Monthly Archives: October 2012

Update: Go Big or Go Home

Go big or go home, right? Ever the overachiever, I’m going big.

Everything about me is big right now. Well, except my boobs, but even those have got me kicked off the Itty Bitty Titty Committee recently. Big feet, big knees, big hair. Most of all, big baby. With big baby comes big decisions. To C (section) or not to C (section), that is the question.

I have never wanted a cesarean. Some women do. They don’t want to go through the ordeal of labour and don’t want their lady parts to be stretched out. They like the idea of being able to schedule their child’s birthday. No muss, no fuss, no surprises. I can sort of get it, but that’s not for me. I want the experience of labour. I want to know that I can do it. I want to look at my child and feel that I brought him into this world, quite literally. The thought of having him lifted out of my abdomen in a sterile operating room with that bright light shining in his fresh little face is not a pleasant one. The thought of him not being placed directly on my breast actually brings tears to my eyes. I’ll still be lying there geting stitched up, across the room from where my brand new baby will be getting wiped down and weighed and placed into his daddy’s arms. I’m teary eyed as I’m writing this, because unless I go into labour right now, this is likely what’s in store for us.

Yes, I have a choice. I have an amazing team of midwives and a great OB looking out for what’s best for me and the little one. I was given my options, told the risks of each path, and allowed to make the choice myself. I chose the route I never thought I’d take. After receiving the results of yesterday’s ultrasound I think it would be irresponsible to stick to my birth plan. Baby H, at 37 weeks plus 5 days, weighed in at a whopping 10lbs. Even with a +/- 1lb margin of error, 9lbs is still huge at this point. Maybe if I were about to deliver I’d go for it, but I’m still 2 weeks from my due date with no signs that labour is on its way.

My midwife says to try to relax and who knows, I could end up labouring over the weekend. Wouldn’t that be marvellous. So, I’m dutifully sipping my raspberry leaf tea, and on tonight’s menu is lots of yummy Thai dishes with extra spice. Maybe that’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, but I don’t care. I’m willing to try it because at the very least it will be delicious.

Pretty please send some positive labour vibes my way peeps!

Due to the serious nature of this post, please enjoy some comic relief in the form of this goofy photo of my dog


Relationship Misadventures Part II: Hormone Hell

J and I spent the majority of this weekend fighting. I will say 2 things about this straight off:

  1. Yes, I can feel that I am insane and that I overreact to everything right now. Hello, I’m pregnant.
  2. J fails at understanding how to deal with pregnant women… ok, maybe that’s too harsh. I’d say that 50% of the time he’s alright at it (although a few more moments of praise and massages without the occasional slap or tickle would be nice…), but when he forgets to zip it all hell breaks loose.

Basically, it’s a bad combo. As this pregnancy is winding down, and by winding down I mean kicking into full gear, the situation could risk getting explosive. I’d love to say that I can keep things in perspective, but I really can’t. The sight of my feet is enough to bring me to tears. My new stretch marks make me want to scream. I haven’t slept properly in at least 2 months, which I’m sure also plays a factor. Those books that claim to be tell-all guides to pregnancy are so full of crap, because let me tell you, I could write at least 200 pages discussing little documented pregnancy facts that would make any woman declare her lady bits a sperm free zone. But I won’t do that… or maybe I will. Maybe that’s the solution to our population problem… hmmm. It will just never get published because it will be full of profanity and will discuss parts of the body that most people are uncomfortable with. 

Closed for business

So, given my discomfort, try to understand this one:

J and I were fighting about the dog who, in her puppiest of puppy moments, decided to chew a two foot long hole in the hot tub cover last weekend. Yes, that sucks, but it does not make her the devil. She hasn’t chewed one thing in the house and is really very angelic for the most part. Besides, the thing still works. The tub hasn’t dropped a single degree, and its been patched with duct tape, the cure for all ills.

Good thing there’s duct tape!

As always these days, I burst into tears and just couldn’t contain myself. I was crying like there was no tomorrow. I couldn’t breathe I was crying so hard. J, in his ever so gentle manner, decided this would be a great time to tell me that my hormones were putting him through hell and that we wouldn’t be having any more kids because he couldn’t handle going through it again.

