Nate and I have been displaced by the renovations. Tiny house and only one bathroom (which is now reduced to crumbling plaster and lathe) made the decision for us. I am holed up at my mother-in-law's for the week and then off to my folks. Fun.
So if by chance you don't hear from me, this is the cause. Feel free to email me though. Unless you're a psycho. So anyone, with the exception of psychos, can reach me via email or by leaving a comment here. Have a great week all.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
fingers crossed
So I just had my interview (was moved to today). It was not 15, but TEN minutes from my house! I was so excited to be there that I forgot to ask half the questions I had in mind. Important ones like salary and when it would start. Duh. I got along great with the people I met. I think it went well, but I'm just going to pretend that I'm not getting the job so I won't be disappointed if they go with someone else.
....Who am I kidding? I will be bummed if they don't choose me. The job sounds perfect. A new challenge. A new direction careerwise. The right direction. And this little budget fashionista would be perfect for it. I get goosebumps just thinking about it. I definitely have a lot to learn, but I am SO up for it. I haven't been this jazzed about a career change since motherhood first slapped me in the face (and turned my stomach inside out)on the Dundas St car through Chinatown.
My life has a tendency to go through change in clusters. In 2004, I had new boss, a pre-planned trip to Scandinavia and a not-planned HOLYFUCKWEREHAVINGABABY all within two weeks of each other. This week my house is being ripped to shreds for the bathroom reno and electrical upgrades, Nate and I are meeting a potential daycare provider tomorrow, and I had this fab job interview. My life is often lead at a frenetic pace to say the least.
I have to admit, I enjoy that. I will never be the West Coast, laid-back chick. I am a neurotic, latte-loving, social butterfly, and all-round Toronto gal. I want to bake my cake and eat it too. I want to bring home the pancetta and fry it up in my non-stick pan and serve it over a bed of mixed greens before I put my beautiful son to bed and start to work on that novel... or my TV addiction. Yes, I'm probably asking for a life of stress, but I thrive on the energy and pace that comes with life in this great city. I don't need the bells and whistles, but I do need to preserve some semblance of who I was BC (Before Child). So even if I don't get this job, I think I will be in the market for a job of some sort. The possibilities are endless.
....Who am I kidding? I will be bummed if they don't choose me. The job sounds perfect. A new challenge. A new direction careerwise. The right direction. And this little budget fashionista would be perfect for it. I get goosebumps just thinking about it. I definitely have a lot to learn, but I am SO up for it. I haven't been this jazzed about a career change since motherhood first slapped me in the face (and turned my stomach inside out)on the Dundas St car through Chinatown.
My life has a tendency to go through change in clusters. In 2004, I had new boss, a pre-planned trip to Scandinavia and a not-planned HOLYFUCKWEREHAVINGABABY all within two weeks of each other. This week my house is being ripped to shreds for the bathroom reno and electrical upgrades, Nate and I are meeting a potential daycare provider tomorrow, and I had this fab job interview. My life is often lead at a frenetic pace to say the least.
I have to admit, I enjoy that. I will never be the West Coast, laid-back chick. I am a neurotic, latte-loving, social butterfly, and all-round Toronto gal. I want to bake my cake and eat it too. I want to bring home the pancetta and fry it up in my non-stick pan and serve it over a bed of mixed greens before I put my beautiful son to bed and start to work on that novel... or my TV addiction. Yes, I'm probably asking for a life of stress, but I thrive on the energy and pace that comes with life in this great city. I don't need the bells and whistles, but I do need to preserve some semblance of who I was BC (Before Child). So even if I don't get this job, I think I will be in the market for a job of some sort. The possibilities are endless.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Words -- now with 30% less fat.
Do I look thinner? Oh, well that's because a large part of my diet involves eating my own words. They are low on calories and nutritional value. I'd be better off eating sour cream and onion rings from the Bulk Barn. But alas, she with the big mouth has spoken too soon yet again.
I have a job interview on Monday. Go figure. I write a long post on staying home and POOF! a great opportunity comes a-calling. A job so cool that I'm not even going to tell you guys about it just yet. If you told me that you were up for this job, I would probably call you a bitch in my head (yes, I am that petty.) Assuming that a job that combines writing, fashion and TV is your thing. All I will say is that it's a 20-week contract, so I could potentially be off again with Nate by the summer. The office is 15 minutes from my house. And I get to work for a man that I LOVE (no, not the DOG, but this one makes me laugh almost as much). And I am actually excited about it. And nervous as all hell too. This changes everything!
Holy crapola. I think Scarb could be headed back to work in as little as a week -- assuming they like me for the job. And it would be nice to have some financial breathing room. Now, what to do about childcare and Nate-guilt? Holy fuck! What if I don't get it? Pace yourself Scarb. Don't get ahead of yourself or you'll be having your words for dinner again.
OK -- I'm just going to do some deep breathing and try to chill out. Then I need to work out my just-in-case plan. Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
I have a job interview on Monday. Go figure. I write a long post on staying home and POOF! a great opportunity comes a-calling. A job so cool that I'm not even going to tell you guys about it just yet. If you told me that you were up for this job, I would probably call you a bitch in my head (yes, I am that petty.) Assuming that a job that combines writing, fashion and TV is your thing. All I will say is that it's a 20-week contract, so I could potentially be off again with Nate by the summer. The office is 15 minutes from my house. And I get to work for a man that I LOVE (no, not the DOG, but this one makes me laugh almost as much). And I am actually excited about it. And nervous as all hell too. This changes everything!
Holy crapola. I think Scarb could be headed back to work in as little as a week -- assuming they like me for the job. And it would be nice to have some financial breathing room. Now, what to do about childcare and Nate-guilt? Holy fuck! What if I don't get it? Pace yourself Scarb. Don't get ahead of yourself or you'll be having your words for dinner again.
OK -- I'm just going to do some deep breathing and try to chill out. Then I need to work out my just-in-case plan. Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Not Quite Dooced But...
The election came and went. There's been lots of talk about how no one in the big cities voted Conservative. So basically we are just like the States, though we always try to act like Canada is cooler. Nope. Hicks and rich suburbanites lean right, immigrants stay centred and hip urbanites tend to veer left. Get ready to make 10 new states! (What will happen to the territories?) No seriously. We voted in the Conservative party AFTER they took the word "Progressive" out of their party name! Scary times. Bye-bye gay marriage. It was nice knowing you and your tasteful, two-tuxedoed ceremonies for a while. So long reproductive rights. Adios fair healthcare for all. What were we thinking? The man's eyes are evil! His pupils are so pale it's like they're not even there -- he's got lychees peering out of two suspicious slits. Scary times.
Anyway, I believe I had mentioned that I was due to go back to work on election day. And all y'all were wondering, but too polite to ask why I haven't been blogging about returning-to-work angst. I wanted to tell you guys, honest! But until now I could not speak of it due to a contract I signed saying I couldn't. I still can't go into too much detail. But basically I got sacked for saying terrible things about my boss over company emails. Emails she eventually read. I can't imagine what that must have felt like because Lord knows we NEVER intended for them to be read. I have had a whole year to mull this over and deal with the guilt of causing that kind of hurt to another human being (even if at times she did not seem human). I think I've finally forgiven myself. Getting the heave-ho actually gives me closure on the subject.
If you've been reading me for awhile, you know that I was unhappy with my job before I went on maternity leave. I got a new boss the same week I found out I was pregnant. She wasn't my kind of gal and there were some tough moments. Personality clash meet hormones. It didn't help that her boss was Darth Vader. It became a terrible us-against-them type scenario and the lot of us who'd been there for a few years dealt with it by chatting over emails about what cows "they" were.
Word to the wise: even if it's true, try to avoid being dumb like me and saying your boss is a "fat hairy cunt" over work email. Save it for Messenger or after work pints. Or better yet, don't give a shit about your idiot boss and do your easy job and take your paycheck and try not to get noticed. Now why didn't I think of that?
So when I went in for a meeting the first week of January, I had a feeling we wouldn't be discussing roles and responsibilities. "They" politely informed me that I would not be returning to work for them. I think they were expecting a fight, but after 10 of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life, I apologized, thanked them and left. Envelope in hand, pride intact. (Envelopes tend to make people leave quietly.)
