Why???

I microwaved my yoghurt this morning.

For well over a minute.

It was bubbling by the time I thought “How much time is left on the microwave? Wait… why is my yoghurt in the microwave???”

It was that delicious lemon flavoured mediterranean stuff. If you haven’t tried it, you should. It’s heaven. But after the microwave, the texture went all wrong. I had to throw it away.

And I was very sad and confused. Perfect Husband hugged me and kept a remarkably straight face, and drew me a bath with rose petals in it.

But I still wanted my damn yoghurt.

TGIF

It’s about time this week finished.

Points of interest from This Week:

The Babby is no longer the size of a raspberry. It is apparently closer to the size of a plum. I don’t know why they always use fruit as your sample size. It gives me bizarre images of putting my juicy plum babby to my mouth and going “mmmm… plumbabby…”

It also looks like a people now, and apparently has sex organs. I wish I had a peephole.

I told my boss today. She congratulated me, and it was awkward.

I’ve worked late every evening this week, and I am displeased.

On Wednesday afternoon, I took a dog to the vet for vaccines. On the way, he decided to have massive, copious diarrhea the likes of which I cannot describe. In fact, the smell and texture was so bizarre that I am forced to admit that it may have not been diarrhea, but semi-digested feces VOMITED all over the floor of the van. In any case, all the way there and all the way back it sloshed and trickled around on the floor of the vehicle. It took  fifteen towels and a lot of gagging to remove the main portion of the mess while my coworkers looked on in amused sympathy.

Unfortunately, it had had lots of time to spread into all the nooks and crannies – under the wheelchair tie-downs, under the mechanism of the wheelchair lift. It was liquid enough to spread under such places, but not liquid enough to want to leave such places. No amount of wiping and poking could coax it out, not even sharp objects wrapped in a towel. I ended up having to leave the van that way that night, with the edges and spaces in the van looking like they had been stuffed with peanut butter but smelling totally unlike peanut butter.

The next day my coworker and I barraged the vehicle with a steam cleaner and a pointed jet. This managed to blow the diarrhea/crap vomitus out from most of the crevices, but then it balled up in crumbs that were not easily liftable.

A wet-dry vac may have to be taken to it.

Or maybe the poo will just stay there, like, FOREVER.

To parents who would warn me that I will be shocked by the amount of poo I will deal with upon having a baby, I say – bring it on. Welcome to my life.

This dog is on my list.

TGIF.

In other news

I have gone from my usual fleshy C cup (I’m a B when I’m a weight I like, but I’ve been a C for a couple years now) to a DOUBLE D CUP.
Perfect Husband is awed and impressed.

This is what I get for leaving “What to Expect” in the bathroom

Me: I have an itch on my tummy.

Perfect Husband: I’m sorry. Do you have a rash? Is it a lattice? Do you have Fifth Disease?

Fess up

Which of you searched for my blog with the term “the babby is about the size of one of the large raspberries that i drop into the blender when making a smoothie”??

It starts

Perfect Husband took me to buy a new bathing suit at a maternity store after my birthday dinner on Thursday. He has this week off as a random much-needed vacation and he had taken transit out to the local mall while I was at work. When we walked into the maternity store, the clerk smiled at PH and said “back for the bathing suits?”

I have to say, I feel that it must take guts to walk into a maternity store when you are an unaccompanied male. I was nervous walking in, just because I wasn’t visibly pregnant!

But the first reality of my upcoming maternity hit at the cash register.

“Would you like to register for our points card? When you sign up you get sent 400 dollars worth of coupons, and free Pampers and Enfamil samples.”

For four hundred dollars in coupons, I might have said yes. But the Pampers and Enfamil stirred me to such a “hell, no” reaction that I had to make a conscious effort in being polite as I turned down the card.

I suspect I’m going to end up being a relatively crunchy mom, but I’m not a lactivist or anything. I don’t think that mothers who give their babies formula instead of breast milk are bad mothers. While “everyone knows” the benefits of breast feeding, I know that it doesn’t work for everyone. Some people have babies born with cleft palates, who can’t latch. Some women simply never reach full milk, or for some reason their milk doesn’t seem to satisfy their baby. I think it is a good thing that formula exists, so that mothers have something to fall back on when their natural equipment lets them down.

I don’t think that mothers who use disposable diapers are bad mothers, either. I’m a hundred percent sold on cloth diapers, especially when I can hire people to take the diapers away and clean them for me, and have them dropped back on my doorstep weekly, without my ever having to lift a finger. I have already found the diaper service that I plan to use, and while the cost is probably equivalent to disposables, it’s worth it to me, to be able to use cloth without sacrificing convenience. But I understand that some mothers simply prefer disposables. That’s their choice.

But it really bothers me when I see these companies coming in and setting up future mothers. They’re trying to hook women onto their inferior products. I’m sure you have all heard of how baby formula companies “donate” supplies to mothers in third world countries, and have a history of aggressive marketing. It’s positively evil. It’s just that same kind of aggressive marketing that leads women who shop for maternity clothes to be sent free samples of formula. I think it’s sick. I think baby formula has its place, but that should be as a resort for mothers who can’t breastfeed, or for whom breastfeeding is not working. It is not the kind of thing that they should be sending free samples of!

