Night Moves

I’m writing this for me. If you’re interested in a long read about how I gave birth then by all means, please continue. But if not, that’s cool, because this post isn’t meant for anyone else anyways.

By week 38, my pregnancy was progressing along exactly as expected. So I was quite surprised when I had a weekly checkup on Friday with my OB-GYN and she told me that my cervix was already 4cm dilated. I hadn’t felt a single contraction or slight discomfort up to that point and I was expecting every cm of dilation to be part of the overall going into labour process. My OB-GYN said some people just have favourable cervixes that soften and open up fairly easily. She did a “stretch and sweep” to see if she could continue to encourage my cervix along. I left that appointment 4cm dilated already a little freaked out. The doctor told me that if I wanted to, I could go to the hospital right that moment to be induced, because based on the conditions of my cervix they would keep me there.

D had to wait in the car for me because of current COVID policies at the doctor’s office, so when I got in and told him the status he was pretty freaked out too. We were both feeling like this baby was just going to pop out at any minute!

We decided to go home. We both were expecting to do two more full weeks of work and I didn’t want to try and force the whole process. It’d be better if everything just progressed naturally. We went home and everything was fine, I felt the same as before. No contractions, no discomfort.

I woke up that Saturday morning around 2am feeling some cramping in my stomach. I rode it out for about 15 minutes until it passed, but I shook D awake to alert him that maybe this was it. We were both super wired and not sure what to do with ourselves. The cramping sensation went away and didn’t come back, so we figured it was okay to go back to bed, but neither of us could sleep.

We woke up around 8am and D immediately went into prep mode. He got out and did a bunch of grocery shopping and some errands to try and wrap up last minute things in case I did go into active labour. That whole weekend came and went, us on edge the whole time, but without anything eventful happening.

I went back to my OB-GYN for my 39 week checkup just a few days shy of 39 weeks. She checked my cervix again and confirmed I was 5cm dilated and 70% effaced. She did another stretch and sweep to see if that would kickstart active labour for me and we went home. We finished up the work week again and figured we’d hopefully make it to the 40 week mark without issue. If we made it to 40 weeks, we’d go to the hospital and get induced. I kept waiting for this magical mucus plug everyone talks about to come out, but I never saw it. I did start having some watery-like discharge and thought that was a bit weird, but didn’t think too much of it.

On Saturday May 23rd, D and I went for a walk after lunch because it was such a nice sunny day. As we were nearing the end of our walk I felt this sudden little gush of fluid that I couldn’t control and assumed I’d just pissed myself in the street. When we got home, I noticed again that it was a very watery substance and didn’t seem like pee at all. That was when it clicked that I was probably leaking amniotic fluid. I texted our doula for her advice and she told me I should call the Labour & Delivery line at the hospital to see what they thought. Knowing the state of my cervix, our doula felt that I might have a very fast labour once it did start actively so wanted us to be on the safe side and get to the hospital earlier than planned. D was outside and had started cutting the grass. I called the Labour & Delivery line and they said I should definitely come in.

I started rounding up our bags and packing a few last minute things we needed. D came inside for a quick glass of water, thinking he could get started on the backyard next, but I told him to get his shit together because we’re going to the hospital today and we won’t be leaving without a baby.

We got the car loaded up and drove to the hospital, we were there at 3pm. I had to go in first to be assessed and they told me if I was admitted then I could text D to come in. Another quick check of my cervix and the doctor recommended that we start the induction process. They advised that I was slowly leaking amniotic fluid and likely had a small tear high up on the amniotic sac. I was taken to a birthing room and made a quick call to D around 3:30pm to tell him he could come on in.

The nurses got me into a gown, hooked me up to their machines for monitoring, and started a low dose of oxytocin around 4:30pm to jumpstart some contractions. The doctor also broke my water. I setup my bluetooth speaker and got my carefully curated labouring playlist rocking so we’d have awesome music to help me stay relaxed. When the nurse came back to check on me around 5:30pm she confirmed that we were now 6cm dilated and 95% effaced, and I still had yet to feel a single thing! Except for the occasional gush of amniotic fluid spilling out from my broken water. We joked around that maybe I was one of those lucky “silent labourers” and that this could be a really easy process for me.

