8 Seconds, the Mini Version

Eve is 13 months old and finally walking. She's been able to walk for over a month, but now she's doing it all of her own free will. It's hilarious.

Arms extended, legs straight, wobbling to the left and to the right, she makes her way down hallways, between dogs and over toys. A couple of bolts sticking out of her neck and an underbite, and she's ready for Hallowe'en. She's even got the same haircut as Frankenstein.

We've also learned, with the help of a certain Uncle, how to climb onto the rocking chair and rock back and forth as hard as possible. I was in the kitchen cleaning (shocking), when I realized that it was just a little too quiet in the living room. I just about fell over when I saw Eve riding the rocking chair like a bucking bronco. She's scared to sit on her mini plush rocking horse, but she's a future mechanical bull-rider when it comes to the rocking chair.

Instead of telling her "No", I am focussing on teaching her how to dismount the rocking chair without injury.

If you happen to stop over to my house and you see a Mini Frankenstein walk by wearing chaps and a bike helmet, you'll know that I have my reasons, people. Please don't judge me.

Moshi, Moshi?

One of my greatest friends hails from the Land of the Rising Sun. The Japanese are humble, proper, crazy human beings. I have enjoyed sharing some of my friend's Japanese traditions with my daughter. She owns two kimono and her name hangs above her crib, written in professional Japanese calligraphy. She has showered us with heartfelt gifts and friendship over the years, and has shared her culture with our family. Our lives are better for having Fumiko.

We Canadians say, "Hello?" when we answer a call, but the Japanese have a special hello reserved just for these occasions. One day Fumiko said, "I can't wait until Eve can say, 'Moshi, Moshi?' when I call". Ok, we're on it. Like a cheap lounge singer in a smokey bar, we are now taking requests.

The telephone answering greeting has evolved from, "Ahhhh?" to "Hahhhh!" to "Hiiiiiii", to "Mo' Mo'". No, Eve, "momo" in Japanese means peaches. That's not the nickname I wish for you to have.

I think that the "-shi" part of "moshi, moshi?" is going to be a tough one, linguistically speaking. We're just going to have to be patient until then.

We were at a friend's baptism and my cell phone vibrated. It was in my purse, on the pew, and it buzzed just enough so that Eve could hear it. She put her hand to her ear and looked at me and said, "Mo! Mo!".

If you call me, and I answer, "Moshi, Moshi?", I haven't landed in the loony bin yet. I am simply trying to encourage a special multi-lingual treat for a special friend.

What DOES an Elk say?

Daddy's a hunter. In our house hangs evidence of elk, moose, bear, caribou and deer. In our freezer it's much the same story. We eat Moose-a-dillas, strogan-elk, and various other versions of the standard family favourites. Wild meat is something that is consumed in our house on a semi-regular basis. I think there's something primal and satisfying in watching your family eat that which you have killed. When we first started dating, I was presented an offering of breast from a grouse that was just shot, and mushrooms that were picked that afternoon. It was a "chicken" stirfry to remember.

When people are coming to our house for the first time and ask for directions, I tell them the street name and then say, "It's the one with the moose rack in the carport. You can't miss it."

When we were preparing the nursery for the impending arrival of the little munchkin, we decorated the walls with teddy bear versions of sheep head mounts and bear skin rugs. In the stairwell hang the real things.

Which brings me to our little princess, who is starting to learn animal sounds. Her daddy used to tenderly pluck her from her crib after her nap, and walk her down the stairs, pointing at the animals and telling her their names. "That's a caribou. That's an elk."

For those of you who are not familiar with the sound of an elk bugling, I can only describe it as a shrill, throaty shriek. Perhaps it's not the sound you would expect to come from a beast as grand as the elk. It does, however, translate into a nice high pitched yell when imitated by a one-year-old girl.

While most North American kidlets start off with "Cow says Moo, Chicken says Bok Bok", our daughter will shriek on command when you ask her about her favourite animal... the elk.

She does a mean chicken too, but it's just not as impressive or original.

Here's Your F'n Birthday Cake

Me: "What kind of cake do you want?"

Him: "I don't need a cake."

Me: "Well, I KNOW you don't NEED a cake. But what kind of cake do you WANT?"

Him: "Don't worry about a cake."

Can I get away with this? Can I omit a cake for his birthday? What message does this send to the world? To his inner psyche? No, dammit, I must provide cake. Plus, let's face it, who doesn't like cake?

Me: "No, we have to have a cake. We have people coming for your birthday supper."

Him: "OK. Black forest cake."

Me: "Do you want a home made black forest cake or a bakery black forest cake?" Please say bakery, please say bakery.

Him: "One from the bakery. Do people even MAKE black forest cake? I've never heard of a home made black forest cake."

Nor will you ever, my friend. Nor will you ever.

I dodged a bullet there.

The other day he wanted chicken pot pie. OK. I can do this. Chicken pot pie, you say?

My kid doesn't sleep for a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the afternoon. It's pretty random and it varies day to day. Even if I put her down to nap at the same times each day, some days it's only a cat nap. Some days it's full-on slumber.

So here I am, rolling out pastry with a kid on my back in her MEC back carrier (thanks Courtney).

The chicken pot pie was delicious. We loved it. Deep down I cursed the fact that he was working and didn't get to witness the monumental struggle to get the damn pot pie into the oven.

Next time he wants chicken pot pie, it could very well be Swanson's.

*note: To soften the blow of these stressful culinary incidences, I like to casually tell people what I am making for dinner that night. "Yeah, I made a home made chicken pot pie for dinner." No big deal.

