....since 1903

Taking a break from furious snort-feeding, the girl smiled up at me the other day. And I almost missed it because I was intently watching what the paternity test revealed on Maury. Why aren’t stay at home Moms sending angry petitions to cable television stations asking, nay DEMANDING, better shit to watch? Why are we made to feel so white trash and loser-ish when we turn the TV on? Because the only programming on during the day is Springer, Maury, news, Judge Judy and soap operas (I won’t watch a movie unless it’s from the very beginning, so forget these stories that started years ago. Unless Franco comes back. Then I’m in HARD.)
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suck

There’s a terribly descriptive scene in the beautiful memoir, Angela’s Ashes, that has always stayed with me. Me, the girl with no memory for anything good I’ve ever watched, read or seen. Angela, before the days of medicine or those teeny tiny nose suckers, manually, i.e WITH HER MOUTH, sucks the congested snot out of her kid's nose.
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major lasers

Have I told you how amazing my nipples have been? I’m sure I have. This kid’s mouth should have left them tattered, torn and in the shape of a Twizzler, but somehow, someway, with some persistent lanolin applications and some luck I didn’t know I had, they are keeping up with her college freshman appetite.
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do's and don'ts vol. 2

HOLD THE PHONE. In the everyday life of a bubs, extraordinary things can happen. Out of the clear blue sky. A recommendation from a friend of a friend has made my life so much better. That, and Season 2 of Eastbound and Down. Do swaddle the bubs from Day One.
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let me count the ways

Oh bubs, you are five weeks old this week, and pretty much already packing for college. My newborn has disappeared. A full face, ending in some amazing jowl folds, you’re now using your little neck to do fun things like rear back and crank your face into my collarbone, drawing tears and surprised wails. Starting to make small talk with the pillows on the bed when I change your diaper. Making loud exhaled cooing noises out of nowhere that sound like you just got the best news ever and must share it with me. Smiling at me, at Pops, at Gramma when we smile at you. Letting Mama munch on your stomach when your diaper is off and not losing your mind at the drop in butt temperature. Grabbing onto fistfuls of my hair when I’m not careful and hanging on like I’m dangling you over a balcony. Spitting up clumpy white chunks of milk seemingly hours after eating, leaving us scrambling for a cloth. (You’d kept it all in your guts for so long I forgot that spit up existed. Cue the 40 oversized bibs we bought for you that look like you’re heading out for a lobster dinner.)
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the quickness

I only have about 10,000 things to say. While she sleeps for the next 12 minutes in her bassinet, before realizing she’s been abandoned and we’re having fun without her, I can only hammer this quick post out. Not writing every day is eating away at me almost as much as the lack of sleep. My poor brain is arm wrestling with itself, LET ME REST. Fuck you, LET ME CREATE SENTENCES FROM WORDS!
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the new

So, three weeks in and I’m totally getting the hang of this. OR NOT AT ALL. Under the Plus column we survived a trip to Victoria which wasn’t hard, what with being waited on hand and foot by the greatest mother-in-law in known history, showing off the kid to friends and family, going for a long overdue walk with some amazing girlfriends that gave me enough love and support to power a climb up a hill that fucking sucked, and eating bacon EVERY SINGLE DAY.
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from two to three

I made a lemon cake for Nuv on September 26th, in the evening, and my water broke a few hours later. And broke and broke and broke. I splashed and leaked and soaked amniotic fluid into the backseats of three cabs, a couple of hospital wheelchairs, through all my tights, pants and pajamas and towels and sheets, into bathwater and across hospital toilets and floors. And they almost sent me home from the hospital a third time because they were unsure if my water had broke. If my fluid had been red, the West End would have looked like a fucking battlefield massacre for the ages.

 

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killing time

Sooooooooooooo. Yeah. Bubs, I didn't take any pictures of me passed out on the couch, in the bathtub, watching Mad Men or standing eating bacon in the kitchen while doing pelvic thrusts, but I did take pictures of the following intensely intriguing things that I have used to try and take my mind off of you. Like the fact that you hate me and don't want to come out, and how I didn't plan a birthday party for myself because I thought you would be crashing it. Warning: Gluttony Alert level is at an all time high.
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What else to expect when you're expecting (the end, maybe)

Tomorrow is my due date. I know it’s an approximation, a date chosen off that weird paper wheel of time and numbers the Doctor spins and squints at, but I envision it like so: My body is a big version of that game Mouse Trap, or like the beginning of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, wherein a series of triggers and hatches and switches will soon start their progress, culminating in a giant tennis shoe attached to a lever walloping the kid's butt, sending it down down down through the least romantic canal and out into the impatient arms of me and Nuv and every one of our friends and family calling me to gently enquire HAS THE KID COME YET? WE ARE TIRED OF WAITING.
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Your Pops

My sweet bubs,

As of today, we’ve been together 271 days. I figure, by now, you know me pretty well. Lately you think I love, LOVE, being rib-kicked and cervically headbutted as soon as I crawl into bed. I can actually watch your foot as it rears back to give a good boot. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to carve a small hole with a paring knife into my guts to grab your foot and say “EEEENOUGH.” But I love you. And I don’t fancy any home surgery, so I just watch and wince and hope to Christ you don’t get any stronger over the next 12 days.

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what else to expect when you’re expecting (the fiestas)

Monday night we went on a tour of the Hospital where the bubs will be born. Us and 80 other expectant couples. Not that I thought we were special, but evidently September is crazy busy for the maternity ward because of all the Christmas, New Years and Valentines Day coital celebrations. I thought I was overly judgy of regular girls. But pregnant girls – I ripped them to bloody shreds in my head. But only the ones that still had visible collarbones, toned arms and cute outfits. AKA all of them. There should be a sign at the Vancouver city limits stating in large print: All dumpy pregnant women head back to the suburbs. There is no place for you here.
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What else to expect when you’re expecting (the animal control)

So, August. The month dawned with mixed emotions. Nuv went on a four day road trip which left me minute by minute either: A) devastated and unable to listen to any music that had a hint of a melancholy note, otherwise I would end up sobbing in the handicapped bathroom at work, envisioning the funeral arrangements I had to plan because he was surely laying in a ditch somewhere, the flaming wreckage of the car and his friends spread out in a Rorschach pattern of blood and fuel all over the Idaho tarmac.
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what else to expect when you’re expecting (the fluids)

July whimpers to a close. 33 weeks.

The litmus test of procreating: go hang out in a 'Babies R Us' for 45 minutes. It hammers home like nothing else what is in store for you after the kid slips out of its in utero bachelor apartment and into your arms. Watch parenting at its worst – children being allowed to wander free from their strollers and mothers, never to be seen again. Watch toddlers hula hoop the toilet seat of a portable potty as Mom and Dad pull everything off the shelf and stand hands on hips, blocking an aisle deciding which model to get. Watch the 14-year-old white trash couple play with the stuffed animals like they’re intended for them, and not their impending child (!) and try to not weep for their lost youth. Listen to the assorted menagerie noises of squealing, crying, things falling, things breaking, musical toys bleating out their last whimper as the batteries die. Stand in front of a wall of breastfeeding paraphernalia and resist the urge to say out loud, “Ok, boobs, it’s your call. Whaddya want?”

 

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what else to expect when you're expecting (the guilt)

July.

All the high falutin’ plans I had months ago: swimming, yoga, bonding with other pregnant women in my neighborhood, walking every night, doing kegels at my desk, drying fruit, sitting calmly and reading…ALL BULLSHIT. None accomplished. Zero. I did four kegels once and spent the next two hours dribble peeing.

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