That unfortunately, was not the case. Around 6:30pm actual contractions started and I was definitely feeling them! They came on hard and fast with a BANG. My contractions were lasting one minute but with only one minute of rest before the next one would start. One on top of the other, boom boom boom, the contractions were relentless. I was managing the pain by staying on my feet swaying along to my music with some hand holding and encouragement from D, but it was getting pretty tough.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about epidurals overall. I was game for trying to labour without one, but also totally open to the possibility of having one as well if I felt it was needed. I asked the nurse what my point of no return for getting an epidural was and she told me it was at 10cm, fully dilated. With that in mind, I kept labouring and trying to manage the pain as much as I could. The next time the nurse came to check me I was 8.5cm dilated and well on my way to 9cm. To be on the safe side, I decided to ask for the epidural. We were so close to 10cm and the pain was only getting more intense, it didn’t ever seem like it would ebb. The nurse told me that the anesthesiologist was on the floor and already lined up for four other epidurals so I’d have to wait another 30-40 minutes. I just had to hope my overly ambitious cervix wouldn’t go on to 10cm before the epidural could be administered.

Thankfully, when the anesthesiologist got to me I was holding strong at 9cm. They had me sit upright on the hospital bed with my legs over one side. D stood in front of me and needed to keep me still and calm while the doctor did his thing. D said this part was the most stressful for him. Watching a doctor probe my spine while I was suffering absolutely brutal contractions and being told to stay perfectly still or else. The doctor kept feeling around and asking where I felt things and then all of a sudden I cried out in pain because of an immediately stabbing sensation in my left hip. I told him what I felt and he said “okay that’s not the spot then” and kept feeling around. He found the right spot after that and got the epidural going.

Once I could move again the nurse had me lay down and try to relax while the drugs kicked in. That was a very chill hour. I just shut my eyes, felt the pins and needles sensation in my feet slowly spread into numbness all through my legs, and listened to my tunes. I remember looking at the clock and it was about 11pm. We started to wonder now that it was getting close to midnight if this was going to be a May 23rd or May 24th baby. The nurse said some women on the floor only pushed for 10-15 minutes and was encouraging me that I could probably be a quick pusher too. We’d just wait a bit for me to tell them when I felt any sort of pushing sensation.

Nope! Oh man, so much nope on that. The epidural worked too well I guess because I never once felt any kind of pushing sensation down below. I did feel a band of tightness every once in a while under my ribcage. When I mentioned that to the nurse she said those were my contractions now. Holy shit!

The nurse told us how it was going to go down: when I felt that tightness under my ribcage she’d lift and hold one of my legs and D would do the same with the other. I’d take a deep breath then start pushing while D slowly counted to 10. I’d do this three times in a row then take a break before the next contraction started.

D was super calm. Very quiet and serious. Exactly what I expect from him. When shit hits the fan he clamps down hard on any sort of emotion and shoves it out of the way so he can deal with the immediate issues. He was supportive too, but in his own collected way. I felt very calm as well. I was determined to just roll with whatever happened during labour and be cool, man. I did not turn into that stereotypical angry and cursing woman everyone insisted I would become. I never once screamed at D not to touch me or to go away or hate on him for “doing this to me”. That’s fine if it’s what works for other women, but for me I don’t think that’s productive at all. We both wanted this baby, I just drew the short biological straw and had to be the one to offer up my crotch as sacrifice.

Pushing lasted almost 3 hours. Around 2.5 hours it was obvious that all the pushing in the world couldn’t make this baby come out and the nurse called in the doctor. Baby was super low into the birth canal and conditions were all optimal for pushing him out, but for some reason he was really wedged in there. The doctor advised that a vacuum assisted delivery was necessary and we agreed.

Here’s a crazy detail: there was a big overhead light right above my hospital bed and the clear plastic cover over it was highly reflective. When I looked up at that light it was basically a mirror and I could see everything happening to myself on the table. I watched them bring out the vacuum and start fitting it into my vagina. When everything was setup the nurse advised we’d start the pushing process again. I bore down on every part of my body I could still feel and pushed as hard as I fucking could. I looked up at the light that was basically a mirror and started to see a dark round shape emerging from my body. Surreal. It looked so tiny and in my mind this whole time I had a bowling ball inside of me that we were trying to get out instead of a tiny little human.

With one sudden whoosh the baby’s head was out and the rest of the body followed so smoothly. I couldn’t believe the baby was out, I was speechless. D had to tell me three times that it was a boy before I even registered it. The one thing that stood out most for me is that of all the songs on my well crafted playlist, Night Moves by Bob Seger is what was playing when he finally arrived. And now when I hear that song about horny teenagers trying to get laid I cry because I think about my baby boy. Awesome. Although, I guess it is kind of cool because I did have a “black-haired beauty with big dark eyes” so it works in it’s own ridiculous way.