Mother, I'm Not Simple-- I Just Can't Talk Yet

At the tender age of 12 months and 24 days, my daughter can tell me entire sentences without technically saying a word.

Years ago, I heard of babies that could sign before they could talk. This whole idea enthralled me and I always thought that if I ever had kids, I would love to teach them sign language.

While I was expecting, I was waddling through Babies R Us. I waited in line to use the bathroom/"Family Room" for what seemed like FOREVER. On a book shelf was a book about baby sign language. I waffled back and forth on whether I should buy it. I had already bought several books about babies and pregnancy. Did I really need another one? I am painfully cheap, but that's a whole other blog. Get over it, Stacey. Buy the damn book.

We started with a few basic signs. The big one, was of course, "milk". When it's your only food source, this one little word can express hunger, thirst and comfort. Today we have a limited but vital vocabulary of signs. We are trying to keep it simple and effective.

This morning my daughter signed, "More milk please." It's downright baffling. When speaking her version of each word, it comes out more like, "Mo' mmmmi zuzeez", but when these words are accompanied by sign language, there is absolutely no doubt in what she is trying to say.

It's giving us a clearer window of understanding into her language development. We have invested minimal effort in this "project", and have enjoyed the return immeasurably.

I encourage everybody to pick up a book and learn a few signs. You will not be disappointed.

I expect that when she is a teenager, she may yearn to give me a few choice gestures, but by then it won't be cute or amazing anymore.

If It Really WAS a Genie, There Would Be No Dirty Diapers at All

I was apprehensive at best whilst carrying the child. What would motherhood be like? How tired WOULD I be? How would I manage to balance the housework and the cooking and the errands and the sleeping and the baby-tending? Did I have time to scrape dirty diapers and then wash them? More accurately, was I willing to devote precious time to such a task? The answer was a resounding, "Heck, NO".

There is no diaper service in this town. When someone told us that it would be a great business venture, the hubby laughed/choked.

Enter the Genie. It has been THE BEST, most frequently used piece of baby-related paraphernalia, hands down. We bought the Diaper Genie II after reading reviews. My only complaint about the Diaper Genie II is the fact the refills are pricey. We stock up when we see them for $5 each. But walking into the room where our kid sleeps and NOT smelling you-know-what is worth it to me.

When you are emptying the Genie, be mindful of assaulting yourself with a massive puff of air from the bag. Like a friend of mine said, "My husband says it's like someone letting a massive fart go right in your face".

I cut up the rings off the top of 6-packs so that some bird doesn't get entangled. I am getting a composter for fruit and vegetable peels. I donate unwanted shoes and clothes before I throw them out. Dear environment, please give me this one frivolous massive deposit. I'll get ya next time.

Apparently, One is NOT the Loneliest Number, Harry Nilsson

Do you know that song? "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do...."?

We recently celebrated my baby's 1st birthday. It was special. It was memorable. It was the greatest day ever, because of the people who love her and lined up to show it.

We had 65 well-wishers. Yes, you heard me right. 65. Have you ever seen that show on TV called "Party Moms"? Crazy over-involved mothers spend thousands upon thousands of dollars to please their spoiled princesses, trying to keep up with the Joneses. This, however, was not the case of the birthday of Eve.

Of those 65 guests, fifty-something of them were family. This family is huge and crazy and fun and close. It was a blast.

One of Eve's grandmas owns a restaurant, so we held the party in the restaurant during the daytime when it was closed. Cousins and aunties decorated, a friend made a fantastic Hello Kitty cake, and the hostess/grandma cooked. The mommy ran around like a crazy fool, and the Daddy got called to work and didn't make it. 65 people and no Daddy!!!!!

You can say, "no gifts", but really, people will still bring gifts. We have a small house. We certainly do not feel the need to be collecting 30 or more gifts for a one-year-old. This child's toy box is already bursting at the seams. I would sit on it to close it like I would an over-stuffed suitcase, but there would be a myriad of "Tickle-Me-Elmo" giggling, "Yoo-ki-doo" singing (a Yoo-Ki-Doo is a mechanically snail, btw), Alphabet Duck reciting, and Sheep Bah-ing.

I laid awake trying to figure out how to tactfully ask people to donate money to the Haiti Relief fund in lieu of a gift. It just wasn't coming together. I asked my one friend who is the expert on "Is this weird?". I could tell that she thought it was weird.

So here is the solution that I came up with: I requested to the mother of each little one (under 5 years old) that instead of a gift, they bring an age-appropriate child's book. Instead of a goodie bag full of choking hazards, each child would leave the party with a book to enjoy at home. It was a hit. Before we opened gifts, I played Santa Claus and walked around with an arm load of gift-wrapped books.

Each baby opened up their very own book and was easily entertained while Eve opened her presents.

The party was on Good Friday, so we hid some Kinder Surprise eggs for the older kids, which kept them busy too. The party was HUGE, but it was simple and it was fun. Hot dogs, Pizza, Fruit Kabobs and cake. We're simple folk.

Eve's 1st birthday was one of the happiest days of my life. She was surrounded by people who care about her. Friends came from Victoria. Family came from Calgary. They all made the trip to show her that they want to be part of her life. I took that little girl in my arms and walked around the room with her, and I watched her face intently as she realized that she recognized each and every person in the room. She has so many relationships with so many great people already. This brought tears to my eyes.

We are so lucky.

Next year, I'm flingin' the kid a Hot n' Ready pizza with a candle in it.

Dear Health Canada, You're Killin' Me

Feeding your baby is the most natural thing in the world. So it should happen naturally, right? WRONG.

