still locked when I arrived so I had to stand in the hallway with Dr. Beautiful and make flustered smalltalk about traffic and the weather. It was ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Ridiculous but pleased. I've been so blue lately and everything has been such a struggle. It felt really good to have a normal, awkward reaction to something that lately would have sent me into a funk. I don't know if it's the sunshine we've had this week or if it's because the move is finally over or if it's as simple as not being sick and deathy anymore but I am finally starting to feel like myself again. I'm still overwhelmed and feeling completely behind in everything (see below: week 32 photo. I am now 34 weeks pregnant) but this week I've found myself laughing in situations that up until recently would have sent me into a fit of tears. Like when Shawn and I were hanging wedding photos and he said, "look how skinny you were!" or when Wolfgang lifted his leg and peed all over the pot of mint I had growing on my lovely new patio. Things are beginning to feel good again is what I'm saying (apart from the clueless dudes in my life, amirite?)

I Want Pinned Down I Want Unsettled Rattle Cage After Cage

2011-06-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

May was a difficult month. It wasn't all bad (Shawn's birthday! the arrival of Shawn's dad to help with the move!) but even the good stuff came with its own set of challenges (Shawn's new job! That required a 4-day trip to San Francisco, which turned into a 5-day trip after a massive travel fail resulted in a 24-hour trip from San Francisco to Vancouver.)

Shawn went away for the May long weekend. He goes away every year with the same group of guys for four days of shenanigans. Months ago (when he had to pay for his portion of the trip) Shawn asked if I was okay with him going this year. We knew about Willie but the move and the new job weren't in the picture. So I told him I would be fine. And then we sold the condo and had to move the last weekend in May (the weekend after the trip.) And then the job opportunity came along and he had to be in San Francisco for the weekend before the trip. And my head started to melt.

We've been in the new condo for almost a week. The move was horrible and stressful and disorganized but it's finished (thanks to the kindness of our families and friends who seriously saved our asses.) Our condo is a mess of unpacked boxes and half-built furniture. Shawn started last week with a cold and ended up with the flu. I caught Shawn's cold and ended up with a chest infection. We're miserable and ill and we don't like each other very much right now. But the move is finished. And soon we will be organized and settled and we can be friends again.

If You're Low Just Hold On 'Cause I Will Be Your Safety Oh Don't Leave Home

2011-05-24T12:53:00.001-07:00

When Shawn and I first moved in together, we lived in a cramped 1-bedroom apartment in downtown Vancouver. There were a lot of things wrong with that apartment. The building was old and smelly, the elevators were constantly breaking down, the parkade was not secure (one time someone actually cut through Shawn's door to try (unsuccessfully) to steal his car) and we had to go down ten floors to get to the laundry room (and then it cost $4 per load.) The closets smelled disgusting, which meant that anything we stored in them (like, uhh, our clothes) smelled a bit off. One time we were watching tv in the living room when we heard a shower of water hitting the bathroom floor - it turns out our upstairs neighbour had left the tub running and it overflowed. Our landlord cut an opening in our ceiling (roughly 12 inches by 12 inches) and for the next six months we had a gaping hole above our shower, through which we could see the blanket of black mould we were living under (which explained the daily nosebleeds I had for two years that mysteriously cleared up within a week of moving out.)

It was not an ideal living situation is what I'm saying.

But when we bought our condo and had to leave our smelly, mouldy apartment, I was really blue. Yes, the apartment was gross and small and probably hazardous to our health. But it was also the first home that we shared. We moved in together four months after I moved back to Canada. We were still getting to know each other again and re-learn how to be a couple when we moved in together and had to learn how to live with each other as well (which was difficult. We're both extremely stubborn people and are set in our ways and can be difficult to live with.) (Though he's more difficult to live with than I am.) (Obviously.) We learned how to make it work in that apartment. And one August night, while eating cheesecake and watching the fireworks over English Bay from our bedroom window, he asked me to be his wife. To which I said "I guess so" (because saying awkward, inappropriate things is what I do when I'm caught off guard.)

I find myself in the same position now, four days before we move. There are a lot of things wrong with our current condo but I'm getting sadder and sadder the closer we get to moving day. When we bought the condo, we were engaged, puppy-less, childless people. Three and a half years later, we're married, with two monsterpups, and a surprise baby on the way (8 weeks, people. Deep breaths.) We've lived a lot in our current condo. I'm not ready to let it go. Neither are these guys:

I Twist It I Missed It Can't Keep This Thing Together

2011-05-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

There are things I've been ranting about lately (moving! packing! while pregnant! not fun!) and there are dull things that I don't bother talking about (meetings with lawyers, mortgage dudes, real estate agents, insurance dudes, doctors, etc, snore) and then there are things I haven't found a way to talk about. Like Shawn's new job. Which is excellent and potentially a huge opportunity for him. Which came out of the blue, three weeks ago, with the requirement that Shawn be in San Francisco for four days this week and that he be available to start the position June 1st. As in, four days after we move.

Life is crazy. I have to keep reminding myself that it's good crazy. That all of these things that are causing me stress now will (hopefully) bring me much happiness later. That all we can do is keep breathing and smile because even though we're experiencing multiple huge life changes all within a short period of time, allowing myself to wallow in stress and anxiety only makes the situation worse.

That's not to say that life is all sunshine and sparkles. I find myself twisted up in knots multiple times a day, worrying about getting everything finished, anxious that I've messed up or am forgetting some important detail. Shawn's trip was extended for a day after a series of fuck ups by American Airlines resulted in a 24-hour trip from San Francisco to Vancouver, meaning he's only in Vancouver for a day and half before leaving for another four days on his annual boys' weekend (that is already paid for in full and I can't talk about without getting very shrill and shouty so let's just leave it at that.) So yes, I'm twisty and anxious and trying my best to remember to breathe.

Fortunately, I have many reasons to smile right now. Like this little lump that sticks out right beside my belly button that is either Willie's head or his bum (I have no idea how to tell which it is - it's just round and firm and completely adorable.) And Kraft caramels dipped in Frank's Red Hot Buffalo Wings Sauce (I know, okay? But it's my one weird craving and it's fucking delicious so keep your judgment to yourself until you actually try it.) And the fact that we've named Willie (barring any disastrous scenarios where a celebrity I dislike names their new baby the name we've chosen. Like when Jane Krakowski (Jenna from 30 Rock) recently ruined Bennett for us.) Life may be crazy but it's also good, is what I'm saying. And in two weeks, when our move is complete, it's going to be great.

The Gold Medal Gleams So Hang It Around My Neck 'Cause I Am Deserving It The Champion Of Idiots

2011-05-16T15:13:00.000-07:00

Whenever anyone asks me how I'm doing, my standard reply is "fine, thanks. How are you?" It doesn't matter if I'm particularly happy or sad, I say that I'm fine. Fine has been my answer for years. I don't see myself changing any time soon.

It's the same whenever anyone offers to help me. I always say "thanks, but I've got it" or "thanks, but there's really nothing you can do" or "thanks + insert variation of rejection of help." I don't know why my initial reaction is to turn down offers of help but it is. And just like "fine," I don't see "thanks, but no" disappearing from my vocabulary in the foreseeable future.

You guys, I am not fine. And I really could use some help. I know that you can't come pack up the condo, or make the monsterpups behave, or change Shawn's schedule so that he's in town for more than 5 of the remaining 11 days before we move, but I would really appreciate it if you could please remind me that I'm not going to get a gold star for doing all the things all by myself and that working myself up into a froth will result only in a headache and not a damn medal hanging around my neck.

Numerous lovely people have offered to help me pack the condo or just keep me company while Shawn is out of town. Shawn's dad is here for the summer and he actually offered to pack the condo. Not help pack, no. He offered to do it all. And yet this weekend I found myself alone, lying awkwardly on the kitchen floor, trying to shimmy blindly on my back (because my belly was getting in the way) arm outstretched, trying to reach the various baking pans and other rarely-used items that had migrated to the very back of the lowest shelf of the horrid cupboard that stretches the length of the oven (seriously - worst cupboard ever. It was difficult to navigate before I got pregnant, I don't know why I thought I could do it now.) And there was this horrible moment, just for a second or two, where my arm cramped up and I couldn't move and I couldn't shimmy because I needed my arm to help me push off and I thought I was going to be stuck there on the kitchen floor until Shawn returned Tuesday night. Obviously my panic was a little premature because my arm stopped cramping and I managed to get myself up off the floor, but it was eye opening for me. I can't do it all. I cannot tell you how much it pains me to acknowledge those words.

It's A Random Chance Selection

2011-05-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

I went to bed at 9:30 last night and slept until 7:00 this morning. It was delicious. I could have slept longer but a fuckhole demolition crew started tearing down the building across the alley from ours at 7-o-clock on the dot (the earliest a construction crew is allowed to make noise. I checked.) The problem with going to bed so early is that I ended up having to pee three times during the night (there was this blissful 2 months of my pregnancy - starting around 16 weeks - where I actually managed to sleep through the night without peeing. I miss that time.) And I woke up around 5:00 because my stomach was grumbling. I eat all the time now. It's getting a bit out of hand. I ate an entire fresh pineapple a few nights ago. My mouth bled but I kept eating until it was finished. (Does fresh pineapple make anyone else's mouth bleed? I really hope the bleeding doesn't mean I'm allergic. I love fresh pineapple.)

* * * * *

The Canucks have made it through the first two rounds of playoffs. I was 11 years old the last time they made it this far in the playoffs. I am feeling very clenchy about the Canucks right now. I love them to bits but I've been a fan long enough to know that things can go very wrong very quickly. It's why I haven't vetoed Stan as a potential name for Willie (yet.) The superstitious hockey fan in me won't let me.

* * * * *

Turtle leaves for Europe next week and I'm trying very hard not to pout. It is not working.

* * * * *

Our moving date is just two and a half weeks away and I'm starting to panic. I know that everything will get done (because it has to be done) but I can't see it happening. We are so behind and my big plan of purging before packing is looking like it's not going to happen. We've managed to accumulate so much junk in the three and a half years we've been in our current condo. I hate the thought of packing it up and bringing it to our new home.

* * * * *

Happy Wednesday, all! I hope you're getting sunshine (and not dreary rain like we've got in Vancouver.)

When I Was Young And Grandma Wasn't Old

2011-05-09T13:58:00.000-07:00

One of the strangest parts about pregnancy for me has been the level of involvement from complete strangers. People see a pregnant lady and feel totally comfortable commenting on her choices (a random lady told me I had no right to give my baby a caffeine buzz when I was actually drinking decaf) or commenting on her body (telling a pregnant lady that she looks like she's about to pop when she actually has two months left to go will result in tears and quite possibly bloodshed) and then there's the touching. Oh the touching. People cannot resist a round, pregnant belly. It is so weird. I've been very "keep yer damn hands off me" throughout this pregnancy. I don't like being groped. Also? My belly hurts. All the damn time. The skin is stretched and painful and itchy. My belly button aches in a way I can't really describe, except to say that it's kind of like that horrible nervy toothache pain. I don't like how my belly feels most of the time so I certainly don't need people all up on it making it feel worse.

