This week has been the first week in a very long time that I’ve had some down time. And I don’t want that to sound like an excuse or a complaint or whatever, it just is what it is, you know? It’s just like that old adage, when it rains it pours. I mean, I was a Stay-at-Home Mom for several years and I occasionally did some Freelance Writing and started an ever-so-slowly growing photography business and then BAM, I was contacted for a photography contract that had me rolling out of bed in the middle of the night and working full days during the week while still booking Photography sessions with my own clients EVERY WEEKEND OMG the FATIGUE of working seven days a week, day and night, night and day for months on end…ZZZZZZZZ.
Anyway, I’m not here to complain about being busy because YAWN! BORING! No, I’m here to complain about my motherfucking red eyes. If you saw someone driving down the highway with a pillowcase on their head that was probably me hiding my bruised ego.
It started over a month ago when I woke up one morning, saw myself in the mirror thought I might have pink eye, except not the kind of pink eye that is the hot shade of Schiaparelli pink that I would totally fill my closet with. No, when I say pink eye I really mean the eye of Satan. Except Satan would probably be totally hot and be all MEH if he looked liked me heading out the door to work. The only, tiny itty bitty difference being that I am not Satan and when I show up at work wearing black mule heels, wide leg pants adorned with a low-waisted skinny belt and murderous red eyes, I scare the kids, you know?
Which, to add insult to injury, my eyes are puffier than a motherfucking marshmallow!
Long story short, I went to a walk in clinic, got some antibiotics, eyes cleared up. Life is normal.
Fast-forward a month, red-eyes returned accompanied with painful swelling, both on the upper lids and lower eyes. More eye drugs. Swelling persists, blurred vision ensues and um, letters are all blurring into one another, does this post even make sense?
To date, my eyes barely focus, they are swollen, I sleep more than normal and the “special” appointment I had with an Ophthalmologist was useless. I see another eye specialist on Friday who can hopefully tell me that I can wear MAC mascara once again. Until then, I’m sacrificing my dignity and totally going to hang with Jay Kemp again for a fun afternoon of shooting photos. I have an entire post about Jay in the works because hello? He is the Director of Photography for the Discovery Channel and for reasons that I totally don’t understand, he like actually takes time out of his busy life to hang and take pics with me. We meet again on Friday and he’s promised to tell me about his recent trip to Malibu where he got to hang with Tommy Lee.
I am, like, absolutely stoked, you know, as long as he accepts that I look like a red-eyed balloon face.
Almost every morning I run into my neighbour. He’s usually outside, deep in thought and tinkering with this or that and I have to admit that of all the people we’ve met on this street, I’m going to miss him the most. He’s just one of those people who is truly genuine, you know? No strings attached, no expectations, just a really decent man that never fails to capture your attention with a fascinating story every time you cross paths
This morning, while strapping Nate in his car seat, my neighbour gave me carte blanche on his rose bush. A few months ago he let me fill my home with the fragrance of lilacs from his lilac tree.
Neighbours like him make leaving this house pretty damn hard.
Please excuse my absence over the next couple of days. I am home for a brief moment to pack comfort items for Nathan for an unknown stay in hospital isolation. Seven months after a bout of pneumonia, he has it once again and is battling an uncontrollable fever continually spiking upwards of 105 F coupled with difficulty breathing and never before seen levels of lethargy, unwellness and disinterest in even his life-long love affair with milk.
I have asked my beloved friend Beth to stop in here for the next little while. In exchange she will bring me some delicious home grown herbs, and if I'm lucky, garden grown oregano and cucumbers because friends, Beth has one hell of a green thumb.
Karla has asked me to guest post while she is off sipping cocktails and building sandcastles. Her hand trembled slightly as she handed over the keys to her blog-baby. Like an overprotective mother her only request was "Be gentle to my blog dude".
I have never guest posted before, so I should start by introducing myself. I am the friend from this post. The girlfriend who lives too far away but has managed stay close over the last 10 years via email and instant messaging.