In the magazines and complimentary books published and distributed by our tax dollars, the new mother is cradling the new bundle of joy at her bosom with a look of serenity. She looks far away into the distance, cherishing the most beautiful and intimate bond between mother and child. Somehow this just doesn't equate to me, with purple bags under my eyes and a haggard ponytail/bun atop my head, juggling the baby from side to side and wincing in pain.

Throughout the pregnancy, one is bombarded with the sentiment that "Breast Is Best". The pressure to nurse is intense. I fully understand that nursing your baby is beneficial to the child both physically and emotionally. But if it's so darn important, why didn't anyone tell me that it would be the most difficult part of being a new mom?

I read books. I looked up information online. I watched video animations of faceless cartoon babies latching efficiently onto their mothers. For us, it was just not so simple.

Thinking back to all of those times in my life that I felt sorry for the women whose nipples always showed right through their t-shirts, I now realize that there is a great equilibrium in life. Sure, they cursed their fashion challenges revolving around their pointy nipples, but when it came time to feed their babies, they had 'er made in the shade.

I don't feel the need to elaborate in detail the challenges that I faced during the nine months that I nursed my daughter. I mean, let's be honest. There's a limit to graphic content that even I must respect. I will say, however, that if you have sat in agony while nursing your baby, maybe even cried during the feedings, and had your own personal battles of temptation to give up, you are not alone.

Eve's dad came to me with a bottle of formula and practically begged me to give in. It was tough to watch us struggle. I refused to give up. There was, to date, nothing in my life that I really really wanted to do that I had given up on. I wasn't about to start now.

It took me about four months to get to the point where feeding the baby became "routine". Up until then, it was a big ordeal. Then one day I realized that it was working, and it was not a monumental task as it had been in the past. Feeding the baby 8-10 times a day for 4 months equals about 450 times. Maybe sheer repetition was on my side.

Once the kid grew her bottom teeth, there was wincing. Once the top teeth came in, there was pinching which eventually evolved to biting. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the end of nursing for this mom.

We went till nine months. Health Canada recommends to breastfeed until the age of "2 years or longer".

Ahem.

What A Let Down

Have you ever heard that the sound of a crying baby can cause your milk to "let down"? Apparently the female body is wired to provide milk to the distraught and hungry children of the world. Just ask Salma Hayek.

This phenomenon of random involuntary let down was one that stayed in the back of my mind throughout my days of nursing. I was terrified of having an "accident" somewhere.

I decided to get a much-needed hair cut one day. I left the baby at home with her Daddy and headed to my regular salon to my buddy/stylist. It was great to see her. We visited and laughed as she non-judgmentally combed out my one big dreadlock that had formed over the last 5 months of wearing a ponytail 24/7. Eve's Auntie also worked at that salon so it was nice to sit and socialize and not wipe any noses or bums.

As we chatted, my stylist said to me, "Is it just me, or did I just hear a baby crying?" I too had heard the sound of a baby and wondered if I was just going crazy. I had been away from my kid before and thought I had heard her crying. It's yet another weird motherhood-related phenomenon.

"I heard it too," I said, "and it sounded like Eve." We shushed and strained to listen for the source of our hallucinations. We heard it again.

Eve's Auntie was in the staff room showing video of Eve on her Blackberry. This isn't the first time that family has made me look crazy, but that's a whole other blog.

I left the salon with my dread-free head held high, my wallet forty dollars lighter, and a warm sensation in my chest from comraderie and laughter.

My shirt was dry. I recommend the Lansinoh breast pads. They're thin and discreet. Some of the other brands have an anatomically correct nipple built into them which I find to be weird. I mean, just one more thing I have to worry about-- do my breasts look googley-eyed?

The Best Things in Life Are Either Immoral, Illegal, or Fattening

Having a baby IS, by far, THE best thing in life.

With Eve's first birthday approaching within a matter of days, I woefully look to my waistline and think, "Damn, did I look good..." in all of those B.B. (Before Baby) pictures. At the time they were taken, I thought I was about 10-15 lb overweight (which I was), but these days, 10-15 lb overweight would be a dream.

I'm not complaining. I'm eating homemade macaroni and cheese as I type this. It's just the new reality of my life.

I remember when Eve turned 4 months old and I thought to myself, "When does the phrase 'I just had a baby' no longer hold water? What is the definition of 'just'?" Well I am pretty sure 'just' doesn't apply to a year ago.

I spent the majority of my professional life in the rag trade. I started out selling clothes in little shops and ended my career (to date) as a buyer for 2 retail stores. Body image has been my living.

My second job in the industry was at a little old ladies' dress shop. When customers would come in, I would try to tactfully figure out what size they needed, and more often than not, there would be a comment such as, "I USED to be your size", "Just wait until you have children (in a voice of impending doom)", or "Enjoy it now because after you have kids, it's all downhill". There was clearly an underlying disdaine regarding the whole subject. Ladies, I get it.

Some moms have figured out how to have it all. One local 30-something had her child and then went on to win some Miss Fitness Canada pageant thing. To her I say, kudos. But just so you know, my burger was so very delicious.

My weight has never been a huge issue for me. I was blessed with an above average metabolism and have pretty much taken advantage of it for my entire life. Now is the real test since it seems that between having a baby, being only 1 week away from my 35th birthday, and struggling to shop and prep healthy food on a daily basis, I'm gonna have to dig in. And not into this macaroni cheese.

I shall therefore slot this whole experience under the category of Fattening. For now.