That being said, when I visited my 95-year old grandma in the retirement home yesterday (the 95-year old grandma who had a stroke a few months ago and who had us all worried about her chances) and she patted / rubbed / cupped / pointed out to her friends and various retirement home employees as my "condition" / kissed my belly? It wasn't weird or creepy at all. You guys, my grandma is going to get to meet my kid. How cool is that?

You Never Look Like Yourself From The Side But Your Profile Did Not Hide

2011-05-05T14:07:00.000-07:00

Our condo is a bit of a disaster zone right now and my camera cord has been MIA for weeks. I found it last night (in a box of thank you cards. I ... don't even know) so here's my latest bump progress shots:

I keep forgetting how pregnant I am (because I feel like I've been pregnant forever) but today my iPhone informed me that I'm 29 weeks pregnant. I'm pretty sure I've been calling myself 29 weeks pregnant for at least the last two weeks so I feel a bit cheated.

There Are Different Names For The Same Things

2011-05-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

So. Baby names. Picking out names can be fun and exciting. It can also be frustrating. Like, dickpunch your husband frustrating.

My heart has been broken numerous times over the past few months by his flippant use of the veto. Milo, Felix, Declan, Leo, Finnian, and Arlo were all cruelly (and firmly, meaning I can share them here because there is no way he'll relent) rejected by my husband.

Then there are all the fabulous one-syllable names that are unusable because of a generations-old tradition on Shawn's side of the family where the first-born son is given his father's name as a middle name. Meaning Willie (oh, and Shawn preemptively vetoed Willie before I even suggested it) will be Willie Shawn 2-syllable last name that starts with the letter "m."

The whole thing is made even more frustrating by Shawn's inability to stick to a certain naming style. Ewan, Tiberius, Aidan, Liam, Gibson, and Maximus are his top picks (that have been vetoed by me - works both ways, sucker!)

Willie remains nameless is what I'm saying. Which isn't a huge deal, I know. We've got 11 weeks left until my due date and here in BC you have 30 days to register a baby's birth. There's still time to find the perfect name. I just want to know now. I want to know, with certainty, that we've found the one.

There's one name that we keep returning to. Shawn suggested it months ago and I don't hate it. I just don't luh-huv it. It's a very Irish name and Shawn's last name (which will be Willie's last name - we're not saddling him with a 5-syllable hyphenated last name) is also very Irish. Which is fine, I guess. We're just not very Irish people. Is it weird to give our kid a very Irish sounding name if we're not particularly Irish? I mean, we drink green beer on St. Patrick's Day but that is pretty much the extent of our Irishness.

Of course, if the Canucks continue to do well in the playoffs all of this angst could be all for naught. Shawn and his brother are still pushing for a little Stanley Shawn M if the Canucks bring home the cup. Which puts me in the bizarre position of kinda-sorta-hoping that my favourite hockey team doesn't win the Stanley Cup

(I kid! I kid! I still want them to win! 100%! I just don't want my baby to be named Stan.)

But Do You Really Feel Alive Without Me

2011-05-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

I make no secret of the fact that I love control. I am unapologetically Type A. I have my way of doing things and it is the right way. I am stubborn and decisive and headstrong and unbending. I don't say it with pride. I say it because it is. Both a flaw and a virtue and completely ingrained in my character.

Willie is my surprise fetus. I love him. I don't resent him. I resent being pregnant. The distinction is important to me. I don't know why.

I thought I was doing a good job at this Surprise!Pregnancy! thing. I read books and took my vitamins and found a doctor. I have tried to accept that this pregnancy is happening to me instead of happening according to my plan. I thought I was pulling it off but I'm not. I'm brittle. The slightest friction breaks me and I wind up in tears for what feels like the 80th time that day. I was bent over the examination table this morning, getting a giant needle in my butt (thanks, Rh-negative blood!) and I couldn't help but feel rage in place of my normal needle anxiety. I'm angry. I feel claustrophobic in my own body. I have no control over my emotions. I feel like I'm doing everything wrong. Which is all normal, I know. But knowing that I'm experiencing normal pregnancy highs and lows doesn't make it any easier. I try to channel my dear, nutty friend who happens to be the loveliest, most positive person I've ever met and I try to focus on the light at the end of this tunnel (the light being Willie, who has definitely upped his activity levels this week and doesn't hesitate to give me a good kick when I'm feeling blue.) I know that things will improve and even if they don't, this pregnancy is not indefinite. In 11-ish weeks I'll be done. I can absolutely last that long (I say with more force and confidence than I'm currently feeling.)

I Wish I Was Special So Very Special

2011-04-21T11:41:00.000-07:00

Homeowners: did you tip your Realtor? Or buy him or her a small gift to show your appreciation for a job well done? I need help deciding if this is creepy or not.

Geography's Too Stubborn And People Are Too Clear

2011-04-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

Geography Lesson! Or Fun with Paint! Or Hillary's Brain is Fried! Take your pick.

This is British Columbia. Or rather, my poorly drawn interpretation of BC.

See where the little "x" is? That's roughly where Vancouver is located.

The Strait of Georgia (the water between BC and Vancouver Island) cuts into the mainland and becomes the Burrard Inlet once it wraps around the peninsula of downtown Vancouver and Stanley Park.

Vancouver is actually quite large but downtown proper doesn't go beyond the peninsula. (Which is why commuting to downtown Vancouver is such a nightmare if you don't take public transit.)

If you follow the Burrard Inlet to its end, you pass by East Vancouver, Burnaby (including Simon Fraser University) and end up in Port Moody. Or, my new city. We're actually going to be living right at the tip of the Burrard Inlet (just the tip, just for a second, just to see how it feels - name that movie!)

Shawn loves Port Moody and has been pushing for it ever since we decided to list our condo. I was resistant, not because I dislike Port Moody (I actually quite like it there) but because it feels so far. It's a bit silly, actually, because my commute time will be the same if I continue to use public transit (only now I'll be using the lovely commuter train instead of the skytrain - Vancouver's version of a subway.) It's just that where we are right now feels so central to me. It takes me 30 minutes to get to work, 30 minutes to get to Turtle's, 20 minutes to get to my parents' house, 30 minutes to Shawn's mom's place, and 40 minutes to get to Shawn's brother's house. Moving to Port Moody is going to double the time it takes to get to my parents' house and to Turtle's place. It will now take about 15 minutes to get to Shawn's brother's house and under 10 minutes to get to his mom's place. Which isn't a bad thing, don't get me wrong. Shawn's family is lovely and we all have a good relationship with each other. That being said, part of our good relationship is based on boundaries. Physical boundaries. I'm afraid that moving so close to Shawn's family (and further from my family) will create a scenario where I have to either be a total bitch to enforce my boundaries, or accept that people will feel free to stop by because we're so close. I hate it when people stop by. I do not encourage stopping by at all.

Resistant may not be a strong enough word. I really didn't want to move to Port Moody.

So we started looking for condos in both Port Moody and our current location. And the more we looked, the more I began to see Shawn's point. We do not live in a nice neighbourhood. I do not feel safe walking by myself after dark. Crime is high. And not just property crime - in the last year, there have been three fatal shootings and multiple stabbings all within a three block radius of our condo. Our building has a state of the art security system but I would not feel comfortable living on the first or second floor. Our condo itself is lovely. The area it is in? Is not. We live a block from the police station. Our condo is filled with traffic noise and police sirens. Our neighbourhood has character. It's improving. But it's not safe. Not yet.

I wasn't convinced that Port Moody was the answer until we found our condo. It's perfect for us. We're gaining over 400 square feet of space. It has ample storage. It has a massive patio. It's painted beautifully. It has high ceilings and entire walls of glass. I couldn't turn down the perfect condo just because I didn't love the location.

So I'm moving to a new city. And I'm trying to be excited. The lovely magenta accent wall certainly helps.

It's The Colour For The Battle In My Head I Have A Beat In My Life Like Love In My Heart

2011-04-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

Midnight Friday was the deadline for our buyer to remove the subjects on his offer. Which seems to be Canadian terminology, if my weekend Twitter conversations are any indication. I'm no expert (ha! understatement!) but my understanding of how it works is this:

Buyer makes an offer. Negotiations ensue. Buyer and seller reach an agreement. A deadline for subject removal is set (usually a week to 2 weeks.) Subjects are the conditions that need to be met (like financing being approved, the home passing an inspection, etc) before the deposit is handed over. Once the subjects are removed, the deposit is made, the final papers are signed, and the contract is binding. If the buyer tries to back out of the contract, the seller gets to keep the deposit.

So. Our buyer had a few subjects that he had to remove by midnight on Friday. If he did not remove his subjects, we could not remove the subjects on the condo we wanted to buy (one of our subjects was that our condo was officially sold because we can't afford to end up with two condos.)

Our Realtor phoned me at noon on Friday to tell me that I shouldn't panic - yet - but that the buyer had a few "concerns" about the inspection. The inspection that was completed on Tuesday. I, of course, morphed into Anxious Hillary with a side of Ranty Hillary (why? Why not voice the concerns after the inspection? Why wait until the last minute unless you're being an ass and trying to renegotiate the price down?) My stress level rose steadily all day as the buyer's Realtor stopped returning my Realtor's phone calls and then peaked when the buyer's Realtor finally called our Realtor to say that he could not reach the buyer.

I was a lot of fun to be around on Friday.

Late Friday night our Realtor called to say that the buyer thought the subject removal deadline was actually midnight on Saturday. Which we chose to accept because we had no other option. Enforce the midnight Friday deadline? What good would that do? We had another sleepless night and then Shawn went off to work while I spent Saturday morning stress-eating my way through a shameful number of grilled cheese sandwiches and blasting Girl Talk and Jessie J in an attempt to divert my nervous energy.

We got the call early Saturday afternoon. Our buyer removed all subjects and the deposit cheque was in our Realtor's hands. We're moving to a new city, to the new condo with the lovely magenta accent wall. And I can breathe again.

Don't Waste The Sun On A Rainy Day

2011-04-14T15:39:00.000-07:00

Random rainy Thursday thoughts running through my brain:

* * * * *

I'm pretty bad at being a gushy pregnant lady. I read blogs written by gushy pregnant ladies and I feel like somehow I'm missing out on the experience. Like I'm somehow already failing at motherhood because I can't describe any part of this pregnancy as magical or say that I love being pregnant. I do not love being pregnant. I love Willie. Which surprises me, honestly. I mean, I knew I'd love the kid, I just didn't know that I'd love the fetus. Sometimes I wish I could be a bit more gushy, though.

* * * * *

Our buyer has not yet removed his subjects. He has until midnight on Friday to remove them so I'm not panicking yet. I'm just all frothed up in a state of perpetual fret. If our buyer backs out of the contract, we have to back out of the purchase of the new condo. Our time line is already so tight that we won't have time to start the process again; we will have to pull our condo off the market and make our peace with staying put. Which isn't such a bad thing, I guess. Our condo is small and only has one bedroom but our mortgage payment is so low (and we wouldn't have to, you know, pack up all of our belongings and actually move.)

