Leisure Sucks

Ferris Bueller was wrong.

Leisure is no fun, apparently.

I am on holiday. Misterpie left the house in the morning, and I thought, Oh, good, I have a whole day where I can do NOTHING. No pressure to take part in productive activities, no company, nothing. Yippee.

So I went to the coffee shop after dropping off my girl, went toy shopping, ate lunch and watched a tv show, read a bit... and then got bored. It seems I don't just sit around very well - I only managed to putter for a few hours. I get, I dunno, fidgety. I start contemplating the long lists of things I could or should be doing.

Now I'll be honest, my house has been driving me nuts, but I've been too tired to do anything about it, and to carry on with the honesty, I hate housework and haven't minded having a feasible excuse (like a tendency to pass out at 9:00) to avoid it. But. Here I am, sitting there being all twitchy about what I should start with because clearly I can't just sit still any longer. Housework? Bah. What might seem like progress, but be more fun?

Why, tossing the remaining lath from the reno over the side of the deck, picking it up at the bottom, and loading it into garbage cans to take out to the bin, of course. Duh. And it's true, that appeals to me way more than cleaning the bathroom or tidying the living room, I must admit. So there I went. (And for those of you who feel inclined to tell me I shouldn't be doing this stuff, I add: lath is very lightweight, and I was being aware to stop when I felt like I was getting warm and to drink lots. I may want to keep doing fun reno stuff, but I'm not being foolish about it, don't worry!) And I feel waaaay better now.

The only problem was, I started out feeling pleased at the prospect of doing nothing, then moved on to feeling pleased with myself for tackling something that needed doing, and I think I enjoy reno projects even more for knowing they aren't something that just everyone takes on, so I feel spunky, too. Except then? When I started moving the bins to the back to load up the lath? I discovered that they were crawling with spiders. seriously, dozens of them.

Now, I didn't stop what I was doing because of them, because, quite frankly, I could not have lived with myself if I did. But I did find myself grabbing two short pieces of lath to wedge under the rim of the top can to lift it out of the bottom one, so that I didn't have to get my hands anywhere near them. And once I'd filled them, there was no way I was even going to test them for weight to see if hauling them back was a possibility. Nope, instead, I loaded them up and left them there for Misterpie to move, making the convenient assumption that they would be too heavy. And I felt like a total puss for that, but still, figured I had pushed my spider envelope enough for one day and still got some work done.

So. Easily bored? Yes. Productive? Yes. Spunky? Maybe not so much.

The Elephant in the Womb

I try to, for the most part, ignore the pregnancy thing and carry on in a relatively normal fashion. It's not that I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm pregnant or have an aversion to it or anything, it's just that I don't think it essentially changes who I am or what I do yet. So I just go on acting like myself, and trying to be a professional at work, and so on. But it seems I am alone in thinking that maybe it doesn't need to be the major fact that defines me right now.

Whereas a month or two ago, people would meet my eyes and then their gaze would travel down to notice my belly, I have noticed recently that eyes flick up from my belly to my face. It seems I am a walking stomach who may, oh yeah, right have a face.

Whereas I used to be able to help people at work and carry out a normal conversation or transaction like the trained professional that I am, invariably I am now congratulated, asked when I am due, and asked if I know the sex. This, to me, is veering into the personal, and while I may talk more personally with some people who I have come to know or with parents who come to my programmes for young ones, I don't want to get personal with everyone who enters the building. Can we just act like I am a normal librarian who is here to help you with your library needs? I am not some preg-hormone-crazed, starry-eyed, needy thing who is itching to share details with everyone I meet. That's just not me. Ever, really. And frankly, I haven't even told my own mother the sex yet, okay, so all these random people can just take a step back with all that. (You can tell that I don't include all of you lovely people here - this is, after all, my personal space here.)

Whereas I used to be able to walk down the street and no one took any notice of me, today a construction worker called out, "Good luck with the baby!" He is not the first to say that to me completely out of the blue and outside of a conversation - subway cars seem to breed that, too.

It's not that I don't appreciate that people are trying to be nice.

It's just that I don't appreciate being treated like I am no longer a person, but a walking incubator with nothing else on my mind, nothing else in my life, only one topic to discuss. I may be getting forgetful, but I haven't lost my mind completely, people. Can we just ignore this thing for a while longer? It's going to take over my life soon enough. Let's just call it the elephant in the womb.

Wordless Wednesday: Stopping

I love the mornings when we do.