Whisper Me This

Back in the day, when a "woman" was expecting a baby, things were a LOT different. I use the quotation marks because child-bearing age was 16, 17, 18 years old. Now I look at 16-year olds who are members of upstanding neighbourhood families and ask myself if they are capable of babysitting. It's nothing against the teens. Like every generation before me, I thought to myself, 'Times have changed', which proves that I have crossed the bridge to old.

Women are having babies once their careers are established, their houses purchased, their men earning, and their spines already compressing (I heard that after age 30 we start to get shorter). In exchange for the reservoir of youthful exuberance, we have been armed with information overload. We have access to so much information about pregnancy and childbirth that it is flat-out overwhelming to the first-time expectant mother. I made a conscious decision to limit the amount of reading and research that I conducted into this whole experience. Between the books about eating, feeding, exercising, labouring, weaning, teething,... ECH. I needed to save my sanity.

One fellow pregnant friend over-did it, by her own admission. Too much reading led to conflicting information which led to having to make her own decision in the end anyway. There is only one topic that I regret not resarching more extensively, which is nursing, but in the end it all worked out, which is what I figured would happen. I'm not knockin' the Baby Whisperer. I haven't read any of her books. But my friend did mention that the Baby Whisperer says to follow your own instincts. So I just didn't see the point in reading a book that told you to do what you think you should do. I mean, if this is indeed the moral of the story, I'm in the wrong business. I should be writing books.

And just in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. This IS bliss.

The Slumdog Effect

That which seemed so insignificant suddenly starts to matter once you learn you that you are about to become a mother.

While I was pregnant, it seemed like every book and movie that I encountered contained the worst-case-scenarios of childbirth and motherhood. I have decided that there should be a list of books and movies: "Don't Watch Or Read These If You Are Expecting a Baby". Please, readers, help me in this prospect and add to this list.

1) Pan's Labyrinth

2) Hancock

3) Breaking Dawn (Twilight Series)

4) Slumdog Millionaire

I had originally written a brief synopsis about why each movie and book is on this list, but it was just too macabre. Let me just say that when I watched Slumdog Millionaire, I was 7 months pregnant and would cry if I saw a commercial for a school lunch program. Can you imagine my reaction when, in the movie, a tiny helpless baby is crying in the arms of an impoverished 10-year-old girl? It was at that very moment that being a mother meant something different for the first time in my life.

I am looking forward to more of these revelations as my parental experience broadens. Stay tuned for the blog entry once I've realized that my own mother WAS right all of those times. Shudder.

My Biggest Regret

I saw pictures of some first-time grandparents looking into the face of their first grandchild. Wow. What a great family moment. Wait a minute-- those are MY parents.. and isn't that MY baby??

In the final months of my pregnancy, I wasn't preparing myself for the scenario of a C-section. I focussed on the "what-ifs" of a natural birth. All of the videos (eww) showed different scenarios of different versions of the whole experience. If ever mentioned, a Cesarean birth was at most, a footnote.

After Eve was born in the operating room, not the delivery room, the doctors presented her to us. We shared our first mother/father/daughter moment, and then she was to be taken up to a different room to be weighed. The proud new dad was given the baby and away he went while I lay in the operating room getting put back together.

Well, I'll cut to the chase. I missed out on seeing my parents meet their first grandchild. This sounds very selfish, but I wish that we could've been settled in our hospital room before the family was introduced to the baby. To any first-time expectant mothers out there (not mentioning any names, but I know at least 2 of you are reading this), maybe give this scenario a little thought. I sort of wish someone would have mentioned this little tid bit to me.

For any of you that personally know Eve's dad, you can only imagine how tickled he was to be the first to show off the new little creature. I can't take that away from him. But hey, this blog is about ME, dammit. Me.

I guess if this is my biggest regret, I'm doing ok.

"The Dog that Used to Be Your Baby Will Become Just a Dog."

I read this statement in a parenthood-related article and it has haunted me ever since.

I couldn't imagine how this would ever be true of my beloved Tia (short for Tijuana-- border collie, border town). For the last 11 years, she has been through my ups and my downs and my good times and bad. She has been through thick and thin with me. Now the only thick and thin from her that I seem to notice is the layer of dog hair in my house.

Now, as I balance the baby on one hip and mix formula, I say, "TIA. OUT OF THE KITCHEN" and that is the extent of our relationship. I fling her the odd meal every now and again when her dad is gone to work, but I must admit that she is close to being a neglected dog.

I'm not proud of it. It's just the reality.

When I was still nursing, I would be sitting on a chair feeding the baby, when the dogs (I had one, and he had one, so now we have two) needed to go outside, I would figure out a balancing-act-of-a-way to somehow let them out. I saw something similar at Cirque de Soleil once, but our version involved much less makeup and far less firm of physiques. I would sit back down to feed the baby and the dogs would be barking outside for me to let them in. Like I need to give the neighbours another reason to hate us.

I use harsh (albeit empty) threats in my arsenal of bitchings at the mister when I needed to vent. "HAVING TWO DOGS AND A BABY IS TOO MUCH WORK WHEN YOU AREN'T HERE!"

I do love our dogs but the amount of cleaning that needs to be done really becomes apparent once you have a baby. It takes time away from things that you would rather be doing, yet it cannot be ignored for obvious reasons. Once the baby started crawling around and putting everything in her mouth, it became an obsession of mine to keep a "dog hair-free" environment. This is but a pipe-dream, but I just can't let it die.