* * * * *

My camera cord is packed somewhere so I can't share my 24-week belly shot. Which is unfortunate because I'm already halfway to 28 weeks and will be taking a new belly shot.

* * * * *

The first round of Stanley Cup playoffs started last night. The Canucks are playing the Blackhawks, which causes me a great deal of stress and angsty feelings. I love hockey. I love the Canucks. I ... cannot stand to see Vancouver eliminated from the playoffs by Chicago for the third straight year. Not that I think they'll be eliminated. Vancouver has had an amazing year and Chicago is not the same team it was last year. Plus we totally kicked their asses last night (suckas!) I'm just no good at being a cocky sports fan. I'm more of a hand wringer. I really hope the Canucks do well in the playoffs but I'm not necessarily rooting for them to win the Stanley Cup (only because Shawn has threatened to name Willie "Stan" if they do win the cup. Which is kind of funny on its own but downright hilarious if you say Stan with Shawn's last name - which will also be Willie's last name.)

* * * * *

Shawn's band is playing at the Westcoast Tattoo & Culture Show tomorrow at 5:30. Vancouver peeps should check it out - tickets are only $15 and there's a bunch of stuff to see and do.

* * * * *

Any rainy day thoughts you want to share?

I'm Holding On Til I Can Find You So Take Me Home

2011-04-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

So I don't want to jinx anything but Shawn and I most likely bought a condo last night. I say most likely because the purchase is contingent on our sale and our purchaser doesn't have to remove his subjects until this Friday. If everything goes well, he'll remove his subjects on Friday and on Monday we'll remove our subjects on the place we want to buy and then it will cost everyone time and money if they want to back out of the contract. Meaning, I'll feel less jinxy talking about it and I can tell you all about the rooftop terrace and gorgeous paint job and 9-foot ceilings. How about a little peek?It's not a gorgeous turquoise accent wall but it is bold and colourful and lovely (also, Shawn thinks it's red so let's just go along with it until I've got our furniture in there and it's impossible for him to insist on a new paint job, okay?)

But now I have to stop talking about it because this could all fall apart before Monday. If our purchaser bails, we will lose this condo and how many condos with gorgeous magenta accent walls do you think are out there? This was the only gorgeous magenta accent wall I saw all weekend and we saw 24 units between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon (11 of which we saw on Saturday after my 2-hour gestational diabetes test. Note to self: never plan anything after a gestational diabetes test, unless the plan involves planting your ass on a couch and not moving until the extreme sugar high and subsequent low have passed.)

If everything goes as planned, we'll move into the new place in 47 sleeps (47 sleeps! Less than 7 weeks!) which will give us 54 sleeps until my due date (note to Willie: please stay put until then.) Our time line is very manageable is what I'm saying. We just have to get through this week of anxiety and then we can breathe a sigh of relief and move onto the next stage: packing. Also known as: Shawn throws everything all hodgepodge into an unlabeled box while Hillary gets clenchy and shrill. I can't wait.

I Wanna Show You Maybe We Were Somethin' Uncool I Wanna Make You Sing

2011-04-08T10:32:00.001-07:00

Since putting our condo on the market two months ago, my life has been consumed by showings and open houses and cleaning. Or "maintaining" as Shawn likes to call it when I'm tired and cranky and I just want to go to bed and don't want to wash the goddamn dishes thankyouverymuch.

I dragged my pregnant ass out of bed when my Realtor called to say that her colleague was downstairs with a client and could I please show the condo even though we specified that we need advance notice because of the dogs. I did not stab anyone when, after that particular showing, our Realtor told us that the guy loved the place! Wanted to make an offer! Couldn't obtain financing from the bank! (Side note to any Realtors out there: do not make cranky pregnant ladies drag themselves out of bed on a Saturday morning to show her condo if your client has not been pre-approved for financing.)

I did not stab anyone when our fireplace exploded during our first open house. (It's electric, not gas, so it wasn't a huge, impressive explosion. Just a lot of smoke and burny smells.)

I did not cry when the police showed up at our second open house.

My head did not melt when it snowed during one of our open houses, meaning that not a single person showed up because the weather was too bad.

My head did not melt when our next open house coincided with the first sunny day in months, meaning that not a single person showed up because the weather was too good.

Granted, I did get a little shouty during the toilet incident but I still feel completely justified in my reaction.

I've been a fucking rockstar is what I'm saying. And I don't even feel like a douche for pointing out my own rockstarryness. It has been hard and I have been so anxious and there have been times when I have sat on the floor of my shower and cried angry tears into the hot water because I could not see the end to the madness that is selling a condo in our current market.

On Tuesday my Realtor called and asked if I could do a last minute showing that evening. Shawn has band practice on Tuesdays and on that particular Tuesday, he also had a job interview. I've reached the point of not being able to handle both dogs by myself so I called my dad (like a grownup) and asked if he could help. My parents both came over Tuesday night and helped me clean and wrangled the pups out of the condo for the showing. (And then made me dinner and then washed the dishes because dude, people like to do stuff for pregnant ladies. It is awesome.)

Last night we got an offer.

I feel a bit jinxy talking about it but the bare bones story is this: We did some negotiating. We were extremely reasonable. The buyer? Got a little unreasonable. Then the buyer got a lot unreasonable. Then I used my shouty voice and told our Realtor to tell their Realtor to go away, we weren't interested in even talking to them anymore. Then we went to bed.

This morning the buyer accepted our last offer. The one they had rejected last night.

Which means we're moving? In 6-ish weeks? Into a place we haven't found yet? In a city we haven't yet agreed upon?

Serenity now.

Now We Both Know Longing How It Gets Under Your Skin But Then I Saw You Making Eyes At Him

2011-04-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

When we started planning our Europe trip last year, we thought we'd either go in April or in August. August because we could celebrate our anniversary in Ireland. April because it's not summer break yet so it's easier / cheaper to travel and we could celebrate our friend's 30th birthday in London.

Our friend's birthday was last Sunday and I've spent all morning torturing myself looking at photos on facebook.

I don't resent Willie. Resentment is a waste of time. I just feel a bit achy when I think of my friends and the village that I love. I'm disappointed when I think of the big plans Shawn and I had for this year. And then I feel like an asshole because at the end of all this, I get a baby. A wee little squirmy worm to love.

It's just difficult to remember the wee little squirmy worm part when Turtle is researching for her own upcoming Europe trip and I'm researching the difference between cloth and disposable diapers. Turtle is dreaming of architecture and museums and culture and my mind is occupied by various forms of poop receptacles. It's thrilling, let me assure you.

Lady Lights A Cigarette Puffs Away No Regret

2011-03-30T13:46:00.000-07:00

Westy (my baby brother) (who is much taller than I am) (and is almost in his mid-twenties) is hilarious. Unintentionally sometimes but still. Hilarious.

Case in point:

I was at my parents house last weekend for a family thing when the topic of baby names came up. (Side note: My little sister and her husband are also expecting their first kid in July. They chose not to find out the sex of their fetus so names are a hot topic in my family right now.) My mom said that she ended up choosing all of our names because my dad's name choices were too bizarre for her. Of course I asked her if she could remember any but the only specific baby naming situation she could recall was that she had hard time convincing my dad that Westy should not be named Valerian. At which point Westy got very indignant and asked why my dad would want to name his son after lady parts. Complete with agitated arm gestures in front of his lady-parts-would-be-here-if-he-wasn't-a-dude area. I love that guy. I feel so lucky that I've got a Westy to make me laugh when life is making me a little blue.

I Don't Want To Stifle Your Flight

2011-03-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling.

Life is overwhelming and boring at the same time. Things happen and I want to write but then I start to second guess myself. Is it my story to tell? Is it partly my story and partly her story? Where do I draw the line? How much is mine? So I write nothing and life continues, simultaneously overwhelming and boring. Words and ideas swirl in my head, Willie grows and my belly button continues to disappear, strangers troop through my home while I stand outside and silently will them to love it (and buy it, oh please, someone just buy it already.) Overwhelming and boring.

So I struggle.

I struggle with this space that I love so much. My blog has introduced me to so many awesome people and helped me in so many ways, but has also taken its toll recently. I feel stifled, like this space isn't really mine anymore. Which is silly because I am the one stifling myself. Fretting and doubting and wishing I could just say "fuck it" and write without anxiety.

I struggle with Shawn, who has decided that the city is no place to raise Willie and wants to move to the suburbs if we manage to sell our condo. The suburbs! The mountains, specifically. He dreams of a backyard for the pups and a garage where he can work on his motorcycle and room for us all - Willie included - to have our own space. He references crime rates and asks me to tell him - off the top of my head - where the nearest tree is to our condo and crows when it takes me a full minute to tentatively say that there's some sort of decorative tree two-ish blocks away? I think? He's not wrong. Four people were stabbed a block from our condo just last week and the only reason I remember that tree is because I walk by it every morning and every morning it makes me sneeze. But it's the suburbs. The no skytrain connecting me to downtown, no coffee shop / movie theatre / favourite burger restaurant / market / bank all within 3 blocks of our condo, no concrete highrises reaching into the sky suburbs. I don't think I'm ready for that yet. So we struggle.

Life trucks on and I play the waiting game. Wait to see if our condo sells. Wait to see if we can find a location and a home we can agree on. Wait to meet Willie before deciding on his name. Everything so overwhelming and so boring.

Flush My Worries Down The Drain And Fly Away To Somewhere New

2011-03-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

Let's say that you're trying to sell your condo so you have an open house. Your Realtor is busy with another listing so she sends a "professional and completely capable" colleague in her place.

Let's say that you arrive home at the appointed time to collect your keys. You make small talk while your Realtor's "professional and completely capable" colleague collects her things and puts on her shoes.

You prepare to say goodbye when the "professional and completely capable" colleague says, "Oh wait! I don't remember if I flushed the toilet or not" and walks out of the room. You then hear the toilet flush.

What would you do?

Would you tell your Realtor exactly what happened? Would you request that your Realtor never again send this particular colleague as a stand-in without explaining why? Would you do nothing?

Here's the thing: when we arrived home, she was sitting on the couch, reading. We didn't interrupt her while she was in the bathroom.

It's weird, right?

Half Of Me Is Ready To Leave And Half Of Me Is You

2011-03-17T16:07:00.000-07:00

We passed the halfway point a few weeks ago. All of a sudden the number of weeks that have passed is greater than the weeks left before Willie arrives. I try not to think about it too much or I get very clenchy.

My clothes don't fit. I don't feel like I look pregnant. I feel like a thicker version of myself. But I have no idea how much I weigh (and I'm classifying that as a major accomplishment.)

This Very Secret Go Out And Share It

2011-03-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

Let's Talk About All The Good Things And The Bad Things That May Be

2011-03-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is ultrasound day! Bright and early, Shawn and I are going to find out Willie's sex (as long as s/he cooperates.)