The Pros:
* I don't have to go back to a job I no longer liked.
* I can keep doing the job that I LOVE: being Nate's mom -- as cheesy as that sounds. No matter what our government deems appropriate, I still feel that a year old is too small to be in daycare full-time. He can't even walk or speak for himself yet. I am finally getting the hang of this mom thing and Nate is finally getting the hang of being human. I'm enjoying this far too much to go back to full-time work. (I'll need new sandals though, so maybe by pedicure weather...)
* I can still pay for my bathroom reno thanks to the envelope. (Starts Monday BTW. More to come on that.)
The Cons:
* Having to ask the "What do I do with my life" question again. Clean slate, new start. What to do?
* What to tell future employer? "I know I called my last boss a socially-retarded cuntface, but I respect you, so I promise that won't happen."
* Things will be tight for awhile. No more girls' weekends across the ocean or fancy shoes for a while. Lifestyle adjustments have to be made, but without the fancy corporate wardrobe, the transportation and lunches out, and without the cost of full-time childcare, it might be OK. We've managed on one salary before. I guess I'll have to get someone to watch him a couple days a week so I can sort out some sort of freelance/contract work, but it's nowhere near the anxiety of having to send him off everyday. I don't know how anyone does it frankly. Maybe if I had a job that I loved, I could see wanting to get back into the action. Writing gives me that kind of desire for personal time for sure. But for now, writing is something I just do, on my own time with no pay.
They say you learn more in the first two years of your life than all your other years combined. I'm not just raising a child, I'm raising an adult. Someone who will ideally have a good dose of self-esteem, who will care about his fellow humans and do something good, productive and meaningful. Someone who will try not to make assumptions or pass judgement on others, but will instead try to help where he can. (I'm still mastering that last bit myself.) Two years! I think that is a valuable and feasible time investment. Just think, if I'm not there to guide him, Nate could grow up to be (insert foreboding music here) a Conservative!
Anyway, I believe I had mentioned that I was due to go back to work on election day. And all y'all were wondering, but too polite to ask why I haven't been blogging about returning-to-work angst. I wanted to tell you guys, honest! But until now I could not speak of it due to a contract I signed saying I couldn't. I still can't go into too much detail. But basically I got sacked for saying terrible things about my boss over company emails. Emails she eventually read. I can't imagine what that must have felt like because Lord knows we NEVER intended for them to be read. I have had a whole year to mull this over and deal with the guilt of causing that kind of hurt to another human being (even if at times she did not seem human). I think I've finally forgiven myself. Getting the heave-ho actually gives me closure on the subject.
If you've been reading me for awhile, you know that I was unhappy with my job before I went on maternity leave. I got a new boss the same week I found out I was pregnant. She wasn't my kind of gal and there were some tough moments. Personality clash meet hormones. It didn't help that her boss was Darth Vader. It became a terrible us-against-them type scenario and the lot of us who'd been there for a few years dealt with it by chatting over emails about what cows "they" were.
Word to the wise: even if it's true, try to avoid being dumb like me and saying your boss is a "fat hairy cunt" over work email. Save it for Messenger or after work pints. Or better yet, don't give a shit about your idiot boss and do your easy job and take your paycheck and try not to get noticed. Now why didn't I think of that?
So when I went in for a meeting the first week of January, I had a feeling we wouldn't be discussing roles and responsibilities. "They" politely informed me that I would not be returning to work for them. I think they were expecting a fight, but after 10 of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life, I apologized, thanked them and left. Envelope in hand, pride intact. (Envelopes tend to make people leave quietly.)
The Pros:
* I don't have to go back to a job I no longer liked.
* I can keep doing the job that I LOVE: being Nate's mom -- as cheesy as that sounds. No matter what our government deems appropriate, I still feel that a year old is too small to be in daycare full-time. He can't even walk or speak for himself yet. I am finally getting the hang of this mom thing and Nate is finally getting the hang of being human. I'm enjoying this far too much to go back to full-time work. (I'll need new sandals though, so maybe by pedicure weather...)
* I can still pay for my bathroom reno thanks to the envelope. (Starts Monday BTW. More to come on that.)
The Cons:
* Having to ask the "What do I do with my life" question again. Clean slate, new start. What to do?
* What to tell future employer? "I know I called my last boss a socially-retarded cuntface, but I respect you, so I promise that won't happen."
* Things will be tight for awhile. No more girls' weekends across the ocean or fancy shoes for a while. Lifestyle adjustments have to be made, but without the fancy corporate wardrobe, the transportation and lunches out, and without the cost of full-time childcare, it might be OK. We've managed on one salary before. I guess I'll have to get someone to watch him a couple days a week so I can sort out some sort of freelance/contract work, but it's nowhere near the anxiety of having to send him off everyday. I don't know how anyone does it frankly. Maybe if I had a job that I loved, I could see wanting to get back into the action. Writing gives me that kind of desire for personal time for sure. But for now, writing is something I just do, on my own time with no pay.
They say you learn more in the first two years of your life than all your other years combined. I'm not just raising a child, I'm raising an adult. Someone who will ideally have a good dose of self-esteem, who will care about his fellow humans and do something good, productive and meaningful. Someone who will try not to make assumptions or pass judgement on others, but will instead try to help where he can. (I'm still mastering that last bit myself.) Two years! I think that is a valuable and feasible time investment. Just think, if I'm not there to guide him, Nate could grow up to be (insert foreboding music here) a Conservative!
Sunday, January 22, 2006
FortuNATE
I spent Sunday-Tuesday at my folks' place, recharging my batteries and having my favourite critics on the couch for the Golden Globes. On Tuesday after I got home, my sister called to say she was thinking about Nate on the way home from work. "I was thinking that the reason he is so awesome, so easy-going and the way he loves people... I realized that was because of you. And I thought, I wonder if [Scarb] is proud." Whoa. My sis is not one to lay down that type of compliment. I've been carrying her voice and words in my pocket all week.
Wednesday we had an appointment at Women's College Hospital for Nate's Neonatal Follow-up. The clinic follows any baby who has been in the NICU at WCH. He has been seeing an Occupational Therapist there to follow his movements and make sure he hits his developmental milestones. Should we, or they, notice anything fishy at any point, they would have arranged home visits by an OT to help stimulate the parts of the brain that were not talking to the parts of the body.
For me, this has always been the most annoying of all the stuff he has had to do because of his stroke. They examine him with microscopic eyes and point out minutia. His right thumb doesn't close as well as his left thumb. He shouldn't be prefering one arm to the other yet. Etcetera. It always makes me paranoid and makes me second guess my instincts that this child will be fine.
This visit also helps me. It helps me to focus on what I can do to help Nate reach his develomental milestones. They made me get down on the floor with him and give him loads of tummy time to help him get to rolling over and sitting up. When I was too chicken to try table foods, they encouraged me to give him Cheerios to help out his pincer grip (and judging by the way he tweaks my nips, I think he's got that down). We have never needed the outside help that was available to us for free at any time (thanks to this generous country -- don't forget to vote for healthcare on Monday!). And I think the encouragement of these amazing women has a lot to do with that.
Anyway, Nate got down to his skivvies and played on the floor, dazzling the doctors with his smile and adorable way. "He looks great," said Maureen the OT, smiling. "There is one more amazing test you can do at 20 months. It's a cognitive test where you'll get a view into how he learns and understands things. And after that, you guys are done with us!" Wh-wh-what?!?! Done? Really? "It's miraculous after all that's happened to him," she said joyfully, "but he has done amazingly well."
I have always had a love/hate relationship with her, for a petty reason: She was always realistic and would never let me revel in my dream world. "I still remember you sitting in the ICU a year ago," she said. "You would sit their by the isolette for hours and you kept asking me if Nate would be OK." Ah, she remembers why I want to simultaneously punch her and hug her when I see her.
