Let sleeping babies lie, apparently.
by Karla ° Thursday, August 30, 2007
Before going to bed last night I went to check on Nate and I found him asleep with a blanket over his face.

I know blankets aren’t exactly known for their ability to create a hermitically airtight seal, but seeing his head covered freaked me out and I rushed over and yanked the blanket off his face.

I must have startled him because his eyes sprung wide open and he started wailing.

Feeling really bad for disturbing his sleep, I picked him up to try and soothe him. But it was too late. The damage was done. He was mad and he was not afraid to let me know just how mad he was.

My first form of defence when he cries is my boobs. It’s like breaking out the big guns, only mine are more like small pistols with a built in baby silencer.

When I tried to offer him my breasts as a truce, he just swatted them out of his face exactly the same way you would swat a fly buzzing around your head. Like, AS IF I would burden him with my boobs right in the middle of his very important baby tantrum.

So I tried rocking and cuddling him instead, but he remained mad.

Next I tried pacing the floor with him, but this caused his anger to elevate to arm flailing rage status.

I finally resorted to swinging and bouncing, but this only caused him to flail his arms more dramatically. Which was directly proportional to the increased volume of his screaming.

Finally, spent and exhausted, I laid him back down in his crib. After a few screams of protest, he noticed his blanket, let out a squeal of content, and pulled it back over his face.

And then all was silent.

And he slept peacefully ever after.

The end.

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Black Hole of Need
by Karla ° Wednesday, August 29, 2007
One of my most favourite time of day is Nate’s bath time.

The ultimate goal of bath time has little to do with cleaning remnants of dinner out of his ears and eyebrows and more to do with encouraging Nate to unwind before bed in a relaxingly warm bath, followed by an evening night cap of warm milk served out of his decanter of choice – boobs.

I am usually the one that bathes Nate and I find it easier to actually get in the tub with him. So while I run the water for his bath, Mark takes care of getting him undressed and helping him expend pent up energy by squeezing out as many calorie burning belly laughs as possible. It always amazes me how easy it is to make a baby squeal with laughter because I don’t remember finding it very funny at all the last time Mark draped me over his shoulders and turned my ass into a drum bum.

While waiting for Mark to bring me a naked baby to wash, I try and make use of my precious time alone and do productive things - like maintain my status in the animal kingdom as a woman – and shave my legs.

Sometimes Mark arrives bearing a nude baby quicker than I expected and shaving must be put on hold because Nate is a boy, which also makes him a loose cannon equipped with reckless boy parts. That squirt. Unexpectedly.

Also, bath time is right after dinner time. And you never know what surprises may hail from the flatulent squawk of his butt trumpet.

I’m not exactly sure why, but every time Mark hands Nate over for his bath, I ask if he pooped. I’m even less sure what purpose being gifted with knowledge about the state of his diaper serves either. Because if the verdict comes back that yes, he pooped, then he has a bath. And if the verdict comes back that no, he did not poop his pants, has still has a bath.

But that is what I do.

I ask.

Because apparently motherhood has reduced the magnitude of things that interest me to what surprises can be found inside my son’s diaper.

For all the ways that motherhood has changed me though, there is one thing I know for certain.

I had some mighty lucky stars shining on my lady parts the night my adorable little black hole of need was conceived.

I just love him to pieces.

Bottomless pails full of dirty diapers and all.

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Drumming to the Beat of Kindness
by Karla ° Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The other day, Mark helped a neighbour with a computer problem.

The next day they came bearing a gift for Nate.

And we haven’t been able to tear him away from his new drum ever since.

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When Machines Die
by Karla ° Monday, August 27, 2007
When I finally got around to attempting vacuuming last week, my trusty upright bit the dust.

Or is it blew the dust?

Suddenly, after a few back and forth sweeps across the carpet, a whole new pet assembled and appeared right before my eyes. It was like a super duper transformer pet made with a little bit of cat fur and a little bit of dog fur and a whole lot of dust with a few scraps of kibble thrown in the mix. There was even a heartbeat.

And I kid you not, it even spoke to me. It said, “Pet me! Feed me! Clean my poo!”