We've not kept it a secret that we're hoping Willie's got an outtie but I feel like I should clarify that we won't be disappointed if it turns out we're expecting a lady baby. We would just prefer a boy and aren't ashamed to admit it. I'm sure there are many people who genuinely don't care if they're expecting a boy or a girl as long as it's healthy (that last part has to be said in a singy songy voice) but I also feel like there are a lot of people who don't voice their preference out of fear of looking like an asshole. I fully admit I'm an asshole. And I want a boy. So think penis-y thoughts for us, okay?

Leave The Cauliflower In The Casserole Today

2011-03-14T10:38:00.001-07:00

This is not exciting soup. It's comfort soup. It's sore throat, rainy day, feeling blue soup. My Mom has made this soup for as long as I can remember. You could definitely make modifications to make this soup more exciting. Add an onion, maybe some garlic. Spice it up. Sprinkle bacon on top. It wouldn't be Mom's Cauliflower Soup anymore though.

Start with a medium / largish cauliflower. Wash it thoroughly and break it apart into large chunks. Don't worry about making things bite-sized at this point.

Put the cauliflower in a large pot and add 3 cups of water and 3 cups of milk. I use 2% milk for a little creaminess but you could go either way - skim milk for a healthier soup or whole milk for a creamier soup. It's all about preference. Note that you do thicken the soup with a roux so you do end up with a nice, creamy mouthfeel even if you do use lowfat milk.

Cook the cauliflower in the milk/water over medium/high heat until the cauliflower is tender crisp. Don't have your heat too high or the milk will foam up and boil over the pot and make a giant mess of your stove top.

When the cauliflower is cooked, put a strainer over a large bowl or measuring cup and strain the cauliflower. Reserve the liquid! Do not strain the cauliflower into the sink or you will cry! You want to save the cauliflower and save the warm milk, you just want them separate.

Melt 1/4 cup butter in the pot you just cooked the cauliflower in. Sprinkle 4 tablespoons of all-purpose flour over top. Stir and cook over slightly-higher-than medium heat for a minute or so, until the flour smells a bit nutty. Slowly add your reserved milk and whisk so you don't get lumps. Every stove is different so it's difficult to specify a heat. You want your milk to be hot so it starts to thicken but you don't want it to boil. I usually go with a smidge over medium heat.

Once all of the milk has been added, continue to cook (stirring / whisking constantly) until the soup thickens. Not as thick as a cream sauce, but not water thin. Again, it's about preference.

Stir in 6 bouillon cubes. I used chicken Better than Bouillon because I ran out of vegetarian bouillon but it's equally as nice either way. Taste your soup at this point and add salt and pepper to taste. I don't add pepper because black pepper is of the devil and I don't add salt because I find the bouillon to be salty enough. But again, preference!

Cut your cooked cauliflower into bite-sized pieces and add to your soup.

Ladle into bowls (serves 6) and sprinkle with cheddar cheese. Enjoy!

Shopping List:
1 medium/largish cauliflower
3 cups milk
3 cups water
1/4 cup butter
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
6 bouillon cubes
salt and pepper
cheddar cheese

And Your Arm Felt Nice Wrapped 'Round My Shoulder

2011-03-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

Have you seen Leah's new site Nice Things Now? It's a simple concept, really. Focusing on the nice things we can do every day. Not necessarily grand gestures, just simple instances of sweetness and love. I get the warm fuzzies every time I read a post.

It's made me think about the Nice Things I could be doing. Like this morning, when Shawn was dead to the world at 7am after coming home from a late gig at 2am. I could choose to enforce our "pregnant ladies don't do morning puppy duty" rule or I could get up and deal with the pups and give Shawn 15 extra minutes of sleep. Throw in making eggs on toast for my exhausted rockstar and I ended up with a Nice Thing that made me feel better than the recipient. Don't get me wrong - Shawn was chuffed to wake up to happy pups and breakfast already made for him, but I got such a lift out of making his morning that my Nice Thing turned out to be almost selfish.

Which is kind of the point, I guess. If we're all focused on doing Nice Things for others and end up getting a rush out of making other people happy, it makes sense that there will be less of the not-so-nice-things in our lives. And we can all use some happy, can't we?

Colours Seem To Fade

2011-03-08T13:18:00.001-08:00

I didn't like Wolfgang very much when we first brought him home. I mean, yeah, there was the initial "puppppyyy! fluffy puppy!" excitement but once I got over that, I just wasn't really a fan. He was so tiny and fragile and I was constantly anxious that I'd step on him or Stella would be too rough with him or he'd end up broken somehow. He was so vocal. Stella would give him a little nip or he'd fall off the bed and he'd cry like someone was removing his toenails one by one. He hated being apart from me. He'd wake up multiple times every night to pee or for a drink of water or just to attempt to finagle a cuddle and a treat out of me. So I didn't like him much. He was just this tiny, noisy thing that demanded all of my attention.

Which brings me to my current worry: that I won't be a fan of Willie once s/he is here. I know that babies are not puppies and I shouldn't compare the two but I also know myself. I didn't dislike Wolfgang because he was an annoying puppy. I disliked Wolfgang because I hate change and Wolfgang brought a lot of change to our lives. And I'm thinking it's a pretty safe bet that Willie is going to bring a lot of change to our lives (understatement of the year!) So I worry.

I remember Shawn asking me if I loved Wolfgang when he noticed that I was less than enthused about our newest family member. And I remember that all I could come up with was that he was very fluffy. I liked him because he was nice and fluffy. I'm scared that I'll feel the same way about Willie. That I won't be able to feel anything for him or her, beyond liking that s/he's very soft, or very tiny, or very whatever.

In happier news, next Wednesday is the big ultrasound where we'll (hopefully) find out if Willie has an innie or an outtie. And then I can start worrying about sex-specific issues instead of just general issues like how big of an asshole I am for comparing my unborn child to my dog.

Sleep Now In The Fire

2011-02-28T09:12:00.000-08:00

Open house day 1: After a week of blue skies and sunshine, Saturday morning brings grey skies and snow. Not a huge amount - only a couple of centimetres - but we're West Coast folk; any amount of snow that actually sticks to the ground and doesn't melt immediately causes havoc and mayhem.

One couple shows up for the open house. Literally one couple shows up for the entire two hour open house. They're in the condo for under fifteen minutes. While they're there, our fireplace blows up. It's an electric fireplace so it wasn't as devastating as if, say, a gas fireplace exploded in our condo but it was still an unfortunate event. Our Realtor does her best to air out the smoke but we still come home to a condo that smells like an electrical fire.

Open house day 2: More snow! And also wind. Lots and lots of wind.

Sunday is marginally better because five couples show up to see the condo. The condo that still smells like an electrical fire. Unfortunately, our Realtor has to shut down for a bit while she deals with the police. Apparently her signs were creating some sort of traffic hazard due to the wind. Momentum is lost and our weekend of open houses fizzles to a close.

This weekend is the perfect example of why I don't want to move.

Breathe Through It Write A List Of Desires Make A Toast Make A Wish Slash Some Tires

2011-02-25T10:02:00.000-08:00

Friday Faff: I Found My Card Reader Edition

* * * * *

Shawn took this photo three weeks ago. I do not even remotely resemble the svelte lady now. Things are much rounder. Also, I'm more in focus in real life. Shawn does this thing where I'll ask him to take a photo of me and he'll take ONE photo of me. And my eyes will be closed. So I ask him to take another and he crouches down and points the camera up at me so the photo is basically just of my multiple chins. So I get a bit screechy and ask him to take 10 photos of me, please, it's a digital camera you can take a hundred photos and you're not wasting film or anything please can you just do it?! And this is what we end up with:

* * * * *

Our condo has never been as clean as it currently is. It's kind of freaking me out.

Those tulips are usually a basket of random electronic hair wrangling devices. We have more than four towels. One can normally find approximately 54 hair elastics scattered on various surfaces throughout the room.

This is not my kitchen. Where are all the small appliances? Piles of bills and takeout menus? Where are the dirty dishes? It's like the Twilight Zone. (Funny story. I've never seen an episode of the Twilight Zone but I can totally do the Twilight Zone theme music. You know? Like you can totally do the Jaws thing even if you haven't seen the movie. Anyway. Whenever my mom tries to do the Twilight Zone theme music she ends up doing the Chicken Dance music. It is awesome.)

This is the bedroom taken from the other side of the room. Gorgeous turquoise accent wall, oh how I will miss you. The photo is not one of mine (but thanks for giving me that much credit, Alice!) It's a canvas print from Ikea. Shawn loves it. I'm kind of meh about it but I can't figure out if I don't like the photo or if I'm just a snob who doesn't want Ikea "art" hanging over her bed.

* * * * *

My family dog, my 13-year old monsterpup, my Toby bear, spent last weekend in the emergency animal hospital. He's back at home with my parents but the diagnosis is grim: neurological problem, most likely a brain tumor.

He's the sweetest, most gentle dog I've ever met and I'm not ready for him to go. I took the monsterpups to my parents' house last night because my parents are rockstars and offered to take care of the pups until Sunday so the condo stays clean for our two open houses. Stella loves Toby. If she had to choose between me and Toby? Toby would win. And I'm the one with access to the food. It kind of breaks my heart that one day Toby won't be around for Stella to love on.

* * * * *

Happy Friday, peeps! Think some happy condo-selling thoughts for us, please!

Cut His Teeth On Turquoise Harmonicas

2011-02-22T09:31:00.000-08:00

Shawn and I spent all weekend carting our clutter and personal items and unnecessary furniture over to my parents' basement. We cleaned for hours. Our condo looks like a show suite. I kind of hate it.

Yesterday the photographer came through and photographed our condo for the listing. He did that thing that real estate photographers do, where they use a wide angle lens to make the rooms look bigger but really the rooms just look like they have slanty walls. Our listing went up last night. Our first open house is on Saturday. I really hate it.

The good thing about having a meticulous bedroom and a professionally shot photo of it, is that I can show you my beautiful turquoise accent wall! Here it is in all its glory:

I don't know the photographer's name but he took this photo and deserves the credit. Sorry, photographer.
*Updated! The photographer's name is Richard from rtomstudios.com*

We used C-I-L paint in Simcoe Lake on the accent wall and Veil on the remaining three walls. Shawn has already promised that we can recreate this room if we do end up selling our condo and buying a new one. And by "we" he means "he" - he just doesn't know it yet.

She'd Love To Live A Life She's Too Afraid Of Failure

2011-02-16T11:46:00.000-08:00

I mentioned in my last post that my little sister is also pregnant. I haven't spoken about it much here because it makes me very clenchy. I am trying to have my own pregnancy and not compare myself to Bow but it's difficult. We're a bit of a novelty right now - the two pregnant sisters, due two weeks apart. The first two grandbabies for my parents. The first two great-grandbabies for my grandma. We are cute to people. I get it. I mean, what's cuter than a baby? Two babies!