On The Night Shift

Last night was one of those nights. One of those nights when really, to get a better night's sleep, I'd be best off moving out into the middle of a busy street and bedding down there instead of toughing it out in my own home and foolishly attempting to return to my own bed and the slumberlands so many times, only to be frustrated again and again.

I fell asleep about 9 or 9:30, as is my habit these days. About 1 or a bit after, Misterpie began to snore. Loudly. He had rolled onto the couch that is wedged in beside our bed pending third-floor renovations (now move quickly towards the absurd in duration), and was too far away to poke, prod, or nudge into a quieter breathing pattern. Instead, I grabbed some stuffed thing and reached out an arm to whack him with it, the only way I could reach that far without becoming disentangled from the body pillow which has become my spooning partner. In a distinctly peevish tone, he told me, "I don't need to be hit, thank you." Yes, you do, I thought back.

Awake now, I rose, brushed my teeth and washed my face, flossed and took vitamins, read a few blogs, and by 2ish, was ready to head towards bed, when a thwanging sound came from downstairs, repeated a few times over as a cat smacked the window screen. As I headed down the stairs to see what was going on, an unearthly yowling began. Oh. Another animal on the front porch. Sure enough, the other animal had fled, but Henry was lurking underneath the coffee table, tail a bottle brush of anger, voicing his upset, while Ginger sat in the window keeping watch. I shooed her away, closing window and blind, and picked up Henry. Holding him tight against me, I whispered to him to calm him, but he continued to howl and twitch in my arms until I decided to save myself from further annoyance or a possible mauling, and shut him in the bathroom to calm down while I brought up laundry from the basement, hung shirts for Misterpie, and folded a few pairs of pants on top. Letting him out, I fed the cats, and about 2:45, returned upstairs with visions of pillows dancing in my head.

I roused Misterpie enough to move him from his new position in the dead centre of the bed and lay down, trying to find oblivion. Shortly after three came fresh sounds. Mooooommy! Some small person was upset. It didn't sound like it was ours... After some closer listening by both Misterpie and I, we were certain that the crying came from another house, obviously one whose windows were also open to the night air. It had woken us, though, and even though it lasted only some 15 minutes, sleep was further away than ever. It was perhaps 3:45 when I began to drift.

At 4:10 - this time I know for sure, bolting upright as I did - the crying was Pumpkinpie, imploring me from the hallway to come and sleep with her, as she was having a bad dream. I went with her, hurried enough not to think to bring any objects of my own comfort - pillows or the like. I lay beside her as she flickered in and out of sleep for some time, patting me, telling me I was "so nice," claiming to still behaving the bad dream, and at on point, asking if I was going to my room now in a tiny-girl voice mixed with a tone of resigned big-girlness. No, I could stay longer. And I did, despite her thrashing and fussing over covers off and on, sleep beside her until she awoke at 7:00, certain that she needed no more sleep.

Can this really be morning? I took her to my bed with me, seeking some comfort, and she continued to talk and chatter, preventing me from tumbling into needed darkness behind my lids, until finally, about 7:40, I turned on the television for her and let her watch an unprecedented run of shows as I catnapped. Mercifully, it was a late day at work, so I had the time to try and take the edge off of the night's exhaustion, but still, it has left me wrung out today, with much to do this week before summer gets under way and with several deadlines looming.

Perhaps tonight can be someone else's turn...

Tuesday morning - 5:43 AM - another bad dream. She is in my bed again. Not going back to sleep. Need I point out that 5:43 AM is not morning yet, no matter what the birds may seem to think?

Pumpkinpie and Santa

Pumpkinpie has taken on an interesting new project... Yes, I realize she's four. So maybe obsession is a better word, but still, she has a plan and she is tackling it. For more than one day running.

She found some "strawberries" growing next to the sidewalk as we walked home this weekend, you see. Apparently, they are not yet ripe, but she is certain that they are strawberries in the waiting. Here they are:

funnily enough, it's called Pineapple Weed!

one fruit or another, it seems...

Or matricaria discoidea, if you're fancy.

Disco idea. Ha. I'm not fancy, obviously.

So she began to pick some. "I will send them to Santa," she told me. I hadn't heard about Santa since, oh, about Christmas-time, so I was surprised, but replied that he'd probably really appreciate that, since I was pretty sure that strawberries can't grow in the north pole, where it is too cold, even in summer, for strawberries. So she took them home to ripen.