My vacuum died. Just like that. It lost all its suction power and reverse sprayed its contents back onto the carpet it was supposed to be cleaning.

When Mark got home from work, I had him take a look at the vacuum because I am not good with things that have motors and moving parts. Or come with a manual. Maybe I had accidentally hit a button that switched the vacuum from suck to blow and because I never read the manual, I didn’t know how to fix it.

After some very serious poking and prodding and experimental button pushing and examining under the hood, he was not to locate the blow option anywhere. Too bad.

We really can’t be without a vacuum. Nate is becoming more mobile everyday and although he can’t exactly crawl yet, he still manages to wiggle and squirm his way to where he wants to be and not keeping up with the vacuuming means that his face is only six inches away from a mouthful of Samson fur. Not to mention the fistfuls of hair he manages to collect in his hands, which by default, also means in his mouth.

So, yesterday we bought a new vacuum.

It was the most anticlimactic and boring purchase I have ever made.

We decided on a canister vacuum this time around. Because really, what housewife doesn’t want to drag around something that looks like a ball and chain around her ankles.

When we got home, I decided to try my new excuse for not having an excuse not to vacuum anymore and I think it would be fair to say that I have probably spent the last few months making pretty lines on my carpet while my old vacuum died a slow and painless death.

I filled the canister four times vacuuming my house with the new vacuum.

And now my ceilings are taller.

Go ahead, I can handle it.

A collective “EWW” is a perfectly acceptable response.

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A Lesson in Phonics
by Karla ° Sunday, August 26, 2007
Nate has a toy by Leap Frog called Alphabet Pal. It is a musical pull-toy that flashes, giggles and wobbles along on 26 colourful legs that are each labelled with a letter of alphabet. It is supposed to help teach letters and colours.

One of Alphabet Pal’s settings is to recite how a letter sounds phonetically. So if you press letters that spell a word in rapid succession, it sounds like Alphabet Pal is actually saying the word.

For example, if you press the letters b-a-b-y one after another, Alphabet Pal says b–ey-b–ee.

And by the same token, if you press the letters f-u-c-k in order, Alphabet Pal giggles and says, “That tickles.

Why, yes Alphabet Pal.

It certainly does.

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Barefoot and Shoeless
by Karla ° Friday, August 24, 2007

I spent the afternoon running errands yesterday with Nate and one of our stops was at a bulk food store so that I could pick up some hard whole wheat flour to make homemade pizza dough.

We eat a lot of pizza in this household and the whole wheat crust is totally just a sham to make eating pizza feel nutrition and healthy. The whole grains also compliment the barley in beer very nicely.

Anyhow, I pulled up to the store and as I was getting Nate out of the car a man standing nearby happened to notice that Nate was not wearing any shoes and said to him, “Did Mommy forget to finish dressing you today?”

The truth is, I didn’t forget his shoes at all.

I deliberately left them at home on top of a pile of lazy, adjacent to a stack of irresponsible, right next to a heap of neglectfulness.

Which is also where I left my hairbrush and where Nate keeps tossing his shoes when he pulls them off his feet.

:::

Do tell.

Does your baby wear shoes?

And more importantly, do they stay on their feet?

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At least we know where he gets his big mouth from
by Karla ° Thursday, August 23, 2007

And when I grew up, my mouth expanded to accommodate my foot.

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Tomorrow is Another Day
by Karla ° Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Nate is having his morning nap and while the house is calm and peaceful I thought I would take a minute to decide how I will spend my day today.

I should probably catch up on some housework. Chores have really fallen by the wayside. A good place to start would be to vacuum because it has been ages since I have done that. But first, I need to pick up Nate’s toys. And Mark’s socks.

Speaking of socks, I really need to get caught up on some laundry. The piles are accumulating in mountainous proportions. Kind of like the diapers in Nate’s diaper genie. I really need to empty it.

Some days, it feels like all I do is change diapers. Which reminds me, I need to run to the store and stock up because we are running low. I suppose while I’m out, I may as well get the grocery shopping done too.

Since I have to go out I should probably shower and get dressed.

