Love and Chopsticks

Fifteen.

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 14:50:00 +0000

Ben was 15 months old this week. Is he ever fun, oh man, you have no idea. Everything is clap-your-hands, laugh-out-loud hilarious, I-want-to-eat-him cute, he's-so-smart amazing. He's a fantastic child, a blessing, pure happiness.

He dances with abandon and my heart nearly explodes. He does the animal actions from Eric Carle's "From Head To Toe" and grins with all his might, his nose scrunching up, his chubby cheeks rising up like rosy little apples. His eyes sparkle. My heart, oh, my heart.

There have been stories in the news recently of child suicides due to depression and bullying. These stories are maybe the saddest things I have ever heard. I can't imagine how these children felt, and try as I might, I can't fathom the pit of despair their parents must be living, the worry and concern they felt as they watched their children suffer, as they tried to help them, tried to save them, and could do nothing to ease their pain.

I found today the blog of one of these kids. It was ripe with pain. My heart is so heavy right now. I wish someone could have made it better for him. I wish he didn't have to feel the words he was writing. I wish he was still alive.

And then I think of my fifteen month old son at home, and I despair that someday someone might try to snuff out the joyful part of him, tease him for wanting to dance with abandon, torment him for perhaps loving the "wrong" person. I see how he loves other kids, how he runs up to complete strangers and shares a toy. Sometimes they shrink away from his boldness and I panic; do they understand that he loves everyone? Are these kinds of interactions going to make him second-guess his friendly instincts? As he gets older, are these interactions going to become more and more obvious, more aggressive, until he is conditioned to not take joy in the company of others?

He has had no taste of meanness or bullying. He's been protected from cruelty but we can't keep him sheltered forever, even though I want to. He has no idea how awful humans can be to each other. He trusts everyone. It's a beautiful way to see the world, and I love watching him make his way. I hate the thought that he can't stay like this forever, because he's perfect.

Aloha!

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 07:34:00 +0000

We are in Hawaii! This is the first time we've left the continent since we got back from our Big Adventure in 2008, and even though we're technically still in the United States of America, it sure feels like we're on vacation.

Things are really different now. Where once there were two, there are now three. Where we used to throw our two rucksacks on our backs, we now drag three gigantic suitcases through the airport. Where we used to relax on flights, books and headphones in hand, we struggle awkwardly up and down the aisles, holding tiny hands as tiny feet stride back and forth for hours. We cram into airplane lavatories and struggle with a rickety change table, diaper bag, squirming baby, and dirty diaper, all at once. Ben hardly slept at all, the whole trip... so we didn't either. By the time we landed at Kona International Airport on Hawaii (The Big Island, which is also called Hawaii), we had been awake for over 18 hours, or more if you take into account the fact we only slept two hours the night before we left. Ben was giddy with fatigue and wouldn't sleep, but bouncedbouncedbouncedbounced from the second we left Toronto until we landed in Kona. (Okay, I lie. He slept for an hour. One. Hour.)

The good thing about extreme fatigue is that it allowed us to fall into bed pretty much the second we arrived at our temporary home, just after 6:00. This is key, because Ben was awake and ready to go at 4:00 am the next morning. Thanks to our early bedtime, we were ready to go... nowhere. Nothing was open and we hadn't eaten dinner the night before, so we had a late night/early morning snack of energy bars and M&M's. By 7:00 we could venture out for breakfast and supplies.

How do I describe Hawaii? This island, called "The Big Island", is (duh) the biggest of all of the Hawaiian islands. It's the only one that is still growing, as the volcano known as Kilauea continues to erupt, spilling lava down the countryside into the Pacific ocean. It's sparsely populated, and it's spectacular. Hawaii's volcanic history means the landscape scales from sandy beach to towering mountains in just a few miles. Bougainvillea, hibiscus, and plumeria line the streets and grow in parking lots and front yards. We're eating local white pineapples -- the sweetest pineapples I've ever eaten, local mangoes, local bananas, local papayas from the farmer's market. I'm in Kona coffee heaven, and macadamia nuts, though not falling from the trees, are certainly abundant.

This side of the island, the Kona side, the west side, is hot and sunny and dry, with black sand beaches, white sand beaches, green sand beaches, and lava rocks. The green turtles certainly love it! The east coast is wet and lush and full of gigantic trees and vines and plants with leaves the size of elephant ears. In the middle it's all grassy plans and undulating rolling hills, perfect for the grazing cattle residing there. And did I mention the live active volcano at the southern end?

The food is good, the landscape is amazing, and Ben is having a fabulous time. The first half hour his first time at the beach he sobbed and clung to us in fear; after a few minutes of quiet observation in his Daddy's arms, and he was splashing happily in the surf.

As I mentioned earlier, traveling with a little one is certainly a different experience for us. Massive quantities of luggage aside, it takes us much longer to do anything. We haven't been able to get out the door in less than two hours from wake-up on any day. We tend to eat "at home", and earlier than we might have otherwise. We spend our evenings in front of the television instead of out drinking in the local culture... and we're usually in bed before midnight.

That being said, watching our boy step hesitatingly onto sand for the first time, and seeing him grin, is better than any other adventures we could have planned.

365 Days And A Brief Rant

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 15:13:00 +0000

Ben turned a year old a couple of weeks ago. He's amazing and adorable and I love him with all my heart, more than I ever possibly imagined I could love someone. When other moms told me about this I nodded enthusiastically and agreed, but I never really got it. I am completely enamoured.

I'm fortunate enough to have some extra vacation time, so even though Ben's first birthday has passed, I'm still at home with him. Thanks to a generous maternity leave policy, Canadian moms are entitled to a year off; thanks to a generous employer, I had a great "top up" which I now realize many women don't get when they take maternity leave. I mention all of this so you know that I understand my fortune, and appreciate it.

I thought it would be enough time, but it's not. I feel sick at the thought of going back to work. It's not that I don't enjoy my work or love my co-workers. I do. But I have this knot in my stomach when I think about leaving my Bento behind every day. And I'm angry and resentful and bitter that it has to be this way. I'm thankful that we have the best possible babysitters (grandmothers) but I wish it could be me. It's not fair that someone else gets to live the best part of my life, as someone else once put it. It's not fair that someone else gets to snuggle my baby, and watch him grow, and see all of the things that I should get to do, and the reason I say I should get to do them is because I AM HIS MOTHER and it's the natural order of things. All I can think about is the things I am going to miss, and the days that will fly by, and the fact that this little amazing person that I love so much is going to spend his days with someone else other than me.

I know it's good for him to see other people. (Hahaha, I guess we're not going to be exclusive anymore?) His dad says he would like to stay home with him too, and that he's been leaving every day since Ben was three weeks old. I say. It. is. not. the. same. Until he's been pregnant and given birth and nursed a baby and had that same baby reach for him in the middle of the night, curl his body towards him and tucked his little arm into his to fall asleep, he can't possibly know.