Ever melodramatic, I took this very seriously (and although it was said seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment and most pregnant couples have a few of these moments I have learned) and imagined my poor lone child playing alone in his room, talking to himself well past the age where that’s normal, and somehow developing a multiple personality disorder. I’m a highly sensitive person at the best of times, which I used to think made me crazy. Just imagine how being pregnant has amplified this.

In a more lucid moment I might have shouted out “AMEN”! If he thinks dealing with my hormones is hell, he has no idea how hot the fires of hell really burn. I’d love to see how he’d handle pregnancy and all it has to offer. I have to deal with those same hormones and feeling out of control a lot of the time. Add that to the slew of unmentionable physical ailments I will write about in my tell-all pregnancy book (being rejected soon at a publisher near you!), how could I not agree? Why would anyone ever want to have more than one kid? I’ll give you the answer to that one in a few weeks when I’m holding my baby boy in my arms and wondering how its possible to love anything so much.

Besides, so long as J manages to stick by me through the labour (without fainting) we’ll all be so high on oxytocin by the end of it that we’ll forget all about the pain and my looney toons moments. Ah science.

Despite all my whining, being pregnant is amazing. There’s nothing like growing a life inside of you. And sometimes you manage to make it look graceful. Sometimes. Photo credit: Cassie Gibb, 2012

About the Belly at 37 Weeks: Full Term Pachyderm

Elephant, rhino, hippo… My appearance is pretty much analogous with any of these fine animals, so take your pick. I feel especially hippo like as I lay floundering in the bath tub. Actually, a hippo can definitely navigate it’s slippery mud bath better than I can my bathtub. But I can’t shower anymore either on account of the risk of my knees collapsing, so bath it is… the lesser of two evils.

Baby H and I have come a long way. From this:

6 weeks

To this:

37 Weeks

I. Feel. Huge. And that’s not just based on how I look, or the fact that even my midwife said, “Well, it’s not twins, just one giant baby” after my last ultrasound. It’s these things combined with the constant sensation of fatigue and lethargy. I can barely move. Getting out of bed is so hard, and I have to do it at least 3 times per night. At least. Getting off the couch is even harder since it’s lower down. Hell, I’m sitting right now and my knees are killing me. Turns out I’m not just a whiner and there is scientific proof that pregnant women should feel exhausted by this point, especially those carrying giant babies. You can read about it in a Huffington Post article HERE, or just read this one nice sentence that sums it up:

“By six months of pregnancy, women expend twice their usual energy keeping basic metabolic processes going, a burden that only gets greater as the fetus gets larger.” (Huffington Post, 2012)

Yup. I’m ready to have this baby. And as of today, it’s safe and normal to do so! So c’mon baby! Grace us with your presence! Yes, I do know better. The majority of first pregnancies end past their due dates and I still have three weeks to go, but with all these professionals saying that it could be any day I can’t help but get hopeful.

Dear Baby H, you’re 37 weeks now. Not a young spring chicken fetus (although as daddy pointed out last night, you still have some kung fu moves… I have no idea how since I’m stretched to the max and you’re pretty much out of room). C’mon out! There will be cookies. But not for you. To you I dedicate my boobies (sorry, J). I promise those are just as good as cookies. xo

Shanny Homemaker vs. Eurobitch

DEAR GOD! I decided to upgrade the software on my iPhone this morning and it’s going to take an hour. A WHOLE HOUR WITHOUT MY iPHONE!? Ce n’est pas possible! Which you’d already know if you were awesome enough to be a follower of my poor abandoned psycho blog. You can read about my secret love affair with technology by clicking HERE. Seriously. Go read that post. It’s probably way better than what’s about to follow.

Anyways, in the absence of my iPhone I had to turn to my MacBook for my techno-fixe (that is French for techno-fix, in case you don’t speak la belle langue… ok, I made that up). Other than MyFace (this is what I call Facebook. I had a very technologically impaired friend who genuinely thought that this is what it’s called and I have been laughing about it ever since), there’s not much for me to do on the computer these days other than blog. I’m pretty sick of MyFace at the moment. No one wants to read about my giant clown feet, how simply climbing the stairs results in me needing to nap for at least the next two hours, or about how rolling over in bed has become an olympic sport in which I never make it to the podium.

