The Notorious Day 5

I have been told that day 5 is the inevitable “cry day” that most women experience post partum; the day when the hormonal surge eclipses the sense of relief, love and accomplishment just at the sleep deprivation sinks in and you are reduced to a blubbering mess. I’ve been warned, I’ve witnessed and yet have always been an overly optimistic skeptic as to how it would apply to myself. I believe with Toby my day 5 was manifest only by my need to change the CDs in the CD player because I was so easily moved to tears by the happy and sappy songs. This time, let me just say, was a wee bit different.

I woke up at 8am to the sound of Toby screaming for his mommy. I had had a whopping total of 45 min sleep the entire night. Mia had been cluster feeding and I couldn’t put her down and had no one to hand off to because Rob was downstairs with Toby who was vomiting with gastro. At 7am I finally handed Mia over, desperate for sleep. The 8am wake up call wasn’t what I had planned.

There is nothing worse than waking up to someone screaming for you. My mommy brain leaped into action and I bounded down the stairs where a barf-contaminated Toby lay in a heap of tears wailing for me. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!!!” Rob warned me before I’d been able to get to him. Mia was handed back to me. Protecting Mia from gastro means divvying up the parental duties- - Rob takes Toby and I take Mia.

I returned upstairs exhausted and defeated. Having to turn my back on my son who was so sick and in need of his mommy was one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever had to do. Taking back my other child who I continued to be completely incapable of feeding despite 12 hours of continuous breastfeeding served only to reinforce my feelings of inadequacy.

I did what I had been warned I would do on day 5; I went upstairs and cried.

The day progressed with more tears as I overheard Toby explain to his daddy very matter-of-factly that his mommy was his “bad friend’ and that I was no longer in contention for the role of “best friend” (an honour he likes to bestow on us when we are being particularly compliant with his every need…) Other highlights involved a trip to the doctors office in which Mia was found to have lost even MORE weight and I had to engage in intensive visualization exercises of various people sporting purple lingerie in order to keep myself from breaking out the day 5 tears in the waiting room.

I will spare you any further gory details. Suffice it to say that the greatest thing about day 5 was that eventually it ended and, as I had also been reassured, day 6 was a better one.

We find ourselves here today, on Mia’s “one week birthday” in much better spirits. The gastro has lifted and I’ve been able to resume my full mommy role with both children; never have I longed so much to hug and kiss my little boy and what a relief to finally be able to do that again. Mia’s weight is now moving in the right direction and we have figured out “temporary a solution” to the nights. We definitely have a lot to learn and a long road ahead of us, but I am proud to say I have joined the ranks of converted and humbled survivor of day 5.

Mia Marjorie Henry

After 9 months of wondering, hoping and rationalizing with myself, I am finally allowed to say it: I wanted a girl. And maybe I’m still underplaying that sentiment - - for as long as I can remember, I have longed for a daughter. Seeing my friends start to have children there is an inexplicable excitement matched equally with my own yearning that is felt in the pit of my stomach whenever one of them had a baby girl.

Don’t get me wrong - -I wouldn’t trade my Toby in for 1000 little girls. I think it’s just a testament to the many amazing relationships I have with the women in my life and family that has led me to crave a mother-daughter relationship with my own child.

And now here she is…

Mia is blessed with an absolutely horrendous middle name, but I know that as she grows up she will learn to be proud of it as she experiences her grandmother first hand and her great grandmother through the many crazy stories I will share with her over the years. I wish my Grandma had lived to see my two beautiful children. I can picture the way she would analyze every little detail of their photographs and call them by the ridiculous nicknames she had for my mother and me. I am so glad to have been given the opportunity to pass some of her along to my little girl.

Mia’s first name isn’t just there for alliterary softening of the Marjorie blow; it has it’s own special meaning. Maybe it’s selfish but right now it sums up just perfectly the pride and excitement I feel about life with Mia. The name is sweet and simple and Italian for the word “mine”.

And that you are, little Mia. I’ve waited for you for so long and finally, here you are - - and I’m so happy that you’re mine.

A Tale of Two Bobbies

Toby loves hockey; we all know that. It is played at our house (and Grandma’s house) all year round; outdoors in the winter, indoors in the summer. His dollar store hockey sticks and official Canada hockey sticks and gloves from my sister and niece were second only in Christmas present ranking to his plastic scissors.

As a result of these new sticks, hockey has become increasingly prominent in the past few weeks. As his knowledge of the game increases, so too does his knowledge of hockey teams and players.

The other day he was eating lunch and he announced that he was “Number 99. I’m Gretzky. I’m the GREAT one.” Often when we’re playing hockey he will divide us up into teams. This is how the teams go: someone is Canada, someone is Gretzky and someone is Bobby – Hull or Orr. (His alphabet hockey book taught him about them for the letter 'B') I always hope to be Bobby Orr because, despite the remarkable language skills that he has, he still has difficulty with words that start with a vowel. So Bobby Orr is always pronounced, “Bobby WHORE”.