The next day, on another street, she saw the same plant, and picked some more. We elaborated on her plan a bit. This was particularly nice, since Santa usually gave presents but didn't get many, I told her. Did she want to mail them to him? Yes. But he wouldn't know which boy or girl sent them. Did she want to write a little note to go with them? Yes, but he still wouldn't know who she was. I thought that Santa had a pretty good idea about which boy or girl was which, since that was part of his job. So we'd send a note with them. Those strawberries joined the others to ripen.

A plan of my own began to form. We could use this as an opportunity to practice writing a letter together. We'd purchase a simple little card for Santa, compose a note together, and send it, "strawberries" enclosed. She might even receive a note back from Santa for her thoughtfulness, who knows? He does write back when he gets notes at Christmas (the post office takes care to send back personalized notes, it's very cute). We dropped by the card store, and found a card with a photo of juicy red strawberries on the cover - more than I had planned to spend on this little venture, but too perfect to pass up. Perhaps I'd keep it for her box of memories (who has time to get them in a real scrapbook?) instead of really mailing it... Would that be wrong?

I have this feeling I'm totally indulging her in something ridiculous, that spending $5 on this is absurd, when someone else could be buying milk with it. But at the same time, isn't that what childhood magic is made of? Moments of awe, like getting back a note from Santa? I like encouraging her sweet impulses like this one, too, and letting Santa tell her how much he appreciates the thoughtful gesture. I'm chalking it up to educational, what with the letter-writing and all, since I think we don't do enough little projects together, and often feel neglectful on that front. Hopefully we can do a bit more of that stuff this summer, with Misterpie home to help ease off some of the other things like laundry, because while I think our lazy summer days of chalk drawing, sprinkler,-jumping, park-going, and hanging around with the kids on the block are lovely, I also hope to make some of those moments that involve a little more togetherness before it gets tougher.

Belly By the Numbers

Week of pregnancy: 27

Times Pumpkinpie has woken up early this past week: 3
Time I have been woken early by a &!#@% leg cramp this past week at 6 am: 2
Times I have fallen asleep before I intended, teeth unbrushed, face unwashed, etc.: 6
How tired am I: there are no scales for this, silly.

Weight gained so far: 22.5 lbs - much better than last pregnancy
Weight gained in the last month - 1 or 1.5 lbs.

Blood pressure: 98/48 - between this low number and the low weight gain this past month, it seems the salt restriction is working, irritating as it is to not get to eat chips and such. Sigh. Carry on, then, I guess.

Glucose Tolerance Test: not over the limit, but not low. And apparently, it's not a problem/no problem thing so much as a range, so now I have to be careful and cut down sugars and white carbs, too. Which were what I had been using to console myself over th no salt business, I should add.

So. Now. What's left to eat? Water. Lettuce with nothing on it. Meat cooked well enough not to be tender and unseasoned enough to be bland-ish. Whole grain bread, which, yum, okay, but can't be my whole diet, can it? Veggies (tough to get to work, I'm finding), but probably not too much fruit (which is easier), for the sugars. Chick peas and other bean-y type things, but they give me even worse belching problems than I have already, and let's face it, no one needs that to happen. At least I have Cheerios, I guess.

Any good suggestions, before I break the alcohol ban over this?

Random Week

last monday


It can't be a sign of a good day when Misterpie turns on Rolie Polie Olie for Pumpkinpie, who perches at the end of your bed while you drag yourself upward through layers of sleep and, still only halfway there, notice something small crawling up your arm. A little black beetle like the one I saw the other day? Nope. A small spider, clicking it's mandibles at you. Hello, spider. You blow the spider off your arm so it doesn't bite you while you smush it, and it swings from a silken thread below your elbow. Hmm.


The house is too hot, so you discombobulate your morning routine by heading downstairs early for the cooler temperatures, meaning things are all thrown off.


Later, a cab strands you in the middle of nowhere on a day with an extreme heat alert and incoming thunderstorms.


At least you got ice cream on the way home, and found a reno bin on your lawn when you got there! Could this mean... progress?



last tuesday


It can't be a sign of a good day when you wake up to a serious leg cramp at 6 am and as soon as you finish massaging it out, it cramps again, and while you pull your toes back towards your knee to stretch it out, you feel it twinging over and over, trying to cramp a thrid time. Your leg will be sore all day after that. And why is the light still on from last night? Not helping the room cool down any, despite the storms that raged all night.


Still, it's a cooler day, which is nice, is a rainy and stormy one. And oh yes, you have a 20-minute walk four times back and forth for visits to kids in their classes today. With that sore leg.