The thing is, though, that Bow and I aren't particularly close. We've had our issues over the years and even though we've reached a peaceful place, it's taken a long time and a lot of tears to get here. We don't interact much. We don't speak on the phone. We don't see each other much outside of family gatherings. We're two very different people and even though we love each other fiercely, our differences prevent us from being close. And I'm usually okay with it, really I am. But with our simultaneous pregnancies come a lot of comparisons and expectations and judgment. Admittedly, I am oversensitive and emotional and am able to find judgment and criticism in the most innocuous of comments but I'm also human - a hormonal, pregnant human - and I don't need to hear about how Bow's doctor is concerned that she's too skinny after you've just remarked on how much I've grown. Asshole.

Part of the problem is that I'm comparing myself to Bow, far more than is healthy. Which is silly because I don't really know Bow all that well so I'm comparing myself to my perception of Bow. A shiny, glittery perception of her perfect life (though not the life I would choose - so why do I care?) We're not close enough to share our struggles so when I'm feeling overwhelmed and panicky, I also feel inadequate. Bow doesn't struggle so why am I finding pregnancy so difficult? Stupid, right? Of course Bow struggles. Everyone struggles. But in my moments of desperation I can't see it - I just see this shining example of the perfect pregnant lady I'll never be. It's fucked up. I can say that today because I got more than a few hours of sleep last night and my head feels clear and I haven't weighed myself 17 times already and I haven't hid in the office bathroom to cry yet. Today is a less crazy day so I can see how crazy I've been lately. It's frustrating. I kind of want to be one of those sunshiney pregnant ladies who has a cute little bump and radiates joy and doesn't dry heave whenever she even thinks of brushing her damn teeth. I kind of don't want to be me right now.

Baby Please Remember Me Once More

2011-02-14T09:31:00.000-08:00

Having a 95-year old grandma who has just had a stroke is admittedly not ideal but it's not all bad. I mean, every time I see her I get to announce my pregnancy and every time it's like she is just finding out and she's giddy and excited. Until things get awkward and confusing because she thinks I'm my sister (sorry, Turtle - Gram thinks you're pregnant. Though if you give it a day, she'll forget.)

My grandma is tough-as-nails but she's also 95 years old. It's not fair of me to ask for just a little more time. Time for Gram to meet her first two great-grandbabies (my little sister is also pregnant and is also due in July.) Logically I know that my grandma's quality of life is diminishing and she's old and she's sick. But a small part of me wants her to hold on, just a little longer. She is my last remaining grandparent. I'm not ready for her to be gone, as selfish as that may be.

And So Today My World It Smiles

2011-02-10T11:56:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you how much it helped me to spew my crazy on my blog and have love and support spewed back at me (side note: I'm really into the word "spew" right now. Because it so accurately -and satisfyingly- describes what toothpastes makes me do. Sorry.)

Last week was rough. Pregnancy hormones were messing with my head while I was dealing with my 95-year old grandma having a stroke (she's doing much better this week) and trying to accept that our "sit down chat" with the Realtor turned into "we need to get this place listed, stat" in the space of an hour. Shawn and the Realtor are both making big plans while I'm attempting to handcuff myself to my gorgeous turquoise accent wall. Looking back on last week, it's easy to see why I was so overwhelmed. Hindsight doesn't make things any easier when I'm stuck in the midst of a meltdown, but if I can try to remember that sometimes things suck and sometimes things rock, maybe I'll feel less desperate. I'm trying. Which is better than last week when I was just struggling.

The internet can be a nasty place sometimes. Thank you for being sweet to me.

Well I've Been Here Before Sat On The Floor In A Grey Grey Room

2011-02-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

I have always been an emotional person. Whether my feelings are positive or negative, I feel them hard and strong and wholeheartedly. My mom says that I've always been this way; even as a small child, there was never any grey area with me. I love something or I hate something and though I may reverse my feelings and love something I hated the day before, in the moment I feel no half-way feelings.

Pregnancy hormones have amplified my emotions to a point that would be almost comical if it wasn't so devastating. I feel like I have no control. My anxiety, which once affected my daily life on a mild to moderate scale, has reached a new, terrifying level where yesterday a pile of dirty dishes brought on an actual chest-clenching, can't-breathe, shaky-hands panic attack. Last night I sobbed to Shawn that this is the hardest thing I have ever done and I honestly cannot see myself being able to do it for another five months. Which brought on a new wave of anxiety and desperation because whether I can or can't, I will be doing it for five more months.

I have never experienced lows like I have in the last few months. I scare myself sometimes and I know I'm scaring Shawn. I know on a good day he's annoyed and confused by my emotional highs and lows but on a bad day he's just as desperate as I am. I know that he's trying to understand. I know that he wants to make this as easy as possible for me. But still, I struggle. Every day is a struggle. And I don't know what to do.

I Gotta Move While The Streets Ahead Are Sunny

2011-02-02T09:39:00.000-08:00

Shawn and I bought our condo three years ago. Three years ago it was just the two of us. Our 670 square foot, one bedroom + den condo was sufficient.

Now we are two and a half people and two monsterpups. In 24-ish weeks, we will be three people and two confused monsterpups. Our little condo in the sky is suddenly feeling very cramped.

I cannot think of anything I would rather do less right now than move. Keeping the condo spotless for showings and dealing with mortgage shenanigans and packing boxes are all high on my list of things to avoid.

We're meeting with our Realtor tonight, despite my bad attitude. We need to know what our options are. And really, a meeting isn't any sort of commitment. We don't have to list our condo. We don't have to look at potential homes. We can just have a nice chat about how screwed we are when the baby shows up (with all the related baby paraphernalia) and we have nowhere to put him/her. I can't wait.

I Am Wilful Your Insistence Is Tugging At The Best Of Me

2011-01-31T09:42:00.000-08:00

I woke up Saturday morning and I couldn't move. My back has been bothering me lately; every day I feel a certain degree of pain and tightness in my lower back. Some days are better than others. Saturday was a bad day.

I stayed in bed and cuddled the puppies and considered watching movies all day, but then I started to think about how disappointed I would be if I didn't get the final coat of paint on the gorgeous turquoise accent wall before the bed was delivered. So I made myself get out of bed and I painted the wall.

And now I feel like I've been hit by a bus.

I have a really hard time admitting that I am unable to do something or that I need help. I am stubborn and wilful and tenacious. Sometimes these are my best qualities. Most of the time, these qualities contribute to me making stupid decisions.

I don't want to be coddled until the baby is born but maybe I need to learn to coddle myself. Or at least give myself a break every once in a while. Making smarter choices would prevent situations like this morning when I had to wake Shawn up to pull me out of bed because my back and legs weren't working. I thought I wouldn't need a hoist until I gained a significant amount of weight but we reached that depressing milestone today.

Then I'll Follow You Into The Dark

2011-01-28T09:04:00.000-08:00

Dudes, I need your help.

Our new bed (New! King-sized! Bed!) is being delivered on Monday. We dismantled our old (broken. queen-sized. super lame.) bed last weekend because Turtle was making a trip to the dump and offered to take it for us. Because she rocks. So for the last week we've been sleeping on our mattress on the floor. Which has sucked. But that's not the point. The point is this: this weekend is the perfect time to put the final coat of paint on my gorgeous turquoise accent wall behind the bed because there is no bed to move - just a mattress to pull out of the way.

Did I tell you about my gorgeous turquoise accent wall? I started painting the bedroom last May. I remember it was May because Shawn went on a three-day boys' weekend over the May long weekend so it was the perfect time to paint the bedroom. Shawn is anti-paint. We moved into a brand new condo in 2007 and every single room was painted stark, builders white. Getting Shawn to agree to paint colours is like pulling teeth. Which is silly because I do all of the painting. I'm not asking him to paint the condo, I'm just asking for him to commit to a colour. Ahem. So he went away for three days and I painted the bedroom a soft grey with white trim and a gorgeous turquoise accent wall behind the bed. The only problem was that I seriously underestimated how long it would take to apply a light-blue primer and the three coats of turquoise paint necessary to make the wall look flawless. Which meant that when Shawn got home, I'd only managed to apply two of the coats. And I'd run out of paint. So Shawn pushed all the furniture back into place and we've been living with a flawed, not-perfect, brush-strokes visible, gorgeous turquoise accent wall behind the bed for 8 months.

Which brings me to this weekend. I am finally going to get the final coat of paint on my gorgeous turquoise accent wall. My heart. It is happy.

So that was a massive lead-in to my problem. Sorry. I am very sleep deprived today. We're transitioning the dogs from sleeping in crates to sleeping on a dog bed and haha, guess what? My dogs don't sleep if they're not crated! Especially when their humans are also sleeping on the floor because they were crazy enough to get rid of their old bed a week before their new bed arrived. We partied all night last night (if the definition of "party" is "kicked belligerent puppies out of our bed all night long until we finally gave in and let them sleep with us even though Stella likes to sleep on faces and Wolfgang likes to sleep with his cold, wet nose pressed to that strip of lower back skin that is visible when my pyjama top rides up over my doughnut belly.")

SO MY PROBLEM. The new king-sized bed takes up so much floor space that we have to get rid of our bedside tables. Which is very upsetting to me because where else can I store a stack of books that I'll never get around to reading and a 2-week old glass of water? It also means that we won't have a spot for our reading lamps. Which is okay because I hate our reading lamps. They're not real lamps - they're desk lights and they're way too bright and plastic-y and ugly. I think we should get wall-lamps and mount them beside the bed but Shawn says it looks too hotel-y (though he does want a reading lamp, and acknowledges that a reading lamp on the floor is useless, and he's the one who says that we can't cram bedside tables into the room.)

We need the internet to break our stalemate. Today. Because if we do go ahead with the wall-lamps, Shawn will want to hide the wires and that is a more involved installation process than just hanging them on the wall. Which means that he will have to do it on Sunday, after the gorgeous turquoise accent wall is painted but before the bed arrives on Monday. The new bed is real furniture, not Ikea furniture, so once it is built we will likely never be able to move it again. It weighs about a million pounds. And it is beautiful. And king-sized!

These are the two wall-lamps that Ikea carries. I'm partial to the one on the right because it directs the light downward (I hate reading in dim light) but I like the look of the one on the left. Do they look too hotel-y?

Well You'll Never Gain Weight From A Doughnut Hole

2011-01-27T11:14:00.000-08:00

Friday Faff: I'm so Efficient I'm a Day Early Edition

I participated in Jess's birthday scarf swap and the lovely Alice sent me this beautiful scarf / camouflage for the doughnut bump I'm trying to pass off as an actual baby bump (Willie is like <------------this big--------------> right now. My doughnut bump is shameful.)

* * * * *

Speaking of the doughnut bump, this is my week 12 photo.

I bought these cute stickers from Picky Sticky so I can document the growth of my belly. I felt huge in this photo. My 15-week self would like to go back and slap my 12-week self.

* * * * *

I'm talking about a magic tulip trick on Style Lush today. Seriously, this trick extends the life of cut tulips and it makes no sense whatsoever.

* * * * *

The day after we bought and assembled (and by "we" I mean "Shawn assembled while I ate pizza") our closet organizer, all the Ikea organizers were discounted by 20%. And then my head melted. It was a completely unnecessary head-melt though, because I went back to Ikea with my receipt and they gave me the discount with no hassle.