There I was, a new mom, spending every day as a new mom in the NICU. The doctors told me my son would probably have Cerebral Palsy, or at least great difficulties with his gross motor skills, particularly on his right side. An MRI taken when he was 3 days old showed a great amount of brain damage, particularly to the left side of Nate's brain. But I felt differently. I would watch the wee one in the isolette and, as his drug-induced coma-like state wore off, he was putting his right hand in his mouth to soothe himself. The morning she examined him I had asked Maureen, "He's going to be OK, right? I mean he wants to put his right hand in his mouth and he is clearly able to do that. So I really don't see any problem happening with his right side."
"You never know," she said bluntly. God I wanted to punch her that day. She totally burst my bubble.
Since then, every time I got confident about Nate's recovery, she would knock me down a level. And now that I am on the other side of the fence, knowing that Nate is going to be OK, I am no longer angry. Because if it wasn't for her showing me that there might be another side to this "son with stroke" scenario, I may not have gotten as involved with my child as I have. I may have watched him play from a distance instead of getting down on the ground with him and encouraging him to move, to roll over, to crawl. I may not have touched him as much, or sang to him as often as I do. Who knows? This is hopefully the last on this chapter, and I wanted to get out all my thoughts on it.
Nate is the real hero of this story. I knew from the moment I felt Life growing inside me that this kid was a fighter. Little did I know that he would come out fighting. Each day on the outside was a fight to live fully, to live normally. It almost didn't happen. I hope, when he's old enough to understand, that I will be able to teach him the value of the gift he's been given. There are so many kids out there who did not/do not get the chance that Nate did.
Think of us when you go to the polls. In a country without a public healthcare system, we would never have been able to afford the type of care we received. The type of care that helped our son get well. The support system in place to help us follow his progress and learn what we could do to make him better. The system works. Believe in it and do your part as a citizen of this great country and VOTE! Together we can keep this country great and work towards improving it.
Wednesday we had an appointment at Women's College Hospital for Nate's Neonatal Follow-up. The clinic follows any baby who has been in the NICU at WCH. He has been seeing an Occupational Therapist there to follow his movements and make sure he hits his developmental milestones. Should we, or they, notice anything fishy at any point, they would have arranged home visits by an OT to help stimulate the parts of the brain that were not talking to the parts of the body.
For me, this has always been the most annoying of all the stuff he has had to do because of his stroke. They examine him with microscopic eyes and point out minutia. His right thumb doesn't close as well as his left thumb. He shouldn't be prefering one arm to the other yet. Etcetera. It always makes me paranoid and makes me second guess my instincts that this child will be fine.
This visit also helps me. It helps me to focus on what I can do to help Nate reach his develomental milestones. They made me get down on the floor with him and give him loads of tummy time to help him get to rolling over and sitting up. When I was too chicken to try table foods, they encouraged me to give him Cheerios to help out his pincer grip (and judging by the way he tweaks my nips, I think he's got that down). We have never needed the outside help that was available to us for free at any time (thanks to this generous country -- don't forget to vote for healthcare on Monday!). And I think the encouragement of these amazing women has a lot to do with that.
Anyway, Nate got down to his skivvies and played on the floor, dazzling the doctors with his smile and adorable way. "He looks great," said Maureen the OT, smiling. "There is one more amazing test you can do at 20 months. It's a cognitive test where you'll get a view into how he learns and understands things. And after that, you guys are done with us!" Wh-wh-what?!?! Done? Really? "It's miraculous after all that's happened to him," she said joyfully, "but he has done amazingly well."
I have always had a love/hate relationship with her, for a petty reason: She was always realistic and would never let me revel in my dream world. "I still remember you sitting in the ICU a year ago," she said. "You would sit their by the isolette for hours and you kept asking me if Nate would be OK." Ah, she remembers why I want to simultaneously punch her and hug her when I see her.
There I was, a new mom, spending every day as a new mom in the NICU. The doctors told me my son would probably have Cerebral Palsy, or at least great difficulties with his gross motor skills, particularly on his right side. An MRI taken when he was 3 days old showed a great amount of brain damage, particularly to the left side of Nate's brain. But I felt differently. I would watch the wee one in the isolette and, as his drug-induced coma-like state wore off, he was putting his right hand in his mouth to soothe himself. The morning she examined him I had asked Maureen, "He's going to be OK, right? I mean he wants to put his right hand in his mouth and he is clearly able to do that. So I really don't see any problem happening with his right side."
"You never know," she said bluntly. God I wanted to punch her that day. She totally burst my bubble.
Since then, every time I got confident about Nate's recovery, she would knock me down a level. And now that I am on the other side of the fence, knowing that Nate is going to be OK, I am no longer angry. Because if it wasn't for her showing me that there might be another side to this "son with stroke" scenario, I may not have gotten as involved with my child as I have. I may have watched him play from a distance instead of getting down on the ground with him and encouraging him to move, to roll over, to crawl. I may not have touched him as much, or sang to him as often as I do. Who knows? This is hopefully the last on this chapter, and I wanted to get out all my thoughts on it.
Nate is the real hero of this story. I knew from the moment I felt Life growing inside me that this kid was a fighter. Little did I know that he would come out fighting. Each day on the outside was a fight to live fully, to live normally. It almost didn't happen. I hope, when he's old enough to understand, that I will be able to teach him the value of the gift he's been given. There are so many kids out there who did not/do not get the chance that Nate did.
Think of us when you go to the polls. In a country without a public healthcare system, we would never have been able to afford the type of care we received. The type of care that helped our son get well. The support system in place to help us follow his progress and learn what we could do to make him better. The system works. Believe in it and do your part as a citizen of this great country and VOTE! Together we can keep this country great and work towards improving it.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Kids Hospitals: Heaven and Hell
We survived what I hope will be our last visit to Sick Kids Hospital. I am so glad that I live in a city with a reknowned children's hospital, I just don't want to go there ever again. It's too much.
We arrived for our 8:30 am appointment close to 8. The Dog had about 3-4 hours of sleep since he had worked the night shift. His employer, the famous local hockey team, whose games he edits into highlight packs, was playing a west coast team. So he was home later than usual. Getting there on time was a major coup as a result.
We got out of the car and I remembered I had forgotten the stroller, which they had instructed me to bring. Faaaack. Oh well, maybe we don't really need it. Nate was starving. No solids after midnight , no breastmilk after 4:30 am, and no juice/water/clear fluids after 6:30 am. What the hell do you do in that sitch? Do you wake him to feed him? "Hey little dude, I know you don't normally eat at 11:30 pm, but I was thinking you'd like this Baby Mum Mum, clementine, Mini-go combination tonight since I'll be starving you tomorrow." You can just imagine what he was like after being denied the boob first thing in the am.
Sick Kids' lobby has the food court of a large mall. Anything you want, they got it. So I could not contain my excitement to see the Starbucks beaming at me. even the Anti-'bucks Dogger had to make a request (Peppermint tea? When you haven't slept? Dude! Get some fair trade caffeine in ya!) Upstairs we quickly made friends with other kids and parents in the waiting room of the Cardiac/Echo ward. A young Asian family held up their pretty, teeny daughter next to the aquarium where Nate was excitedly staring and pointing.
"How old?" the mother asked pointing to Nate and giggling.
"One year as of Monday! Yours?"
"10 and a half months."
I was stunned. This girl looked like a 5 month-old. And here I am complaining about Nate being skinny.
"What's wrong with your son's heart?" she asked, catching me off guard. This question is only acceptable in a place like Sick Kids. No one would ask you that in the line up at No Frills.
"Um, we don't know. He had a stroke at birth and we're just trying to figure out why it happened and if it could happen again. (pause) And your daughter?"
"She has a hole in her heart."
"They can fix that now though, right?"
"They are waiting to see if it will grow back on its own. If not, they will operate."
"Well she looks healthy," I offer meagerly. It's not a total lie. She looked healthy. She was just small for her age.
"Thank you, but she's not growing. She's very small and not developing properly."
Oh man, I think I ended up with a hole in my heart from that conversation.
Her three year-old son, Kai, played with Nate and the Dogger while I snapped photos. One by one, the room began to fill with other kids. A pasty, sickly-looking, shy white boy, maybe 7 or 8, sidled up beside us. I tried to figure out how to get the Nintendo machine to work, but couldn't help him. An 11 year-old, outgoing, South Asian girl named Gillian tried to take the batteries out of her Walkman/ipod/reasonable facsimile and get a remote control car to work. No luck.