The equation for the nuclear fission of uranium-235. Also equal to the amount of energy expelled each time I try to roll over in bed.

So, blog it is. I haven’t been inspired lately, but I’m just going to see what comes out.

I’m a wee bit lonely this week. Peaches’ recent post about being a work widow is striking a chord with me. I’m going completely stir crazy, bored out of my mind half the time stuck at home. I’m enjoying doing what I can to make things feel homey, but when standing for 10 minutes gives me the most ridiculous back pain I realize that getting the stuff done that I’d like to get done on my own isn’t really an option. Yesterday I got it in my head to bake, so I made 5 dozen cookies. I then decided to make a chicken pot pie, since I was promised undying love and affection and perhaps even a marriage proposal if I were to do so (Yeah. Right. But worth a try!). I started cooking so that the pie perfection would emerge from the oven just as J walked in the door, but just as the chicken and veggie mix was about to finish boiling my phone rang with the news that I would be alone all night :( Le sigh. I then proceeded to burn the chicken. Good thing J wasn’t around to eat it.

I got up nice and early this morning to make a lovely big breakfast for J since he’d worked so hard yesterday (left at 5am and got home at midnight! CRAZY!)… well, the phone rang during our pre-breakfast coffee and now he’s at work and I’m alone, again. Le sigh. I mean, it’s ok. I have a bunch of shopping to do, like buy a million pairs of granny panties. I bet you all really wanted to know that.

Granny panties. This is not where I thought I’d be at this point in my life people! I mean, I’m not actually complaining. I’ve always had a split personality. Part of me is the biggest homebody ever born, and the other has itchy feet. I LOVE to travel. In fact, last September I had big plans to move to Germany this past summer. I was going to bust my butt all year to finish my degree and then hop on a plane that would take me across the ocean where my bestie and I would live together and be the most free spirited Eurobitches ever.

I was newly single, sick of relationships, kind of stuck in a rut and just wanted to have fun for once. This seemed like a good way to do it.

I returned from my European vacation in Sept 2011 and promptly applied for my Irish passport. Which promptly arrived via express post… last week. Yeah. It’s the most complicated process EVER. I was missing an info sheet and so at first didn’t have enough photos (you need 4 as a first time applicant instead of 2), then didn’t have the right marriage certificate for my parents (which took 10 weeks to arrive once ordered), then had new photos taken but my doctor ruined them. Seriously, she had to sign and stamp the back. Not hard, right? She executed that task perfectly, but then put them all back in the same envelope so that the ink from the stamp smeared all over the fronts of all four photos! Since it took them until February to get back to me about the marriage certificate, the set of photos I had at that point had expired… which they didn’t tell me until August of this year. Holy shit show. Anyways, finally the darn passport has arrived. And I don’t even need it. J thinks I’m going to use it to kidnap the baby to Europe. I told him not to give me a reason to and that will never happen. Ok, I basically just said, “That will never happen.” Doling out threats is kinda more fun than heartfelt assurances though.

I now have to look like this for the next 10 years:

Oh the horror… Don’t get passport photos taken at 8 months pregnant after a day of moving.

That’s what happens when you’re pissed that you have to get a photo taken for the millionth time. I thought I just wouldn’t bother renewing my Canadian passport because this one was so expensive, but then I realized that travel to the good ol’ US of A would require me to apply online in advance for permission to travel there, and then succumb to finger printing and retina scans each time I were to visit. Um, no thanks America. Canada doesn’t even have that kind of info on me, so screw off.

HOLY RAMBLING! 1000+ words? Sorry kids.

I will conclude by saying that I’m happy and in love and excited to be a mom, but part of me will always wonder what would have been if Eurobitch had been allowed to run free. She was kinda fun to be sometimes.

Eurobitch is mad that she isn’t getting any like the couple sucking face on the couch behind her… seriously. It was audible.

Eurobitch also bites people’s faces in public

Somewhere in a parallel universe Eurobitch is biting faces in a night club not knowing that she could have been nice and happy in a cozy Canadian home with J, la puppie (that’s French for puppy… you should probably stop believing me) and a baby to be. Silly Eurobitch.