* * * * *

Happy Thursday, peeps! Just one more sleep til Friday.

Organize Our Lives And Lose The Key

2011-01-24T10:06:00.000-08:00

Shawn and I went to Ikea yesterday (as in Sunday - rookie mistake!) and ended up in the midst of some sort of evil kitchen event. Because our marriage hasn't been tested enough lately.

We've been talking about upgrading our queen-sized bed to a king-size for ages now but to make room for a bigger bed, we need to get rid of a dresser. To get rid of a dresser, we need a closet organizer. To get a closet organizer, we need to go to Ikea. And that's where the plan stalled. Shawn hates Ikea. Hate is not a strong enough word for what Shawn feels for Ikea.

A chance sighting of a heavily-reduced king-sized bed frame forced us into action yesterday. A packed parking lot and lineups to get into various parts of the store did not deter us from our goal, nor did hunger pangs, back ache, or crazy pregnant lady tears (I couldn't choose a colour. It was upsetting.) We were on a mission.

Eleven hours (and hundreds of dollars and one giant pizza, and, uhhh, one crappy low-light iPhone picture) later, our mission was complete.

My husband rocks.

I Can't Believe I Love You So Much So Much In Fact That I Don't Know Whether To Weep Or Wind My Watch

2011-01-21T10:04:00.000-08:00

In the past week, I have cried real tears over the following:

- Seeing my little alien flapping his or her arms on the ultrasound screen.

- Chris Colfer's Golden Globe acceptance speech.

- My inability to find a toothpaste that doesn't make me dry heave.

- Marshall's dad's funeral on HIMYM.

- Shawn taking the last pink popsicle, leaving me with only purple and orange.

- Not being able to find the fetus on any of the (19!) ultrasound pictures the clinic emailed to me. No really, I posted the picture of the hand because it's the only body part I can identify. I can't tell ass from head but I can see that damn hand, thankyouverymuch. Upon further review, I am fairly certain that the picture below is a profile of Willie* with the head on the left and the butt on the right.

* We're calling the fetus Willie because calling it The Mishap seems a bit harsh at this point. Also, I love Willie Nelson. And we're hoping that the fetus has a willy.

- Every single comment left on my last post. My bloggy peeps have always been awesome but I've never felt such an outpouring of love. You made me very happy is what I'm saying.

Finding out I was pregnant immediately after Shawn and I discussed how neither of us was ready to have kids was terrifying and stressful. Terrifying and stressful is putting it lightly, actually. I was paralysed with anxiety. The first few weeks were a struggle. Shawn and I had many difficult conversations and many tears were shed. (Umm pregnancy hormones? Fucking suck. I am a giant weepy ball of emotions. Constantly.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you. Thank you for helping me celebrate after weeks of stress and anxiety and just general frettiness (my first thought after Willie popped up on the ultrasound screen? "Thank fuck, it's alive!" My second thought? "Thank FUCK, there's only one.") Shawn and I are starting to shift from stress to excitement and every single person who expresses joy over Willie is helping us get there. We are so grateful. Aaaand now I'm starting to get all weepy again so I'll leave it at this: You rock, dudes.

The First Time I Saw You Was Like A Punch Right Through My Chest

2011-01-19T14:58:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I had babies on the brain. It felt like everywhere I looked (online and in real life) pregnant women abounded. Shawn and I have always agreed that we'd do the kids thing sometime. In the future. At some point. But suddenly "sometime in the future" wasn't sufficient. I wasn't feeling broody - I didn't want a baby right away; I just wanted a time line.

So I did what I always do when I have something important to discuss with Shawn - I dove in headfirst and I babbled a lot and I got defensive and upset when he wasn't immediately on board with me. In hindsight, it's easy to see where the conversation veered sideways into the land of miscommunication and misunderstanding. Shawn thought I was saying that I wanted to have a baby immediately and I thought when he said no, he was saying that he wouldn't even have a discussion about firming up our ambiguous game plan.

Days of chilly silence and hurt feelings followed.

I find it really difficult to stay mad at Shawn. He is incapable of holding a grudge so even though he was still confused by what he saw as my sudden descent into baby madness, he couldn't maintain the silent treatment. He took me to our favourite Greek restaurant and we tentatively started to unwind the tangles of our fight. At which point we discovered the misunderstanding and had a giant laugh.

We ate yummy food and talked about everything we wanted to accomplish before having kids. By the end of our date we had decided that barring any huge life changes between now and then, we would start seriously talking about babies in late autumn / winter 2011.

Ten days later we found out I was already pregnant.

Fetus says, "high five!"

Show Me All The Rules Girl I Just Want To Get 'em Wrong

2011-01-18T14:39:00.001-08:00

Friday Faff: It's Not Friday but My Blog = My Rules Edition

Did you know that you can get packages of Starburst that contain only the red and pink flavours? Life changing.

* * * * *

How do you freeze homemade pizza dough? Do you have to use a special recipe or can you freeze any pizza dough? Do you roll the pizza dough out and freeze it in the crust shape or do you freeze it while it's still in a ball? How long does homemade pizza dough take to defrost?

* * * * *

I haven't worn makeup in weeks (because I am lazy and my morning routine consists of me hitting the snooze button many times.) I met with my financial adviser today and in an effort to look like a grownup, I got out of bed early enough to apply mascara and blush. A random man stopped me on the street to tell me I'm gorgeous and it made my day. No, my week. It made my week. That is how lame I am. Of course now my plan is to tell a random person on the street that they are gorgeous in the hopes that I can make their day (or week. No judgments here.)

* * * * *

We had friends over for bangers & mash last night and Shawn gave the pups the leftover sausage when he thought I wasn't looking (after I told him not to feed the dogs sausage because dude, our dogs' stomachs do not love the processed human food.) Shawn had an extremely grim puppy poop situation this morning which he tried to blame on me (his logic was a thing of beauty that I cannot repeat here for fear it will make me stab an innocent bystander) which then made me get all shouty and indignant. Basically we're winning at marriage today is what I'm saying. Life has been a bit stressful and strange lately so in a weird way I'm grateful for our bickery (and oh so mature) fight - it's helped clear the air a bit and hit the reset button (though for the record, I was totally right and Shawn was wrong and if I point it out here hopefully I won't feel the need to point it out when I go home tonight.)

* * * * *

Is anyone else feeling faffy? What's on your mind?

Out On The Beaches We Wore Pineapple Grass Bracelets

2011-01-17T11:00:00.000-08:00

Shawn and I had friends over for a gluten-free dinner last night and I'm only a little ashamed to admit that I took the easy way out for dessert. I bought a beautiful pineapple and planned to cook it up with a little butter and brown sugar and serve it over vanilla ice cream. We were all so full after dinner, though, that the pineapple was forgotten and remains sitting on my kitchen counter, taunting Stella (fresh pineapple is one of her favourite treats.)

I was unsure how to approach gluten-free cooking. Shawn and I are lucky in that our food allergies don't severely limit our diets. I don't cook shellfish or use raw carrots in salads or cook with peas (because Shawn is a BABY who won't even TRY a green pea because they "make him gag.") Other than that, we eat what we want. I was surprised to realize how heavily I rely on flour in my cooking so I decided to keep things very simple. We had roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, baked potatoes with all the fixin's, baked butternut squash, roasted brussel sprouts, and mushrooms sautéed in wine. It was a lovely dinner.

I don't enjoy the fussiness of entertaining. I don't do place cards or candlesticks or centrepieces. I think sometimes I get too caught up in the idea of planning the perfect dinner that I forget the aspects of entertaining that I truly enjoy. Give me good friends and simple food and I'm a happy lady.

A Simple Mistake Starts The Hardest Time I Promise I'll Do Anything You Ask This Time

2011-01-13T12:54:00.000-08:00

Dudes, I am having a day today. A combination of unbloggable bullshit and very little sleep and, you know, the whole being a hormonal chick thing, has left me tearful and ragey. I really shouldn't be blogging is what I'm saying. This post actually started as a list of everything and everyone who has either pissed me off or made me cry this week and well, it was boring and unhealthy (and immature! and unflattering! and unfunny! etc.)

I reckon I need a love list to brighten up my mood. Bear with me, will you? (Or is it bare with me? Grammar police, what say you?)

Things I Love
a list by an extremely grumpy Hillary

- My dogs. Shocking, right? More specifically, I love what my dogs do when they're feeling excited and affectionate. Stella wags her tail so hard it whips both sides of her body - back and forth so quickly her tail is a blur. Wolfgang makes this weird grunty / moaning noise and tries to climb up into my lap for a quick kiss and a cuddle. It makes me smile every time.

- The Canucks current record (28-8-6) (*shiver*)

- Kyla Roma's salted chocolate chip cookies. I made these last weekend and I've been feasting on way too many of the little nuggets of happiness.

- My new camera. She's beautiful and I am having so much fun learning how to use her properly.

- Cooking for friends (related: does anyone have a gluten-free dessert recipe they can share? Nothing fancy - I don't want to have to go buy fancy non-gluten flour - just a nice, casual, non-deathy dessert for a night in with friends.)

What's putting a smile on your face today? Alternatively, what is making you stab unicorns today?

If You Want To See That Italian Tower Leaning

2011-01-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

Call me uncultured, but I had no idea what comprised Italian wedding soup until looking it up just now. So when I saw it on the deli menu board, I wasn't sure if I wanted to eat it or not. There was no description - just the name. I asked the deli lady if it contained meat (I have strict rules about eating fast food meat - the only acceptable forms are Tim Horton's chicken noodle soup, Wendy's junior cheeseburger deluxe, and A&W's teenburger without bacon. Please don't ask me why; I can't explain my crazy, I can only abide by it and hope that it doesn't steer me wrong.) She told me that nope, no meat in there. Just pasta and meatballs. And then my head melted. No meat, just ... balls of meat? Please, deli lady, please explain your logic.

So of course now I have to make Italian wedding soup. Anyone with a recipe they'd like to share?

Grandma's Gun And The Black Bear Claw

2011-01-07T09:38:00.000-08:00

Warm is not a word I would use to describe my grandma. She's loving and kind, yes, but not warm. She's reserved. Back when she sent birthday cards and Christmas cards, before her hand got too shaky to write, she would always end with "Love, Grandma" but I don't recall her ever telling me she loved me. My grandma is tough-as-nails and I love her for unapologetically being who she is.

I didn't get to see Grandma over Christmas (the old folks' home frowns on visitors with communicable diseases.) This weekend I'm going to take her a box of chocolates (her favourite gift because a: it's not stupid crap that clutters up her room and b: it's chocolate) and wish her a happy 95th birthday. We'll drinking sickly sweet flavoured coffee out of her paper-thin mugs decorated with roses, she'll call me dear, and I'll try to remember to talk into her good ear.

Happy birthday, Gram. Love, Hillary.

Resolution Of Happiness Things Have Been Dark For Too Long

2011-01-06T16:36:00.000-08:00

I admire everyone who has managed to write a 2010 roundup. I equally admire everyone who made New Year's resolutions and set goals and made game plans. This pretty much sums up how I feel about making resolutions and goals myself for the upcoming year:

(I love A Softer World prints)

So for now I will just say Happy New Year! This year I will do some things. Some will be great. Some will be stupid. I hope you come along for the ride.