Only a mother can know.

It's the same way that only a mother can feel like this when she has to go back to work. And only other mothers can feel sympathy for her, because they've all felt the same way.

5/6 of a Year

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Tue, 24 May 2011 15:39:00 +0000

(Photo by Joee Wong, JW Photography)

The first months with my baby have been positively wonderful. He's been happy, and easygoing, and for the most part, non-mobile. Up until recently he's been content on his little alphabet mat, tearing up the pieces (I call him "Godzilla"), playing with his toys and chewing on anything in reach. Many of his friends started to crawl long ago, but my little Bento was perfectly content to sit tall on the floor and just observe the world around him. I had time, so much time, to clear the breakfast dishes and wipe the floor around his booster while he cooed and burbled beside me. I could even make cupcakes and clean up afterwards.

This is when it starts to get hard, right? Because I now have a mobile baby. He doesn't crawl in the traditional sense. He kind of slithers along the floor, pulling his body along the floor with his arms. He glides forward, pivots, changes direction, rolls over, rolls back, and moves on. I'm tempted to attach a Swiffer cloth to his belly -- two birds, one stone, blah blah blah. And he's fast. For weeks I'd been saying "we really need to baby-proof this pla--" and before I could finish the sentence he was moving, headed for the electrical cord he glimpsed under a piece of furniture, or my decorative vase full of sticks and glass marbles. Awesome. We have stairs and no baby gate (if anyone can advise us how to install a gate so that fat cats still have access to both floors I'd love to hear it.)

When you nod "yes" to Ben he shakes his head "no" in return. He plays peek-a-boo, but hasn't figured out yet that you're supposed to hide behind something. He blows kisses but never when you ask for them. If you're lucky enough to be holding him and he wants something, he leans for it, if it's within arm's reach, or he points imperiously in that direction, fully expecting your obedience. He insists on self-feeding, squishing the ever-favourite avocado through his hair, using cream cheese as a facial mask, rubbing butternut squash on his pants. He claps every time he takes a spoonful of food. My laundry has increased threefold. He can pull himself to standing with a little help from the coffee table, or his Zany Zoo, or anyone who has hands. Splashing in the bath is a favourite pastime. In the mornings, I can lie in bed for 20 minutes and listen to him rolling around in his crib, talking to himself or to his stuffed animals, and it makes me smile. Then when I go to his room and open the door, he stops what he's doing, looks up at me, pauses -- and breaks into a grin. It's the best way to start each day.

As I said, in a lot of ways things are getting a lot harder, but they're also getting a lot better. I get to hang out every day with the most hilarious, charming, huggable dude you will ever meet.

And that is the truth.

Making Myself Beautiful aka Not Like I Woke Up 80 Times Last Night

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 00:32:00 +0000

I recently did a guest post at Toronto Beauty Reviews (hi Elaine!) and revealed another side of my personality -- the makeup and beauty product junkie. I'm serious. I have loved makeup since I was a little girl. Unfortunately, for many years, my motto was more-is-more, and so we have several unfortunate pictures of me wearing purple or red lipstick, inky eyeliner, and bright pink blush, all in one day. I used to sneak mascara to school and apply it in the bathroom and then wash it off as soon as I got home, before my mom saw me. And this was in grade five!

Over the years I grew to understand that nothing is better than the "you, only better" natural look -- thankfully. I still have a penchant for fake eyelashes and silver eyeshadow on special occasions, but for everyday, less really IS more. The biggest bonus to mastering the natural look is that it can be accomplished really, really quickly.

This brings me to my next point -- you all know by now that I'm a mom to a nine-month-old ball of rubber-legged joy. I don't have a lot of time in the morning. Makeup is an essential part of my daily routine (yes, I really am that vain), much like brushing my teeth or wearing pants. This means that I'm constantly trying to find ways to streamline my routine and make it even faster. I've got it nearly down to a science:

1. Concealer: YSL Touche Eclat

Nothing beats dark circles caused by multiple, MULTIPLE night wakings like a good concealer. And nothing gets me to try a product faster than it being described as a "makeup artist must-have". Touche Eclat (Radiant Touch) is easy to apply and does a great job of hiding undereye circles and other dark imperfections.

2. Foundation: Makeup For Ever Duo Mat

A two-in-one foundation/powder combo that is applied with a sponge, Duo Mat offers full coverage and good skin tone matching power. It stays matte all day, even though my skin is pretty oily.

3. Blush/Bronzer: Nars Orgasm/Laguna

Another makeup-artist must-have is the classic combination of Nars' legendary blush Orgasm and the equally great bronzer Laguna. Both are very flattering to most skin types, are not too glittery, and have great staying power. A little goes a long way.

4. Eyeshadow: L'Oreal One Sweep

So I realize that I just proclaimed my love for Bobbi Brown in my post at TO Beauty Reviews, so let me explain: I bought this L'Oreal One Sweep shadow and then the next day was talked into buying the BB stuff (I had gone for powder and foundation.) The one-sweep stuff is good for everyday wear. Its greatest strength is the one-step application, though the brush is weirdly shaped and thus fiddly to get used to (hint: application instructions are on the back of the box.) The palette for brown eyes (Natural look) is fine, not as rich or as pigmented as the Bobbi Brown shadows, and can look a little chalky, and creased a bit by the end of the day. Still -- one step! It's a great idea for the less experienced and the very, very exhausted.

5. Mascara: L'Oreal Extra Volume Collagen

Thanks to a super-lush brush and super-thick formulation, this mascara gives huge impact with only a few strokes (um, I still do ~~three~~ two coats.)

6. Eyeliner: Bobbi Brown Long Wear Gel Eyeliner

This is a great eyeliner, but application requires a steady hand and lots of practice. With the right brush, you can create a very fine line, a thicker line, or a cat-eye swoop. Once it's on it's on, though, so work deliberately and work fast! It really stays put.

7. Lip gloss: Clinique Black Honey

You can throw this on in the car -- with or without a mirror. It's sheer and glossy and flattering to several skin tones.

And that's it! It looks like a lot of product but it takes me under five minutes. And I like to think it looks good. I hope. At the very least, I look more awake.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with my hair...

Happy Days

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 00:32:00 +0000

There are a few significant days that stand out in my life. Obviously, Ben's birth is the big one. There's our wedding day, the day we got engaged, my 30th birthday, the day I climbed a mountain...

This past Sunday, I got to watch/help my awesome cousin make macarons. That day is right up there with my other most wonderful days, for sure.

Macarons are a delicious French confection of epic proportions. People spend years on the quest for Macaron Perfection. They look simple enough -- almond meringue discs with a ganache or buttercream filling; I have read at least a dozen different recipes which are all pages long and intimidatingly complicated.

I have loved macarons for a long time but never had the courage to make them myself.

It was a long process. First, we had to go out in search of the ingredients: ground almonds (almond powder/almond flour), icing sugar, eggs, chocolate, and flavourings.(Only the Callebaut chocolate is here; each chunk is over a pound!)