But wait. I have no clean clothes. So first I’ll throw in a load of laundry, and then I will have a shower so I can go to the store to get diapers and groceries. Once I get home I can pick up Nate’s toys and Mark’s socks and empty the diaper genie and then vacuum.

Wait a minute though. Tomorrow is garbage day. So before I shower I should get all the garbage and recycling together. And while I’m collecting garbage, I may as well clean the kitty litter and pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles outside.

Did I remember to buy latex gloves for picking up poop the last time I was at the store? Of course not. So I really need to go the store to buy gloves to pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles before anything else. And if I have to go out anyway, I should probably just go ahead and get those diapers and groceries. And then once I come home, I’ll do the laundry and pick up Nate’s toys and Mark’s socks and empty the diaper genie and pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles and clean the kitty litter and then get the garbage and recycling together. Once all of that stuff is out of way, then I will have a shower.

Hang on a minute. I also have to get some blood work done after seeing the doctor yesterday about the mysterious bruises all over my legs. Nate should be waking up soon, so we can go and do that once he is awake. But first he will need a diaper change and milk and all of my undivided attention and love.

Gee, where did the day go already? It will soon be time for lunch and oh no, I forgot to pump milk for Nate’s cereal. Ok, as soon as I finish taking care of Nate’s needs, then I will go and get that blood work done and go to the store to buy gloves and get diapers for Nate and groceries for our bare fridge before emptying the diaper genie and doing the laundry and picking up Nate’s toy’s and Mark’s socks and Samson's giant dog poo piles and cleaning the kitty litter and getting the garbage and recycling together. And then I will finally have a shower. Right after I vacuum first.

Nate goes down for a nap again shortly after lunch and speaking of naps; I sure could go for one myself.

Tomorrow is another day right?

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Accident Waiting to Happen
by Karla ° Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I have a doctor’s appointment today to find out what is wrong with my legs. They are covered in bruises.

I happened to mention this to my mother at the beginning of the summer and I kid you not, red flags sprouted out of the top of her head.

“Karla! You need to go and see a doctor right away!”

When I was a younger, something similar happened and my legs were covered in over 100 bruises. When my parents took me to see a doctor they were first met with raised brows and accusatory glances before finally being presented with the possibility that I had purpura, which isn’t exactly a bad thing unless it's a sign of an underlying life-threatening disorder. Either that or I was an awkward mess of limbs and appendages with the grace of an elephant.

Ironically, neither of us can remember what the official diagnosis was, but if memory serves me correct, I did not die.

Since I had that conversation with my mom over three months ago, it should be rather obvious that determining the cause of the bruises on my legs has been a very important priority for me, right up there with baking a casserole and darning the holes in Mark's socks, neither of which happened this summer either.

But the other day I noticed the top of my left leg was covered in splotches of red and the mother of all bruises had appeared. It is the size of two golf balls and a painful shade of electric purple. I decided to do what I always do when faced with diagnosing my own medical conditions and sought the supreme knowledge of Dr. Google Images because isn’t a picture worth a thousand words?

I found myself completely immersed in images of human bodies totally covered in skin the shade of bruise. When I had finally seen enough to convince myself that the 37 bruises on my legs were totally normal by comparison, I stood up and suddenly felt weak and dizzy. And if Mark had not been there to catch me and bring me a plate of cookies and later cook dinner, I am certain I would have fainted.

So that is why I am going to the doctors today. Nate cannot have a wuss for a mother who faints at the sight of a bruise because when Mark and I were mixing the ingredients to make our little boy, we put in one part curiosity and one part rough and tumble and then I birthed an accident waiting to happen.

I have a feeling the only thing that will be confirmed at the doctor’s today is that I am also an accident waiting to happen wrapped in a clever disguise of clumsy.

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The Clap
by Karla ° Sunday, August 19, 2007
Look!

Nate can now clap!

Please enjoy responsibly.

I cannot be held liable for any sudden urges to disco dance.

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Flashing His Pearly Whites
by Karla ° Saturday, August 18, 2007

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On Teenage Angst
by Karla ° Friday, August 17, 2007
While out shopping today, I happened to cross paths with a teenager who was dressed in garments completely unsuitable for parading around town under the blazing heat of summer.

