blogthecat

Breaking news

The toilet seat has fallen right off. Yep, it slid right over and let go. While I was on it. THE END.

Smells and sounds (or, soon and now)

Yesterday I washed all the tiny clothes we’ve got so far for the LD in Ivory Snow—apparently a must-do for babies’ sensitive skin. I put them into the cold cycle to avoid shrinkage (though I cannot imagine how they could possibly get smaller), transferred them into the dryer on low heat, then pulled them out and dumped them in the hamper. The scent that wafted up with that last step blew me away. I may have little to no experience with babies, but even for me, Ivory Snow casts a powerful spell.

I kept my nose close to the hamper as I waddled up the stairs—the many, many stairs—to our bedroom, lifting it only to empty the clothes onto our bed for folding. Except I couldn't fold. Not yet. In slow motion, I obeyed some deep instinct and sank my head into the middle of the fluffy pile of onesies and sleepers. Soft fuzzy pastel creatures—or were they clouds shaped like creatures?—surrounded me, and I seemed to float in a bubble of baby powder. I wanted to hug a teddy bear, and wondered when the little white Persian kittens would come tumbling into the room to join me. Wrong commercial, but that’s what I was thinking.

Then, at the edge of my consciousness came a groggy suspicion: that threatening this clean, soft wonderfulness was something more urgent, less delicious … that part-and-parcel of this intoxicating smell was the certainty of it morphing … into the unmistakable pong of a poopy diaper. Yes, I was sure of it: Ivory Snow = imminent diaper changing.

And still … still I felt awash in tender, loving feelings. As I finally lifted my head from the bed, suddenly I knew that with Ivory Snow, I could face the poopiest of poos and come out smiling. I could be an Ivory Snow woman.   

So third trimester dementia has set in nicely. My nesting urges are fierce and undeniable (poor Craig); most of the weekend was spent in preparation for the LD. Except for about an hour today.

At about 4 p.m., I crawled up to the bedroom from a marathon of cooking, pulled the covers back from the bed, and tucked in. Mid- to late-afternoon is a glorious time to be in this bed. A skylight directly overtop of it lets in either hypnotic, gentle sun or murky, soothing grey. Two cats inevitably jump in, one on either side of me, and purr their most luxurious purrs. It was raining today, and heavy drops drummed rhythmically against the skylight. Outside, a lone bird kept up a happy song. Amid these sounds, I fell into a light snooze, made all the more decadent by the understanding that soon, soon, such quiet, indulgent naps will be rare treats, rather than the sort of thing I can do whenever I want.

I know this and I am ready for it. But I love right now, too. I love this odd, dreamy land between what was and is, and what will be.

Disqualified

Craig and I went to our inaugural parenting class last night. Things started out hunky dory. We’re next to each other facing a circle of five other couples. In the middle is an exotic collection of candles and fertility ornaments. We drink red raspberry tea to tone our uteri. It is yummy. We present ourselves calmly to the crowd, and talk seriously about the words that have been placed in front of us on cards (“guidance” for me, “patience” for Craig). We are ready for this jelly.

At the end of the introductions, our guide announces it's time to show us the first video in a series that will help us prepare for labour. As she turns on the TV, she gets a box of Kleenex going around the circle. “It’s really beautiful—you’ll probably cry,” she cautions.

Craig describes the narrative arc of our video thusly:

Lady is about to have baby. At home.

Lady goes into early labour. Eats three plates of rice and beans.

Active labour begins.
Lady climbs in hot tub.
Hubby climbs in hot tub.
Young son stands butt naked by hot tub waiting for cue to jump in.

Lady pulls out baby from herself. Under water.
Baby is blue.
Son jumps in.
Much celebration.

Lady's father videotapes whole thing. Lady's father. Videotapes. Lady's water birth. Lady is daughter.

Video ends.

Some minor tears around the room. Someone offers, "She made that look so easy."

I am stock still, trying desperately to look unfazed. I can feel Craig peeking over at me to gauge my reaction. I’m in shock: four words threaten to spill screaming from my mouth as I run for the door: “Ceasarian!” “Epidural!” “General anesthetic!”

