Bittersweet.

I am going to have to take a hiatus from writing for a few weeks... there is just too much going on right now, I can't even process things fast enough to write about them! We have TWO WEEKS left in Nelson. It snuck up on us SO FAST. It feels like all of a sudden the heavens just opened up and rained down a shit-storm of stress upon us. It's good stress though. Mostly.

My brother came to visit from Smithers, and we caught up last night. I can probably count on both hands the number of times we've actually been together, but despite that, there's an easiness between us. I look at him and think, "Yup, we definitely share the same blood." Plus, he looks just like our dad, so looking at him feels very familiar. I wish we had more time to hang out, but maybe he'll come visit us out east. Plus, we have a half-sister somewhere in New Brunswick that we could maybe hunt down.

I'm going through that familiar bittersweet feeling again, that I have every time I leave a place (which I seem to do a lot.) Everything I look at seems so precious in my eyes right now, because I know we're leaving and I need to preserve every little visual detail in my mind so that I can remember. I'm going very inward right now, and it's always harder to write when I feel like this. It's almost like I have to wait until I come out the other side, in order to sort out my thoughts properly and put it into words.

I love Nelson, and I always will. I always leave a part of my heart here, so it feels okay to leave. I know it will always be here for me.
It's hard to say goodbye to friends who feel like family to me. They've all been there with me through everything. Anneke was even there for Angus's birth, and I feel that somehow that that experience really bonded us together. And it's probably why Angus is so smitten with her!

I can smell change in the air. Summer is winding down, and the days are getting shorter already and the air is beginning to lose that muggy, soupy feeling and starting to feel a little sharper and crisper. I love this time of year, as everything seems to calm down, including that goddamn bright ball in the sky that I spend so much time avoiding. (Got to preserve my perfect skin!)
Everything begins to mellow out, as Mother Earth takes a great big sigh of relief knowing she can soon relax. (Or is that me??)

All the stress right now is not so bad, because I can see through it! We're heading towards a better life, for our family. I feel like we're on our way to becoming un-stuck. The East Coast looks like "The Promised Land," to us... a place of job opportunities and financial independence and freedom, a place surrounded by loving family, a place that has a WASHER AND DRYER!!!

Life IS a big adventure. Thinking this way keeps me always excited about life. I'm always curious about what's next, what now, what else can I do, where else could we go? There's no looking back!

I'm looking forward to our first family "vacation." Aaron had to go back to work two days after Angus was born, so this will be a chance for us to just hang out together! I'm looking forward to visiting the West Coast and seeing all my family. And finally, I'm looking forward to getting to our final destination so we can just finally exhale, and then pass the baby off to his grandparents, haha..

Posting will resume once my head re-attaches to my body, probably sometime in about two weeks. I'm hoping that Hornby Island will relax and centre me, and maybe I can get some writing done while Angus spends some time with Gramma C.

Just imagine...

It just struck me this morning that I haven't got my period yet. I guess I haven't really given it a passing thought yet, because I didn't have one the whole time I was pregnant. Maybe I won't get it for the whole time I'm breastfeeding.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS??

No P.M.S.

Do you know what this means for my relationship with Aaron? The mind boggles.

I'm going to enjoy this thought for a few minutes. I'm going to imagine how much more enjoyable life will be without the rage that comes when my toast is not buttered all the way to the edges.

I'm still a miserable hag in the morning until I have a cup of coffee and watch two episodes of "What Not To Wear," but that's not hormonal. At all.

Hair envy

*and here is a picture of some laundry*



I just re-read my last post and realized I sound like a huge douche bag. I apologize.

I'm so irritated with myself right now, and it all has to do with hair. HAIR! I'm a hairdresser, and sometimes I'm ashamed to call myself one. I seem to have a selective memory when it comes to my previous hair-do's.
Note to self: Blond is not the right color for you you because it's impossible to achieve the perfect shade of blond for my skin tone. Remember? Last year? And the year before that?

But every year I get sick of my long brown hair and I go, "Hmmm, I want to go blond." And then I'll strip my hair, and bleach it until it falls out and then I'm standing in front of the mirror with orange tufts sticking out of my head, thinking, "Ummm, maybe this was a bad idea."

Back to brunette. Back to growing it out. Because I look best with longer, brown hair, with bangs. I'm writing this in the hopes that my future dumb-ass self will read this and thus be saved from another bleach experiment gone wrong coupled with overzealous use of the thinning scissors.

Now, it doesn't look BAD. But I have these really awesome green eyes and fair skin that look best with brown hair. Or red. (But I'm not going there.)

So maybe some highlights? Maybe I'll go chop some bangs into my hair, maybe that's all I'm missing...