He was dressed from head to toe in black. He had on black pants and a sartorial calamity of a trench coat that stretched the entire length of his body down to a ponderously hefty pair of black army boots. Continuing with the theme of Big Angry Teenager was a head of jet black hair and matching ebony lips. The look was completed with a dark pair of shades pulled over a strikingly salt-pale face by comparison.

I can relate to this form of teenage angst-infused self expression because I remember what it was like to carry the wisdom of a 7000 year old man on my pubescent shoulders.

Been there. Done that. And kept the t-shirt with the word “Freak” on the chest to prove it.

At one point during my phase of being angry with the cosmos I started wearing dark clothes and dyed my hair jet black, too. Because nothing quite sends the message that the meddling gremlins of nefarious doom descended on your soul than a bottle of nice n’ easy.

Mark also went through a similar phase, and in addition to dying his blond locks; he also dyed his eyebrows black so the whole world knew just how burdened with anger he was.

I am certain all the people he served while working the drive-thru at his part time job knew not to mess with him and his angry eyebrows lest he unleash the wrath of his teenage fury and forget their side order of pickles.

Eventually, Mark and I came of age and realized that alcohol and a sunny patio was a very practical solution to all of life’s problems and we bid farewell to our teenage animosity and our shoulders thank us for it.

So to the young man I saw today. If you are going to carry the weight of the Whole Entire Universe on your shoulders, may I at least suggest being practical about it all in a sensibly cool t-shirt and a pair of seasonally appropriate open toe sandals.

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Here Comes Trouble
by Karla ° Thursday, August 16, 2007
Nate is on the verge of crawling, and I am on the verge of never being able to take my eyes off him ever again because have you seen the size of my dog? Nate could very well drown in Samson’s water dish!

And remember that cute little noise that Nate makes?

BOP!

He said it on film, you know, for the ladies.



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On Matters of Health
by Karla ° Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Hi!

Meet my new ottoman/coffee table/excuse for new furniture which was sold to Mark under the premise that our old glass furniture and it’s deadly razor-sharp edges was a hazard to the health of Nate’s head.

I may have intentionally left out the part that constantly cleaning fingerprints was a hazard to my healthy ability to be lazy.


Also meet Nate’s parrot because you cannot take a picture in my tiny living room without bumping into a big giant dog or entangling yourself in a chaos of baby toys that have sprouted up like mushrooms and taken over almost every last square inch of floor space.

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Impact
by Karla ° Tuesday, August 14, 2007

I have never mentioned this before, but I do a lot of writing for various grief publications.

I haven’t mentioned it because I am rather new to the whole freelance market and part of me is nervous about putting a label on something that I enjoy doing so much because that means that I am actually expected to be good at it.

There is something very satisfying about being published in a glossy magazine and I am always completely awestruck when someone takes the time to write to me to share their intimate and painful memories, but because of the nature of the work that has been published, there is also something very heart wrenching about being so aware of the depths of someone’s pain.

I think of my own story of infant loss and miscarriage and often seethe in anger at the wretchedness of the Universe and what an unfair hand I have been dealt, but then I will receive an eye opening email like the one I received from a woman who gave birth to, and lost, three full term babies. She has no living children and her pain immediately put a frame on my perspective.

Just the other day I received an email from someone who has underwent years of fertility treatments and miscarriages before finally conceiving a child only to lose her sweet baby girl after carrying her and in her womb for 38 weeks. And when she finally mustered up the courage to try again, the Universe decided she had not endured enough and she had another miscarriage. After reading her story I sat on the floor cradling Nate and cried for a very long time.

It makes me wonder how much devastation one human could possibly handle.

Surely there is only so much bending that one can do before they break? And yet, each and every piece of mail that I read is a true testament to the brilliant resilience of humanity and the power of hope.

I know I have said this before, but I truly believe that hope is what binds the tapestry of humanity and each of us represents a thread carefully woven and interconnected in an intricate blueprint of strength and survival.

So to everyone who has reached out and shared with me your journey of loss, thank you so much for touching my heart and sharing with me the memory of your children, your husbands, your fathers, your mothers and your siblings. The imprints that their memories have left on my heart are deep and the impact that you have had on me and how much I appreciate life is profound.