I took Nate to the window (all the waiting rooms look out onto a giant glass enclosed atrium) and she followed. We pointed out cool stuff in the atrium and she, being the veteran, showed me the ropes. "See that balancing pig statue thingy. I'm sure it moves. When I was here for my operation two years ago, I could swear it was moving."
Our name was finally called and we said goodbye to our new friends. We undressed Nate as the lovely nurses fawned over him. They inserted an IV into his right hand (his veins are like his mommy's: no good for sticking IVs in) and we got the tiny hospital gown over the other half of him. It was the saddest and cutest thing ever. Our nurse was nice and let us know that the sedative they were about to give him to help him stay still tastes awful. Administering it is the worst part of the procedure because it burns their wee throats and they cry and refuse to take all of it. And we all know that (after months of Armenian force-feeding by his Ya-ya) Nate can purse those lips tighter than anyone.
The worst part of all this was that each time he cried (I personally think the IV was the worst for the little guy), my instinct was to nurse him (and his to be nursed), but it was not allowed. So I was not able to properly comfort him. As the drug took over, he fought the sleep with large thrashing movements and a low growl that made us laugh. What else could we do? If we didn't laugh at him, I would have cried more than I did.
He fell asleep by sucking his thumb and I sobbed on the Dog's shoulder. The nurse asked me if I was OK. "A lot going on today, huh?" The way she asked me made me sure she was someone's mother.
"I know we're not anywhere near the worst case in here," I blubbered, "but no matter what the seriousness of the procedure, he's my baby! And it's hard to see him like that."
That's the saddest thing about Sick Kids. Everyone in there is trying to do the best by their kid. Somehow, something went wrong. Club foot or brain damage or high fever or spina bifida, these rooms are full of parents blaming themselves.
They wheeled my baby's sleeping body on the gurney into a dark room with an expensive-looking machine. It's so new that there was someone in there teaching the technician how to use it. The echo sonogram takes a full scan of Nate's beautiful heart. The screen blazes with rainbow colours that put any Church street flag to shame. I am watching my son's heart beat and pump blood through his tiny body on a screen and it's the best thing I've seen since my pregnancy ultrasounds. How cool is this?
90 minutes later my attitude has changed. Didn't we get this picture already? All the images start to look the same. The attending nurse, whom I confirm is indeed a mom (to a 19 month-old girl), is joined by a resident nurse, who is 30 weeks pregnant. We trade war stories and funny motherhood observations and it makes the time pass more quickly. The Dog slumbers beside me and wakes up every now and then to squeeze my hand or stroke my hair.
In the midst of all this, they did a "bubble study". I'm still not 100% on this, but I believe they injected some sort of bubbly solution into his bloodstream via the IV. It happens quickly and the sonographer must be ready to snap the photo of the bubbles entering his heart. But I heard them say, "Nothing! Perfect!" and that was really the only reassurance I got. Something about this specific part of the whole test made me cry the most. I was really scared and having a full on panic attack as it was happening.
Nate woke up around 11 am, shortly after the test was over. He nursed forever, even while the nurse took his IV out. "Wow," she exclaimed, "If we knew this, we could have skipped the sedative." The Dog and I were famished and one of the nurses had mentioned subs as a pregnancy craving, which in turn made me crave a sub. We went down to the food court to get some and saw the inevitable.
Of all the horrible things one can see at Sick Kids, by far the worst is seeing a kid with cancer. These children are the most blatant reminder of where you are and the vast amounts of sadness that can share a room with the hope and joy of people getting better. Bald, pale and hooked up to IVs, etc, the sad, yet frantic eyes of their parents betray the truth. This could happen to anyone.
We packed up our stuff and took our sweet son home. A trip to Sick Kids always reminds us of the fragility of life. We made sure to enjoy the rest of our day to the fullest.
We arrived for our 8:30 am appointment close to 8. The Dog had about 3-4 hours of sleep since he had worked the night shift. His employer, the famous local hockey team, whose games he edits into highlight packs, was playing a west coast team. So he was home later than usual. Getting there on time was a major coup as a result.
We got out of the car and I remembered I had forgotten the stroller, which they had instructed me to bring. Faaaack. Oh well, maybe we don't really need it. Nate was starving. No solids after midnight , no breastmilk after 4:30 am, and no juice/water/clear fluids after 6:30 am. What the hell do you do in that sitch? Do you wake him to feed him? "Hey little dude, I know you don't normally eat at 11:30 pm, but I was thinking you'd like this Baby Mum Mum, clementine, Mini-go combination tonight since I'll be starving you tomorrow." You can just imagine what he was like after being denied the boob first thing in the am.
Sick Kids' lobby has the food court of a large mall. Anything you want, they got it. So I could not contain my excitement to see the Starbucks beaming at me. even the Anti-'bucks Dogger had to make a request (Peppermint tea? When you haven't slept? Dude! Get some fair trade caffeine in ya!) Upstairs we quickly made friends with other kids and parents in the waiting room of the Cardiac/Echo ward. A young Asian family held up their pretty, teeny daughter next to the aquarium where Nate was excitedly staring and pointing.
"How old?" the mother asked pointing to Nate and giggling.
"One year as of Monday! Yours?"
"10 and a half months."
I was stunned. This girl looked like a 5 month-old. And here I am complaining about Nate being skinny.
"What's wrong with your son's heart?" she asked, catching me off guard. This question is only acceptable in a place like Sick Kids. No one would ask you that in the line up at No Frills.
"Um, we don't know. He had a stroke at birth and we're just trying to figure out why it happened and if it could happen again. (pause) And your daughter?"
"She has a hole in her heart."
"They can fix that now though, right?"
"They are waiting to see if it will grow back on its own. If not, they will operate."
"Well she looks healthy," I offer meagerly. It's not a total lie. She looked healthy. She was just small for her age.
"Thank you, but she's not growing. She's very small and not developing properly."
Oh man, I think I ended up with a hole in my heart from that conversation.
Her three year-old son, Kai, played with Nate and the Dogger while I snapped photos. One by one, the room began to fill with other kids. A pasty, sickly-looking, shy white boy, maybe 7 or 8, sidled up beside us. I tried to figure out how to get the Nintendo machine to work, but couldn't help him. An 11 year-old, outgoing, South Asian girl named Gillian tried to take the batteries out of her Walkman/ipod/reasonable facsimile and get a remote control car to work. No luck.
I took Nate to the window (all the waiting rooms look out onto a giant glass enclosed atrium) and she followed. We pointed out cool stuff in the atrium and she, being the veteran, showed me the ropes. "See that balancing pig statue thingy. I'm sure it moves. When I was here for my operation two years ago, I could swear it was moving."
Our name was finally called and we said goodbye to our new friends. We undressed Nate as the lovely nurses fawned over him. They inserted an IV into his right hand (his veins are like his mommy's: no good for sticking IVs in) and we got the tiny hospital gown over the other half of him. It was the saddest and cutest thing ever. Our nurse was nice and let us know that the sedative they were about to give him to help him stay still tastes awful. Administering it is the worst part of the procedure because it burns their wee throats and they cry and refuse to take all of it. And we all know that (after months of Armenian force-feeding by his Ya-ya) Nate can purse those lips tighter than anyone.
The worst part of all this was that each time he cried (I personally think the IV was the worst for the little guy), my instinct was to nurse him (and his to be nursed), but it was not allowed. So I was not able to properly comfort him. As the drug took over, he fought the sleep with large thrashing movements and a low growl that made us laugh. What else could we do? If we didn't laugh at him, I would have cried more than I did.
He fell asleep by sucking his thumb and I sobbed on the Dog's shoulder. The nurse asked me if I was OK. "A lot going on today, huh?" The way she asked me made me sure she was someone's mother.
"I know we're not anywhere near the worst case in here," I blubbered, "but no matter what the seriousness of the procedure, he's my baby! And it's hard to see him like that."
