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BABY LOVENovember 9th, 2012
So after yet another night of four feedings I groggily and reluctantly woke up before the sunrise because Baby H said so. I went down, popped a T-Disc in the machine and cried to myself a little bit. I miss my friend Sleep so much, although I somehow don’t feel it so much during the day. I miss it in the throes of lacking it, when J is fast asleep and snoring.
I came back upstairs to where my little wiggle monster was, well, wiggling around in his bassinet. I flipped on the TV to find a familiar scene unfolding.
As a pregnant lady watching this movie last summer I definitely related most to the Elizabeth Banks character. Despite people telling me that I had ‘that glow’, I did not have that glow. It was just sweat. Buckets and buckets of sweat. To be fair, it was the hottest summer on record and I had no air conditioning, but still. I spent the last months of my pregnancy flopping around on the couch feeling like I’d never be comfortable ever again.
So, given this information, and the fact that I have clearly forgotten it, why on earth do I feel twinges of envy as friend after friend announces their summer babies on the way and posts adorable belly bump pictures? They are still small enough that they really are glowing and lovely. Maybe that’s why. Maybe if they were posting pictures of themselves looking like beached whales or Violet Beauregarde post-blueberry incident I might not feel that little bit of envy.
Why on earth would I miss being pregnant? Besides being huge and uncomfortable, I was a sleep deprived hormonal nightmare. I haven’t slept since August! I have no sleep in the foreseeable future. And while I don’t begrudge J his sleep (ok, I do begrudge him just a smidgen of sleep), I have in fact, as Amy at Pregnant Chicken (<- Pregnant women, click that link. You’ll thank me later.) warned, stared at his sleeping, peaceful face at 2am and wondered what the hell the point of him is. In those sleepless 2am moments, especially post-baby, as I stumble around blearily trying to figure out if the baby needs to be changed, nursed, or both, I think of J simply as “the sperm donor” and feel like he couldn’t possibly be the father because he clearly abandons me in every 2am moment of need. If only the men had the boobs… (ok, no. I love breastfeeding and wouldn’t give it up for any amount of uninterrupted sleep, and that’s the truth!).
Ok, to the point. On those nights I don’t really feel abandoned. That’s the deal. He needs to get up at 5am to work every day, and he operates heavy machinery. I’d be a pretty horrible person if I expected him to share in the sleepless nights. However, despite my supermom status, I must admit that sometimes I need him. And so does the baby. The other night, I was having a moment (or several). For the life of me, I could not get little H to sleep. He’s normally really easy to put to bed! Nurse him or pop a soother in and he’s fast asleep in 5. This night, though, I felt like my baby had been replaced by a banshee. He screamed until he was purple in the face, tears streaming from his eyes. I tried everything but he could not be consoled. This is how J found us upon arriving home from work at 10pm (where he’d been since 6am). I fully anticipated that he’d disappear into the basement or to bed and leave me to deal with the shit show we’d created. Instead I was pleasantly surprised. He came into the room and started talking to the screaming, writhing mass that I suspected was the baby but was no longer sure. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t think clearly. All of a sudden there was silence as H listened to his daddy’s voice. There was still some pouting and gasping going on, so J picked up the baby and off they went to play in front of the mirror and have a little chat. An hour later a perfectly calm little angel child was returned to me and we fell asleep side by side, which is where J found us 6 hours later at 5am. It was a miracle.
So you see girls, there is a point to him. If you’re tempted in those last days of pregnancy or early days of baby to stab him with a fork as he lies there sleeping like an angel (or snoring like at trucker), hold off. Think about it for a few days to make sure its what you really want to do. You might end up regretting it because even though it may not seem like it during those sleepless nights, every mommy needs a daddy sometimes.
Dear peoples that read my blog, today I can be read over at Canadica. Please visit my words there and perhaps leave a comment so that I don’t feel so inferior. Hint: I already feel inferior because there is some serious talent going on over there and composing that piece was intimidating! Thanks Lovelies!
It’s easy to poke fun at America. When you’re the biggest and the best it’s kind of a given that you have a target on your back. Most Americans I know acknowledge that is part and parcel of being American. I know a thing or two about being the biggest and the best. I’m from Canada, the large country depicted below:
Not only am I from Canada, I’m from Ontario, the America of Canada (The good parts of America. The rest of America is covered by Alberta). As you can see above, Ontario is the centre of the whole freaking universe. Ontario is to Canada as America is to the world. We’re the economic powerhouse, simply the best. And not only am I from Ontario, I’m from Ontario’s largest city, Toronto. Here is the country according to a Torontonian:
All this is meant to introduce the fact that it’s okay…
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I have never been tidy. Most of my parent/child battles were over picking up after myself. It was typical to go for weeks without seeing my bedroom floor. Who needs carpet when you can make your own carpet out of My Little Ponies and a million discarded outfits? Pre-pregnancy my idea of a kitchen dance party was getting drunk in my best friend’s kitchen/living/dining/office room thing (hey, at least she owns a condo, ok?) and shouting the lyrics of Firework to each other across the room (which basically means in each others faces… have you seen what an affordable middle class condo in Toronto looks like these days? It’s ridiculous. I’ve been watching old episodes of Property Virgins and its ridiculous how far 300K went even just 10 years ago).
S: “Do you ever feel”
R:”LIKE A PLASTIC BAG!”
Lately I have felt like a plastic bag… full of groceries, for everyone but me. Seriously. If I’m not looking after the kid I’m making dinner or cleaning something, and lets face it, time for that is scarce with a baby. I spend most of my day making funny faces and sounds in order to keep my spawn entertained (ok, it’s entertaining for me too). Right now he’s napping and I have so much housework to do. How the hell did I end up a stay at home mom? Sometimes I want to be like Jenna Marbles and just sit in front of my webcam, hold my Master’s Degree in my arms, and cry.
Who am I? Seriously. I SUCK at taking care of a house. It’s pathetic. If I had been the CEO of RIM (or Blackberry, as it is now called) I would have saved that sinking ship long before Wednesday’s announcement of the Blackberry 10 (jury’s still out, Blackberry). I could have built a Titanic that was structurally sound. I can move any kind of mountain… unless its made of laundry. In that case I’d be more inclined to lie on top of it and read a good book. Yeah…
Hard to believe that I’ve been a stay at home mom for 3 months now. Yup. That’s right. Baby H is three months old today! That means he’s officially an infant and no longer a newborn (*sniff*). He’s getting so big! It’s like he changes before my eyes every day.
So, how can I make this new gig mine and stop this house from being condemned? Recreate the kitchen
drunk dance party! Cuz baby I’m a firework! Or I could just set off some fireworks inside and get the house condemned so that I can move into a one bedroom condo. Crazy you say? I say there is much less to clean in a one bedroom shoebox than a three story three bedroom house!
Instead I listened to Firework on repeat because for some reason it reminds me that I’m still me (even if I’m alone and sober… and despite the fact that Katy Perry’s tits have never been kicked out of a Walmart) and baked cupcakes.
I might suck at cleaning, but I’m original, cannot be replaced. Also, I do own the night like… Canada Day Night… yeah.
P.S. For the record, I’m doing a pretty freaking good job for someone who might have failed home economics had it been offered at my school.
P.P.S. I was kidding about the whole drunk party thing. I haven’t been drunk since… last February. You do the math.