I chance a glance over at Craig. We begin shaking. Mercifully, breaktime is called. We run to the next room and inhale digestive cookies to mask our growing hysteria. Make it to a secluded corner. Collapse.
We are going to get kicked out of this class. Guaranteed.

Down the drain

Because I know you are dying to know, our toilet saga continues, with a few new developments. Our landlord came over with the plumber last week, and this time, Craig was home—good because I can’t speak to the landlord just now. This is because she called me a few days ago to (a) ban me from painting green accents I had had my heart set on in the LD's alcove (interfering mightily with my nesting impulses), and (b) ask me whether I thought our friend who visited us last month had savaged the toilet during his stay. Okay, she didn’t say “savaged” but it was close. The call came in the middle of a work meeting, too. Cartoonish smoke spirals and swear words streamed out my ears, and it was all I could do to remain professional.

So I shut myself in my office when she came over with the plumber. Craig stood guard while they dismantled the toilet. After a few minutes, I heard some commotion—they had evidently found the source of the evils. Good, I thought—proof that there WAS something wrong with the GD pipes. The door to the office opened. Craig stepped in with a sort of sick, green expression on his face, and asked quietly, “Have you dropped a necklace down the toilet recently?”

As anyone who has ever been pregnant knows, there is a lot of peeing that goes on at night. A. Lot. Especially in the first trimester. You are peeing so often that when you rise in the morning, you feel like your night has been spent as much on the pot as much as in bed. So about four months ago, during pee #22, at about 4 a.m., I hardly blinked when I felt my chain and pendant slide off my neck, down my body, and into the dark abyss of the toilet water. Sitting there with no light on, tired as tired can be, it took me but a moment’s contemplation before I flushed the toilet and hoped for the best.

Was it wrong? It was. In my defense, it was the first trimester. Enough said.

I met Craig’s eyes and nodded. “Yes, I did drop a necklace down there. Have they found it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize it as mine?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell them you recognized it?”

“No. If it had had a big K-I-L-E-Y pendant hanging off it, I wouldn’t have claimed it,” he said. “Not with the looks I was getting in there.”

He bravely made his way out of the office, back into the bathroom to thank the landlord and plumber for their mysterious discovery. They left with the necklace.

It is now five days later. The toilet makes more noise than ever.

Fall down laughing

If I’ve ever wanted to give out an award, it was today … for Best Laugh. Craig’s cousin, Janet, sent us this little video today and whether or not you’re a parent, you cannot help but feel your smile stretch up to your ears and latch on.

The video couldn’t have come at a better time for us … right when we’re on the verge of becoming total suckers and throwing our money at anything in size small or primary-coloured. It's also a nice companion to My kind of people—I should alert the Baby Bushers and let them know to add old newspaper to their product line! Price tag? $45.99?

But seriously, what an antidote to those times when everything feels complicated and murky. I could take a page from this book paper any day.

Greener pastures

Do you ever just stun yourself with how uninteresting you feel sometimes? I'm in one of those phases: perfectly content, yet remarkably dull. I trust that I will come out of this at some point, but at the moment, I'm feeling a little panicky at my brain's creative sluggishness and my consequent blogger's block. It's become important to me to post something every week ... it's a lovely little outlet, and good practice to keep it up, I think.

So I'm going to cheat a little and direct you to a wonderful blog I've been reading for the past while—seven hundred fifty words. The author, my friend Amy, possesses more than enough creativity to cover off my embarrassing dry spell. She's set herself the task of writing seven hundred and fifty words every single day, and though she felt overwhelmed by this when she first started a couple of months ago, she's very much in her element now and real-life proof of the rewards of practice. Her writing is personal, honest, and fluid, and most of her posts have a universal appeal to them. Enjoy!

My kind of people

When you’ve lived for 36 years without having kids (let alone babysitting one or changing a diaper), getting your head around …

• growing one
• birthing one
• feeding, clothing, and not breaking one
• entertaining one, and
• raising one to be a somewhat decent human being

… can be fairly daunting.

Thankfully, there are approximately 2,305,423 books, 3,987,375 websites, and 2,460 magazines ready and waiting to tell you exactly what you have to do to succeed as a parent. This is serious stuff. From what I’ve read so far, I get the clear impression that one wrong turn in the food, education, health, sleep, and activity departments will doom the baby to a life of crime and/or dimwittedness.