That's the saddest thing about Sick Kids. Everyone in there is trying to do the best by their kid. Somehow, something went wrong. Club foot or brain damage or high fever or spina bifida, these rooms are full of parents blaming themselves.
They wheeled my baby's sleeping body on the gurney into a dark room with an expensive-looking machine. It's so new that there was someone in there teaching the technician how to use it. The echo sonogram takes a full scan of Nate's beautiful heart. The screen blazes with rainbow colours that put any Church street flag to shame. I am watching my son's heart beat and pump blood through his tiny body on a screen and it's the best thing I've seen since my pregnancy ultrasounds. How cool is this?
90 minutes later my attitude has changed. Didn't we get this picture already? All the images start to look the same. The attending nurse, whom I confirm is indeed a mom (to a 19 month-old girl), is joined by a resident nurse, who is 30 weeks pregnant. We trade war stories and funny motherhood observations and it makes the time pass more quickly. The Dog slumbers beside me and wakes up every now and then to squeeze my hand or stroke my hair.
In the midst of all this, they did a "bubble study". I'm still not 100% on this, but I believe they injected some sort of bubbly solution into his bloodstream via the IV. It happens quickly and the sonographer must be ready to snap the photo of the bubbles entering his heart. But I heard them say, "Nothing! Perfect!" and that was really the only reassurance I got. Something about this specific part of the whole test made me cry the most. I was really scared and having a full on panic attack as it was happening.
Nate woke up around 11 am, shortly after the test was over. He nursed forever, even while the nurse took his IV out. "Wow," she exclaimed, "If we knew this, we could have skipped the sedative." The Dog and I were famished and one of the nurses had mentioned subs as a pregnancy craving, which in turn made me crave a sub. We went down to the food court to get some and saw the inevitable.
Of all the horrible things one can see at Sick Kids, by far the worst is seeing a kid with cancer. These children are the most blatant reminder of where you are and the vast amounts of sadness that can share a room with the hope and joy of people getting better. Bald, pale and hooked up to IVs, etc, the sad, yet frantic eyes of their parents betray the truth. This could happen to anyone.
We packed up our stuff and took our sweet son home. A trip to Sick Kids always reminds us of the fragility of life. We made sure to enjoy the rest of our day to the fullest.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
One is the loveliest number that you ever heard...
We went to the Pediatrician today for our one year checkup. My skinny man got on the scale and I was so hopeful. He's been pigging out lately and starting to get a belly even. But nope, only 18 lbs 11 oz. As the nurse said the number out loud, the mother who had her 6 month-old weighed prior to Nate gasped. "I'm sorry, but did she say he was 18 pounds?"
"Yep, eighteen-eleven," I replied with my usual answer, "I must have skim milk."
What I really wanted to say was, "Yes, I fucking realize that your gorgeously fat six month old weighs nearly as much as my one year-old! Haha. Isn't that hilarious?"
She wasn't being snide in the least, and frankly, I don't know why I take it so personally. I mean, it's not as though he's not growing. But fat is something that's not only adored in infancy, it is highly desirable in our society to have a hefty baby. Hell, it's the only other time in life -- next to pregnancy -- where you can be fat and still considered beautiful. Oh it's a shitty fact, but it's true.
Anyway, Nate is so damn cute, it really doesn't matter. Another stupid mother issue I need to let go. But still I can't help but feel my heart sink a little when the scale doesn't pass the 20 pound mark.
As we waited for the doc, the young girl (around 3?) in the next room was getting psyched up for her needle. She sounded so cute on the other side of the wall, interacting with her mom as she read to little... we'll call her Suzy. The mom was freaking out, asking excessive questions about Avian bird flu (though I am quite sure she kept calling it Asian bird flu - no that's not racist at all.). She seemed like the type of mom who was scared of EVERYTHING. And this manifested itself in her offspring. As soon as the needle was in the room with the little girl, wee Suzy started FREAKING OUT. You don't even know yo! She was screaming like she was being interrogated at Guantanamo Bay.
I don't know how that mom stayed calm. The shrieks were making me nervous. I was glad for my one year-old who doesn't know what's up yet until after the fact. I would have been in tears if I was in that situation. Poor little Suzy caught my eye as she walked down the hall and I couldn't figure out if I wanted to give her a hug or a 5 minutes in the "noooughty chair".
When the doc finally came around for measurements and vaccinations, he giggled as he always does when he sees Nate. As close to giggling as an old, no nonsense doctor gets. He likes seeing Nate. Maybe it's his job to make us feel that way, but I secretly feel he's sweet on the ol' Scarb. Heh. "It's exactly a year since your first visit," the doc informed me. To think where we were a year ago today. Anxiously taking him to the pediatrician for the first time. The Dog doesn't even bother with the doc visits anymore. The novelty has worn off.
Nate is now 2 foot 5! So funny to say, but that makes him half my height! As usual, vaccination #1 produced only grumpy moans, while shot #2 caused full-fledged crying. Nothing that the great white boob couldn't handle though. (Note to self: need to get some topless tanning action in)
Then came the best news of all. A document from Sick Kids that says they think Nate has had a full recovery! Amazing! Not that we thought any different, but it's nice to get the pros concurring.
That doesn't seem to change the fact that we (including the Dogger) have to be at Sick Kids tomorrow moning at 8:30 so they can do an echo of his heart and some bubble test. (Don't ask me. I have no clue. I haven't watched ER since George left and I haven't caught on to the fact that Grey's Anatomy is supposed to be the world's greatest show. My TV medical jargon knowledge is zilch.) I think the hospital's left arm is not speaking to its right arm. I'm sure it will be traumatic. They have to sedate him to stay still. I have to starve him in the morning=deny him the boob. He should be in a fine mood!
Anyway, forget that noise. I'll do what I have to in order to know he's gonna be OK for good. The best thing of all is having a healthy, happy, thriving one-year-old, who now clearly loves me more than ANYTHING. Seriously, when he kisses me on the mouth, he trembles with excitement and joy. When I come into his room after a nap, he looks like he could burst at the site of me -- probably because I am the face he is learning the most from and I definitely look at him that way each day. I know it won't last, so I am sucking up every second of it. This stage is awesome. He is truly learning something new everyday. Yesterday he finally learned to "Cheers" -- initally super cute, now kind of annoying as he wants to do it 20 times in a row. Today he learned to put the circle piece on his board puzzle back into it's die-cut space. He is just so... cool. No, not even. He's kewl!
"Yep, eighteen-eleven," I replied with my usual answer, "I must have skim milk."
What I really wanted to say was, "Yes, I fucking realize that your gorgeously fat six month old weighs nearly as much as my one year-old! Haha. Isn't that hilarious?"
She wasn't being snide in the least, and frankly, I don't know why I take it so personally. I mean, it's not as though he's not growing. But fat is something that's not only adored in infancy, it is highly desirable in our society to have a hefty baby. Hell, it's the only other time in life -- next to pregnancy -- where you can be fat and still considered beautiful. Oh it's a shitty fact, but it's true.
Anyway, Nate is so damn cute, it really doesn't matter. Another stupid mother issue I need to let go. But still I can't help but feel my heart sink a little when the scale doesn't pass the 20 pound mark.
As we waited for the doc, the young girl (around 3?) in the next room was getting psyched up for her needle. She sounded so cute on the other side of the wall, interacting with her mom as she read to little... we'll call her Suzy. The mom was freaking out, asking excessive questions about Avian bird flu (though I am quite sure she kept calling it Asian bird flu - no that's not racist at all.). She seemed like the type of mom who was scared of EVERYTHING. And this manifested itself in her offspring. As soon as the needle was in the room with the little girl, wee Suzy started FREAKING OUT. You don't even know yo! She was screaming like she was being interrogated at Guantanamo Bay.
I don't know how that mom stayed calm. The shrieks were making me nervous. I was glad for my one year-old who doesn't know what's up yet until after the fact. I would have been in tears if I was in that situation. Poor little Suzy caught my eye as she walked down the hall and I couldn't figure out if I wanted to give her a hug or a 5 minutes in the "noooughty chair".