On the plus side, the daycare kindly gave you a coffee card, so you treat yourself to something yummy - a mint chip mocha frappucino - on the way back. Mmmm. Plus, you brought home some fun books to share for storytime.

The weekend

The weather is insane, multiple personality disorder insane. It will be glorious, then storm clouds move in, thunder cracks and lightning dashes for half an hour or so, before passing on. A couple of hours later, the same. Pumpkinpie even got a rare reprieve on the last part of her quiet time because the thunder was so loud, it was making me jump, so I let her join me in my bed while she read stories and I played Sudoku and napped. Misterpie was a bit sceptical about whether we were getting played on that score, because we are usually pretty hard-nosed about quiet time, but I thought it was merited.

I have been somewhat plagued all weekend by being told off by a grandparent of another child after I told that child to back off of mine. It made the kid cry, which was not my intent, but my brain just keeps arguing back, long after the fact, that no, it is NOT inappropriate for me to tell someone to back off of MY child. I need to let it go, but it's pissing me off a little still, in the back of my mind.

Still, we had a nice Sunday sitting outside on the block with other parents as the kids played together with chalk and bubbles and sticks and rocks. I do love where we live. And Pumpkinpie has been the picture of sweetness this month, doling out affection right, left, and centre. She asked one neighbour's child if he didn't want to come and live with us? My mom and dad are really nice... So it all comes down to nice moments anyhow, if I pay attention and try to shake off those other moments, short-lived and trivial as they are, in reality.

Monday, again

I just keep dumping bits of my brain in this post... ah, well, I guess that's what random posts are for? This morning's subway ride was one of those that made me keep looking at people and hearing my own snide commentaries, my wonderings about who they are and what their stories might be. Like the young woman with the shaggy hair, dressed in black, low-belted dress and fringed scarves draped around her neck. Ally Sheedy called... even she gave that up long ago. And the man beside me, texting about being late due to subway delays - nonexistent. Did he just sleep in? Have one of those mornings when everything is a setback?

And then noticing the strains of Linkin Park leaking out of the headphones of the teen in front of me. Why do I find them so compelling, when other groups that mostly stick to one sound annoy me? I think it's in the contrast. The way Shinoda's rich, velvet voice lays down a bed over which Chester's operatics soar, and the way Chester's own beautiful melodies contrast with the rough edge in his voice. There is something haunting about how it all comes together.

Weather continues to be weird-ass. It just hailed for ten minutes, then passed over to lovely blue skies again. Don't you wish you were here? At least it waited until today's round of class visits was over, and those were only a very short walk away. Not bad, overall, especially when I factor in that same pumpkinpie sweetness. She wandered down the hall this morning, away from Max and Ruby to the computer room, bearing a handful of animal crackers for me. Here's a treat! she said. I joined her a moment later, and she offered more: you can pick any one you want. It makes it easier to overlook the ridiculous waffling over getting dressed that seems to have taken over her brain. Well, I've had those mornings of fashion crisis, too, when you just can't seem to figure out what to wear... Not so much with the more limited wardrobe of pregnancy, though, there is that.

People, this is a weird compilation post, to be sure - I might need more sleep. Or to get off my tuchus and write one of the many drafts I have piling up...

Google Me This: Newporn Edition

So we were down to about 8 or so names, and decided, in the absence of any overlapping of our top and bottom three, that the next move would be to google each of them combined with Misterpie's last name, which The Bun will take, and see what came up.

One was a porn star. Okay, not so much a star as a rather tired firefly, but still, coming up on IMDB as the feature in one 1970s adult movie, not doubt of some rather cheesy, sleazy bow chicka wow variety. Mmmm... NO.

So now we are down one variant of one name because, well, no one else might ever know, but I would. I have a good memory for that sort of thing, too. And how could I not snicker every time I said his whole name after that? And how could I not make snide little jokes about the little dicktator in our house?

So that one's out. One of the remaining ones is actually the name of someone rather famous in certain circles, as well, which I think may not be a great idea, so I have proposed a deal to take that name off the list as well as my third-place pick, a trade of sorts, so if Misterpie goes for that, we may be down to the last half dozen-ish. Maybe even 5.

What next? Good thing we've still got three months.

Wordless Wednesday: Summertime

and the livin' is easy.

He's My Private Dancer

This baby, this Bun, he is a funny one. He is playing coy. Hard to get.