On May 24th at 2:52am our baby boy Elwood Broderick Brown was born.

They took him away to do some quick tests and measurements while I delivered the afterbirth. I wound up with a second degree tear and an episiotomy, fun!

When they put him in my arms for the first time the playlist was rocking Good Times Bad Times by Led Zeppelin. Super cool.

I hugged him and cried.

We stayed in the birthing room for a while longer so they could continue to monitor Elwood. Since they had to use a vacuum on his head during delivery they wanted to make sure there wasn’t any unusual swelling or bruising. I got to give him his first bottle and we had lots of snuggles.

Around 6:30am D took a minute to get changed out of his clothes from the day before and brush his teeth. The nursing team cleared out of the room to let the three of us be alone. When D came out of the restroom it was just me and Woody. In that moment, without a million random people in and out of the room, D was hit by all the waves of emotion he’d been clamping down on all night long. We hugged each other and cried together, in complete awe that the little human we made, who we’d been dying to meet, was here now.

And now here we are, two new parents born, a mom and dad with a little baby boy. Working on an entirely new set of Night Moves. Working on mysteries without any clues.

Workin’ and practicin’,

Workin’ and practicin’ all of the night moves

Bumpdates!

I am 37 weeks pregnant right now. And I am freaking out, man!

40 weeks sounds like such a long time but it goes by in a flash. Everyone told me the last few weeks will feel like they go on forever and that I’ll be dying to get the baby out, but right now I can’t picture myself feeling that way at all. Even under normal societal circumstances I know there’s a lot to process mentally and so much preparation that goes into this momentous life change. But I think expecting my first baby in the midst of a global pandemic has affected my perspective in ways that simply aren’t comparable to everyone else’s non-pandemic pregnancies. At this point I’d prefer if I could just hit a giant pause button and keep the baby in as long as I want until I decide the world is safe again.

I never expected the world would be so difficult to navigate, ravaged by a pandemic, right as we prepare to welcome our baby into it. It’s fucking nuts. Somedays I can accept it, other days I can’t even believe this is really happening. The first two trimesters my pregnancy was lovely, just the usual thoughts and worries about how a baby will change our lives that everyone has. The last stretch though has been marred by this weird new COVID world we’re all living in.

There are so many things I want to remember about these last 37 weeks, this first full-term pregnancy of ours. I’m writing them down so I can reflect back on this journey later.

Things I Like About Being Pregnant

  • My hair has never looked better. For real, I’m having the best hair days of my life! I can go days without washing my hair and it looks incredible
  • I can wear whatever I want and just let my gut be free
  • Crazy weird dreams
  • All of my weight gain has gone directly to my belly and I haven’t had any swelling of my hands, feet, or face. Very thankful for that!
  • Weird hormonal laughing fits. This has happened to me at least six times, something is just so funny that I laugh until I cry and am completely breathless and can’t stop. D has found this part very entertaining
  • Super cute maternity clothes!
  • Feeling the baby move around inside me and sharing that with D
  • Taking pictures of my bump as the weeks go by and comparing how far along we’re getting

    12 weeks – nobody knew yet!

Things I Dislike About Being Pregnant

  • Frigging heartburn ALL THE TIME. Doesn’t even matter what I eat, the burn is constant
  • SO tired in the first trimester! All of a sudden all of my energy was drained. I felt like Brian Wilson lying in bed with zero will to live during the first 3 months
  • Having to sleep on my side; I can’t wait to be a starfish tummy sleeper again
  • Lower back aches, you can fuck right off any time
  • Leaky boobs – like why? There’s no baby yet!
  • Food restrictions – I am DYING for a huge salami sandwich. I need cured meats back in my life. And rare steak.
  • People trying to make you focus on the negatives and saying stupid clichéd shit like “get used to never sleeping again haha”. You’re not funny. Or helpful. Why don’t people say positive things instead?
  • Clipping my toenails and shaving my legs are now deeply uncomfortable and practically impossible activities

    17 weeks – at IL Fornello eating ALL the pasta and free bread!

Pros to Pandemic Pregnancy

  • I’m eating better than ever before because we make all of our meals at home with fresh groceries
  • Social distancing and staying home means I don’t have a bunch of randos out in public trying to touch my belly or giving me unsolicited advice (apparently that is something that happens during non-pandemic pregnancies that people said would happen)
  • D has been working from home for my entire third trimester and isn’t stressed about being downtown in the middle of work or client meetings if I suddenly go into labour
  • We won’t be swarmed by visitors in our first week home when we’re beyond exhausted and can actually settle into our new life with baby
  • We’ll hopefully be discharged from the hospital sooner, provided everything is okay

    23 weeks – jumping on the bed in our hotel with baby!