I am most comfortable talking to people through a computer, I find it easier to be honest when the words appear in front of you instead of spilling from your mouth. That being said, I love the ability to write out a thought, then quickly backspace backspace backspace and think "I am sure glad I didn't send that one"
One of the topics that Karla and I have talked about more frequently in the past couple months is the "When are you going to have another baby?" the question that pours out of grandparents, friends, strangers lips when they see you with a small bundle of joy. The amniotic fluid isn't even dry and they are pressuring you to have another child.
My son is 8.5 months old. Born on a sunny Tuesday in May, he changed my life (as babies often do) and my opinion of babies and children alike. When I found out I was pregnant (a story that will have to wait for another time) I knew I would want more than one. Hubby felt the same way, he was raised an only child and I had siblings. We both agreed having a brother or sister was important.
So if Mommy and Daddy are both wanting another baby, when you start trying for another baby?
I got kind of freaked out when the clock struck midnight and I realized that I would be 29 in a few short months. That means that in a few short months and a year I would be thirty. My silly internal timetable said "no babies after 30" just like it said "you must be married before 25". That doesn't leave me much time to have any remaining children.
The part of me with the giant clock around her neck says "Don't be a pussy, have another baby NOW. You know what it's like to have a newborn, you can totally have a newborn and a toddler, and do it on your own five days a week while hubby is away at work, you are an amazing woman and mother" but then the rational part of me says "Are you fucking insane?"
I know I want more kids, should I just suck it up and have a few insane baby/diaper/sleepless years now? Or wait until Jr is older, and have another baby when hes like say married?
I can’t believe that an entire week has gone by since I last posted. I have so much catching up to do and I barely know where to start. In the past few weeks I have traveled half way across this province and back, completed several really great photo shoots, weathered the fallout of my child’s first official sugar high, and is it just me, or did everyone else’s kid become totally insane and suddenly refuse to eat anything but chocolate bars?
I also won $300 in free gas after winning a contest I barely remember entering. Apparently I submitted a photo and wrote a funny story about our family van. God, I drive a van. Ten years ago I would have laughed at my maternal self trying to picture that one, too.
A photo I took of one of my client's babies won an award, which I'm excited about. That client is now relishing in about a thousand dollars worth of sweet baby swag.
And this month I’m running my first official photography advertising campaign, and I’m literally swamped and drowning in work and enlisted the help of my mother to come and visit for the week.
Also, we have a very sick kid on our hands. Breathing issues. Again. I know!
Where to start? Where to start?
Maybe telling the story of my triumphant return home from my road trip is a good starting point.
Sadly, my trip was cut short. B and I were having a lazy morning catching up and gossiping: her son curled close to her breast, looking angelic under the glow of an above incandescent light while my little whirlwind devil busied himself with emptying every single jar and can from her cupboards when we heard the deep rumble of her husband’s truck pulling in the driveway echoing throughout the house signalling his return home.
“Did you guys hear about the storm on the way?”
“Storm?”
“Yeah, Winter storm.”
“You’re shitting us right?”
“No, seriously. Up to a foot of snow and severe winds are on the way right now.”
B lives in the country on a stunning 50 acres of land. While visiting, I kept glancing out of her giant picturesque window and gazing longingly into the orange and vermillion leaf-filled woods pondering growing up with a forest right outside my doorstep; a childhood filled with exploring under the sun glinted glow of a tree-topped ceiling, piling fallen trees to create secret hide-a-way forts, and when the chill of winter twists through leafless woods, a place to thread new adventures on a blanket of even white snow. Nate is growing up in a tiny fenced yard shared with a giant dog and a neon plastic slide. It’s hard not to notice the difference.
But damn, you know? I hate driving in the snow. Especially the first major snow fall of the season because even though we go through the change of seasons every single year, there are always those people who forget their brains and common sense at home and fail to slow down.
And so, to avoid winter driving conditions, I decided to leave early, and just as we pulled out of the driveway, snow had begun to fall. We arrived home to gorgeous sunny weather, narrowly escaping this scene, which B emailed me the next morning:
What we didn’t escape from, however, was that while we were gone, Samson went and got himself a severe case of separation anxiety diarrhea, and left a giant pile of shit for me in the hallway, a trail of shit in Nate’s bedroom, and another welcoming pile in the office.