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Autopilot
by Karla ° Monday, August 13, 2007
The other night I had a dream. It was the kind of dream that you awake from with a palpitating heart and your core stricken with anxiety from the sheer realness of it all.

I was in a hospital and was about to have another baby. Like Ava’s birth, I was whisked away for an emergency surgery where there was no time to prep me for it and another breathing tube was placed in my throat to keep me alive while my body slept through another c-section. Only this time, despite being under the spell of a gaseous blackness, I was aware.

Completely, totally aware of the horror of what was happening.

As I watched the events of the birth unfold, everything began to move in slow motion - like someone had pushed a button on the TV set of life - and I could do nothing but watch as the bustling urgency of the operating room dissolved into a heavy atmosphere of deliberately drawn out voices and lethargic movements while the awful truth slowly loaded before my eyes.

For the third time in my life, a baby was going to die. And there was not a single thing I could do but watch.

The gravity of the situation left me paralyzed and numb and I slipped into a shadowy void and never woke up.


:::


Although that was only a dream, that was often how I felt after Ava died. Like I was watching a movie of my own life unload before my eyes and none of it was real because at any time I could hit the stop button and everything would return to normal.

And when reality began to set in, I would recoil to the crushingly empty place in my mind where the walls were thick and the air was thin.

When I eventually had to resurface to catch my breath, I would leave my body again to watch the horror unfold from a distance. The movie camera of my life would pan in for the close up because real life was too excruciatingly painful to handle.

I wasn't until I had this dream that I realized I had emotionally detached myself from my physical body in order to cope after Ava died. It has got me wondering if I do this often without knowing it.

Has something like this ever happened to you before where your body did what it needed to do to help you cope and shifted into autopilot mode?

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Becoming His Own Person
by Karla ° Friday, August 10, 2007
Nate’s personality is not only starting to flourish, it is downright steamrolling ahead with the force of an avalanche these days. Trailing on the coattails of his developing identity is a temperament that erupts with the force of a volcano.

And somewhere, all wrapped up in the mighty roar of this burgeoning display of individuality and sense of self, are glimpses of characteristics that seem to stem directly from either me or his father.

I used to suck my thumb when I was a little girl. Nate also likes to suck his thumb. He willingly gave up his pacifier very early in preference of his little nubby appendage and although there is nothing special about slobbering all over your fingers, what is very special to me is that he sucks his thumb exactly the same way I used to – by surrounding himself in the warmth of a cozy blanket and gently rubbing and caressing the tiny crevasse beneath his nose to the quiet rhythm of his suckling.

What really gets my heart fluttering is when he snuggles in close to me when I nurse him and he weaves his tiny hand underneath my shirt and then pulls it against his face to gently massage the fabric against his nose.

The fact that Nate soothes and comforts himself the same way I used to makes me feel sort of wobbly and sentimental. Like, my kid likes the same things I used to.

And if that is any indicator of things to come, it is probably in my best interest to make sure that this house is well stocked with noodles and ketchup and diagonally cut toast with no crust or else the wrath of Mount Nathan may erupt and make his wishes known in the form of a tantrum.

Nate also loves all things musical, which absolutely must come from his father because to hear me sing would make you want to stuff giant pickles in your ears in hopes that one of the physical properties of sodium is an ability to dehydrate sound waves.


I am so grateful that I have a front row seat in this extraordinary ride of life that Nate is on.

Each and every corner turned reveals new potential and endless possibilities and it’s absolutely amazing to watch it all unfold through the eyes of a child.

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www.untanglingknots.com
by Karla ° Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Earlier this year I went and got myself a shiny new dot com with plans to eventually leave blogger and find my own little place to call home in the cosmic abyss that is the world wide web.

I say eventually because you know how it goes with kids. All those diaper changes seem to suck time into a black hole and somewhere along the way there are toes that need tickling. If only the hole that eats all of my time also liked to eat diapers.

So the process has been slow. But I’m almost ready to jump ship.