I feel the same way about disposable diapers. I can hardly knock ‘em before I try ‘em, but we all know how disposable diapers make up 1/3 of all landfill space, that they increase chances of asthma and reduce fertility in boys. We know that they tend to come with increased diaper rash, and a later age of potty training. I’m glad they exist, because cloth diapers don’t work for everyone. They may not even work for me. Even if I love my diaper service and cloth nappies I’ll probably use the occasional disposable. But I don’t want those diaper companies hawking their products at me, trying to get me hooked before I even have a chance to try something else.

Am I overreacting, or does this kind of marketing sicken others, too?

The Theme of Age 27: You Crazy, Crazy Lady.

Today was a big day for me, mental health wise. Not only was it the first day of my GAD therapy group, but I got a call from the Reproductive Mental Health section of the Women’s Hospital telling me that they wanted to book me in for 9 AM the same morning. I said I couldn’t do it, because I had to be at a totally different hospital for 10 AM.

“Well, we have you listed as an urgent referral, but our next opening is in March.”

“…Okay, I’ll be there.”

So then I had to tell my manager that instead of working crazy long hours to make up for the time I’d be in the GAD group, but I wasn’t going to be able to make it in at all this morning and she would have to give me half a sick day or unpaid leave or something. I left the choice up to her so she would hate me less for buggering off for half a day. Then I had to call my GAD group and leave a message saying I’d probably be very late. The whole thing was making me very anxious.

At the Women’s Health place a psychiatrist drilled me for an hour on my history. She got me to describe any depressive instances in my life, focusing most on the episode that led to the prescription of Wellbutrin. Like all the other people I have spoken to, she raised her eyebrows and looked shocked when I described my encounter with Dr. Useless and nodded when I explained why I hadn’t taken the Cymbalta that had been tossed at me. She asked me about my family, where I was born, my drinking habits, my husband, my education, and a million other things. It was all familiar ground to me. I am getting used to repeating it to counsellors, psychiatrists, doctors etc. As usual, she seemed surprised and impressed by my description of Perfect Husband. When I called him my best friend, she looked pleasantly shocked. This makes me sad for the other wives she talks to.

“So, basically,” she summarized at the end of things, “You have a history of worrying and anxiety, with episodes of seasonal depression in winter, culminating in Major Depression last year.”

It made me sound so healthy.

Her verdict?

For Gawd’s sake, don’t go off the Wellbutrin.

Those weren’t her exact words. She used much more clinical terms to impress on me that Wellbutrin is not teratogenic, that I am on a low dose in any case, that depression can have severe consequences on the developing baby and that I am at a high risk of redeveloping the depression either during pregnancy or in post partum. As it is, she decided that I should be watched carefully for recurring depression through my pregnancy and booked a follow-up in May. She also strongly advised Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. So I told her about the GAD group and she was delighted.

“That’s perfect! When does it start?”

“Today.” (Actually, the most correct answer would have been “ten minutes ago,” but I wanted to spare myself that conversation)

“Well, that’s excellent. You’re getting mentally healthy in time for your 28th birthday!”

She had a student observer with her and he seemed simply pleased by the fact that he had met someone who was actually helped by her antidepressants.

I am clearly fortunate in many ways.

Anyway, I showed up to the GAD thing and hour and fifteen minutes late, but they didn’t scold me (if they had, it would have cast serious doubts upon their ability to work with anxious people) and they gave me a million forms to fill out, which I still managed to finish before other people there.

An emotionally exhausting day, but a productive one, at least.

Oh yeah, one more thing. She asked me what I did for Perfect Husband, after I described what he does for me. I was like “Uh… sometimes I’ll cook dinner… if I can keep him from chopping vegetables illicitly. And I encourage him to spend money on himself now and then, because if I don’t he won’t.”

She recommended that I consider some Self Esteem CBT as well, since I didn’t seem to notice my own contributions to our relationship. Maaaaybe. Or maybe I just need to start pulling my weight around the house.

time to go shopping

It doesn’t help that I’ve gained quite a lot of weight in the last couple of years. That, now aggravated by my growing breasts, has created an urgent need for a new bathing suit. My two current bathing suits are completely inadequate to restrain my bouyant bosom in the water. Last night my nipples kept popping out for a peek. I made a point of pulling up on my suit before surfacing each time, but I may have given those teenage boys wearing goggles a real treat.

My baby’s first word is going to be “poutine!”

This stupid delicate stomach is ruining all my plans of eating amazingly healthily and dropping pounds to become a beaming beacon of health. While I have only thrown up a couple of times, and feel okay most of the time, I can’t handle anything heavy. That means I’m avoiding even the leanest of meats in favour of a small bowl of spaghetti and cheese, or a grilled cheese sandwich. I haven’t touched a burger in I don’t know how long, which is good, but I also haven’t had any healthy meals, either. Pasta, sandwiches, fries.

I’m guzzling juice, which is technically healthy but also full of sugar. I’m also eating tons of fruit, which is full of vitaminy goodness.  But I really feel like the simple carbs are unhelpful… except that it’s all I seem to eat, plus the occasional blob of cheese for protein.

I don’t want to eat junk, but when it’s all you feel you can eat…

I’m gaining weight.

And don’t tell me that you’re supposed to gain weight in pregnancy, because I’m only eight weeks along. The Babby is about the size of one of the large raspberries that I drop into the blender when making a smoothie. This is NOT baby weight. This is a food baby.

…My Babby’s gonna be fat.

Because it’s red?

In the grocery store, at the check out counter. We are unloading our groceries. I pull a bottle of Mott’s Clamato juice (“with horseradish!”) from our basket and plunk it on the conveyor belt.

Perfect Husband looks at it, then looks at me.

Me: I DON’T KNOW WHY.