Almond and icing sugar were sieved together and mixed.

The egg whites were beaten, and when ready, a hot sugar syrup was beaten into them. See how gloriously white and glossy the mixture is?

It was even more beautiful once tinted.

Awesome Cousin chose orange because the macarons were to be flavoured with Grand Marnier. Smart, isn't he?

Note the two mixers working so beautifully together:

Meanwhile, a dark chocolate ganache was created: dark Callebaut chocolate, whipping cream, orange zest, and Grand Marnier.

The almond/sugar mixture was tinted and combined with the meringue. This mixture was then piped onto parchment paper:

The discs needed to rest about 10-20 minutes to form a skin, and half were dusted with cocoa powder, just for fun. Then they were baked and cooled:

See the frilly "foot" on the bottom of each meringue? Part way through the baking of the first batch I asked, "Do they have feet?" and did a little dance at the affirmative answer. They're not macarons if they don't have feet!

Combined with the ganache filling and eaten:

They're a little uneven because I was permitted to pipe the rounds at one point. Actually, there were four of us in the kitchen; one chef and three "assistants"; any imperfect results are our fault. I point this out because some of the finished macarons are a bit heavy on the cocoa "dusting" (MOM!!!!)

They are so delicious. I still might never have the courage to make them myself. But my kitchen is always his for the borrowing, if he wants to make them there!

Booger Nights

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 00:33:00 +0000

Whew! What a week.

When I was 13, my mother enrolled me in synchronized swimming. One of the first things we had to do was train ourselves to hold our breath for a long, long time. After about a year of training, I could swim the entire length of the Junior Olympic-sized pool underwater, on one breath. By the time I had reached the end, my body would be fighting for a breath. My chest would heave involuntarily as my lungs spasmed, and when I reached the surface, I would gasp desperately for air. It felt so good to take in oxygen.

That's how I feel right now.

We are coming out of the longest week of my life. Little Bento has been sick, and it's been tough. I know that there are parents out there that have fared much, much worse than we have; after all, Ben had a mere cold, with some complications, nothing serious at all. I never questioned that he would survive, though I often doubted that I would. Still, for a new mom, it was hard, and I know that sooner or later, we're going to have to do it again.

He was feverish, and restless, and he couldn't breathe through his nose. His chest rattled every time he coughed, and he squirmed in my arms and pounded his head on my shoulder over and over again, so uncomfortable, so unhappy. He whined and moaned constantly, except when he was screaming. He dozed lightly, but couldn't sleep. Then he started to throw up. He didn't want to eat or drink. He would finally rest his head on my chest in exhaustion, and stare. That is how we spent the week: in the glider, or on the couch, or in my bed, with him sprawled across my body.

I would sit up when he cried and whisper in his ear: "Shh, shh, it's okay, momma's here, momma's here." "I'm here, baby, I'm here." It hit me: I had no freaking clue what I was doing. I told my baby it was going to be okay, so I had to make it okay. It was one of those defining moments for me, where I realized that I am someone's mother, and that this hard job was not one that I could pass on to someone else, or leave behind when it got too difficult. I had some help, thankfully, but the lion's share of fretting, and worrying, and soothing, fell to me.

What a monumental responsibility.

Today, for the first time in days, Ben smiled and giggled, and bounced on his toes when I held him upright. My baby is getting better.

I'm so glad this week is over.

Lemon Drop

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 03:55:00 +0000

It's a new year and Ben is over six months old! He's truly in a renaissance phase right now, as he's laughing and babbling all day long, knocking down milestones left and right, learning and discovering with every passing second. It's exciting and fun, but I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't at all sad.

I'm beginning to understand what people mean when they say that motherhood is bittersweet. Every achievement, every new accomplishment, is another day away from my squishy newborn. Every first is the last time I'll see it as a first. His first Christmas -- gone. His first roll-over -- gone, too. The first smiles, the first laughs, they've come and gone and they were celebrated; there have been many smiles and laughs since then, and they all give me a kind of heart-stabbing joy, but they're not the same as the first. Even the pregnancy firsts -- the belly movements, to be sure, but also the swollen ankles, the stretch marks -- I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sad that they're gone too. (Oh wait, the stretch marks are still there. Lucky me.) If I'm fortunate enough to be pregnant again some time, these same things won't be firsts anymore. They'll just be there.

We've already put a big box of clothes in storage. He no longer naps in his swing, and so it's been put away too. Before it went into storage, I turned it on one last time, and listened to the soothing music, and remembered the hot summer days when my tiny baby would swing away to the strains of tiny flutes and perhaps an accordion, with the faint creaking of the swing apparatus in the background. He was so small that his legs didn't even pass through the harness straps; we could strap him in, swaddle and all. I'd never heard that melody before we had this swing, and now I will never forget it.

He has been sleeping in his own room, in his crib, for over a month now. He used to sleep in our bed, and then he slept right next to me in his bassinet. I loved to hear his snoring next to me, and the sound of his fingernails scratching on the sides when he woke up. He moved into his room with no protest at all, and doesn't seem to miss us at all, even though I miss him like crazy.

These days he bounces in his Exersaucer. He bounces in his Jolly Jumper. He bounces at our Lullabies and Lap Rhymes class. He bounces when we read stories. He sits up and grabs things, scratches the mat with his fingernails to feel the texture. He's got two teeth. He eats (some) real food, throws the rest of it on the floor. He screams when he's frustrated, when he's angry, and when he's had Quite Enough. I put him in his crib to nap or for night time and when he wakes up he's on his stomach and has rotated 180 degrees. The other day he picked his Bumbo up off the floor and held it in the air over his head. Amazing.

He's charming and disarming, with a ready laugh and a quick smile. His eyes sparkle when he's happy, and he flirts with the ladies in the grocery line.

He also wakes up many, many times a night (as do I), pinches and bites me when he's nursing, and did I mention that he wakes up several times a night?

I wish I didn't have to go back to work, but I miss my friends. I want to spend every waking minute with my amazing son, but then again I like not wearing stretchy pants every day. Every day with Benjamin is a joy, but it would be nice to spend time with people that don't drool on me continuously.

Decisions, decisions.

Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 01:51:00 +0000

A maternity leave in the depths of winter in Canada consists largely of outings where preparation for said outing is often longer than the outing. Boots, jacket, car seat, snow suit, tiny boots that tiny feet keep pushing off, tiny hat, tiny mitts, car seat straps, diaper bag, purse, blah.

On a recent outing, I browsed the housewares aisles in need of absolutely nothing, and came upon a particular item. It was a red cast iron pot, something I'd been vaguely desiring for a while. However, the clincher for me was the label: "Swiss Made". Well then! Swiss made, how could I go wrong? I threw it into the cart without a second thought.