Since March of this year, if you have been visiting here via my old blogspot address, you have been getting redirected to my new URL (http://www.untanglingknots.com/), but once I leave blogger, old bookmarks and feeds will no longer work.

If you want to follow me to my new home in cyberspace (and I sincerely hope you do), please update your bookmarks with my new URL, or feel free to use the following links to update your RSS or Bloglines feed: (These are also located at the bottom of this page.)

Thanks everyone.

xo
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Dreaming Under Different Skies
by Karla °
Last weekend Mark and I were out for a drive and on a spur of the moment decision, we decided to swing by the old apartment building where we used to live.

We’ve moved around a lot over the years, but nowhere brings back memories like the first place we lived together.

The year was 1999 and Mark was about to graduate from college. He had just scored himself a nice work from home job and even though I still had a few years of school left, we decided to shack up and split the cost of rent. And also, we may have shacked up so that we could have sex without having to remember to lock the door. Because I cannot stress how important that is when you live in a college dorm.

Times were great back then. We were young, in love and excited to be starting our lives together. Even if that meant I would no longer be able to blame mysterious bathroom smells on my roommates.

Since I was still in school, I entrusted the apartment hunt to Mark. We learned very quickly that our budget didn’t afford us much. Finding a place to live without cockroaches and hallways that reeked of urine was going to be a challenge.

Opting for the lesser of two evils we decide we would just have to live with the stench of urine because we still lived like college kids and the cockroaches would have been all over the empty pizza boxes stacked on our living room floor.

I still remember the day he called me to tell me had found a place. He was so excited. “There’s even a small office for you,” he exclaimed proudly. I was all like, dude, I’m going to feel so grown up in my very own office, and packed my big hulking computer desk in the moving truck only to discover that my office was a storage closet with no outlets and the light source operated via a pull string dangling from the ceiling.

Really though, we didn’t care that we lived in a dive because all of life’s essentials were right next door. Like milk. And cigarettes. And Doritos. And coffee. And beer.

We didn’t even care that our balcony door was jammed shut and that we had to crawl out a window to sit outside. Probably because we spent a great deal of time filling our stomachs with beer and we may or may not have been too drunk to notice. But still. Much bodily dexterity was gained from that experience. That's gotta count for something.

Oh those were the days.

We had nary a care in the world. And we had a lot of fun not caring about anything.

We were just happy to be. And the rest didn’t matter.

How the cycle of seasons change. We dream under different skies now and seeing that old apparent building made me feel a bit nostalgic for a time when life was much simpler.

But then I remembered Nate dozing peacefully in his carseat and you know, he makes it all worthwhile.

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Meet the proud new owner of two front teeth
by Karla ° Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Finally, after months of blaming every unexplainable bout of fussiness and ear piercing screaming on teething, they have arrived.

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A Lesson in Physics
by Karla ° Monday, August 6, 2007
There are days when I cast a glance in Nate’s direction and for split second I feel like I am looking directly at a mirror image of myself.

Even though deep down I know that he is a by-product of chromosomes and genes and a working example of DNA at its finest, it’s still mind boggling that he was once nothing more than a puzzle of cells furiously multiplying and dividing under the mysterious guidance of nature’s most intricate blueprint.

And now, here he sits, entirely a creation of two separate individuals, yet entirely his own person.

Even more mind boggling is trying to put into words how deeply I love him.

These feelings that I feel are so grand and magical that surely they must defy every single law of physics known to mankind. This awareness transcends physical boundaries and meanders through barriers with an uncomplicated ease. Its virtuosity can scale mountains and its brilliance shines brighter than the blazing halo of summer’s yellow sun.

Every day he changes so much. He is becoming more vibrant and more insightful and with each new milestone my heart grows and swells even larger, overflowing with motherly pride.

I confess. I am a swooning sentimental wrapped in an enigma of the jejune memories of my son’s youth.

Because everything happens so fast.

Blink. My baby can smile.

Blink. My baby can laugh.

Blink. My baby can sit on his own.

Blink. My baby has two front teeth.

Blink. My sweet baby has learned to wave hello.

Like the spirally swirl of the lock of my hair that I am forever grasping and twirling, these memories of my son are forever entrenched in my mind as snapshots of his life that can be replayed and relived.