And because Samson is half dog and half the size of a cow, he has enormous sized shit. Like, so enormous, I clogged the toilet cleaning up after him and narrowly missed a doggy diarrhea overflow by a fraction of a millimetre. Sighing with relief for avoiding THAT mess, I closed the lid on the toilet seat and went back to cleaning the carpets.
And all of a sudden, over the roar of the steam cleaner, I heard Nate screaming. I ran over to see what was wrong, and even though deep down I knew this was one of those moments that I could so totally tell all of his future girlfriends, I just wanted to die and go to a Heaven that did not include cleaning up shit because Nate had flushed the toilet and was standing in a stream of overflowing doggy diarrhea-filled toilet water.
Reacting, I ran to the linen closet and grabbed an arm load worth of pristine white towels to soak up the mess.
People, I now understand why my mom feels compelled to ask every time she visits why I have all white towels with a kid in the house.
Before leaving to visit B, there were a few things around the house that I wanted to take care of, so I made a small list so that I wouldn’t forget anything. Any by small list, I mean it’s a freaking miracle I was out the door by 8:00am.
I like to call this miracle caffeine.
To Do: • Grill chicken breasts for Mark's lunches • Wash Mark’s work clothes • Empty dishwasher • Reload dishwasher • Break the news to Mark that there are no more home made chocolate chip cookies left • Bathe Nate • Bathe myself • Sweep the floors • Wash the floors • Pay the bills • Balance the budget • Clean the bathrooms • Windex • Polish wood furniture • Clean kitty litter • Pick up Samson’s shit in the backyard • Charge cell phone battery • Charge camera battery • Charge flash batteries • Bake muffins for Mark’s mid-morning snack • Shop for groceries • Make sure there is plenty of frozen pizza for Mark to eat • Wash produce • Pack overnight bags • Empty diaper genie shit snake • Fill van with gas • Fill Mark’s car with gas • Take out garbage • Iron Mark’s shirts • Leave a new pair of Aussie Bum underwear on Mark’s pillow for him to add to his collection with a goal of distracting him from the fact, in my absence, he will have no one to have sex with and the dog totally knows it and will insist on some man on man cuddling and spooning in our king-sized bed • Feed the cats • Feed the dog • Give cats and dog fresh water • Chop celery into bite-sized pieces for Mark’s mid-afternoon snack • Remind Mark to make sure to let Samson out for his morning dump • Pack toothbrush • Burn music CD to drown out the inevitable whining of a toddler who, in toddler terms, will argue that this upcoming road trip requires being strapped into a carseat for ETERNITY. • Map out every single McDonald's on the way to help cope with the relentless whining and chanting from the back seat of an unnamed toddler keen on a FRY! A FRY! A FRY! A FRY! SCREEEEEEECH! A FRY!
I remember the day the Instant Message appeared on my computer screen. My girlfriend, sole holder of my deepest secrets and past soul-haunting mistakes, was pregnant. But before I could even offer my congratulations, the screen flashed with another IM explaining that there was an unexpected other man in the picture, and that she didn’t know what was going to happen to her marriage and that her world had officially flipped upside down. As we spoke I felt like a useless asshat not knowing what to do or say. So I just listened. At least that’s what I wanted to do, you know, in between sticking my foot in my mouth and saying all the wrong things.
B and I met in college. We were roommates; I was in second year Geology and she was in her first. We bonded over a common interest in the Big Bang Theory, evolution, carbon dating of four billion year old rocks and tequila.
From the outside, we’re polar opposites. B knows how to cook, has a smoking hot figure and a face so stunning she does not even need a speck of makeup. Me? I spent my college years relying on microwavable food parcels from home while simultaneously starving myself to be thin and never left my suite, not even for a cigarette, without mascara and lip gloss.
Over the years, despite the incredible distance between us, we’ve kept in touch. We both married our high school sweethearts and although we visit each other when we can, it’s not often enough.
B delivered her baby, a gorgeous, healthy son, in the most beautiful and natural home birth imaginable. Her son is adorable and strong and a child that knows nothing but the intensity of a mother’s and a father’s love, and tomorrow morning, Nate and I are going on a very lengthy road trip to visit my long time friend.