This reminds of the time when I was sixteen and I had a mid-life crisis and I chopped all my hair off. Short. I remember kneeling in front of the mirror and sobbing as I hacked big chunks out. (What is wrong with teenagers?) Later I was heartbroken when I asked a guy I liked if he liked my new short hair. He said no. OBVIOUSLY. Men only like long hair.

By the way, I'm a good hairdresser. But not on my own head for some reason. They say a mechanics car is the worst car... maybe it's the same for hairstylists? Or maybe it's just wanting something that I've never been able to achieve...

And why is it every time I go through a monumental change in my life, I compulsively have to drastically change my hair?

Shut up and have a glass of wine already, sheesh.

So I just have to vent a little.

When did we get so paranoid about every teensy weeny little thing we do when we're pregnant and nursing?

Yes, whilst being pregnant, you should probably stay away from the crack. And maybe the heroin. And probably raw meat too. Maybe don't get shit-faced every night either. You may want to refrain from snowboarding too, while pregnant.
But come on people. YES it's okay to dye your hair while pregnant and certainly while nursing. YES you can drink while nursing. You may want to limit it to four or five margaritas though. YES you can take a freaking Tylenol when you're pregnant.
YES you can eat SUSHI, just don't eat anything RAW! YES you can eat CHEESE, just avoid the green fuzzy parts and your fetus will be fine.

The bottom line is this: Do you think Italian women give up red wine with dinner when they're pregnant? (Well I'm not sure of this, but I have a feeling they wouldn't, as it's part of their culture. Wine IS food.)
Do you think Japanese women give up sushi when they're pregnant?
Do you think Jamaican women put down the bong when they're pregnant? Nooooo.... and I even have evidence. There was a study in which the babies of stoned mama's performed better than babies of not-stoned mama's. SO THERE.

Now, all of this is only my opinions and things I learned from the internet. And the internet NEVER LIES, so it must be true.


But the paranoia doesn't stop there. Once that baby comes screaming into the world, a whole new host of fears arise.

"My baby makes lots of noise when he poops, is he okay?" Um, if you had just come into this world and never pooped before, don't you think it takes a while to learn? Of course there is some grunting and explosive noises coming out your butt... you've never had FOOD in your tummy before. Nothing has ever been digested and moved through your colon yet! And sometimes babies accidentally clench their bumhole closed while clenching their tummy because they haven't quite figured it out yet. This results in a lot of effort, a lot of straining and grunting and going red in the face... they are NOT constipated.

And I know I'm going to offend some people here, but I don't think enough mothers give breastfeeding enough of a chance. Yes, it's painful at first, but it gets better, SO much better.
I've heard things like, "My baby is allergic to my breastmilk." Well that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
I've even heard of mothers giving up breastfeeding because "My baby is gassy."
It makes me want to bash my head into a wall, repeatedly. Don't you think formula is even harder to digest than breastmilk?
And to the ones that say "I started smoking again after I had my baby, so I couldn't breastfeed."
YES. YOU CAN. It's still better to smoke and breastfeed, than to smoke and formula-feed. I know this because for a while my angry baby was driving me to drink and smoke, and of course I had to research everything obsessively because yes, even as I say all this, I don't really want to harm my baby...

And now that I've made all the formula-feeding mothers out there hate me, I just want to say this: I do NOT have a problem with feeding your baby formula! I know there are a LOT of acceptable reasons to feed your baby formula. I do not think I'm better than you because I breastfeed. (Okay, maybe I do, but that's because I'm kind of an asshole.)
I'm only saying all this because I feel like there are a lot of misinformed mothers out there, who maybe if they had the correct information to begin with, might have stuck it out longer. And of course some woman simply don't WANT to breastfeed, which is totally fine too. It's definitely emotionally draining and even physically exhausting having this little creature attached and sucking on you constantly. In fact, I hated it for the first two months, and seriously considered switching him to formula. The only reason I didn't is because I'm such a lazy person, I thought about what it would be like to have to get up in the middle of the night to make bottles, and then I thought about how right now the way it is, I don't even have to wake up for Angus to eat in the middle of the night, as long as I leave my boob out, HE FINDS IT and feeds himself.

I have actually been trying get Angus to take a bottle of formula occasionally, it's just that he refuses. It's really frustrating because I would like to abandon him for a few nights a week and drink shots of tequila at the bar and drunkenly take all my clothes off and pole-dance on the lamp post, and then spew in the cab ride home. Since I'm too lazy to pump, I try and give Angus formula , which results in him looking at me as if I've committed the ultimate betrayal and then screaming his discontent. He would rather scream and starve than eat anything other than boob.

So there's my hair-brained opinions, and misinformation. In many other cultures there is no such thing as colic, because their babies are carried constantly. In Bali, the baby doesn't even touch the ground until he is six months old and then they have a ceremony for when his feet finally touch earth.
The world-wide average for breastfeeding is four years.