I just wish that I could freeze time and capture these memories, carefully sealing them under an airtight lid so I can savour more slowly his sweet juvenescent elixir.

Except maybe for the part where Nate decided he loves prunes.

Because the unbounded infinity of the love that I have for Nate does not even come close to the laws of physics that are being broken from the effect the prunes have on his already overly active colon.

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It’s a good thing we love each other
by Karla ° Saturday, August 4, 2007
We’re having some friends over for dinner tonight and one of the only things we can cook that doesn’t taste like the crotch crease of a sweaty pair of spandex is mozzarella-stuffed chicken breasts.

So I said to Mark this morning, “You’re going to stuff the chicken before they get here right?”

And without missing a beat he responded, “You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

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Perennial Cutie
by Karla ° Friday, August 3, 2007

My mother is an avid gardener. So is my father. Together, they spend countless hours in their yard, planting and weeding, weeding and planting. They enjoy it. It’s something they take great pride in and they have a beautiful yard to show for it.

Me on other hand, I don’t love gardening so much. And a quick glance at my yard will prove it. My grass is brown, hard and crunchy. Some spots are green, but I don’t think it is grass growing there. If I had to hazard a guess as to what the green spots are, I would bet they’re weeds.

I have two gardens in my backyard, and except for a bone or two that Samson has buried beneath the dusty earth surface, they are empty.

Those gardens will remain flowerless because I can’t seem to figure out the complicated science of a watering schedule. I mean, you would think that if you forget to water your flowers for a whole entire month that you could just give them a bunch of water when you finally remember to make up for your carelessness, but apparently, plants can drown. Who knew?

My front yard has a few hedges, but they only exist because I have to expend zero effort to keep them alive. Mark even gives them their annual trim because I am much better at doing other important yard work. Like sitting. In a chair. With a cold drink in my hands.

Although I am self admitted failure when it comes to taking care of things that requires sunshine and photosynthesis to prosper, I sincerely hope that my gardening skills do not surpass my parenting skills because I have gestated my very own little weed that needs someone to nurture and care for him. And from what I hear, my perennial cutie will be a thorn in my backside for like, at least 18 years.

Unlike gardening however, nurturing my son brings me so much joy. I love watching our family build its roots.

Maybe one day when my nest is empty I’ll try my hand at gardening again, but for now, this little weed of mine keeps me busy enough.


Which is exactly why we’re keeping the fertilizer under wraps to keep the rest of the weeds at bay if you catch my drift.

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BOP!
by Karla ° Thursday, August 2, 2007

Nate recently learned to make a new sound effect with his lips.

It kind of sounds like BOP!

It is the exact same noise that Mark makes when he shoves his biceps in my face and flexes.

Like, his limbs are so huge that any form of public display must be accompanied by noises to accentuate their exploding rippliness just in case I didn’t notice that his big giant man arms are all up in my kool-aid.

Anyhow, I have a very hard time making this noise. It requires quite a bit of concentration on my part and I’m not used to directing so much thought and energy into how my lips and jaws operate. I find it gives me a headache, which Mark knows all too well. And while I am burning all those brain cells focusing on my lips, I have to remember to wet them in there somewhere or else the BOP! noise is not possible.

I’m being totally serious here. To make this noise requires an effort of elephantine proportions.

I figure Mark learned to make this noise from all of the time he spends behind pursed lips biting his tongue from all of the time I spend insisting how right I am about everything in the whole entire universe. The BOP! sound is probably just a by-product of the tongue biting while trying to breathe through all of my hot air.

And then, the other day, Nate made the noise.

BOP!

Just like that.

And I thought it was a fluke, but then he did it again and again and again.

BOP! BOP! BOP!

Apparently, I have been outsmarted by my seven month old.

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That probably doesn't tickle
by Karla ° Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Remember all the silly things you used to say when you were little?

Yeah me neither.

But apparently, from what my mother tells me, I used to think I was an expert in the field of external male genitalia.

After she finished explaining to me what circumcision was, I promptly went to school the next day and asked my teacher if it was true that some boys are CRUCIFIED when they are born.

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