I imagine this long overdue gathering will include extended soul-quenching walks through her deeply-wooded property and plenty of soul-opening conversations over abundantly free flowing wine. It's a girls only sleepover, except for the two young men who'll be in attendance. But until they learn to stop pooping their pants and to pick up after themselves, then, as far as I’m concerned, naptime is a perfectly reasonable opportunity to crack open that wine.
It has been almost three yeas since we've said goodbye to Ava. Some days, it feels like I have lived an entire lifetime since that tragic day, and other days, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was 38 weeks pregnant and obliviously naïve to the fact that my entire Universe was about to be shifted off its axis and flipped upside down.
It’s hard to find steady ground in the nebulous trenches of grief. It is infinitely vast, hollow, and gut wrenchingly painful. I can’t even begin tell you how many times I collapsed to my knees from the intensity of the heartache and screamed until my body was not capable of screaming anymore.
For me, part of the process of healing and finding breathing space amidst the claustrophobic grip of grief was, and continues to be, from the kindness of the Internet. I know I have said this before, but I truly believe that on the tapestry of humanity, each of us represents a thread, and that we are all carefully woven and interconnected in an intricate blueprint of strength of survival. Honestly, I don’t even know where I would be today without the strength of words and the kind, empathetic well wishes of others through this unified online collective.
Friends, I have something very important to ask of you. A very dear friend of mine, Jen, has just lost her six week old baby girl, Sadie, and my heart feels crushingly heavy for her and her family. Babies are meant to be held, rocked and fiercely protected, and the sheer cruelty of this Universe is beyond anything I will ever comprehend.
Please keep her and her family in your thoughts. And maybe, just maybe, the hammer of grief will ease, even if but for a moment, so that they too can find a small pocket of air to breathe amongst our united wishes of sympathy and compassion.
A little while ago, Nicki composed and dedicated a song for my sweet baby Ava. Clinging to my memories of Ava is all I have left of her, and Nicki created something beautiful and elegant to help keep her memory alive. Excessively grateful seems like an understatement.
She offered to send me a copy of the CD and imagine my surprise when an oversized box arrived on my doorstep, clearly far too heavy to contain just a single disk. Inside that box were several beautifully wrapped gifts.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much of an open book my life is here in this small corner of the Internet, and I was completely floored over the amazing amount of thoughtfulness that Nicki put into finding these gifts for Nate and me. I mean, I know she said she went back and read every single post in my archives, but I assumed she meant, you know, some of them, because seriously, even I cringe at the thought of reading about the past four years of my life.
Somewhere in the dusty corners of those archives I've mentioned how much I love to run, hate to cook, and that Lindt chocolate and fruit are some of my most favourite foods ever, and then Nicki went and found gifts that define this family to a T, including, genius of all things ingenius, orange and pear flavoured Lindt chocolate. And while inhaling that chocolate, a small piece of me soared all the Heaven, where I remained until it was gone, at which point I floated back down to Planet Earth and sulked for more.
The CD with Ava’s song, Nate’s new shape-stacking train, his bib emblazoned with inspiring marathon cheers, my new, er, lack of cooking abilities book, and um, all the missing chocolate have hit a sweet spot in my heart, and I'm so humbled to have been subjected to such overwhelming kindness.
I just wish I had Go-Go-Gadget arms long enough reach out and hug her.
I spent all my all my college years living in Residence. In hindsight, I’m not sure how my natural tendency for quiet solitude managed to survive amongst the constant buzz of inebriated banter and loud-mouthed freshmen, but maybe the act of being perpetually drunk myself masked how much I hated the never-ending pile of dirty dishes, including the one time a guy from across the hall came and used the tub in my suite to do his dishes because his sink and tub were already being used for said dish cleaning purposes.
My stay in Residence has certainly left me with some rather startling memories, including scrubbing a friend’s vomit from a puke-stained carpet and an exploding BBQ propane tank that resulted in a towering inferno of fire deathly close to my bedroom because someone, well, I don’t know? Because someone left a smouldering cigarette on the ground after grilling up some beef? This still seems rather fishy and unlikely to me.