Simply put, I think our culture is way too uptight.

The Labor Story.

So I was just sitting outside thinking about how awesome ice cubes are (They're cold! And wet! And made from liquid! And they're COLD!) when I had a flashback to long ago when I was pregnant. I couldn't sleep one night because the monstrous fetus inside me was pressing on vital organs and shoving things around to make room for his fat ass. My back was SO SORE, in desperation I got up and rummaged around in the freezer to find something to put on my back.
All I found was a frozen pork tenderloin, and I thought, "Perfect!"
It was pretty perfect until I woke up cuddling up to a thawed piece of meat in my bed.







I've decided to share my labor story, but it might be difficult because I'm still getting over the horror of it all. I feel like it's something I need to do though.

That night we didn't think I'd be going into labor AT ALL. It was Mother's Day. Aaron made a delicious shepard's pie. He took a Xanax that a friend gave him, for his anxiety. And we went to bed.

Right after we got under the covers and Aaron slipped off into la-la land, a heavenly world full of clouds and pillows and rainbows and corn dogs, I got slammed into by a minivan. At least, that's what it felt like.
For weeks before that, every little twinge made me go "Call the paramedics, I'm in labor!!" By the time I really went into labor I didn't really believe it. But this time some little voice inside smacked me upside the head and told me to go take a shower because soon there would be a team of medical professionals peering in between my splayed legs. It's like making sure you're always wearing clean underwear in case you get run over by a bus.

So I had a shower, peeled Aaron off the ceiling and we went to hospital, all the while feeling ridiculous for arriving there after only three contractions. Everyone knows you're supposed to wait at home and count. But something in me told me it was more urgent than that. Turns out that inner voice called 'intuition' that I never usually listen to, was right.

We walked in to the hospital and I said "Epidural please." The nurses informed me I'd have to wait until I was four centimetres dilated. FINE. So I got into bed, got jabbed in the ass full of morphine, "To help you sleep, because labor takes a long time and you need your strength."

Aaron promptly went to sleep. I did not. I was stoned though, BOY was I ever stoned. I might have enjoyed if my insides weren't being ripped open.
I was alone in my misery, but I wanted it that way. If anyone came near me I bit off their face and chewed it up. It's a good thing Aaron had that Xanax, because he slept RIGHT through my shrieking and yelling and climbing the walls.
Apparently I was so loud I scared the bejesus out of another couple in labor.
I'm not going to get into detail, because the memory of that pain and what it did to me is SO HORRIFIC. Basically, they came back to check to see if I was dilated enough for an epidural, and well wouldn't you know it, the last four hours that my head was spinning around and green bile was spewing out my mouth was actually because I WAS IN ACTIVE LABOR.

I'm still pretty pissed about that. I mean, I was SCREAMING. I actually wanted to die. I was so overwhelmed by the pain, God, I don't even have words to describe it, so I won't. But Aaron was there. He's still traumatized. You can even ask Anneke, she was there too. I'm pretty sure I said some hateful things to her too, but she understands I didn't mean it, because she ALSO pushed out an eleven-pound baby, WITH. NO. DRUGS. She is the real hero.

But WHY didn't they come and check me sooner? I'm pretty sure they thought I was just overreacting. I did tell them as soon as I arrived at the hospital that I wanted every and all drug possible because I didn't want to experience pain any greater than a stubbed toe. They must have thought I was such a wimp.

Anyway, they checked me, I'd been in labor for six hours and I was ready to push, so I missed my opportunity for the epidural, told the nurse I was going to have my hit-men come and smash their kneecaps, then the doctor came and I tried not to poop on him, then a ten-pound baby (that's right, ten pounds, on the dot.) was born, we named him Angus, and then it hurt to pee for two weeks. THE END.

Writing this post was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. I can't seem to describe it adequately. You had to be there. Ha ha. No, better that you weren't. I left some parts out because I'm already sick of talking about it. There was a bath tub involved at some point, and another shot of morphine, and magazines being hurled at anyone who came within five feet of me... but that's enough talk about labor. Labor? Who wants to read about LABOR anyway?

Mostly the experience was just surprising... it's something you just CAN'T PUT INTO WORDS. It overwhelms you, takes your breathe away, you're beaten down by it and nothing can save you.

Afterwards I was stunned for about two months. The whole time I was pregnant I couldn't really grasp the concept that a human would actually be the end result. When he arrived I didn't really believe he was MINE, with my D.N.A. I made that! I just couldn't wrap my puny little brain around that.

Then he screamed for two months straight and I knew he was definitely not my kid.