This made me think of our travels in 2008, where we'd come upon random things labeled "Swiss" in countries that were definitely not anywhere near Switzerland i.e. Nepal, India, Vietnam. The Swiss Family Hotel in Nepal, the Swiss Bakery, the Swiss Bus, the Swiss Restaurant. Why the obsession with the Swiss? Well, my behaviour above is the reason, I suspect; the world knows that Switzerland's reputation is built on quality, quality, quality. The Swiss Family Hotel must be the best hotel-With-Bathrooms-As-Showers in all the land. The Swiss Bakery must have the best Cornflakes-Masquerading-as-Apple-Crumble in all of India. The Swiss Bus is the best Bus-With-Goats in the city. The Swiss Restaurant... you get the point.

We fell for it every time. And my pot is awesome, thank you very much.

Marshmallow Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 15:52:00 +0000

I'm such a softie.

Ben's now four months old, and for the past three months he's refused to nap anywhere but in a sling, curled up next to my body. In some ways it's great, because I am relatively free to walk around and do a limited number of things, mostly involving eating. I can't/won't do anything involving hot substances, open flame, or sharp edges, so cooking is out, as is any housework other than half-assed vacuuming or light dusting, because I can't bend over. If he's to get a really good nap, though, I have to sit on my trusty yoga ball and bounce away for 45 minutes. It beats running up and down the hallway with an aggressive bounce in my step, which is the other alternative.

Most days I don't mind this. It's three or four extra cuddle sessions with my little man, with his face buried in my armpit and one hand looped around the front of my shirt. I know this is a phase, that it won't last, and that soon enough he'll be pushing me away after the briefest of hugs so he can go pick up worms and eat garbage. Some days, though, all I can think about is the cat fur on the couch, the cat fur on the floor, the cat fur everywhere, and how it sure would be fun and fulfilling to get rid of ~~those cats~~ the fur. Those days I think that if he would just let me put him down for his naps, I could get so much done. We could eat a meal that's not overdone/underdone, overspiced/underspiced, whatever. Lately all of the compliments BG pays me after dinner are from meals his mother's made for us. And I hate that when Ben's awake and happy is when I have to leave him to his own devices because that's the only time I can conquer the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking.

Some new-mom friends of mine have had great success teaching their babies to sleep on their own through various techniques; schedules, gradual transitions, routines, books. I commend them for their strength, bow down to their fabulousness. I am weak. Every night I tell myself, "Maybe tomorrow..." and then the day comes, and when Ben starts to rub his eyes and fuss, I slip him into the sling and he drifts off without any problem, and is snoring within seconds. It's so easy this way. Also, the cuddles. I bounce bounce bounce away, lower back aching, shoulder knotted from wearing the sling for a quarter of my waking hours, blogging.

Kind of like now.

Sleeping and Shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 00:56:00 +0000

I took Ben to the grocery store yesterday.

Actually, my initial target was this shiny new arts-and-crafts store that just opened up around the corner. I wanted to check it out, even if I'm not going to be arts-and-crafting any time soon, and wandered around the aisles checking out yarn and scrapbooking supplies. The second I got into the checkout queue, Ben started to wail.

It was a really long line. He cried a lot... and everyone was looking at us, frowning at my ineptitude, shaking their heads at my poor mothering skills, judging. I'm sure of it.

The items I'd intended to purchase suddenly seemed superfluous, so I put them down and bolted for the parking lot, wailing baby and all. I put him in the car -- crying. Loaded up the diaper bag -- still crying. Packed up the stroller -- still crying. Started the car -- silent. He'd fallen asleep.

Obviously we couldn't just go home because he'd wake up when I took him out of the car. So we drove on, letting slumber take hold, and as we approached the grocery store I pulled in simply because there was nowhere else to go.

Once inside the store, the mental grocery list I always keep vanished from my brain. Get a cart? I don't know how to attach the car seat. I'll use the stroller. Stop to get a basket? Nah, I'll just get a few things... And so it began. I raced up and down the aisles at breakneck speed, desperate to maintain baby sleep status quo. Ooh, oatmeal. I need that. Ooh, salad dressing. Oh, we need yogurt. Oh yeah, I wanted to buy some nuts.

Suddenly I found myself with an armful of groceries, a giant stroller, and a sleeping baby. I couldn't slow down. I was miles from the baskets. I pushed the stroller with one hand. I dropped the salad dressing, knocked over several 1-kg bottles of honey, banged into the bulk food bins. I rammed the ankles of at least three other shoppers. I was a menace.

Ben slept the whole time. All in all, a successful shopping trip!

My Friend Joee

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 16:51:00 +0000

I don't have to do this.

I don't have to tell you that Joe Wong's (aka Joee) photos are amazing. I don't have to tell you that he is an incredibly talented photographer.

His work speaks for itself.

Just look. Even I don't see the messy new-mother ponytail and hoodie. I look at that photograph and I think, "That woman is in love with her baby."

Which, by the way, I totally am.

Just look.

Joee writes on his website of the "Joe Wong Experience", and having spent some time with him in front of the camera now, I totally get it. You don't look at his pictures and think, "Wow, that's a very nicely framed shot." You look and you think, "That couple is in LOVE." "They're so happy." "That woman is totally in love with her baby." Joee takes a camera -- a very nice one, in his case -- but a mere machine, made of metal and glass, nonetheless -- he captures the warmth and reality of human emotion, and intensifies it, reflects it back to you more powerfully than you thought possible.

And he makes me want to go back and squeeze this adorable little baby, even though I've been holding him all day and he finally, finally, went down for a nap. It'd be worth it.

He's not good. He's great. He's a magician. He's also the most gentle, personable, and kind-hearted person you'll ever meet. He's a hands-on family man, taking care of his kids during the week while running a full-time photography business. He's a mentor for budding photographers. He's got great hair, a great car... and a great heart.

To my wonderful friend Joee: Thank you, for everything.

ET Phone Home

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 01:13:00 +0000

It occurs to me that blog entries from 2010 have a considerably different tone than those of 2007-2009. It occurs to me that this turn of events has possibly alienated our old audience. It occurs to me that world travelers may not want to hear about the exciting word of diapers and milk.

I am really sorry, guys. It's just... this is how our lives are now.

Sometimes I look back at the last five years and have to shake my head. I thought we had done a lot. I thought we'd accomplished great things. I mean, I climbed a mountain. I have a black belt -- actually, I have three. We watched the sun rise over an ancient Mayan city; we worked with orphans in Thailand, rehabilitated penguins in South Africa. We drove through the gusty deserts of Namibia and navigated the wilderness of Botswana on our own. We rode in a helicopter over Victoria Falls, walked along the Great Wall, and swam with sharks and seals in the Galapagos Islands.

And then my baby was born and he wouldn't nurse.