The older of the dogs, as I mentioned, will be 11. Once she is gone, that leaves the juvenile delinquent, who has just turned 4. I can already predict the issues that I will face in standing my ground. Something something wolf pack -- "He doesn't need a friend. He can be the only dog." "I don't care that Eve loves the dog and wants another dog." "We have waited so long for this day and now we have no dogs. It's staying that way."

Here's a gift idea for new parents who have a dog... Get them a gift certificate for the damn dog to get groomed. They may not see the value in the gesture, but I assure you that in a few months, they will appreciate your foresight.

Heavy Petting

I was writing an entry about how neglected that the dog is since the baby was born, and I realized that I should just stop writing and give her some attention. I have been brushing vast amounts of hair and twigs off her stinky border collie body.

New post soon. Sorry for the lapse in attending to this project!

Present Tense

The gifts. Oh, the gifts. By the time we left the hospital, we had so many beautiful flowers and stuffed animals and body lotions and homemade treats and wonderful gestures of heart-felt congratulations. I kept a notebook by my bedside and wrote down who came to visit and who brought us such lovely presents.

Eve was born in the early evening. Family congregated that night and came to meet the child. Word spread of her arrival, and the visits began the next morning. By dinner time, we had seen 40 visitors. The very best of friends and family stopped in, but when you have 2 large families and 10 best friends, it doesn't take long to reach the number 40. We shut the door and said "no thanks" to any more people. It was wonderful and it was exhausting.

I waited until the baby shower was over before I started sending out thank you cards. I bought a package of 50 cards and ran out. I bought a package of 20 and ran out again. There were over 70 thank you cards sitting on my portable dishwasher ("Honey, I'm pregnant. We're buying a dishwasher") that I needed to write in, stuff into envelopes with photos, and deliver. Proof of post-partum insanity is the fact that I felt the need to deliver each card in person.

Every day I looked at those thank you cards, I felt the pressure mounting. Did the people who dropped off gifts think that we weren't thankful? Words cannot express the tension that I felt in completing this task. These 70-some envelopes had become my nemesis. I would not let them get the best of me.

It took 6 weeks to deliver them all. We drove to people's doorsteps. We tucked them into screen doors. We stopped in for visits when people were home. I felt it was the least we could do to show our appreciation for all of the generosity.

If I ever receive another card from the mother of a newborn, I will now understand the scope of this gesture and appreciate it even more. After some discussion with other new moms, I learned that I was not alone in this thank-you-card quicksand. As usual, when you share your challenges with friends, you will find that you are never alone.

The intention of gift-givers is not to stress out the new mom. This is a post I will re-read if and when I have another baby. I will try to keep things simpler. I am, and always have been, my own worst enemy.

Can I Hold Your Baby?

One of my best friends had her baby boy 2 months before our kid was born. I watched her go through all of the stages that I was about to encounter. When their beautiful son was born, it was surreal.

She was walking down the hallway of the hospital with her most precious cargo, and there was a very old, very unhealthy-looking lady laying on a gurney. The lady looked up, and in a scratchy, I've-smoked-for-my-entire-life voice, said, "Can I hold your baby?" My friend told me that she wanted to ask 'why are you in here?' but instead, said, "You can look at him..." so she held the baby out of arm's reach and shared the joy of a newborn with someone who might not have otherwise had that chance again in her life.

When Eve was just 16 days old, one of my very best friends got married. We were bombarded with friends and acquaintances wanting to see and to hold the baby. I happily complied, since the kid slept through anything and everything at that point in her new little life. I have heard of baby showers where, much to the dismay of the shower-goers, the new mom wouldn't pass her baby around. Apparently this pisses women off. I never understood what the big deal was about holding a new baby, until about 6 months later.

My baby Eve was already in 12 month clothing and eating solid food, and when I picked up a friend's newborn baby, I had a rush of indescribable emotion surge through my entire being. My mind and my body and my heart were all transported back to the time when my baby was so tiny and new and helpless. Holding someone else's newborn baby is like stepping into a time machine. The rest of the world disappears around you and you forget about diapers and sleepless nights. All you can see is the miracle of life and the privilege it is to be part of the universe.

A Word of Advice to the Fathers-to-be

Please refrain from singing the A&W song when your very pregnant wife walks through the room. It's frowned upon.

*based on a true story

There Should Be a Bat Signal Shaped Like a Baby

One of the best things about being a mom is understanding other moms.

When the baby was 3 weeks old, Eve's dad went away for the weekend on a fishing trip. A friend called me to see how things were going. I could feel my bottom lip start to quiver and I was horrified when I began to cry on the phone. The words I spoke did not match the fact that I was sobbing uncontrollably. "Things are fine. We are fine. I'm just tired. I need to get to the drug store but I just don't think I can do it."

About 20 minutes later there was a knock on my door. Two friends brought me the stuff from the drug store along with some flavoured water, some fruit salad, and a 7-layer dip. They took the baby so I could have something to eat, and hung out for a while until they were confident that I was in a better place. I was so grateful for the support. They were sent to me at exactly the right moment. Vulnerability is not high on my list of favourite things. That's one great thing about having friends who know me so well-- If they see me emoting, they know it's an emergency.

I was amazed that they knew to bring me something to eat. One of the girls had a 5-month old baby at home. Of course she knew. She knew better than I did, because she had already been through it. She was a mom of a newborn and she was able to put herself in my shoes. No matter how strong you think you are, when you mix in some crazy hormonal surges with sleep deprivation, you can never be sure when you will reach your breaking point. I learned to accept help when it was offered to me, and I do my best to offer it to others in the same boat. If I swoop in with a meal, it's just because I'm trying to pay it forward.