I know I should correct him, but it’s just too funny to always be told, “Mommy, you’re Bobby WHORE” in his matter-of-fact-I’m-very-serious-don’t-mess-with-me-tone. Oh, the stories I have to tell him when he gets older…

Is there an elephant in the post? Allow me to address it : no, there is no baby yet. Yes, I am still pregnant, and cranky, and impatient and bored. My attempts at putting a positive spin on things have somewhat petered out and I'm now embracing my (now post dates) irritation with a vengance. So...stay tuned for happy news or vulgar posts!

Gender Neutral

Not knowing if this baby is a boy or a girl is somewhat romantic, but entirely impractical when it’s your second and you are surrounded by boys stuff that you would like to know definitively what to do with.

I have many generous friends and relatives who have given me their baby clothes – some who have had girls, some who have had boys. The end result is a room full of bins that are gender specific. It’s hard to sort through them all and not get them mixed up while simultaneously trying to find one or two gender neutral newborn sleepers. Seems the newborn age is the one you are most likely to have either a pink or a blue sleeper for (according to the clothing bins). I am happy to pack a few of both but thought the other day how nice it would be to have a few yellow or green ones. Just because.

A few days ago, my wish was granted, as I wandered through Joe Fresh in our local Loblaws store. I couldn’t believe it but at the very front of the sales rack was an orange and brown newborn sleeper for $1.20. At first glance, it was definitely not the MOST attractive sleeper, but DEFINITELY didn’t fall into the pink or blue category. And how can you go wrong with a $1.20 price tag?

So I scooped it up and grinned proudly to myself.

About 10 minutes later as my groceries were being beeped through, I was presented with the opportunity to actually LOOK at the sleeper I’d so hastily scooped up. I believe, actually, it was the cashier’s somewhat skeptical comment, “Oh my, how…UNUSUAL…” that caught my attention.

The little white sleeper may have been gender neutral with its oragne and Brown print, but the fact that it was covered in skulls and crosses, orange spiders and brown mummies did give it a bit of a creepy look. No wonder it was $1.20; we’re about as far from Halloween as we get in the calendar year.

I decided to buy the sleeper anyways. So what if my newborn sports a Halloween sleeper with creepy skulls on it. People won’t judge me, will they?

And time stands still...

The speed at which time has gone by throughout this pregnancy has been incredible. Every week just flew by and I’d find myself shocked to see how far along I was all of a sudden. I think it was the build up to Christmas, which happens earlier and earlier each year, that always made me feel a few weeks ahead of the game. And then the holidays themselves were busy and entertaining and I blinked again and here I am, 1 week from my due date.

And the time-train has suddenly lurched to a halt.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I literally sit around, WILLING my clock to go faster. It doesn’t. What happened to my fast paced, chaotic life? The crib is set up, the bags are packed, the phone numbers are in my phone, and my patients have been handed over. So why do I feel this sense of impatience?

I don’t know WHY I can’t just sit back and enjoy these last few days. I am napping every day, enjoying hot tubs with Rob at night for my back, cherishing my one on one time with Toby and speaking regularly to good friends and family who are equally as excited as I am. Life is as uncomplicated as it gets right now and yet I have this antsy feeling stirring inside of me.

I guess I can put it down to two things:

1. I am not a procrastinator. When there’s a job to be done that is going to be at all unpleasant, I’d rather go first and get it over with.

2. As my friend Alex rationally reminded me last week, I’m probably just excited – and that’s normal. We got pregnant for a reason and as much as part of this feels like I can’t wait to get the labour over with or to not be pregnant any more, a large part of it stems from my crazy excitement to meet this new addition to our family. Few things in life are as exciting welcoming a child into the world.

It all seems quite reasonable as I write this, doesn’t it? So I will sit here in my holding zone, trying desperately to enjoy and not wish away these last few moments of peace before chaos ensues, but secretly hoping that my baby is like me this time and decides to be efficient about things.

I will keep you posted…

Putting Torture to the Test!

I have mentioned before about the torture of second trimester ultrasounds. Today, I experienced something potentially just as torturous but more importantly, just plain STUPID: third trimester ultrasounds.

Nothing wrong- - just a routine check of fluid levels given that the baby appears to be shrinking. (It just dropped.) And I lost a few pounds (I finally put a halt to my incessant eating of Xmas goodies). I was happy to go nonetheless, until I was given the routine instructions to show up 10 minutes early, have my health card and requisition in hand and make sure to have 8 full cups of water in my bladder.

EXCUSE ME!?!?!

I’ll repeat that sentence because it’s such a preposterously good one: MAKE SURE TO HAVE 8 FULL CUPS OF WATER IN MY BLADDER.

It is riddled with ludicrousness on so many levels.

FIRST Of all, my bladder capacity is about the size of teaspoon. And even that can be quickly depleted by such vigorous activities as sneezing, coughing or standing up too fast.