When the doc finally came around for measurements and vaccinations, he giggled as he always does when he sees Nate. As close to giggling as an old, no nonsense doctor gets. He likes seeing Nate. Maybe it's his job to make us feel that way, but I secretly feel he's sweet on the ol' Scarb. Heh. "It's exactly a year since your first visit," the doc informed me. To think where we were a year ago today. Anxiously taking him to the pediatrician for the first time. The Dog doesn't even bother with the doc visits anymore. The novelty has worn off.
Nate is now 2 foot 5! So funny to say, but that makes him half my height! As usual, vaccination #1 produced only grumpy moans, while shot #2 caused full-fledged crying. Nothing that the great white boob couldn't handle though. (Note to self: need to get some topless tanning action in)
Then came the best news of all. A document from Sick Kids that says they think Nate has had a full recovery! Amazing! Not that we thought any different, but it's nice to get the pros concurring.
That doesn't seem to change the fact that we (including the Dogger) have to be at Sick Kids tomorrow moning at 8:30 so they can do an echo of his heart and some bubble test. (Don't ask me. I have no clue. I haven't watched ER since George left and I haven't caught on to the fact that Grey's Anatomy is supposed to be the world's greatest show. My TV medical jargon knowledge is zilch.) I think the hospital's left arm is not speaking to its right arm. I'm sure it will be traumatic. They have to sedate him to stay still. I have to starve him in the morning=deny him the boob. He should be in a fine mood!
Anyway, forget that noise. I'll do what I have to in order to know he's gonna be OK for good. The best thing of all is having a healthy, happy, thriving one-year-old, who now clearly loves me more than ANYTHING. Seriously, when he kisses me on the mouth, he trembles with excitement and joy. When I come into his room after a nap, he looks like he could burst at the site of me -- probably because I am the face he is learning the most from and I definitely look at him that way each day. I know it won't last, so I am sucking up every second of it. This stage is awesome. He is truly learning something new everyday. Yesterday he finally learned to "Cheers" -- initally super cute, now kind of annoying as he wants to do it 20 times in a row. Today he learned to put the circle piece on his board puzzle back into it's die-cut space. He is just so... cool. No, not even. He's kewl!
Where does your babies name rank?
BabyCenter.com released their Top 100 Names of 2006 list. Nathaniel was number 67. Phew! I never wanted to give him the kind of name everyone else would have. That being said, there's still a lot of Nate's out there.
Notice how there's not an Ahmet or a Shaniqua on the list. This is the whitiest list ever. I get to be the decider of the next baby's name and he or she is gonna get the Armo treatment. (Please dear God, let it be a
girl, because Armenian boy names are pretty tough to swallow -- or spit)
Notice how there's not an Ahmet or a Shaniqua on the list. This is the whitiest list ever. I get to be the decider of the next baby's name and he or she is gonna get the Armo treatment. (Please dear God, let it be a
girl, because Armenian boy names are pretty tough to swallow -- or spit)
Come out come out wherever you are
So it's National De-lurking Week or something. So if you read me but never comment, now's the time to come out of the closet so to speak. Don't be shy, drop me a line below. Just kinda curious who you wonderful people hiding in New Zealand, Moscow and the Southern U.S. are. The little lights that shine on the map on my Site Meter from your parts of the world fill me with wonder. So welcome all!
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Book #1: A Million Little Pieces by James Frey
My good pal Ragdoll over at My Tragic Right Hip counted the books she read last year. We had read the same Stephen King memoir/writer's handbook, On Writing, in which the author claims to read 70 books a year, as well as some audiobooks in the car. I think there was something in the book or the subtext that made you feel that if you were to succeed as an author, you should also be reading this much. Last year Ragdoll made a go of it, and even though she has a disease that makes her feel yucky and weak most of the time, she managed to get to 65. Sixty-five books! In one year! That's astounding.
Though I really don't do resolutions -- because I always fail at them -- I decided that I would give myself a low number of books as a goal to reach this year. I'm thinking 20 sounds reasonable. That's almost two books a month. I think I can hack it.
I've finished my first book of the year -- though technically, I began to read it last year. If you didn't hear about this book before, suddenly everyone is talking about it. It's about a real guy, James Frey, and his battle with alcoholism and crack addiction during his 6-week stay in rehab. It's written in an ultra-honest, fuck-punctuation style that appealed to me and conveyed the frenetic emotional and physical struggle of an addict convincingly. I don't care who you are, you will relate to him in some way. We've all fucked up in our lives, hurt strangers and let down people we know. If you've ever started out with the intention of eating one square of chocolate, but then found yourself downing the entire jumbo Lindt bar until you were sick, then you will relate to James Frey and you will think of him as someone you'd like to befriend. Just not in bar or dark alley.
As if being the Oprah pick last fall didn't catapult this book into enough fame, suddenly everyone and their mother is talking about The Smoking Gun exposé on the author and how he wasn't as badass as he claims to be in his books. Thankfully Oprah backed up our boy, who no matter what people say, is my new hero.
Like, wouldn't you need to jazz up details of your boring life to make your memoir sound more exciting? Really, even me, with my crazy antics and penchant for soap opera style catastrophe would have to remember things differently if I wanted to sell books. I think this guy just pissed off enough people to make them want to hunt him down or give shitty testimonials about him. In our society, we like nothing more than to build people up so we can knock them down and see them self-destruct.
"Why didn't he just call it fiction then? We wouldn't have cared if it was fiction." If it was fiction you wouldn't have bought the message either. And the message here matters. I want to buy several copies of this book and put it on the doorstep of all the crackhouses in my hood. If honesty in a memoir is such a big deal, how come no one is doing investigative reporting on other memoir writers? TSG ain't trying to hunt down Frank McCourt's past I'm sure.
The point, as I'm sure many of James Frey's supporters in the blogosphere are saying, is that this guy was definitely an addict. An addict who survived, got clean and then spread his message of hope and controversial/alternative therapy to the world. The point is "Hold on." Life sucks, job sucks, relationships the pits, hate yourself? Hold on. Make it to the next minute without hurting yourself and then make it to the next minute after that and then an hour, a day, etc. String all these units of time together and soon you'll be holdin' o-o-o-ooon like Mariah Carey's hig note in her cover of "I'll Be There" by the Jackson 5.
Anyway, to borrow some back cover style wordage, it's a compelling read. You won't be able to put it down, at first, because of the gross details. Then you will find yourself rooting for James to get better and make it. A sobering (pardon the pun) statistic early on amkes you realize how slim his chances are: Only 15% of rehab graduates stay sober for the first year. THE FIRST YEAR! After that, it's even less! The last page will knock the wind out of you and make you think for a long time. And how many books can say that?
Fack, just read it and decide for yourself. Personally, I just want to give the dude a hug.
ProcrastiNATEing
Working on my resume today. Shhhhh....
I freakin' hate writing resumes. It's so hard to toot your own horn without being able to say, "Hire me because I motherfucking rock!" The Dog took Nate for a walk so I could get my shit done, and Tante is coming over later to give me her corporate 3 cents worth.
Anyway, Mommy's gotta get her shit together so that she can go back to bi-monthly pedicures and dye-jobs that don't come from Shopper's. Peace out.
I freakin' hate writing resumes. It's so hard to toot your own horn without being able to say, "Hire me because I motherfucking rock!" The Dog took Nate for a walk so I could get my shit done, and Tante is coming over later to give me her corporate 3 cents worth.
Anyway, Mommy's gotta get her shit together so that she can go back to bi-monthly pedicures and dye-jobs that don't come from Shopper's. Peace out.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
HiberNATEing
What the hell have I been up to? Well a whole lot and a whole lotta nothing at the same time.
The Dog was home a lot and we tried to go out and take some walks. All part of Operation Get Fit 2006. We didn't get much sleep due to Nate trying to pull a couple fast ones on us (3 am. CRYCRYCRY. Take out of crib. SMILES. Little shit.) My parents offered to kidnap Nate midweek and I happily agreed looking forward to some sleep. Instead, the Dog and I took the opportunity to have a date and went to see King Kong. Verdict? Kong was long. I should have taken the sleep instead. So much useless digital crap that didn't move the story forward (if you saw it, please tell me you agree with me about the unnecessarily long bug sequence). Even Kong was pissed about it. I will give props to the fact that the actual Kong was the coolest, most awesome (in the true sense of the word) thing in a long time. The Dog has since taken to calling Nate Baby Kong and is convinced that they will rule the block on Halloween as Kong and the Empire State Building.