Earmuffs, a la Vince Vaughn

We threatened to start a swear jar. Upon entry, all visitors to our home must abide by the rules when it comes to the use of fowl language. Deposits to the swear jar would be graded according to the severity of the offense. You drop an F-bomb in front of the kid and you best be digging for a toonie. The swear jar would be tallied at the end of the month and deposited into Eve's bank account that we have started for her RESP's.

Curbing one's vocabulary is a monumental task for some family members, not to mention any names. You know who you are. I thank you in advance for sending my kid to college.

The downfall of this master plan is the minor issue of enforcement. Who even carries change anymore? Should we get a portable debit machine for the next 20 years? Maybe I could force our daughter to make deposits to her own college fund when she hits her rebellious teenage years? Should we do a test-run on an I.O.U. system and then collect at the end of every week? Will this cause our usual visitors to stay away? Suddenly this simple plan of mine was becoming way to complicated.

We decided to take the matter into our own hands and share in the solution. Now, if you say to my daughter, "Eve. Ear muffs." she covers her ears. If you saw the movie Old School, you may remember this move. Well, we stole it. It's just one of many examples of how Will Ferrell movies have changed our lives for the better.

Unfortunately, ear muffs only work for anticipatory cursing. If it slips out, you had better start digging for change.

Preparedness vs Implentation ~ Round 1

I made a call list. It had the names and phone numbers of the crucial players in our life. It was written strategically in a specific order. All he had to do was go down the list and make 4 phone calls. The rest would play itself out as word of the baby's arrival pumped through the veins of the bloodlines of our family tree. My biggest fear was that somebody important to me would find out via facebook that we had had the baby.

Well, that's exactly what happened. Even as I type this entry, nearly a year later, I grimace. I can only do so much. I don't fault anyone, because I know that the Mister just got soooooo excited that he started making the phone calls. Correction: he didn't make THE phone calls. He started making phone calls to whoever he could think of that he wanted to share the news with. I can't be sure if his buddy from highschool knew before my parents did. Luckily for me, being in surgery absolves you of any and all responsibility in this issue.

I don't blame the Facebook status updater. Everybody was excited. It was a good lesson for me that although you want things to go as planned, sometimes it just doesn't turn out that way. I have a sneaking hunch that this sentiment will be echoed more than a few times during the journey of parenthood.

We Were Born To Make Mistakes

"She's beautiful. Have you chosen a name?"

This was one of the weirder moments in my life. I mean, I have never even had a cavity in my lifetime, never mind had someone working IN my cesarean abdominal cavity. I heard my baby's father say, "Her name is Eve."

"Eve. That's a beautiful name." said Dr. Wilson.

"Thanks. We like it so much, that if we had a boy, we would've named him 'Steve'!"

So I don't know if you can imagine what it feels like to have a surgeon burst out laughing while he is working on you. OK, it wasn't really a burst, but it started out as a snicker and built up into a sincere whole-hearted laugh. I mean, the doctor stopped and put down his instruments for a second. It's just one of many reasons why I'm gonna marry this guy. He CAN be pretty funny, just please don't ever tell him so.

We wanted a name that was simple to spell, simple to pronounce. A name that she wouldn't have to repeat every time she introduced herself. A real name, not just a collection of sounds that seemed neat at the time. In the end, we had picked out 4 or 5 girl's names, but we always knew that "Eve" would be her name. She is our first. Eve was, by biblical standards, the first. She (Eve of the bible, not Eve of our family) is also responsible for the demise of the human race for eating the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden after giving in to temptation. So why in the "heck" would anyone want to name their daughter Eve?

Well, like Eve of the bible, we all make mistakes. It's part of being human. It's how we learn and it's how we grow. We shall embrace her mistakes and call them lessons. We will give her enough space so that she might form her own opinions of love and life, of self, of purpose, of mortality. We will learn more from her than we can ever teach. She is most certainly, the light of our lives.

It's Called Labour for a Reason

Nobody says, "I went into fun at 4pm" or, "I had 16 hours of fun before I had a cesarean". That's because it's not fun.

For those of you who have never had the experience of labour, may I suggest doing sit-ups for 16 hours straight, and then multiply how bad you are feeling times a million.

Labour was 16 hours of personal time to reflect on all the things in my life that I used to think were painful. For 16 hours, my hubby paced back and forth at my bedside, holding a bendy straw to my lips so I could sip on ice water. By the time it was decided that a C-section would be the end to this saga, I had already sucked back 1 and a half tanks of nitrous oxide and was ready to smash the empties over my head. I had never been so silent for 16 hours of consciousness in my life; it hurt so bad I couldn't talk. I couldn't even curse. It was probably a nice break for everybody.

While I was getting ready for surgery, I felt the need to try and be funny with the nurses. I won't get into detail, but I made some stupid joke that was borderline inappropriate about being prepped. I mean, if this whole ordeal is painful for me, it may as well be painful for them too.

I was having contractions back to back, with no breaks, and no pain medication. For women that do this without drugs, I salute you. I actually think that you are insane, but that's just my opinion. A friend of mine had told me, "You don't get a medal for doing it without drugs." Amen. When that needle went into my spine and I lost all feeling from my chest to my toes, it was the most relief I had ever felt in my life. The miracles of modern medicine had saved me. Suddenly I felt regret for being annoyed at the anesthesiologist for telling me to "hold still" while she put the needle into my back. It was all worth it.