The fire, although narrowly missing the Residence building, was rather unforgiving in its angry wrath, and swallowed the bike shed whole that night. My two-wheeled mode of transportation, and means of fulfilling weekly responsibilities, like shopping for groceries, was nothing but a charred, gray-black hunk of metal by the time the fire was put out.
For all the downsides to Residence living, I did take away some amazing lifelong friendships. In my freshman year of College, I met Colin. We were both lover of rocks and the deep earth history they reveal, collectors of mineral specimens, and awkwardly nervous about being away from home for the first time.
Colin and I both lived on the same floor in our Residence building. Each floor had four suites, two for girls, and two for boys, and each suite had six private rooms, two washrooms, a kitchen, and a small common living area. Now, you would think with all of that personal space, Colin would have found somewhere to leave his dirty socks, but no. The guy basically lived in my suite, and one night he pulled his socks off his feet and left them right on top of the kitchen table. Where people put their plate, containing food, that they put in their mouth.
I think that fleeting instant of disgust was also the moment our brotherly/sisterly friendship began.
Colin left school a few months later, realizing that Geology wasn’t where his heart was, but we have kept in touch over the years.
He now lives downtown Toronto, unswayable in his desire to be a city dweller and at the center of it all, while I have found my place in a quiet corner of suburbia, content inside my brick-lined house, away from it all. Whenever he’s in town though, we make a point of getting together, but now instead of who can drink the most beer without falling flat on their face, we meet for steaming mugs of coffee during the early morning hours of the weekend that, ten years ago, would have made us cringe.
Every Christmas, we get together for hot chocolate and drive aimlessly through the city looking at Christmas lights, and every couple of weeks, we spend hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything and oh my god, remember that time we baked a Fruit Flan together? And what about the time you drank so much that you fell face first onto the pavement. Boy, those were the days, eh?
Two years ago, Colin made a life changing decision, and quit his full time career to go back to school for Environmental Engineering. I think that takes guts, to say, hey, I’m not happy doing what I’m doing, and I want a better future for myself, and our planet. I admire that. And sometimes, a small part of me silently yearns for the thrill of all the fresh opportunities and new adventures in front of him. He works hard, plays hard, and appreciates the value of true friendship even harder.
Colin is a sweet, gentle soul. He is like the big brother that I never had, and as we sipped our coffee last weekend, I couldn’t help but wonder where the past 11 years have gone. We are both totally different people, yet exactly the same people, all at the same time.
Except maybe for that one time during frosh week when we were totally plastered and I dared him to wear women’s clothes, and he did.
Back when I got my new Canon Rebel XTi camera in December, a phenomenally awesome professional photojournalist and photographer left an email address where I could contact her if I had any questions.
And because I was all thumbs and found myself just staring at all the buttons and gizmos until my eyes crossed and the camera became a giant black blur of confusion, I sent her email.
From weddings to babies, her professional photography business, Milestone Images, showcases her wickedly talented work. Not to be missed is the 'Trash the Dress' section. After I got over the intial shock of brides frolicking in the ocean in a wedding dress, I have decided that I love this idea. Because seriously, my wedding dress is sitting in a box somewhere, sepia-tinged with age, and I’m quite certain that I will never, ever, fit in it again.
The idea of lying on a white-sand beach, in a flowy white wedding dress, while the dynamic energy of the ocean brushes against your toes sounds whimsically romantic and passionate, no?
Do tell, would you, or have you done this?
I also recommend that you read her guest answer to a question on Alphamom.com for Amalah’s Advice Smackdown on Photo-Friendly Cosmetics, because raise your hand if you have ever been the victim of mysterious forehead grease or a blown-out ghost face in photographs?
That's what I thought.
In the article, she also addresses how to avoid being photographed with a double chin and assures us that our chins are lovely.
Angie is hilariously entertaining, engaging and super witty. She is also a fountain of professional knowledge and talent. Her feedback has been invaluable*, and while I have barely scratched the tip of the photography iceberg, she has definitely given me lots of stuff to run with and it no longer feels so lonely and cold out here in my birthday suit.