In the past three months I have tried: finger-feeding; bottle feeding including the purchase of at least half a dozen different kinds of bottles to "mimic breastfeeding"; two excellent lactation consultants; clipping Ben's tongue tie; herbs to increase milk supply; prescription drugs to increase milk supply; infant craniosacral therapy; hours and hours and hours hooked up to a breast pump; attempting to latch while standing and bouncing; attempting to latch while balancing on a yoga ball. I have read books. I have read websites. I have talked and thought about very little other than the natural act of nursing. I have crawled into my husband's lap and wept, telling him I couldn't do it any more. I have postulated and theorized about why my baby wouldn't latch. I have considered the option that my baby might just not like me. I definitely thought there was something wrong with me.

At first I'd feed him with the bottle even though I knew I should be trying to nurse, and I'd feel guilty. Then I would offer Ben a breast and he would scream and I would feel guilty. Gradually he came to accept nursing with a crazy supplemental feeding tube and I would feel guilty that I wasn't trying without it. I felt guilty for wanting to quit, and I felt guilty for putting him through such a torturous ordeal. I felt guilty for talking to everyone about it nonstop. I felt guilty that I wasn't doing enough. I felt guilty that I was wasting everyone's time.

I was housebound, chained to a breast pump. If I went out I had a three hour window, or less, between feeding the baby and pumping. Being at home was an ordeal too, because I'd go to pump and the baby would cry after a few minutes alone. I'd be trying to get him to sleep and all I'd be thinking about was how I'd finally be able to pump once he was down.

It was making me crazy. Finally, I gave myself a deadline -- Thanksgiving weekend. But then I felt guilty for even thinking about giving up.

I was certain we wouldn't make the deadline.

And then, the Thursday before Thanksgiving -- he just did it. He latched on the day he turned 12 weeks old. He's been a happy little nursling ever since. I have been the most relieved and happy nursing mother you ever laid eyes on.

I didn't do it alone. I couldn't have done it alone. The days where I cried, I wanted BG to tell me it was ok, that I'd done enough, to just give Ben a bottle. He never said it. There were hours that my mother and mother-in-law and sisters held the baby so I could sit in front of a breast pump. None of them ever told me that I was being crazy or obsessive. None of my friends ever told me that I was insane. Everyone listened, everyone said nice things to me, and everyone cared.

So, now I can reflect on everything we've accomplished and I can put this at the top of the list. I have a nursing baby, and getting to this point is one of the hardest things I have ever done -- maybe the hardest.

Tomorrow, we're going out for a long time... just because we can.

Two Months

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 21:16:00 +0000

Ben is two months old now. Time is just flying by; where did the summer go? I spent the first half of it waiting for a baby to be born, and the second half recovering from his birth.

In my spare time (hahahahahahahaha!) I like to look back at the pictures we've taken since Ben was born. The photos of his birth are my favourites. They bring me back to that day, so vivid and so surreal in my mind. The first few photos remind that, when he was pulled out, blue and silent, I thought to myself, "Make a sound. Please. Please, cry." And then he did, and it was the most beautiful sound ever.

From pictures in Recovery, I remember the moment when my mother and mother-in-law met him for the first time, when they both became grandmothers.

I look at the pictures of him in the Isolette, under UV lights to treat his jaundice. I remember that he cried in there, that he hated it, and I couldn't take him out because he needed the lights, so I stood up most of the night next to him and stroked him so he would, maybe, hopefully, know that I was there.

I look at pictures from his first week and marvel at how small he was; how squishy his face, how round was his head. In these photos I see onesies and outfits that he has outgrown - clothes that I remember washing and hanging on the line in preparation for his arrival earlier this spring. In these photos I see his first moments: his first bath, his first car ride, his first meetings with aunts and uncles and cousins and friends.

When babies are born, people spend so much time looking forward. "Things will be better when he sleeps through the night." "Things will be better when he's nursing." "I can't wait to see what colour his eyes will be." "I can't wait for his first Christmas."

I have spent so much time looking back and looking forward to things; what strikes me most when I look at the photos is to wonder: Did I look at that moment when it was happening? Did I take it all in? Did I enjoy every precious second, or was part of me wishing to be somewhere else? Sadly, it's in my nature to be thinking of several things at once. I certainly did enjoy my son's first bath, but I probably rushed through it so I could put him to bed and then get myself there too.

These days, little Bento is grinning on the change table, cooing and gurgling as we converse on the couch. His eyes are still blue. His hair hasn't fallen out. He's slept through the night on a couple of occasions, both of which made me terrified initially, elated later. I'm on my own with him most days now, a huge responsibility. He's forgiving of my errors, thankfully, and is happy to cuddle down for a nap in the afternoon. He loves to go for walks, and his Dad is teaching him his repertoire of 80s tunes. We're venturing out most days at least once, on a walk to Starbucks, or to the grocery store, or, still, to the breastfeeding clinic. We're starting a program called "Stroller Fit" this week - it will probably be worth blogging about.

There are hard times, of course. The whole "Breastfeeding Saga" still consumes my life, and it's two steps forward and 400 steps back every time we make a breakthrough. I want to quit every single day. I don't know why I haven't yet. Sheer stubbornness, perhaps. I'm looking forward to announcing to the world that Ben's nursing.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to being present for every moment -- good or bad.

Yum Yum Yum

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 11:16:00 +0000

I was such a jerk before I had a baby. I was an even bigger one before I got pregnant.
This is a post in which I eat my words. Good thing they're tasty.

The Things I Used To Say:

I'm only going to gain 10 pounds when I'm pregnant (try 35.)
I'm going to work out every day when I'm pregnant (if napping is a workout, maybe.)
I'm going to eat healthy (cheese) organic (cake) wholesome (chocolate) nutritious (croissant) foods when I'm pregnant.
I am going to do my hair (ponytail) and wear high heels when I'm pregnant (hahahahahahaha!)
I won't get stretch marks (wrong again!)
I'm going to try to have my baby without any interventions (had a spinal and an emergency c-section.)
I'm going to breastfeed (still in progress.)
I'm going to work out every day as soon as the baby's born (hasn't happened yet.)
I'm going to be back in my pre-pregnancy jeans very soon after baby's born (not. pretty.)
This baby isn't going to rule my life (!)
I will be able to put the baby down so I can get stuff done.
I can do it without help.
I can do it all.
I know exactly what I'm getting into.

Om nom nom nom. I'm like the Cookie Monster over here, stuffing these tasty words down my gullet.

Bringing Home Benjamin

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 07:47:00 +0000

Happy Birthday Ben! It's been one month since Ben's birth and I haven't told you a thing about him, for shame! Allow me to introduce you to the newest member of Team Chopsticks.

Ben was born 8 lbs 10 oz and with a full head of dark hair... when we say a full head of hair, we don't mean that his head was covered with typically baby-fine peach fuzz. We mean he was born with a FULL head of HAIR. Like, he has a mullet and the hair on the sides is growing over his ears. This kid has sideburns. His eyes are still blue, and like all good, superficial parents, we are secretly hoping they'll stay that way, even though we know they likely won't. My genetics background knows better.