With a curtain separating me from the actual incision, I was re-united with my best friend/husband-to-be/love of my life, and I was myself again. We joked about the whole process with the surgeon. We laughed with the nurses. One of the doctors said, "I see his feet!" and we looked at each other and said "His?!?!" (we had a very strong inkling that we were going to have a girl). "I don't know why I said 'his'!" she added frantically. It was a few short minutes later that we got to meet the whole reason for this whole ordeal. And it was a little baby girl.

The Don'ts

Wow. You're pregnant. Let the Don'ts begin....

Don't tell anyone until you're 12 weeks in. Don't eat tuna. Don't drink coffee. Don't eat soft cheeses. Don't lay on your back. Don't eat any raw fish sushi. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Don't expose your belly to loud music. Don't lay on your front. Don't eat spicy foods. Don't eat chocolate. Don't have your seat belt across your stomach. Don't dye your hair. Don't use regular cleaning products. Don't panic.

No wonder first-time moms-to-be feel so overwhelmed. By the time you are sitting in pre-natal class learning that soothers are a no-no, and that bottles are taboo, you begin to feel like if you happen to wipe your kid's face with the wrong type of cloth that the child is going to just blow up right there in front of your eyes. "Did you hear that Stacey had a girl? Yeah, she was 8 lb 14 oz, but when they gave her her first bath, they washed her hair with the body wash instead of the shampoo and so then the baby just vapourized into thin air". Let's all keep in mind that babies in third world countries somehow make it into this world without bouncy chairs and swings and thousand dollar strollers. I did buy a natural bamboo fibre sling, and ironically, I am sure that some of those third-worlders are getting toted around in some "organic" carrying device. This is not because they are environmentally conscious, but because bamboo is all that they have so that's what they use.

I followed all the don'ts, we loved our bouncy chair and swing and thousand dollar stroller. I never used the sling because it felt weird. It's great to be Canadian.

I See Your Legs Are Shaved. Your House Must Be Filthy

B.B. (otherwise known as the Before Baby era), I heard of this trend of new mothers not even having time to shower. OK, seriously. What's with that? Is it so hard to stick the kid in its crib and jump in for 6 minutes of personal grooming time? How can these people even manage their own lives if they can't even find the time to schedule in a shower? Please. I mean, back in the B.B. era, I used to manage staff, sell product, overcome looming deadlines for stacks of paperwork, work with customers, and the list goes on. I looked forward to the days of staying at home when my biggest challenge was fitting in the time for a shower.

Well, the truth is, that once your baby goes down for a sleep, the STOPWATCH BEGINS TO TICK, AND YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOUR TIME IS UP. So if you choose to prep lunch, take out the garbage, sweep the floor, empty the dishwasher, switch the laundry over, or SLEEP, then you may not get that 6 minutes of hot water-induced solace. It's not that there's no time for a shower. It's just that there isn't enough time to do everything.

Enjoy your baby shower. It may be the last shower you get for a while.

We Welcome Random Cake

I was expecting that food would be a big part of the pregnancy. I never had much of a sweet tooth, but for some reason, I craved cake. Angel food cake, chocolate cake, cupcakes, cake, cake, cake! My status on facebook during the wee lonely hours of the night involved these yearnings for baked treats.

I sent my hubby to the grocery store for a chocolate cake mix, whipping cream and cherry pie filling. It was to be a layer cake unsurpassed in moistness and fruity creaminess, all for me. He came home with the cake mix, lite cherry pie filling, and lite Cool Whip. Our baby was just about born without a father. I could have murdered him with my bare hands. Did I ask for edible oil products? I believe if we review the tape, that wasn't on the list. Even in my hormonal rage with thoughts of "Nobody listens to me, yadda yadda yadda", I knew I was being a super-crazy selfish bitch and bit my tongue. I mean, he went to the grocery store for me. And let's face it-- I made the cake and ate it anyway.

One morning he got home from work at 5am, and he came into the house with a cake that he had found sitting on our truck.

My god. What should I do? Where did it come from? How will I crack this enigma? And how long does pineapple upside down cake last before it's past its prime? Somebody tell me.... what is my timeline to unravel this mystery before it's TOO LATE??? I need to eat this cake but just CAN'T until I know where it came from!!!! I started to study the paper plate and cellophane that contained this sweet gift, trying to decipher who would be crazy enough to do such a cruel thing to me. I scanned my list of friends on Facebook, searching for the culprit. This was no saran wrap, my friends. This was decorative cellophane with a ribbon. A ribbon.

A family member asked us later that day if the cake made it to our house. She wouldn't tell me who made it, but when we asked her if it was safe to eat, she said yes, and hearing that was good enough for me.

That poor cake, god rest its soul. We made short work of it, all the while, still not knowing its origin or its story.

That night, I was in the grocery store, looking at the cakes in the display case (I'm not even kidding you), and someone walked up behind me and said, "Haven't you had enough cake today?". It was a family friend, aka, the cake maker/carport skulker. So thanks, if you are reading this, for that cake. It was delicious and I will never forget such a nice gesture.

Naming the Spawn

My advice? Keep it to yourself. This is directed at both the parents-to-be, as well as those of you who are entrusted enough to hear the potential names of the unborn. For instance, if someone tells you that they are going to name the baby Conan (sorry O'Brien, but I think that's one reason why your show got the axe), maybe say, "An uncommon name.. how nice!" instead of, "Oh my god, are you crazy? That poor kid is going to be called 'The Barbarian' his entire life!" If someone ASKS YOU, then that's different.

Future sleep-deprived woman: "What do you think of the name 'Ada' for a girl?"

Acceptable: "Well, your last name is Frey. It sounds like 'Ate a Fry'. You OK with that?"