If she hadn't already pledged her love to someone else, and I wasn’t already married with a kid in tow, I would totally ask her to marry me.
Swooning!
Thanks Angie!
* No warranties are being made, expressed or implied, that Angie's help means I am any good at taking pictures. Just like having kids, in theory it all makes sense, but in practice, it’s a lot harder than it looks.
On Friday night, a dear friend of mine and her husband drove several hours to visit and meet Nate.
Much of this whole mothering thing has not come naturally to me and since they are expecting their first baby, I thought I would pawn off some diaper duty to the new momma because, you know, practice for her, less work for me.
I remember feeling completely embarrassed the first time I changed Nate’s diaper. I had never changed a diaper in my entire life. It was a meconium poop too, which meant that it looked distinctly similar to a chemistry experiment of tar and negatively charged sewage ions gone bad. And by gone bad, I mean exploding chemical warfare.
Since Nate still had wires attached to his body, I had absolutely no idea how I would actually manoeuvre around everything without getting poop everywhere. Because really, the last thing a baby living in a bubble of an incubator on CPAP needs is mother who flings germ infested poop all over.
Somehow I managed though. But barely. Because had someone not pointed out to me that I was putting his diaper on upside down and backwards, that kid may still be wearing a diaper on his head.
My friend though? She’s a natural. She had his diaper changed in about two second flat.
I also remember feeling all thumbs holding my baby, but she held and interacted with Nate like she had already birthed and raised an entire brigade of pint sized humans.
Nate must have felt very at ease with her motherly grace because at one point while he was sitting on her lap, he nonchalantly reached over and cupped his tiny little palm over her breast. Just like that. Like it was the most natural place in the world to rest his busy little baby fingers.
This is the photo she snapped while Nate copped a feel of her boobs.
If that is not a look of pure joy, then I don’t know what is.
Nate went to his first little kid birthday party yesterday.
Considering there were many new faces that he had never seen before, he only cried once when we got there and saw all the people and that is when I decided to break out the almost fool-proof method of cracking a smile on his face through even the most bescreechingly foul of moods.
Getting him to stop crying in the way that I did is not something I love doing publicly because it involves me looking like a total idiot, but I would publicly humiliate myself any day to stop baby tears from streaming.
The reason I feel a bit self conscious doing it in public is not because I have to lift him up in the air and make a face so alarmingly funny looking that only my very own child could love, it has more to do with the very high pitched Boink! Boink! Boink! that he loves to hear when he is up above my head because you must say it very loudly and you must say it like you really mean it.
I was well into exclaiming how much I really meant those Boink! Boink! Boinks! when I realized that Mark was pointing in my direction and introducing me as his wife, which probably translated into a first impression somewhere along the lines of mild insanity, but at least Nate stopped crying and I could walk over and pump their hand with (hopefully) enough firmness and vigour to confirm my identity as an adult.
The party was positively the largest celebration I have ever seen for a two year old. There were balloons and presents and enough food and juice to feed an entire brigade of ankle-biters. There was even a huge pool for them to burn off all their energy in, which is very clever because although it is bucket loads of fun to watch your body move in slow motion under water, operating under those perplexing laws of physics is very fatiguing.
So while the kids enjoyed their sugar-induced buzzes, the grown-ups enjoyed their adult beverage-induced buzzes and I must admit, the idea of sipping a grown-up drink by the poolside sounded oh so heavenly, but this pesky breastfeeding gig keeps getting in the way of catching an afternoon summer buzz these days.
I kid! I kid!
There is absolutely nothing wrong with sipping sugary fruit punch and eating your entire body weight twice over in strawberries and pineapples and birthday cake to compensate.
Yesterday was a big day for Nate and me. It was the first time in his entire five months of existence that I ventured out of the house with him in tow for an entire day.
Nate had his first train ride, and I had my first experience breastfeeding in public on a train filled with people. Would it sound weird if I called it liberating? Because it was.
Nate got to stroll along Bay Street and see his first sky scrappers while I reminisced over my former life working in a skyscraper. I do not miss it one bit.