Friday I went to church with my mom and baby for Armenian Christmas. Nate fell asleep in the car just as we pulled up and by the time he woke up, mass was over. Love that kid! We actually made it out for brunch Saturday aft at Karas in the Beaches with Blondie and CrowN. Was a very baby-friendly place and they do an awesome breakfast. The Dog and I almost made it a whole week without one of us breaking down, but alas, no. I went out Saturday night for my childhood chum Pipes' birthday. It was low-key and when I got home at 1 am, Nate was screaming and the Dog was in his room trying to calm him down. Yes, we're supposed to be crying it out, but sometimes you're tired and 30 minutes of screaming is worse than Celine Dion's Vegas show to sit through.
So he was frustrated and doesn't that always start everything? He gets impatient with the baby and the baby feels it the way I feel it when he's impatient with me. Then he's unable to soothe the baby because he's seething. Then he feels awful because he thinks he is bad with babies. Self esteem plummets, Mommy to the rescue. So after I put one baby to bed, I had to peel the other one off the ceiling and calm him down to sleepy mode. Sometimes it's difficult to slay your partner's demons. I had to pull the, "You sound exactly like my Dad" card out. It's dirty, but sometimes you gotta use the big guns.
The skids next door have been properly evicted now, but some of them have started hanging out at the halfway house across the street. Bad scene. So they may not be next door, but they are still on my street. Keeping my eye on that situation so I can give a call to 55 division. Some crackhead in the neighbourhood stole rock salt off our porch. Like were they going to smoke it? But my lawn chairs -- still there! Weird.
The Dog and I had auditioned for a documentary being produced by Americans on, of all things, Toronto males' opinions on relationships and career. At least that's the vague understanding I got. They pay you for your time if you get it. Did I mention this before? Anyway, we didn't think we'd get it, but they called us back for round two of auditions. We'll know by Thursday if we got it and if we did then they will shoot next week. It seems like a pretty high budget deal. Exciting stuff. I'll be needing to come up with more creative ways for us to make some extra cash. Shhhh...
Some other pretty big news happened, but I can't talk about it just yet (sorry, that's totally annoying isn't it?). Shhhh...
The Dog was home a lot and we tried to go out and take some walks. All part of Operation Get Fit 2006. We didn't get much sleep due to Nate trying to pull a couple fast ones on us (3 am. CRYCRYCRY. Take out of crib. SMILES. Little shit.) My parents offered to kidnap Nate midweek and I happily agreed looking forward to some sleep. Instead, the Dog and I took the opportunity to have a date and went to see King Kong. Verdict? Kong was long. I should have taken the sleep instead. So much useless digital crap that didn't move the story forward (if you saw it, please tell me you agree with me about the unnecessarily long bug sequence). Even Kong was pissed about it. I will give props to the fact that the actual Kong was the coolest, most awesome (in the true sense of the word) thing in a long time. The Dog has since taken to calling Nate Baby Kong and is convinced that they will rule the block on Halloween as Kong and the Empire State Building.
Friday I went to church with my mom and baby for Armenian Christmas. Nate fell asleep in the car just as we pulled up and by the time he woke up, mass was over. Love that kid! We actually made it out for brunch Saturday aft at Karas in the Beaches with Blondie and CrowN. Was a very baby-friendly place and they do an awesome breakfast. The Dog and I almost made it a whole week without one of us breaking down, but alas, no. I went out Saturday night for my childhood chum Pipes' birthday. It was low-key and when I got home at 1 am, Nate was screaming and the Dog was in his room trying to calm him down. Yes, we're supposed to be crying it out, but sometimes you're tired and 30 minutes of screaming is worse than Celine Dion's Vegas show to sit through.
So he was frustrated and doesn't that always start everything? He gets impatient with the baby and the baby feels it the way I feel it when he's impatient with me. Then he's unable to soothe the baby because he's seething. Then he feels awful because he thinks he is bad with babies. Self esteem plummets, Mommy to the rescue. So after I put one baby to bed, I had to peel the other one off the ceiling and calm him down to sleepy mode. Sometimes it's difficult to slay your partner's demons. I had to pull the, "You sound exactly like my Dad" card out. It's dirty, but sometimes you gotta use the big guns.
The skids next door have been properly evicted now, but some of them have started hanging out at the halfway house across the street. Bad scene. So they may not be next door, but they are still on my street. Keeping my eye on that situation so I can give a call to 55 division. Some crackhead in the neighbourhood stole rock salt off our porch. Like were they going to smoke it? But my lawn chairs -- still there! Weird.
The Dog and I had auditioned for a documentary being produced by Americans on, of all things, Toronto males' opinions on relationships and career. At least that's the vague understanding I got. They pay you for your time if you get it. Did I mention this before? Anyway, we didn't think we'd get it, but they called us back for round two of auditions. We'll know by Thursday if we got it and if we did then they will shoot next week. It seems like a pretty high budget deal. Exciting stuff. I'll be needing to come up with more creative ways for us to make some extra cash. Shhhh...
Some other pretty big news happened, but I can't talk about it just yet (sorry, that's totally annoying isn't it?). Shhhh...
Sunday, January 01, 2006
365
It's over. Not just 2005, but my first year of motherhood and Nate's first year on the planet. I've been reflecting a lot today on where I was last year at this time. Exactly a year ago at this moment, I was returning home from the hospital. I had gone to see if my water had broken. But it was only trickling and my contractions were weak, so they told me to go home and wait until more was happening. We stopped at Swatow in Chinatown and got the greasiest, spiciest stuff I could muster, knowing full well that I may not be able to have a huge feast for a few days. We sat at our coffee table, munching at vermicelli and spring rolls, staring at the TV, but not digesting anything -- not flavours, nor programs. (I later puked Hot and Sour Soup all over myself and the Dog during delivery.)The dry heated air in the apartment was electric with nerves and excitement. This would be our last night alone in the world together.
I got up to pee and suddenly water was pouring out of me. Cups of it. So much so that I had to laugh about my earlier concern. We had no stopwatch (ridiculous for two former broadcasting students) and had to use the timer on the Dog's cell phone to measure contractions. I remembered the prenatal class instructor telling us that if our water breaks in the night, we were to tell our spouses to get rest and sleep before the main event. I told the Dog to try to sleep and I went into the living room to time contractions and watch Dr. Zhivago.
By the time my favourite image arrived -- where the inside of the doctor's house fills with snow and ice and everything is crystallized, white and sparkly -- I was feeling pain worse than your average monthly cramps, but still somewhat bearable. I'm lying, it was barely bearable and so I woke the Dog up. It was 2 am or so. "It's time. Let's go have a baby."
The events that followed are roughly listed HERE. If you are at all nervous about giving birth, you probably don't want to read my horror story. TLC, it ain't.
The last thing I remember before going into the OR was calling Blondie and saying, "Yo, it's like Vegas in here. There's no windows, no lights, no clocks. I have no fucking idea what time it is or how long I've been here. Oh uh, the doctors are here. I think we're going to go have a c-section. Don't panic. Love you. Bye." Click. By Blondie's account, as soon as I said "Don't panic," she panicked and paced about the house until the Dog called her to say that Nate was in the world. What a roller coaster ride that was. I remember being freaked out about the whole thing and the Blonde one's initial reaction was, "Don't worry. In a week this will all seem like a bad dream." How right she was. And how fortunate I am to have friends like this to keep me together when I'm falling apart. If I could pick something great about my first year of motherhood, I'd say it's learning who your true friends are. Anyone can ask how your child is doing, but only a handful of people will actually make the effort to get to know your baby, acknowledging him or her as an individual, rather than a new accessory.