Unacceptable: "Well just hope that she doesn't marry a guy whose last name is Weiner." (Keep in mind that I am screening some adult content, but insert any obscene word in there to up the funniness. Use your discretion.)

People's feelings get hurt. So really, don't offer advice and even if asked, proceed with caution. You can always do the reponsibility transfer. If you have legitimate concerns, you can tell the unborn's aunt or uncle that you have concerns about the name that has been picked. Just make sure they don't go the parent-to-be and spill the truth that it came from you.

But really, if the parents-to-be would just keep it to themselves, that really would be a big favour to the rest of society. That way, how will we hurt your feelings if we don't even know what's going on? And hating the name once the kid is born is right up there with being a serial killer, so no one would have the audacity to even go there.

For some reason, people like to try and pick at you to hear the names that you have picked out, only to then criticize it. If you are easily offended, and you are telling people your potential baby names, you are asking for trouble.

And for potential name-stealing?? Keep your mouth shut! Don't tell people your bebe names at ALL if you are concerned that someone else is going to have the same name. OK this isn't a funny entry. It's really just become more of a rant. You know that Seinfeld episode where George's friends steal his baby name and they name their baby "Seven"? In this instance, and every other possible scenario in life, strive to never be like George.

This is For You, Baby

A blog just seems so self-indulgent. I am telling myself (and you) that it is for my daughter, so that when she is older she can read all about how psychotic her mother was even back when she was a baby. She can graph the progession of insanity and see it spike in the teen years.

If you are enjoying this or sympathizing at all with any of the content, I ask you to "follow" this blog. It's probably a pain in the ass to make and account, log in etc, but if you "follow" my blog then it really does help me out. If, hypothetically, enough people follow this thing, then maybe I can one day become a famous writer and send my kid to University. Or go to Disneyland and leave her behind with her aunt. At any rate, that's all I ask of you. Comments? PLEASE. If nothing else, I am certain that a few interesting discussions can ensue from this social experiment.

So to those of you who are up for this, let's do it. Besides, how else will you find out what we had for dinner on the night of Jun 18, 2009 of you don't follow my blog?!

Now the disclaimer: It would be impossible to share our lives without sharing some minor details that involve other people. If there is ever any doubt of offending anyone or divulging private details about someone else's lives, I will most certainly not be sharing. Also, unlike Jenny McCarthy, I will not be sharing any grimy details about subjects best left "for the family". Besides, when Eve is old enough she will share those details at the most inopportune times to perfect strangers. You're safe.

Know how you un-friend someone on Facebook and then when you see them on the street they ignore you? Well, I am expecting that some people will avoid me thinking, "I don't want to be in her damn blog." So if enough people follow my blog, just think of the power we will have in making other people feel uncomfortable. Although we hail from the Southerly Korea, world domination is in my blood.

Pregnancy in a Small Town

"When are you due?", "Do you know what you're having?", "Are you excited?", "HAVE YOU PICKED NAMES??"

These are four phrases you shall never hear leave my mouth again. Once you're pregnant and hobbling around uncomfortably, trying to negotiate store aisles and doorways, these 4 questions are seriously enough to put you in the loonie bin. I guess I can be happy that I was never asked, "Who is the father?", or "Are you pregnant?" It can always be worse.

The timing of my pregnancy was sort of bizarre. I had worked with the public in the same business for over 8 years. When I was ready to move on to other things, I quit my job only to learn 5 days later that I was pregnant. A recovering workaholic/self-professed workplace martyr, I decided that I would, for the first time in my life, lay on the couch and do nothing for the next 7 months of my life until the baby came. I would like to tell you that I ate fruit and did yoga and that my house was clean every day. Moving on.

Consequently, the other comment that I used to get, and am still getting to this day is the exuberant, "I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THAT YOU WERE PREGNANT!?!?". This is a weird comment to try to acknowledge. Maybe this is something that is best discussed with your girlfriends over tea. "I didn't even know Stacey was pregnant."

The best part about living in a small town is when you go to the hospital to deliver your baby, you already have established a personal relationship with 99% of the healthcare providers. You have already drank beer with them, troubleshooted their cell phone, sold them the next size up in jeans when they gained that last 10 pounds, given them dirty looks in the bar in the washroom, and sometimes, all of the above. I have to tell you that as socially uncomfortable as it could have been, if you embrace it, it's actually hilarious. Even the dirty look exchanger girl was really nice to me when she was our nurse (I'll call her "our" nurse, since the reason why I was giving her dirty looks was because she was hitting on my hubby). Deep down, she was probably enjoying seeing my stretch marks but she was very professional and very nice in the end. Let's face it-- her boyfriend used to flirt with me when I was single and I sort of enjoyed it. I never said I was a saint.

About This Whole Fiasco

I never knew I wanted to be a mom. I mean, I always pictured myself being one of those women who swished by random stroller-pushing baby-makers in a fast sportscar, scarf swishing in the breeze, sunglasses perched on the end of my nose. Perhaps even a maniacal cackle might have escaped from time to time. "Why do women give up on themselves after they have a kid? I mean, it takes 10 minutes to put some jeans on and slap a bit of makeup on."

Cut to me, sitting in my bathrobe. No shower. No makeup. This is the greatest karmic experience of my life. Suddenly all of those women who used to come into my place of work with 2 kids straggling behind them have become my heroes. How in the hell did they manage to get out of the house with 2 kids by 9:30am?? These women are obviously either cyborgs or have live-in nannies. The yoga pant has now become a symbol of power. The fact that you are out of the house shows that you, my friend are Superwoman.