But now he is the most perfect, beautiful little thing I have ever met. I'm so in love with him, I stare at him all the time. I can't stop staring, because I'm scared that he's going to vanish in front of my eyes. This whole growing up thing, already he's so different than he was as a newborn, I panic that I forget what he used to look like, like the memories are so fragile I don't want them to fade away!
I spend every waking moment staring at him, or smelling his head, or kissing his feet, I could do it FOREVER. Until he's a smelly teenager who won't want to have anything to do with me. But I probably won't want to kiss his feet then anyway.

Caring about the planet.

I'm having one of those rare moments where I'm scared for our planet... Kelowna is burning down again. This hot weather and forest fires are worrying, as they seem to get worse every year. This whole global warming thing really stinks.

But excuse me for a minute, I have to drive my polluting car to the "Overlord Of The World" (otherwise known as Wal-Mart) so I can get my baby plastic coverings to contain his shit that I will then toss in the dumpster which will then go to a landfill and sit for thousands of years. While I do that, I'm going to leave every light on in the house and the water running. Well, we're fucked anyway, aren't we? I'm one of those dumb ones who says things like, "what difference can one person make?" But really, it's just that I'm too lazy to read labels and launder cloth diapers. Luckily my neighbor collects our bottles and cans so she can take them in for a refund, thus saving me the effort of walking my empty beer bottle the two feet from the couch to the kitchen and placing it in a separate receptacle from the garbage can. See, not even MONEY can inspire me!

But still, this mountain is burning about four hours away from us and the air HERE is so thick with smoke and ash my eyes water when I go outside... it kind of makes it a bit more of a reality.

(FUCKING FLY, WOULD YOU JUST PLEASE FUCK OFF ALREADY, FUCK!!!!) JESUS... there's nothing more annoying than having a fly buzzing around your house maniacally, landing on you every two seconds. You swat it away, and it's like "Hah! Stupid human, I'm a fly and I'm waaaay faster than you are. Plus I shit every time I land on you."

It's so flippin' hot out, that we're all slothing around irritably, grunting at each other because it's too hot to even form sentences. Even Angus is so hot he can't even scream normally... it's just a couple of half-assed "Ahhhh's" and "Erhhhh's", as his head lolls around.

Summer... BAH!

Hello cyber-world. How are you today?

I woke up to the sun shining out of my kids ass, so I am in a GREAT mood! Plus he's wearing these unbelievably cute crocheted booties that my mom got him from Mexico, and he looks so damn cute I could just eat him.

It's going to be stupid hot again today. I put up a bedspread over the window (classy, I know) to keep the sun out, so Angus and I stay locked in our cave every day until the sun goes down.

I HATE SUMMER.
I hate all the brightness, the sunniness, the damn bright sun, I HATE it. I hate all the squinting. I hate all the crawly things, and flying crawly things that bite and suck your blood. I hate all the sweaty, slimy wetness. I hate how since I'm twenty pounds heavier than I used to be, my thighs rub together when I walk, and CHAFE. I hate how I can't dress my kid up in cute clothes because it's too hot to wear anything but a diaper. I want to wear JEANS, and I want to wear BOOTS, and SCARVES, and JACKETS! I want to wear my GLASSES, because it's so fucking bright out I have to wear my contacts so I can wear sunglasses when I go outside.

I'm sorry, but what exactly is so great about summer again??

Maybe I'll like it better next year when Angus is running around and old enough to wear sunscreen, so I can just toss him in a kiddie pool while I sunbathe and drink mojito's. Maybe I'll even be twenty pounds thinner so I won't mind all the clothes-less-ness...

I do like summer evenings however. And this July, we've had thunder and lightening almost every evening, which is pretty neat.



I would like to take a moment to talk about why I love my husband-to-be....

So last night Angus was fighting sleep with every ounce of energy in his little body. I think I actually missed the opportunity to put him to bed, and so he caught his second wind, and then would NOT go to sleep. He was so overtired he was actually moaning. I don't understand it. When I'M tired, I curl up in the fetal position and swaddle myself, and I go right to sleep. WHY is it so hard for him?

Anyway, as a last resort, we plunked him in the stroller and took him for a stroll around the back of the college. He passed out almost instantly. It felt good walking, with my lover, at night. Until he started asking me if I was scared of what's in the woods. And I said, well I'm sure we'll HEAR something, if there IS something,and besides, I only have to outrun you, or the baby... and then he said, well if it's a cougar, you won't hear it, it could be slinking alongside us RIGHT NOW and you'd never know it..

After I shit my pants, Aaron pulled a BEER and a CIGARETTE out of his back pocket! Like a freakin magician! So we snuggled outside in the dark behind the college while our baby slept and cougars prowled, and skunks stunk, bears lumbered, and mosquito's vampired, and rapists raped...

AND THAT IS WHY IS LOVE HIM. Many many years from now, that will be a favorite memory of mine.