SECONDLY, what exactly is the POINT of having a full bladder? To push the uterus forward so they can see the baby? When it comes to the ongoing battle between my pea sized bladder and my 7lb fetus, I have witnessed on MANY occasions the clear winner. I don’t think an extra few cups of fluid would do anything to sway the battle – the baby does what it likes, when it likes and if it bumps into my bladder on its way, the cowardly little tings quivers and immediately ejects any semblance of dampness it contains.

THIRDLY, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to miss this baby. Its kicks alone are a dead giveaway. Would the ultrasound tech REALLY place the probe on my belly and be forced to give up, saying Nope – couldn’t find the baby…must be that the bladder only has 7 cups of water in it.

I had an instant aversion to drinking the water. And so I did what only a cranky-rebellious-unworried-and-tired-of-being-pregnant-lady can do; I rebelled against the dreaded litres of water I had been instructed to drink. Instead, I had a small teacup full of water and then (forgetting…) emptied my bladder 5 minutes later before leaving for the hospital.

The end result? A relaxing and even somewhat pleasant ultrasound. The baby looks a little cramped for space but otherwise just perfect. And I have successfully proven something that will benefit women for generations to come; when it comes to 3rd trimester ultrasounds, a teaspoon of water will suffice.

A simple walk through town

With less than 2 weeks to go I’m feeling ready to have this baby. Whereas last pregnancy I worked until 5pm on the day I delivered (water broke at 5:30 – very punctual) this time things are a little bit different. My palliative care job requires me to be a bit more diligent about follow up so I’ve had to officially hand over in good time, which is great for my cranky placenta but not so good for my mental game. With work being virtually done my brain has gone into full on mommy mode and every day that I wake up not in labour I grow increasingly impatient.

I had the perfect solution this weekend. Come Monday, my plan was to drop the kid off at daycare and then go for a good long hike to get things going.

You can imagine my disappointment when my well-intentioned friend informed me that there was no way she was participating in a big hike with me being 38 weeks pregnant. A simple walk through town was enough.

I TRIED to convince her that I was FINE and that a lame old walk through town was COMPLETELY DEFEATING the PURPOSE of our outing but she managed to sway me with promises of Starbucks coffee and good conversation so I succumbed. (By secretly deciding to venture out on a REAL hike by myself the next day.)

And so we trudged through town at a leisurely pace, lattes in hands, debriefing our Christmas vacation. At one point she suggested we turn around. I kindly complied. We arrived back at our cars not having broken a sweat but thoroughly content and off to do some grocery shopping.

I was barely past the produce section when I realized my legs were a little wobbly. By the bread section I was parched and coming around to the meats I started to feel dizzy. That’s when I slowed my pace, leaned forward on my cart and decided a slow paced shuffle to the canned goods was in order.

I don’t really know what transpired over the next five minutes. I was discovered by the same friend-who-wouldn’t-let-me-go-for-a-real-hike-that-day incoherently shuffling through the canned vegetable section desperately searching for mushrooms. She had been calling my name for the past minute or so but I hadn’t noticed.

“Lyss!” she rejoiced at finally catching my attention, “What’s WRONG with you?”

When I looked up at her, a fuzzy glazed look in my eyes, all I could manage in response was, “Uh….I…uh…can’t find canned mushrooms…”

She left me there, after a consoling smile. (She’s far too kind of a friend to use the term “I told you so” despite the fact that it would have been COMPLETELY appropriate in that instance).

I never DID manage to find those mushrooms, but thankfully made it home in time to collapse into the deepest sleep I’ve had in weeks, only to wake up two hours later and literally FALL out of bed as my wobbly overworked legs gave way.

Needless to say, there was no big solo hiking today. My back and legs are still recovering and I’m disappointed to say that, despite the dramatic toll a simple walk through town took on my body, it did nothing to hasten me into labour.

I’ll keep you posted…

Mystery of the Scissor Obsession : solved

One of Toby’s favourite presents this year was a new Doctor’s kit. Last year he got a dollar store version of one, which he LOVED but, unfortunately, it broke a few months ago. This new doctor’s kit is a bit of a step up - - it comes complete with otoscope, name tag, AND a pair of scissors. (Plastic, of course.)

I didn’t know where my son’s obsession with scissors came from before this Christmas, but I’m starting to get a sense of it. We bought him kid scissors for his stocking after repeatedly hearing him say that that is what he wanted from Santa. And his reaction didn’t disappoint – he definitely wanted his own pair of scissors.

I am lucky that the new doctor’s kit (and plastic doctor scissors) were opened before we gave him free reign over his real scissors. As Toby eagerly opened his doctor’s kit he bypassed the stethoscope and even the toy needle to get to the scissors and assumed his bossy position behind my mother on the couch, raised his hands and announced, “OK , Grandma. I have scissors. Now I’m going to cut your hair.”

As every parent who loves their job probably finds themselves thinking, I have often thought about the day I’d (maybe?) get to say, “I knew Toby wanted to be a doctor when he was 2 years old and fell in love with this dollar store doctor’s kit…” But this image is now being overshadowed by the thought of him standing in his very own salon with me proudly saying, “I always knew he had a flare for hairdressing!”