Nate got to people watch and I got to spend an entire day shopping even though I did not spend one penny because so is the life of being a hypocrite cheapskate that can justify $110 for a pair of lululemon pants but not the purchase of a new pair of sandals to replace the only bedraggled pair that I own that are now five years old.
Nate got to meet Heather. Heather and I met a few months back when her business travels brought her to Toronto and I’m so glad she was able to find the time to meet up again so I could introduce her to Nate.
She also came bearing a gift for Nate. Seeing that we plan on putting our house fixer upper skills to work, she brought him a plush toy hammer that makes a big crashing sound when you bang it. Which is exactly what we predict will happen to our wide screen when Nate starts walking.
I would post a photo of her snuggling with Nate, but I forgot to ask permission if I can plaster her picture on my website. So instead I will post the family photo she took for us.
Nate was a perfect angel all day until we got the restaurant and he realized that he forgot his horns and pitchfork at home.
I received one of the most delightful and touching gifts in the mail yesterday. Canadian author and columnist Ann Douglas sent me a book called Someday by Alison McGhee.
It is the most heartwarming story of a mother’s hopes and dreams for her baby as she grows and experiences life to become her own person from the day she "watched snowflakes melt on her baby's skin" to "the day her child’s hair glows silver in the sun".
It's so gossamer and delicately written and full of a mothers love and desire for her child to experience life to its fullest that I couldn’t help but feel more weepy and emotional with every turn of the page of this tender and moving rendition of a mothers dreams for her child coming full circle.
So thank you Ann. The book is perfect and will be forever treasured.
And as far as Nate’s recent decline on the percentile charts? If I did calorie burning aerobics like this all day, I would be all skeletal-like and look lost in my clothes too!
My friend Jen recently moved to England and I can’t even begin to explain how much I admire her sense of adventure. Jen and I used to work together and let me tell you, that gal is loads of fun to be with. I would love to tell you stories about all the fun we used to have, but they usually involved drinking too much red wine with funny names like Lilly Pilly and Fat Bastard and then me getting pushed home in a shopping cart, and that makes me a very embarrassed.
Jen had to take an unexpected flight back to Canada because one of her friends died suddenly. I’m so very sad for her right now. I never quite know what to say when someone dies, which is funny, because one of my very own kids died so you would think I would be all svelte and smooth and comfortable with the whole death thing, but it still makes my head spin with sadness when someone’s life is so cruelly cut short and there just aren’t words in the English language that seem fitting other than I’m So Very Sorry. And even then, they seem so inadequate when compared to the overwhelming grief she is feeling.
Despite her hectic schedule, she is coming over today to meet Nate and maybe, just maybe, his balding little cherub head will be able to put a smile on her gorgeous face.
Where else can I get virtually instantaneous feedback to ease my overly paranoid brain and receive confirmation that I have birthed a run of the mill standard kidlet when it comes to his combustible bum rocket and spit up habits? Thank you for the advice, truly. I like the feeling or normalcy.
I also must thank two very special blog friends of mine for the wonderful gifts I recently received.
Cuppa has sent me an adorable figurine to represent my December baby along with the cutest little bibs. As a mom to a Christmas baby as well, Cuppa understands how special it is to have a birth at that time of year. Although we have never met, I have “known” Cuppa since December of 2004. In fact, I believe it was her husband, AC’s blog, that was the first blog I became fan of.
When Ava died, Cuppa connected with me and stood by my side sending encouraging emails and special surprises to my door step. Her support and compassion was pivotal to my healing and I do not know a single person on this planet that I have never met in real life that I hold so much adoration and respect for. The pedestal she stands on is mighty high. She is such an extraordinary and inspirational lady.
And speaking of extroardinary people - Heather has sent me these two wonderful gifts. Heather and I have had the fortunate opportunity to meet in real life and as someone who has also experienced the traumatic loss of a child; we shared an instant bond and connection. I considered Heather to be one of the most grounded humans ever, until she took flight and went sky diving, and then I thought she was the bravest human ever with a unique way of surrounding your entire being with kindness and warmth. She has just returned from a second trip to Africa on a mission to end hunger. If you haven’t read about her journey, you are missing out.