As if sensing my growing consternation at the heights I have been feeling I must achieve as a parent, my sister-in-law Nicole sent me a link to Baby Bush today. Their mission statement alone sets the tone for the rest of the website:

Sure, we all want the best for our kids, but let’s face the truth: not every child can grow up to be Einstein! At the Baby Bush Toy Company, we offer an exciting range of products designed for the resoundingly average child.

It’s the “resoundingly” that kills me. I have gone back to look at Baby Bush’s product line at least 16 times since receiving the link three hours ago: the combination of image, copy, and outlandish price keeps me going back.

Also check out the testimonials: degenerate father Ted Barnes is my favourite.

Thank you, Baby Bush. I needed you today.

Love in all the right places

If you're like me, you cringe at 95% of the Valentine's Day schlock we're subjected to. Ads and the like tend to be either corny, tacky, distasteful, repellent in their desperation to wring dollars from us ... or all of the above. But sometimes, I do come across the odd ode to love in February that hits me exactly the right way. Like this one.

Created by our friends James and Monique, this ad situates chocolate smack in the midst of the senses, its rightful place. Chocolate never had it so good as on, and nestled into, this gorgeous belly. The ad is fun, sexy, and effective—it strikes the right balance of risqué and restraint (note the spare but cute copy, too).

The ad was created on James's new web-based ad creation platform that's open to anyone: AdHack. On AdHack, ad creation escapes from the boundaries of the traditional model and allows people to play with their creativity. It also produces some damn good ads, which can be bought (e.g., M&Ms could buy this ad if they wanted to).

Check out AdHack ... and tell me if you don't think a couple of times today about M&Ms ...

One of those days

We have a screwy toilet. It’ll be fine for a couple of months, dormant really, and then like a monster it wakes up, grumpy as all hell. It been up for a couple of weeks now and making threatening noises, gurgling and choking during the last throes of the flush. We’ve taken to standing over it—transfixed in a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity—to see if it will make good on its promises and really explode.

Only today did we snap out of it and call the landlord. By the time she could come over, I was alone; Craig was on his way to the airport for a ski trip. It was up to me to explain our way to better plumbing.

We faced the toilet. I articulated the problem. She flushed it. Hardly a sound. Cool, clear water filled up gently and quickly to the necessary level. I laughed nervously, and mumbled the age-old truism about bringing a broken car to the mechanic only to have it purr like new in the shop. She ignored me, and flushed again. If possible, it was quieter. I didn’t say anything. “Again?” she asked, darting a smug look over at me. “Why not?” I said, and endured the third perfectly normal, obedient flush.

We backed out of the bathroom, but I couldn’t leave it there. I was feeling dumb and vengeful (a horrible combination) and needing to assert my tenant’s rights somehow. I led her to the bedroom, where there’s a light fixture near the end of one of our alcoves (the one that will become the baby’s room) that we’ve never been able to turn on. I suggested it might be faulty wiring. Over she marched to the light. Reached her hand up to the back of it, grasped a little chain, and pulled it softly. On went the light.

She left. We didn’t exchange many pleasantries. I went to take a pee. Flushed the toilet. Listened stonefaced as the water struggled noisily though the dirty rotten pipes.   

My little grey spirit

My baby Franny passed away last month. She had been losing weight but showed no signs of pain. She was slower and quieter, but she still came down every night at 8 pm to yell at me and eat bites of my dinner beside me. Lately, she was turning up her nose at nothing—pizza, bread, pasta, whatever. As long as I was eating it, she wanted it. Then we would cuddle. No one could cuddle like Fran.

For the last half-year or so, she stole her time with me at night, knowing that Oliver took every ounce of my attention and energy in the day. She knew there was less of me for her, and she accepted this without protest. This made me love her even more than I had before. She asked only that I adore her desperately for a little while at the end of each day. I did so happily and every bit as desperately as she might have hoped for.

I found solace burying my face in Franny’s fur at the end of long days with Oliver, days that—as any mother of a new baby knows—are not only joyful but exhausting. With her, I became a little more just me again, me as me and not as mother too, me as nerves and heart and thoughts and dreams. All these I would pour into her little body, and she received them gratefully.