He snorts when he's hungry, he buzzes like a tiny bee when he has to burp. When he drinks, his right eye closes and his left eyelid twitches up and down in rhythm with his gulps. Sometimes he brings his wee hands up and clutches them together under his chin. Sometimes he clutches at his cheeks in some sort of ecstatic frenzy (I do NOT like it when he does this, but it reminds me to cut his fingernails.)

He's a social fellow, our little Bento. He likes people. He likes to sleep ON people. One of his major pet peeves is being placed in a swing chair or crib once he's fallen asleep. Can you imagine the audacity! He is enraged. He'll sleep upright in your arms, or curled up under your chin, or sprawled across your chest; he's not picky. He just wants to be with people. When he's mad, he stands perfectly upright in your arms, little fists clenched. He throws his head back (because he's beginning to hold it up now) and cries stridently. He loves to rest his head on your shoulder, arms outstretched. When he goes to sleep in his crib, his arms must be thrown up overhead. If you swaddle him with his arms contained, he'll grunt and squirm until they're free.

At one month old, he weighs just over 10 pounds. He's beginning to track movement with his eyes, and he loves to gaze at our photo wall, though I think it's more the contrast of the black frames against the wall than the actual photo content. He's a champion sleeper... during daylight hours. At night he averages two hours between feeds, and he's very alert in the mornings, during his daily French lessons with Grandma. When he's drifting off to sleep we see him smile gently, sweetly. His Grandma says he's seeing angels, an explanation I like very much, because I tell myself he sees the people that would have loved him tremendously, had they been here to do so.

All in all, a typical newborn, but he's ours. Sometimes I still can't believe it.

This is My Life Now

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 18:35:00 +0000

It is quite rare for a new mother like me to have time to be surfing the internet, let alone blogging. Lucky for you, I have a good reason to be here.

I'm pumping milk. My milk. For my son.

Moo.

I'm doing this because he won't latch.

Whether it's because I had a c-section and he didn't get tossed on my squishy abdomen right after birth, denying us of precious skin-to-skin time; whether it's because he was tongue-tied; whether it's because he just doesn't really like boobs... he refuses to take a full meal from my breasts, and for that reason, I am sitting here looking like an idiot, pumping milk into bottles.

Nobody tells you that breastfeeding, though the most natural thing in the world, might not work. Nobody tells you that your baby has to learn to do it. Nobody was more shocked than I when, upon being put to my breast, my baby reared his head back, turned away, and wailed at the top of his lungs. Every time we tried he did the same thing. The nurses on the maternity ward all told me different things: "Your baby has a short tongue." "He needs suck training. Give him your finger." "Try finger feeding." "You have flat nipples." "You don't have much milk because of the c-section." "If you do go with formula, it's not the end of the world." Finally, I requested that a lactation consultant come see me. She had me rent a hospital-grade pump to increase my supply, and warned: "Because of the c-section, you're two days behind with breast feeding. You will have to work very hard to catch up." She had us finger-feeding Ben every two hours with formula, and had me pumping milk every three hours -- a wacky schedule that was impossible to keep.

Finally, at home, I called another lactation consultant. I was near tears as I explained our situation. She arrived right away. She said nothing about flat nipples and raised her eyebrows at some of the advice of the other lactation consultant. She said Ben had a slight tongue-tie, and recommended a pediatrician to look at it. She had him latched on her first try. She gave us hope that breastfeeding was a possibility for us.

So these days, we're visiting an amazing breastfeeding clinic on a regular basis and we're making great progress. It hasn't been easy, but Ben's better with every visit. I'm still pumping milk. Medela, the company that makes my breast pump, has been amazing -- early in pregnancy, I optimistically bought a single pump thinking I'd just use it on an occasional basis -- you know, because I wasn't going to have any problems with breastfeeding. I also opened the package and threw away the box in a frenzy of nesting. A teary, desperate phone call to Medela later, and they'd kindly agreed to take back my pump so that I could buy a double pump and return the rental. They have earned one permanent fan here.

While sitting up at 3:00 am pumping milk AFTER spending 45 minutes struggling to feed your baby is not exactly a great time, I'm okay with it, because three things are happening: 1. Ben is getting fed. 2. I am making milk. 3. Ben is learning to breastfeed.

It'll happen. Patience.

Oh, the things I have learned in the past three weeks. I had no idea.

Introductions

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 16:32:00 +0000

We would like to announce, with much fanfare, the birth of our son Benjamin:

Here we thought our adventures were done. It turns out this is really just the beginning.

The day after my official due date, I was standing in the kitchen morosely munching on an ear of corn. I was wondering how long this baby was going to stay "inside", and what we could do to make him make his appearance in a reasonable amount of time. I felt a sharp pain -- and only had time to think, "Ow, that was weird" when a warm gush of fluid poured onto the floor. I froze, and had to process what was happening. "Um, Beeg... my water just broke!" He froze. Thankfully, my quick-thinking mother ran to the bathroom for a towel to wrap myself in; I waddled to the bathroom to formulate a plan. BG called the doctor, and Mom cleaned up the mess (and then had to clean up cat barf, as the cat had chosen that exact moment to throw up on the hardwood. Thanks, Lucy.)

Our doctor's advice was to call her back in two hours. In the meantime, my contractions were three minutes apart, 30 seconds long. I couldn't believe she said to just wait, as the books and all TV shows we ever saw said to go to the hospital when contractions were five minutes apart. After about 30 minutes, we called her back. BG argued with her: "I'm looking at the labour decision tree here and every path that leads to going to the hospital, we are facing." How could she argue with that? She agreed we could go to the hospital and she'd meet us there. It was now 4:30; I'd been in active, painful labour for two hours, and now it was rush hour.

I don't remember much of the ride down, except that BG swore a lot and he let me hold his hand at red lights. Admitting took one look at me and sent me directly to Labour & Delivery, where I bypassed all of the other pregnant ladies in triage (some of them gave me cold cloths to help deal with the one-minute-spaced contractions) and was put into a delivery room. Things were moving at the speed of light! I was seven centimeters dilated and getting ready to go.

The nurse paused. "Is this baby supposed to be head down?" I nodded, in the throes of yet another contraction. "Because I don't feel a head. I think I feel a bum." Everything stopped for me. I looked at BG and whispered, "If he's breech they're going to do a C-section." Two doctors and an ultrasound confirmed the nurse's suspicions: breech. I was still having long, frequent contractions, and while the obstetrician on call explained what was happening, I was being prepped for surgery and anesthesia. It all moved so fast, though I didn't really pay attention to that at the time.

I held on to the respiratory therapist while the spinal was administered. I was laid out, my arms spread out on either side of me. I started to shake, a side effect of the anesthetic. My teeth chattered, but I wasn't cold. BG was ushered in, and given a stool to sit on next to me. I could only see his eyes. I couldn't feel a thing below my ribs, but my body was rocked back and forth as the surgeons did their work.