For me, he is energetic, bouncing and flipping often and abundantly. But I am the only one who has felt him move, felt the bumping of my belly. There have been many, many times when he has been active and I have seized Misterpie's hand and pressed it to my middle, wishing to share it with him. each time, The Bun has grown still, instantly, and jumps no more for some time.

I have tried, too, to share the excitement of his movements with his big sister, holding her wee palm against me, thinking how much more real and interesting it will be to her when she can feel tangible evidence of a being inhabiting that large bump on my front side. But he is holding out on her, too.

Perhaps he has a shy side, this aquabat of mine? Perhaps he is a mama's boy in the making?

One things seems sure, though: if the tummy's a-rockin', there's no point in knockin'.

Extra-Terr-breast-trial

Pumpkinpie is obsessed with breastfeeding her baby - her beloved doggy baby, who she nurtures and tucks in and sings to and teaches about being polite and not hitting, and all the other things that good mothers do. And now, she has discovered breastfeeding.

It seems that she saw a classmate's mother nursing a recent addition to their family, modestly covered with a small blanket, and now she keeps doing the same and telling me about how her baby is drinking from her breast. Okay, I say. We have in fact had some discussions following this about how mommies' breasts make enough milk for the baby, about how usually a baby will drink a bit from each side and then the mommy's body will make more for next time the baby is hungry, and how that is all really new babies eat. It's been a great intro to telling her about this stuff prior to the Bun's arrival, actually.

Tonight, as she clutched her baby to her chest once more and fed her, tucked beneath her baby's favourite blankie, she added that I should not peek, because it was private. Okay again. Then she switched "breasts," as she told me. (I say that in quotation marks because, you know, she's four, and all.) Which was fine, except that the conversation took a bit of a turn for the weird at that point. See if you don't agree:

Now my baby is drinkin' from my middle breast!

Um, people don't HAVE a middle breast, honey, they have two, one left breast, and one right breast.

Well, I have a middle breast!

And what planet are you from, then? Because here, people only have a left and a right, no middle.

Well, I am from the DOG planet, because I am a mother cocker spaniel, and this is my baby cocker spaniel.

Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense, then, seeing as dogs have about 6 breasts or so ...

Right.

Okay, then, so long as we're clear...

I, Trampoline

My unborn child appears to think I am a piece of gymnasium equipment. Especially in the middle of the night, when it is, apparently party time! in Mama Gym. I often lie there in the dark, staring at Misterpie's broad back before me, feeling The Bun scrabbling, bouncing, jabbing in my belly, and counting the hours before I have to rise to get ready for work.

I am beginning to freak out a bit about the activity level of this child. He feels bigger, stronger, and more active than Pumpkinpie ever was when she was housed in my body. Pumpkinpie would stretch outward as if luxuriating in her warm, dark pool, my belly morphing rather than bumping. This child is all poking limbs and rustling around, and while nighttime is definitely a peak in activity, he is rarely still for too long, even in the day. Shortly after eating, I can count on some action, and at random times throughout the day, he reminds me of his presence by way of a quick jab or handspring.

My questions is this - do all these wild goings-on in my innards mean this kid is going to be a hyperactive little maniac, as Pumpkinpie's far more relaxed attitude to in utero exercise previewed her calmer self? Am I right to be getting all wigged out about this? Or did any of you have crazy bouncing babes who turned out pretty chill once introduced to the outside world?

Crank and Misery

Note to Mr. Cash: Ring of fire? Pah. I scoff at your mere ring of fire. Me, I've got a whole tube of fire, formerly known as my throat. God, it hurts. Which on it's own is crummy, but I am also running like a tap in the nasal area. Yes, I'm feeling whiney. You may want to do yourself a favour and come back another day...

And have you ever noticed the close resemblance between the words maternity and eternity? Not that I'm in a hurry to get this kid out and have sleepless nights and breastfeeding attempts and physical recovery to deal with, not at all, but seriously, everyone I meet, even people I see every day, seems to feel compelled to ask me every time they see me how I'm feeling and how far along I am. I know I look huge, people! But really, it's not until September, so we've got a long way to go, and it's getting old already. I know it's well-meaning, and all, but I'd be just as happy to ignore it and pretend I'm a normal person, not an incubator, at for another couple months, 'kay? For the sake of our friendship, I must ask people to cease and desist!

So yeah, despite exciting events wrapping up today, I'm cranky. Must find the mood to write the post I'd like to write... and the time, because I'm also heading into a couple of busy weeks at work. Posting may be light for the next bit unless I find some time and energy in a forgotten winter coat pocket or something.