I See Hope Is Here In A Plastic Box I've Seen Christmas Lights Reflect In Your Eyes

2011-01-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

I started coming down with Shawn's Man Flu a few days before Christmas. And then I slept for two weeks. No really, that's all I did for the days leading up to Christmas and then my entire Christmas break. On one hand I feel kind of guilty for spending my 11 glorious days off work in bed but on the other hand, I really needed that sleep. I read trashy mystery novels, I cuddled the monsterpups, I watched copious amounts of hockey, and I didn't feel guilty for turning down invitations to parties and movies and pub nights. It was excellent.

Of course now I'm back to real life and my job is overwhelming and my Google Reader is yelling at me and I'm falling asleep at my desk even though it's only noon. I don't know, maybe it's the fact that Vancouver has been sunny and warm for the last week or maybe it's just the feeling of a brand new year but I've got a huge grin on my (tired) face. This year is only four days old but it's already outperforming much of 2010.

Oh The Weather Outside Is Frightful But The Fire Is So Delightful

2010-12-24T09:28:00.000-08:00

Happy Christmas! Or Happy Friday! Or Happy Whatever-you-choose-to-celebrate!

I hope that wherever you are and whatever you're doing, you're happy, healthy, and loved.

2010 was difficult for a lot of people but I have a good feeling about 2011. Let's all do wonderful things and be nice to people, okay?

Fall On Me Black Helicopter You're All I See

2010-12-16T14:57:00.000-08:00

Shawn brought home a remote controlled helicopter yesterday. It's not exactly Christmas cheer but the monsterpups losing their tiny little minds over the flying Intruder! adds immeasurable joy to my life.

We're, uh, really grown up and mature. Obviously.

Wolfgang is ready to move out and Stella is concocting elaborate plans of destruction. I'm fairly certain that Shawn's choppa (said in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, please) is going to disappear without a trace one day soon.

Say, What's In This Drink?

2010-12-13T09:11:00.000-08:00

Christmas is 12 days away and I am unable to muster an ounce of holiday spirit.

I tried. I baked (and ate copious amounts of) whipped shortbread. I sent Christmas cards. I ate my weight in miniature oranges. I even tried listening to Christmas music and I hate Christmas music (with the exception of Norah Jones and Willie Nelson's version of Baby it's Cold Outside. I don't care that it is the date rape Christmas carol, it's Willie fucking Nelson.)

Nothing is working, though. I remain listless and irritable.

I need a fast-acting dose of Christmas cheer. What works for you? I'll try anything (except egg nog. That shit is nasty.)

It's Too Late To Break It Off I Need A Release The Signal's A Cough

2010-12-09T10:43:00.000-08:00

Shawn and I were both sick all weekend and then I started to feel better and he started to feel worse. I tried to be sympathetic (I did!) but part of me (okay, almost all of me) was convinced that he was putting one on. To get out of doing the dishes.

Yes, I am a gem of a wife, I know.

In my defense, Shawn really hates doing the dishes so I end up doing them most of the time. But then I get to a point where I cannot even look at another dirty dish and I announce that next time the dishes need to be washed, it's his turn.

On Monday I came home from work and the kitchen was still a mess so I did a little grumbling and reheated some soup and added the pot to the pile of dirty dishes. And thought spiteful thoughts of how the pile of dishes was only going to grow the longer he was "sick."

And then Shawn stayed home from work on Tuesday, which he never does.

And went to the doctor on his own accord, which he never does.

And then his doctor started throwing around words like pneumonia and bronchial inflammation and fluid in the lungs.

Basically I am a giant jerkface is what I'm saying.

And I washed the dishes last night.

You Give Me Chills Then You Leave Me Cold

2010-12-06T10:00:00.000-08:00

This weekend was supposed to be about baking shortbread and writing Christmas cards and finishing up our Christmas shopping. It was supposed to be about embracing a season that historically we both struggle to enjoy.

Instead it was a weekend of fevers and chills, homemade chicken noodle soup, and getting out of bed only to don fresh pyjamas and clean linens before climbing right back between the sheets.

We'll find our Christmas spirit, I hope. Somewhere between the peppermint tea and discarded tissues.

Mountain Tops Seem Nice From A Distance

2010-12-01T08:36:00.000-08:00

Robin has moved out of her temporary accommodations and into her new home in London, quashing any hope I had of her hating England and returning to Vancouver. I'm happy that she's happy, of course, but I'm also (selfishly) sad.

Cat is leaving me in a month. She's not going as far as Robin but her new home is five hours away from me. I'm excited for her. I'm happy that she's embracing change and starting a new adventure. I'm also happy that she's moving to one of my favourite places to visit (dude, next summer? You are not going to be able to get rid of me. Sorry!) But again, I'm sad.

I've known Robin and Cat for over 15 years. A little distance doesn't change our history. They're my people. They know my secrets and my crazy and love me anyway. They're always in my heart. I just wish they were in my kitchen, drinking wine and eating cheese, whenever I wanted.

It's similar with blogging. I find amazing bloggers and form connections and bonds. Blog friends become real life friends, emails turn into handwritten notes, and I lament the fact that I live so far away from my Internet people. I want to meet my bloggy peeps at the pub for post-work beers or take our monsterpups on a furbaby double date to the local dog park. I want to introduce you all to poutine.

It's comforting, in a way, to know that I have a network of real life and bloggy friends spread out across the globe but it can be lonely too. It's hard not to feel left behind when the people closest to me are embarking on amazing adventures and the only thing I've done lately is take hilarious pictures of my dogs.

He does not love the snow. He'll just stay here under the covers until winter is over, thanks.

All My Little Ladies Eating Up The Gravy

2010-11-26T10:37:00.000-08:00

I had big plans to celebrate American Thanksgiving but I got sidetracked by the thought of homemade poutine.

We went gourmet style, making a rich, shredded beef gravy and using real fries from the fish&chips place on the corner instead of making oven fries.

We invited friends over, one of whom was a poutine virgin, to share in our gluttony.

It was glorious.

Hurricane Rescued Me Salvaged Calamity

2010-11-22T15:53:00.000-08:00

It snowed this weekend. Not a lot, mind you, but enough that I decided to hibernate. The monsterpups were fully supportive of my plan to hide under the covers until April.

I only lasted until Saturday evening, when the call of bloggers and my favourite pub became too strong to resist.
The monsterpups were not amused.

I morphed back into hibernation mode on Sunday after a rotten night's sleep on Saturday that included puppy vomit and a 2am wake up call from my inebriated husband that resulted in me driving into the dodgy part of Vancouver to pick up three rowdy drunks. (Which I can't complain about because they were very appreciative rowdy drunks.)

Life is uncertain right now. I'm grinning maniacally, then falling deep into despair and worry, only to launch myself back to glee, all in the space of a minute it seems. I am exhausted. Hibernation mode is the only thing keeping me sane. Curling up under the blankets, Stella on my toes and Wolfgang on my belly, whispering plans and ideas with Shawn, is the only thing that centres me after a day of dizzily tripping through life. I want time to slow down. I want clear answers and a game plan. I want hibernation mode to be the norm instead of a rare luxury that happens only when I ignore the pile of dirty laundry and the bathroom sink that is currently growing something fuzzy around the drain.

It Puts A Vault In My Step And A Grin On My Face

2010-11-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

The super fantastic Style Lush Holiday Gift Guide has arrived! All 125 gift ideas are $25 or less. Seriously!

Also putting a grin on my face today, Aly of Breathe Gently is in town! Are any local bloggers interested in watching the Canucks beat the Blackhawks on Saturday? I'm thinking a non-pressurey bloggy meetup is in order. Steamworks (Gastown location) - 7pm - big fun. Shawn has even agreed to come (and bloggers make him a bit nervous.)

Hey Me Hey Mama Where You Been Where You Been For So Long?

2010-11-16T14:09:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, mama. Thanks for calling my puppies your "granddogs" and loving them the way you do. Thanks for making me my favourite cauliflower soup whenever I get sick. Thanks for helping me wrangle the pups into their Hallowe'en costumes instead of laughing at me for dressing them up. Thanks for understanding the importance of good-quality chocolate. Thanks for staying married to Dad for over 30 years and for showing me what a long, stable relationship can look like. Thanks for caring so much about every single detail of my life, even when I get snarky and evasive because I feel smothered. Thanks for smothering me with your love even when I don't deserve it. Love you.

Well Thanks For The Time I Needed To Think A Spell

2010-11-15T10:54:00.000-08:00

I realize that Canadian Thanksgiving was a month ago and it's a bit ridiculous for me to post about it now but I loved my Thanksgiving dinner and it's almost American Thanksgiving so that's my excuse. I'm kind of debating celebrating American Thanksgiving just so I can have a full turkey dinner again.

My dinner consisted of (clockwise from the left) spicy green beans, sweet potato / turnip mash, roast carrots, turkey!, homemade cranberry sauce, and cowboy potatoes (which are actually called Jamie Oliver's Painted Hills Potatoes but I think cowboy potatoes sounds better.)

I don't have a large enough roasting pan to roast a turkey so I bought an aluminum one and threw celery, onions, lemons, apples, and fresh herbs in the base to keep the bird raised off the bottom. I seasoned the turkey with salt and pepper and filled the cavity with heads of garlic that I'd sliced horizontally through the cloves. I cooked my turkey upside down (because that's how Nigella does it) so it looked ugly but was moist and flavourful.

I was really happy with my side dishes. I was able to do a lot of prep ahead of time (I made the potatoes and the mash the day before and cooked them with the turkey) so when my kitchen sink clogged from the peelings of 20 carrots that I tried to send down the garbarator all at once and Shawn had to dismantle the pipe under the sink, it didn't throw my dinner off by too much.

Dessert was my grandma's pumpkin chiffon pie and chocolate mousse pie. Shawn had requested chocolate mousse and I was fully committed to making it until I realized that I didn't have any chocolate mousse vessels. The only thing I could think of using was wine glasses but then we wouldn't have anywhere to put the wine which I think we can all agree is a completely unacceptable situation. So I piled the mousse in a pie crust and called it mousse pie and everyone was happy.

My sisters both had other commitments but my mom, dad, and Westy came, along with Shawn's mom and brother. I made too much food, as usual, and I got quite shouty at Shawn when the sink was broken, but the evening was a success. Plus we had enough pie left over that I had pumpkin pie for breakfast for days afterwards so I was a very happy lady.

Downtown Vancouver Digging Through Your Bag Ripping Out The Pages Of The Local Music Mag

2010-11-08T09:11:00.000-08:00

Chelsea (she who talks smack) was in town for a few days and she and Derek put out the call on Twitter that they wanted to meet local bloggers. And I was all "sign me up!" because it's Chelsea Talks Smack and Dshan - two bloggers who I have read for years, who write honestly and candidly about both the shiny and not-so shiny parts of their lives. Basically, two bloggers who intimidate me with their kickassness (totally a word.)