Seconds later, our baby was born. BG was summoned to take photos; our alarmingly blue baby was carried over to the warming table to be suctioned and examined. He finally let out a cry, and his skin turned pink. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I had never seen anybody so amazing in my entire life. I was transfixed. I wanted them to bring him to me. I was aching to touch him.

BG carried our son over to me and I smelled his sweet scent as the surgeons finished their work. Finally, I was placed on a stretcher and they handed him to me so I could have my fill. I still couldn't believe he was ours. I didn't sleep the first night at all, but spent the night staring at this tiny bundle of ours, and periodically making sure that he was still breathing.

These days our life is very different than it used to be. It revolves around Ben's schedule of eat/poop/sleep/eat (not nearly enough sleep in there for us.) Thank goodness for grandmothers that come to do the housework and the cleaning. Thank goodness for friends that understand what we're going through. Thank goodness for a husband that gets up with me for nighttime feedings and stays for diaper changes. I had no idea it would be this hard. I had no idea it would be this great.

The Countdown Begins

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 02:02:00 +0000

We had a doctor's appointment yesterday, and the first thing she said to me was, "You're what, 22 days from your due date?" And I was all, "We're counting in days now, not weeks???" Then I got home and realized that the expiry date on my yogurt was AFTER my due date of July 14th. People, this is happening.

Things have certainly ramped up around here when it comes to baby preparations. I have awesome friends -- two baby showers and four loads of baby laundry later, I think we have pretty much everything we need for the timely or untimely arrival of our little boy. We have a car seat, a stroller, a bassinet, a crib. We have something in the neighbourhood of 75 baby washcloths. We have a freezer full of pre-made meals. We don't have a name. We don't have hospital bags packed. We don't have a birth plan. We don't have a list of people to call when the BIG MOMENT arrives. As you can see, the focus around these parts has mainly been on shopping and cooking, and not on important necessities. BG keeps claiming that there's a giant bird's nest in the corner (i.e. I'm nesting, haha.)

I have three, only three, days of work left before my maternity leave begins. I want to bake a cheesecake. I want to make red pepper jelly. I want to bake banana muffins. I want to crochet more hats. I want to watch seasons 1 and 2 of True Blood. Oh jeez, I have so much to do.

My days are broken into two portions: I wake up to go to work, and then when I come home I have a nap so I can make it through until bedtime (but first, I need a cold shower because I am always too warm.) I wake up in the night more than a couple of times because I am too warm, and because I need to pee, and because sometimes I have a leg cramp. I have become a walking pregnancy cliche.

Only two weeks ago I was an active, participating member of society. Three weeks ago I single-handedly hauled 6 yards of mulch into our back yard and spread it in the garden. Today, I was short of breath standing in line at the grocery store. What will I be doing in a week? Two weeks? Three? Will I be holding my baby?

In The Beginning...

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 20 May 2010 02:23:00 +0000

I had always imagined that I would get to tell BG about a pregnancy in a really creative and fun way, like with little baby booties in his cereal bowl one morning or something.

The way that it actually happened was a lot more prosaic.

On a Wednesday, I burst into tears at Home Depot after two hours spent choosing pipe insulation. On Friday, I got home from work, feeling totally exhausted, went straight to bed, and stayed there until Saturday morning. The Home Depot episode had a clear explanation... anybody would cry after a session like that! However, the exhaustion and nap were not me, but we'd just moved into our new house and we'd been surviving on canned soup and microwave dinners for a week because our gas stove wasn't yet hooked up. Still, on a hunch, when I got out of bed on that Saturday morning, I decided to take a pregnancy test. I was pretty sure it would be negative... all of them had been negative so far, including the one I'd taken just a week before.

I froze. I stared at the stick in my hand, and back at the box. Then I yelled for BG, who was still in bed. He charged in, probably expecting to have to kill a spider. "WHAT DOES THIS TEST MEAN? I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT." He took the stick from me, read the instructions, looked at the test, and said, "It says that you're pregnant."

Oh. I knew that.

So in the end, I never got to tell BG that I was pregnant. He told me.

Reality Sinks In

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 23:42:00 +0000

Our cats are no longer interested in sitting in my lap -- perhaps because said lap is considerably smaller than it used to be.

I get offered seats on the subway pretty much all the time now. Yesterday a man bolted out of his chair and apologized profusely for not having offered it sooner. I guess I looked like I needed it!

My ankles are frequently so puffy that poking them with my fingers leaves them dented. I gave up wearing my precious wedding set months ago and invested in a ridiculously blingy thing as a surrogate. I've traded in my trademark stilettos and my hips no longer sway side to side when I walk. My flat-footed gait has developed what I refuse to call a "waddle", but is distinctly penguin-like in nature... and I should know. I've nearly grown out of maternity pants that I once held up in disbelief, wondering how I'd ever fill them out.

My belly has taken on a life of its own. It moves of its own accord, rippling and throbbing to its own rhythms. Sometimes it leans to one side. My belly button is indescribable; actually, it's not. It's just not really there anymore.

I've got eleven-ish weeks left of this pregnancy and I'm loving it. The things I describe above aren't making me miserable; the make me laugh and shake my head in disbelief. It's as though this is not happening to me. This is not my body. I am completely and thoroughly not in control of this ride, and I am enjoying every minute of it. These days, women don't get to be pregnant more than a few times throughout their lives. We're on a two-kid family plan, so I might just get to experience all of this one more time. The first time is the most magical, so I'm keeping that in mind and I'm savouring every wiggle and jiggle; I'm smiling at my aching back because I know it's for a good end.

Life is good.

Milo

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 23:00:00 +0000

It's a fact. Dogs do not live as long as their owners. Every person that's ever owned a dog has considered this at least once during the dog's lifetime.

It's a fact.

But it's not supposed to happen this way: rescue a lovable one-year-old Doberman with long ears and a stubby tail. He's excitable but eager to please. He takes apples gently out of your hand like they're made of glass, then crunches away on them, carefully licking all of the pieces off the floor. He plays gleefully with other dogs and with the neighbourhood kids. He runs faster than you, but never pulls. He looks forlorn when you put him in Halloween costumes, but doesn't argue. He looks quizzically at you with those intelligent brown eyes, eyebrows twitching. His stubby tail spasms when he's excited, and twitches side to side when you scratch his rump. When you put booties on him in the winter, he looks like a deer on skates. He lopes around the house searching for you. Always, always, looking to be near you, to be with you. Sometimes he tries to crawl into your lap.

You haven't lived until you've had 70 pounds of lean sleek Doberman, gangly long limbs everywhere, in your lap, breathing dog-breath into your face.

Countless obedience classes later, Milo puts his paw in your hand, rolls over, and sits pretty (towering over your head!) for a treat. He's still a baby, barely three years old. The joy on his face at the sight of a squeaky toy is unspeakable. He plays with his brother roughly, but never with aggression. He's a baby. He's your baby. He still always needs to be near you. He'll put his head in your lap so he can eye your dinner. He's learning to heel, and he always comes when called.