The hardest part of this year has been going through it without Queen Nomad. And knowing it's killing her more than it's killing me. Not being able to make a long distance call from the hospital initially (a phone card remedied that later on) made it brutal. The first thing I said to Tante when my brain was working was, "Call QN." It's crazy that after 15+ years of friendship, we would be separated for something so huge. But once again, our amazingly adaptable friendship has survived the ocean between us. She was able to visit this summer and take on the important role of becoming Nate's Godmother, turning a friend into family. I hope we see you again this year buddy. Nothing seems real when you're not witnessing it with me.
My baby boy is going to be a whole year old tomorrow! I feel like I took a nap and woke up to find this giant person living with me. I have learned SO MUCH in the past year, about biology (how often do you get to witness the development of a human from day one?), about life, about love, about myself. I have grown as a person. I've learned not to make assumptions, not to judge others by what it looks like on the outside (OK, I'm still working on getting that down). I've learned to take each day as it comes, to let go of what you cannot control. And more stuff that my sleep-deprived brain can't think of right now. I've had a year full of incredible memories and moments. Moments I thought I couldn't take another hour of motherhood, followed by moments where I thought my heart would burst from loving someone so much. I still cannot believe I am someone's mother, but I can no longer imagine myself as anything else.
Though countless people offer advice and criticism, I have learned to smile through and nod in agreement -- then DELETE. I do not need the comments of other people to validate what I'm doing or how I'm doing. I need only to look at my little boy, who is growing up happy and strong, despite his early setbacks. Last night's New Year's festivities at my mom's were a testament to the fact that I've finally found my calling. In a crowd of 30 noisy people, Nate smiled and giggled as he was passed from arm to arm. He brought joy to young and to old, the deep onyx eyes of his old soul knowing that his calling is to make people forget their misery for a while. It was the most pleasant evening with my extended family in forever.
Ragdoll calls Nate the Magic Baby and indeed he is. He made my relatives forget their petty disagreements for a night and remember why we all love each other deep down. My little rebel refused to eat his first birthday cake, but gave the crowds a huge smile for the camera op. Then he managed to sleep for several hours, through the brouhaha of the revellers as 2006 made its noisy, champagne-fueled, double-cheek-kissing arrival.
Nathaniel, as I've said before, I love you more than ice cream. Even more than Coffee Toffee Crunch (nobody asked me, so I'll offer it up. Skor + coffee=GENIUS!) You make the world go 'round. You are the coolest, kindest kid a mother could hope for -- full of love, smiles and hugs for all. Yet your furrowed brow or sudden eruption of pout and wailing are equally spectacular. There is not one thing I dislike about you. You remind me of your father, whom I'm still madly in love with. Your smile, your sense of humour and hearty laugh. Your chilled out, easy-going demeanor. Your crazy eyebrows. All Daddy. And yet you remind me of myself, whom I'm also still pretty keen on. I love how you smile when your daddy and I kiss in front of you. A true romantic like your mommy perhaps? The way you never want to go to sleep when you know there are people in the house, or how you cry when made to leave someplace fun. Your dark, solving-the-world's-problems eyes and super cute feet. All Mommy.
I am excited for the year ahead and know that whatever will ultimately be good for our family will happen. I am ready for whatever comes. Happy New Year and Happy Birthday lovey bear. Always know I got your back.
~ Mommy
I got up to pee and suddenly water was pouring out of me. Cups of it. So much so that I had to laugh about my earlier concern. We had no stopwatch (ridiculous for two former broadcasting students) and had to use the timer on the Dog's cell phone to measure contractions. I remembered the prenatal class instructor telling us that if our water breaks in the night, we were to tell our spouses to get rest and sleep before the main event. I told the Dog to try to sleep and I went into the living room to time contractions and watch Dr. Zhivago.
By the time my favourite image arrived -- where the inside of the doctor's house fills with snow and ice and everything is crystallized, white and sparkly -- I was feeling pain worse than your average monthly cramps, but still somewhat bearable. I'm lying, it was barely bearable and so I woke the Dog up. It was 2 am or so. "It's time. Let's go have a baby."
The events that followed are roughly listed HERE. If you are at all nervous about giving birth, you probably don't want to read my horror story. TLC, it ain't.
The last thing I remember before going into the OR was calling Blondie and saying, "Yo, it's like Vegas in here. There's no windows, no lights, no clocks. I have no fucking idea what time it is or how long I've been here. Oh uh, the doctors are here. I think we're going to go have a c-section. Don't panic. Love you. Bye." Click. By Blondie's account, as soon as I said "Don't panic," she panicked and paced about the house until the Dog called her to say that Nate was in the world. What a roller coaster ride that was. I remember being freaked out about the whole thing and the Blonde one's initial reaction was, "Don't worry. In a week this will all seem like a bad dream." How right she was. And how fortunate I am to have friends like this to keep me together when I'm falling apart. If I could pick something great about my first year of motherhood, I'd say it's learning who your true friends are. Anyone can ask how your child is doing, but only a handful of people will actually make the effort to get to know your baby, acknowledging him or her as an individual, rather than a new accessory.
The hardest part of this year has been going through it without Queen Nomad. And knowing it's killing her more than it's killing me. Not being able to make a long distance call from the hospital initially (a phone card remedied that later on) made it brutal. The first thing I said to Tante when my brain was working was, "Call QN." It's crazy that after 15+ years of friendship, we would be separated for something so huge. But once again, our amazingly adaptable friendship has survived the ocean between us. She was able to visit this summer and take on the important role of becoming Nate's Godmother, turning a friend into family. I hope we see you again this year buddy. Nothing seems real when you're not witnessing it with me.
My baby boy is going to be a whole year old tomorrow! I feel like I took a nap and woke up to find this giant person living with me. I have learned SO MUCH in the past year, about biology (how often do you get to witness the development of a human from day one?), about life, about love, about myself. I have grown as a person. I've learned not to make assumptions, not to judge others by what it looks like on the outside (OK, I'm still working on getting that down). I've learned to take each day as it comes, to let go of what you cannot control. And more stuff that my sleep-deprived brain can't think of right now. I've had a year full of incredible memories and moments. Moments I thought I couldn't take another hour of motherhood, followed by moments where I thought my heart would burst from loving someone so much. I still cannot believe I am someone's mother, but I can no longer imagine myself as anything else.
Though countless people offer advice and criticism, I have learned to smile through and nod in agreement -- then DELETE. I do not need the comments of other people to validate what I'm doing or how I'm doing. I need only to look at my little boy, who is growing up happy and strong, despite his early setbacks. Last night's New Year's festivities at my mom's were a testament to the fact that I've finally found my calling. In a crowd of 30 noisy people, Nate smiled and giggled as he was passed from arm to arm. He brought joy to young and to old, the deep onyx eyes of his old soul knowing that his calling is to make people forget their misery for a while. It was the most pleasant evening with my extended family in forever.
Ragdoll calls Nate the Magic Baby and indeed he is. He made my relatives forget their petty disagreements for a night and remember why we all love each other deep down. My little rebel refused to eat his first birthday cake, but gave the crowds a huge smile for the camera op. Then he managed to sleep for several hours, through the brouhaha of the revellers as 2006 made its noisy, champagne-fueled, double-cheek-kissing arrival.
Nathaniel, as I've said before, I love you more than ice cream. Even more than Coffee Toffee Crunch (nobody asked me, so I'll offer it up. Skor + coffee=GENIUS!) You make the world go 'round. You are the coolest, kindest kid a mother could hope for -- full of love, smiles and hugs for all. Yet your furrowed brow or sudden eruption of pout and wailing are equally spectacular. There is not one thing I dislike about you. You remind me of your father, whom I'm still madly in love with. Your smile, your sense of humour and hearty laugh. Your chilled out, easy-going demeanor. Your crazy eyebrows. All Daddy. And yet you remind me of myself, whom I'm also still pretty keen on. I love how you smile when your daddy and I kiss in front of you. A true romantic like your mommy perhaps? The way you never want to go to sleep when you know there are people in the house, or how you cry when made to leave someplace fun. Your dark, solving-the-world's-problems eyes and super cute feet. All Mommy.
I am excited for the year ahead and know that whatever will ultimately be good for our family will happen. I am ready for whatever comes. Happy New Year and Happy Birthday lovey bear. Always know I got your back.
~ Mommy
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