And then Friday rolled around and I got all clenchy at the thought of actually meeting them.

I'm not very good at meeting new people. I'm awkward and anxious and talking to people who I don't know makes me want to vomit or die. So I talk too loud and too fast and I tell stupid stories and I spend the entire evening cringing internally.

It's part of my charm.

At least that's what I tell myself.

My angst was completely unnecessary (as it so often is) as Chelsea and Derek are as interesting and cool in person as they are through the magic computer box. Plus I got to meet Shannon, a local blogger who shares my love for Las Margaritas (the best Mexican food in Vancouver. I will fight anyone who says otherwise.)

I haven't found much of a blogging community in Vancouver. I read a few local bloggers but there doesn't seem to be the same social connection outside of blogging that other cities have. Or maybe there is and I'm just completely unaware of it. The only time I've met bloggers in person is when out-of-town bloggers come to Vancouver. It's odd and I'd like to change it.

So tell me, are you a Vancouver blogger? Would you be interested in meeting other bloggers? If you're not a local blogger, do you have an offline relationship with the blogging community in your city? How do I go about meeting local bloggers without looking like the crazy stalky lady?

In A Sweater Poorly Knit And An Unsuspecting Smile

2010-11-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

Friday Faff: Champers Edition

Last night I thought I opened a bottle of fancy sparkly pear juice leftover from Thanksgiving but I actually opened a bottle of champagne. I was home alone and champagne goes flat quickly once it's opened so of course I had to drink it by myself. I will admit that I could not finish the entire bottle but I made a commendable effort. My head is very hurty this morning is what I'm saying. In my defense, the sparkly pear juice is in a similar bottle and is trying to be something it's not with the foil and the full wire & cork mechanism found on champagne bottles.

* * * * *

Robin has been in London for a week now and I miss her like crazy. I've constructed a complex kidnapping plot for when we visit her next year. Don't tell on me.

* * * * *

I need to learn how to knit. Soonish.

* * * * *

Instagram is my new favourite iPhone app. It's kind of like twitter for photos. You follow feeds but instead of 140 characters, you post a photo. It's fun and it's free and if you're already using it you should let me know so I can follow you. I'm hillarywith2Ls if anyone wants to follow me. Though I'm warning you, I mostly post photos of the monsterpups.

* * * * *

I warned you.

Have a good weekend, peeps!

Remind Me Of Home When You're Around Me The Next Time You Leave Don't Go Without Me

2010-11-03T14:18:00.000-07:00

It's been two months since Shawn and I went to Vegas. Two months since we rode a motorcycle into the desert and splurged on 4am room service and drank frozen beverages out of plastic boots. I wore too-short skirts and too-high heels and we giggled over my complete lack of coordination while navigating the casino floors. We napped and ate two pounds of onion rings in one sitting and used the jacuzzi in our room every day. We spent a week together. Seven consecutive days of waking up together and spending the day having adventures and going to bed at the same time.

Now, I realize part of our holiday's charm was its brevity. Shawn and I are not togetherforever24/7 kind of people. (I'm not knocking people who are, we just aren't.) And I'm okay with that. I value the time I spend with Shawn but I also value the time I spend with my friends and family and the time I spend alone. Shawn and I could not survive extended periods of time together without seriously annoying each other. It's just ... the time we spent together in Vegas highlighted how little time we spend together in our day to day lives.

Life is busy and we both have full-time jobs and he's in a band and ... there's always an and. We blow through the week hardly seeing each other and then all of a sudden it's Sunday - the one day we both have off work - and we're stuck doing chores and arguing over whose turn it is to do the grocery shopping (it is so his turn.)

I miss him. Which is stupid and silly and I feel like an idiot for even thinking it, but it's true. We're a bit lost right now. There's no drama. This isn't an end of days situation. We're just struggling to find the right balance for us. When it comes to spending time together, quantity isn't an option for us; we have to focus on quality.

How do you do it? How do you find the time to connect with your partner? How do you block the daily nuisances and boring chores from affecting your time together?

It Was A Graveyard Smash

2010-11-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

Stella is not a huge fan of Hallowe'en. Wolfgang, on the other hand, loves playing dress up.

The jaunty flip of his cap is causing me to dissolve into fits of giggles today.

Three Or Four Hourglass

2010-10-27T20:18:00.000-07:00

Happy third birthday to my Stelly-belly-stinky-pup!

What do you say you make this the year you stop eating poop?

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me Who's Playing Tricks On Me

2010-10-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

I write about my life on the Internet. I post photos. I tell stories. I share aspects of my life - of my crazy - that I don't feel comfortable talking about face-to-face. Typing words into a computer gives me a certain sense of freedom that isn't necessarily logical. If I think it through, it's actually quite probable that people I know in my every day life - people who I don't feel comfortable talking to face-to-face about certain things - are reading my blog. So I get twitchy and take my blog offline ... and then I get emails and messages from you lovely bunch, reminding me why I blog in the first place. So thanks, lovelies. Thanks for letting me get a bit crazy sometimes and thanks for checking to make sure everything is alright. Everything is alright. I promise not to think too much in the future to avoid situations like yesterday's meltdown.

I Guess I'm Kinda Lost In Space And London's Okay She Don't Even Ask What Time It Is Anymore

2010-10-22T09:37:00.000-07:00

Robin is leaving me again. She's only been home from Africa for three months and she's already jetting off again, this time for London. London! One of my favourite places is claiming one of my favourite people.

It's all happened rather quickly. She was offered an amazing job last week and she will be gone by next Friday. I don't know how I feel about it - I'm excited for her. But I'm (selfishly) sad for me.

I lured her to my place last night with the promise of wine and cheese and her favourite nibblies, fully intending to tie her up and stash her in my closet so she couldn't leave me. My plan worked against me, though, as the wine made me unable to do much beyond tearfully promising to visit next year. Plus Robin knows me well and brought a shiny thing (in the form of the most beautiful starfish necklace) to distract me.

So. My lovely friend is leaving again. I'm trying very hard to be supportive. I really am happy for her and excited for the adventures that lie ahead. I just miss her when she's gone. She's been my Robin since she moved to my neighbourhood when we were seven years old. I love her to bits. And I'm not just saying that so she gives me a free place to stay when I visit London.

I've Gotta Tell You What A State I'm In I've Gotta Tell You In My Loudest Tones That I Started Looking For A Warning Sign

2010-10-20T15:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't written much about the sleep clinic because it's boring. It's boring to think about, it's boring to talk about. I can't imagine how boring it must be to read about. It's also frustrating. So far there has been a whole lot of trial and error without much progress. My doctor has determined what my brain is doing that prevents me from sleeping but can't figure out the cause. So. Boring and frustrating. Not exactly blog fodder. It's been a huge part of my life for the last five weeks though, and I'm only able to see now, on the other side, how it's affected me. For the first time in five weeks I feel like I'm seeing clearly.

Five weeks ago my sleep doctor prescribed a sedative to be taken nightly for a month. I had a few qualms about taking a sedative every night but I kept them to myself. I feel a lot of (stupid! pointless!) guilt about living in a country where not only do I get to see a sleep specialist, I don't have to pay for any of the medical services provided. I know it's silly because those resources are not magically applied to someone who needs them more if I choose to not see the sleep doctor, but it doesn't change the fact that I feel like a first-world softy. I feel like I'm supposed to be grateful and willing to try anything so I shut my mouth and nod my head and wear the doctor-prescribed evil breathing mask for six weeks until I'm doing the ugly cry in the respiratory therapist's office, begging her to take the mask back from me. (She did.) So I didn't ask any questions. I filled the prescription and I started taking the pills.

I started taking the pills even though the pharmacist who filled my prescription told me that they should not be used for longer than 7 consecutive nights and despite the literature he provided that literally had a full page of warnings and possible side effects.

For a while, things were great. I slept through the night, every night, and woke up feeling rested. I felt a little druggy but overall I felt better than I've felt in a long time. I experienced a few side effects but they were either insignificant (like the ever-present metallic taste in my mouth) or funny (like the time I got out of bed in the middle of the night, opened the front hall closet, put on Shawn's jacket, and returned to bed without waking up.)

Then something shifted, sometime during my second week on the drug and suddenly things weren't so great. I couldn't verbalize it at the time but I stopped feeling like myself. Waking up in the morning wasn't as difficult as it used to be and I didn't constantly crave a nap, but I was so groggy. I felt slow, like I was missing connections in my brain. One morning I put my running shoes on then sat, completely stumped, for what felt like a full minute before I realized that the shoelaces needed to be tied. I knew I was missing something, I knew there was another step, I just couldn't quite get there. It wasn't just shoes, either. Everything required my full concentration. I was terrified that I would leave the house without wearing pants or call my boss "dad" or something equally as horrifying so I had a constant commentary running through my brain. It was exhausting.

My third and fourth week week on the drug were horrible. I have never felt so dark or listless. And I couldn't see it. I thought I had the autumn blues. I thought I was rundown because of work stress. Shawn could see that something was wrong but I ignored his pleas for me to see my doctor. It wasn't until one night when I forgot to take my pill until an hour past the correct time and I ended up lying on the kitchen floor, sobbing and clutching my head because it felt like it would explode if I moved the slightest bit, that I realized that something was wrong. It took Shawn threatening to take me to the emergency room before I was willing to admit that the negative side effects of the drug were far outweighing the benefits.

I've been off the drug for just over a week now. The first few days were extremely difficult. I suffered from rebound insomnia which meant that my body had become dependent on the sedative and forgot how to fall asleep. Fortunately, by day three I was so exhausted that I started sleeping again. Every day I feel like I've reclaimed a little bit more of myself. I'm back to being bone-tired because my sleeping pattern has returned to being horrid but I don't feel desperate anymore. I don't feel like the zombie version of myself. The sun is shining, a little bit, and I'm so happy that I can feel it again.

Pleased To Meet You Wanna Greet You Then I'll Take You On My Way

2010-10-18T06:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Shawn,

Today is the seventh anniversary of the day we met. If you had told me that in seven years we'd be married and have two monsterpups, I would have laughed at you. And then I would have told you to get me another drink because as you know, we met in a bar and we were both inebriated. We're classy like that.

A lot has happened in the seven years since we met. We dated for a bit. I moved to England. We stopped talking to each other. We started talking again. You visited me in England. I moved back to Canada. We moved into a tiny downtown apartment. We got engaged. We left our downtown apartment to buy a condo in a sketchy neighbourhood because homeownership meant in-suite laundry and no pet restrictions. We brought home Stella. We got married. We found Wolfgang. We've had a lot of adventures together is what I'm saying.

Happy 7th meet-iversary, dude. I hope we have many more adventures together.

Love,

Hillary

Everybody Loves A Winner So Nobody Loved Me

2010-10-17T12:59:00.000-07:00

The lovely gift basket from Bow Wow Haus is sitting on my kitchen counter, ready to be mailed to ... xoxb! Congratulations, lady! Email me your address and I'll pop it in the mail this week.