Marisa over at city mouse tees has so kindly sent my whole family gifts. The baby yoga set is quite the serious accoutrement of rapturous cuteness.
And of course, I couldn’t end this without sending my sincere thank you to the unending flow of emails I have received congratulating my family on Nate’s birth. Thank you for your kindness. I’m still working at responding to each and every one of them, so please don’t feel slighted if you haven’t received a response.
I don’t know what I did to deserve such an outpouring of tear-jerking kindness, but my heart is inflated and deeply touched. Truly, thank you.
When I found out that Ann Douglas would be in Ajax last night at Chapters for a book signing, I knew I just had to meet her. Ann is the author and mastermind behind the Mother of All Series of books as well the author of countless other bestselling books on pregnancy and parenting. She is a columnist for Glow, Cahoots and many other magazines, the expert behind the WebMD blog called Pregnant Pause and countless other online articles, radio and TV segments and goodness knows what else I have missed. Her most profound work for me has been a book called Trying Again: A Guide to Pregnancy After Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss. As someone who has experienced her own loses, including miscarriage and a daughter born still, Ann has managed to capture with much delicate empathy the emotionally challenging rollercoaster ride of emotions that a couple faces when they decide to start trying for another baby after a loss.
For me, the decision to become pregnant again after losing Ava was easy. I wanted to become pregnant as soon as possible but was strictly advised to wait at least nine months before trying to conceive again to give my body the optimal 18 months of healing between pregnancies, particularly after having a c-section. For Mark however, the decision was not as easy, and when the nine month waiting period was up and I was ready to start trying for another baby, he wasn’t. I remember feeling like a cosmic 2x4 had rammed me in the back of the head when he met my optimism for new life with resistance. The shock was overwhelming and I was devastatingly crushed because I had just spent almost a year of my life waiting for one of the most important things in the world ever to me and when the green light to proceed came, he hit the brakes.
I felt misunderstood, he felt misunderstood and somehow we let the newfound closeness and bond that had developed between us after losing Ava slowly drift us apart. It got the point where I didn’t even want him to touch me despite how lonely and alone I felt knowing our child bearing efforts were going nowhere.
I’m so happy to have finally met the woman behind the words that helped my husband and I find the courage to work through our fears, hopes and concerns together while embarking on the difficult journey of pregnancy after a loss.
Although I’ll never forget how truly helpful her wisdom and written words have been, I’ll also never forget the kindness, warmth and charisma that she also exudes in person.
On Monday of this week, my baby scored perfectly on his biophysical profile ultrasound and it’s been determined that he weighs in ahead of his unborn peers at a staggering 2lbs already. Also, my placenta has shimmied every so slightly from the opening of my cervix.
On Tuesday, I met Heather downtown Toronto for a morning gab fest over hot chocolate veiled in savory whip cream and chai lattes. The first thing I noticed about her was her serene ocean blue eyes. Emanating warmth and kindness, they captivate your heart and wrap it in a blanket of warm fuzziness. Her spoken words are rich and meaningful, and she is so grounded and level headed that she makes me look like a babbling bubble of hot air floating the skies in aimless circles to nowhere by comparison. I’m so happy she was able to find the time in her busy schedule to meet up with me.
The Bad
My placenta is still too close to my cervix to make labour or delivery safe at this point. A c-section is still medically required so I don’t hemorrhage and lose my body’s blood supply faster than the collapse of Enron on the stock market.
My home scale is a deceitful bastard and I have gained more weight than it has let on.
The Very Ugly
A taxi cab rear ended me early this morning while I was stopped a red light. After a scary morning of monitoring at the hospital, I am now on high alert for signs of a placental abruption. My neck is a bit sore, and I have a headache that won’t go away, but the part that hurts the worst is my crushed heart. My baby has such a slight chance of survival outside the womb at this point if he needs to be born. The next few hours and days will either reveal nothing is wrong, or become a living nightmare of a premature baby’s struggle for survival.
This incident is yet another football kick in the temple to remind me how motherfucking frightening pregnancy can be and how helplessly out of control I feel.
I just hope the legacy of this, my third baby, does not end in a third loss.