He's your baby.

One day he stops eating. You change his food, cook him new food, you try everything. His ribs, already visible, start to poke out. Shortly after, his abdomen becomes distended. It looks so uncomfortable. He still wags his tail and stands up when you enter the room... because he's your baby, and you're his mommy.

The vet suspects cancer. No, it can't be. Tests and surgeries show liver failure. No, it can't be. This is Milo. He's your dog. He's your baby, but he's hurting and you have to say goodbye. There's that fact: it doesn't make it any easier to accept. Your heart is breaking.

So are ours.

Dear Milo:

We love you. Thank you for being so good. Thank you for helping me overcome a prejudice against Dobermans and other large dogs. Thank you for wearing those reindeer antlers at Christmas. Thank you for bringing so much happiness to my sister's life these past two years. She loves you so much.

If it could save you, I'd let you come over and scratch my hardwood floors up all you wanted.

We will miss you so, so much, buddy.

Love,

Auntie Val.

Maybe the Coolest Thing Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 01:13:00 +0000

I've been feeling thumps, bumps, and flutters for a couple of weeks now, and a quick look at this picture shows you why.

Canada. Coffee. Hormones. Home.

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 00:15:00 +0000

A very Canadian coffee chain has recently been playing a commercial that makes me bawl every time I see it. This commercial coincides with the Vancouver 2010 Olympic games which are going on right now, and I've never been prouder to call myself Canadian than over these past 17 days, watching our athletes represent us with a record-breaking number of medals. However, this commercial makes my heart burst every time -- chalk my excessive reaction up to pregnancy hormones, if you wish; still, if there's one thing that makes me realize that we truly live in the greatest country in the world, it's these 90 seconds of video.

We are truly fortunate to live in a place that allows people -- families -- to be together in a place where they can be safe and happy. If hope springs eternal, as they say, then Canada will go on forever.

Boy, oh Boy...

noreply@blogger.com (Val) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 15:52:00 +0000

It's a boy! Those of you that have done this before and are counting on your fingers are going, "Wait, she's only 16 weeks and the anatomical scan isn't done until 18, how does she know that it's a boy already?" Well, gentle readers, we recently had to make the first really difficult decision of this pregnancy -- not the decision about finding out the sex, not the decision about MD vs. midwife, not the decision of pickles with ice cream or just pickles.

We opted to have an amniocentesis.

As you may or may not know, I'm a genetics technologist by profession. At my place of work, that means I mainly do chromosome analysis, mainly on prenatal samples -- amniocentesis. Due to the large number of pregnant women in this world, and the time-sensitive nature of the test, amniocentesis is mainly offered when a pregnancy is "high risk" for chromosomal abnormalities -- something shows up on ultrasound, markers in the mother's blood screen positive, there's a family history of abnormalities (or previous pregnancies), or the mother is over 35 -- a condition called "Late Maternal Age".

Thankfully, we were none of these things.

I was not even considering the possibility of amniocentesis until BG mentioned it one day and thought it would be a good idea. This was around week 12, so we had a few weeks to make a decision. I thought about it. I spoke to coworkers and friends. I thought, and thought, and thought. One day a case came across my desk that made my mind up for me. Early pregnancy screens had been normal, but the baby had a chromosomal abnormality that was fatal. I thought, "I have to do the amnio." Both of us are planners by nature, me in particular. I don't even like surprise birthday parties; I had to know what was going on with my little baby.

I want to point out that even in high risk populations, chromosomal abnormalities are very rare. We test, as I said earlier, primarily high risk pregnancies, and the proportion of actual abnormalities is very small. Most women have a few weeks of anxiety between finding out they're high risk, and finding out that everything is fine. I still firmly believe that a woman having an amnio shouldn't fret too much (easier said than done) because the probability is that her baby is chromosomally normal.

So I asked my doctor to book an amnio. I had to go for a genetic counselling appointment, where we discussed the procedure and the risks and went through the family histories on both sides. I was relieved to hear that the risk of miscarriage after amnio, usually quoted as a 1/300 risk, is actually more like 1/900. I was relieved to find out that my age-related risk was something like 1/600 (I'm not 35 yet). I was relieved when the counsellor looked me straight in the eye and said, "It doesn't hurt." Only part of me believed her.

The morning of the procedure, I choked down my breakfast and tapped my feet nervously in the car, in the elevator, in the waiting room. I fidgeted nervously as BG tried to distract me with conversation, but I could not be drawn in and responded with curt, one-word answers. There was no reason to be nervous, I told myself. I had seen this done before as a student. I knew it was safe, I trusted the doctor, and no matter how much it hurt it was not going to be as bad as labour. Some friends from work came down to see me in the waiting room, and their presence was a relief.

Finally, I was called into the procedure room. I lay on the bed and was asked to pull the waistband of my pants down, further than I thought was decent. A quick flash of the ultrasound wand across my abdomen and we caught a precious glimpse of our baby's head and back. The doctor found a pocket of empty fluid, and said, "You will feel some pain now." Then he pushed the 7" needle through layers of tissue and started drawing out fluid. It felt so strange, but the counsellor had been right -- apart from the expected sting of the needle, it didn't hurt. I kept my eyes on the ultrasound monitor the whole time, seeing our baby and the needle next to it, so close, but not touching. At the end, the doctor showed me the tube of amniotic fluid he'd withdrawn, labelled with my name. The professional side of me noted the healthy quantity of clear yellow fluid and pronounced it a good specimen for testing. I could picture it being taken to my colleagues upstairs, and I knew it was in the best hands possible.

I spent the rest of the day resting -- really! I had a nap. I ate mashed potatoes. I had another nap, we watched a movie.

The next day, after my morning coffee, a preliminary screening result was waiting for me. I was relieved to see that our baby had no numerical abnormalities of chromosomes 13, 18, or 21 (the most common ones) and I was happy, choking back tears, to call BG at home and tell him that he was going to have a son.

Being on both sides of the process has been really interesting and educational for me. Sometimes, when you're processing 14 or 15 samples of amniotic fluid a day, you forget to see the human side. You forget that all of these samples came from a nervous pregnant woman that is desperate for her baby to be pronounced healthy. When you find an abnormality, it makes the day more interesting, in an academic kind of way. However, I find myself feeling a twinge of sadness when I think of how the lives of these couples is turned upside down in an instant. I will be thankful for every normal result that I see. I will not roll my eyes at the reason for referral, "Maternal Anxiety" (because, having fit no other criteria, this is what was written down for me). I believe that we made the right choice for ourselves and am so grateful that we had the opportunity to make this choice.

In the meantime, we're doing the usual things -- trying to choose a name, sifting through endless piles of baby gear to choose the things we'd like, and enjoying this new experience day by day.