Cons to Pandemic Pregnancy

  • I want Wendy’s!!! I would love some chicken nuggets, a burger, and a frosty right now. RIGHT NOW. Sadly, it’s just not worth the risk
  • Worrying about hospital policies and protocols that could have D missing out on time with our new baby
  • Not being able to have a proper baby shower with actual guests in person
  • Not being able to show my belly off to family, friends, and coworkers in person
  • Nowhere to wear all my super cute maternity clothes
  • The doula we hired probably won’t be able to come to the hospital with us
  • Having no idea if or when it’ll be safe for family to even meet the new baby, and not being able to trust if people who do want to meet the baby have been properly quarantining
  • Not being able to run out and easily get last minute supplies if needed
  • Every trip to the OB’s office or for an ultrasound feels like a death-defying feat
  • People telling me “everything will be fine” when they have no fucking clue how it feels to be pregnant in a pandemic and they got to have totally normal pregnancy experiences – just don’t. If you want to be comforting or make me feel better then send me some donuts and tell me my hair is amazing because that will work, every time.

    25 weeks – Valentine’s Day!

All the Cravings I Had:

  • Wendy’s doublestack! That was the first official thing I craved hard, that was about 1 month in
  • In the early days I needed all kinds of fried chicken (nuggets, tenders, strips, wings, burgers, etc.)
  • Sandwich: turkey on rye with harvati and tons of yellow mustard that I ate for lunch every day for two weeks straight
  • Unquenchable need for orange juice. I was drinking it by the gallon!
  • Shitty frozen pizzas – I would make one for lunch every day for almost 3 weeks straight. And before that I hadn’t bought a frozen pizza since my university days ended. You guys know how much I love delicious pizza, so it was weird to crave crappy frozen ones so ferociously.
  • Sausage McMuffin if I was up before 7:00am – mostly so I could get more orange juice when the house was all out
  • Cake! I pestered D about needing professional grade cake for a few weeks and then one day he showed up with a slice from the Cake Boss vending machine that opened downtown in the fall
  • Barq’s Root beer, it’s got bite! Also, Barq’s Cream Soda – thank you Jesus for inventing that!
  • Clementines, especially eating them at night in bed

30 weeks – funky little chili pepper on board!

Special Moments I Want to Remember

  • Hearing the baby’s heartbeat for the first time at the doctor’s office and happy crying because I was finally able to let go of the worry that I might miscarry again
  • Using TheBump app to track my pregnancy and getting excited for the new fruit/veggie that the baby would be “as big as” each week
  • I passed my G2 road test while I was 10 weeks pregnant and was fully ready to cry and blame it on hormones if I failed
  • Finally getting to share the news with everyone, what a relief!
  • Singing in the car to all my favourite songs while I drove to work on Mondays and feeling baby bop along with me. Baby already loves Billy Joel and Van Morrison
  • D eagerly waiting for the moment he’d finally be able to feel the baby move, and him hoping it would happen on our anniversary at the end of January
  • Our “babymoon”/anniversary road trip to Montreal. We stayed in a fancy ass hotel with a huge ass bathtub. I had two baths a day every day and it was glorious. I also found a Ben & Jerry’s store a few blocks from the hotel – game changer!
  • D actually getting to feel the baby move for the first time. It was the very end of Valentine’s Day, around 11:50pm. D was asleep and I was watching TV in bed when I felt movements bigger than any before. I shook him awake and when he touched my belly he finally felt it too
  • Celebrating my birthday Sixteen Candles style by baking my own ’80’s frosted cake and sitting on the dining room table with it and baby, in a bridesmaids dress no less!
  • Nesting and building a beautiful nursery for the baby that makes me so happy every time I go into it
  • Having a drive-by style baby shower due to social distancing and it still being a special day because we have so many lovely people in our life who support us and care about the baby

    34 weeks – baby gets spoiled by loved ones from a distance!

My Hopes for Baby

  • You will be perfectly healthy and you’ll get here safely, when you’re ready and not a moment sooner
  • You will be loved – even if you can’t meet your immediate family right away because we have to keep you safe, you will not be forgotten and you will still be loved from afar
  • Harvey will accept you and be loving instead of jealous (please!)
  • You’re going to be a good sleeper and eater
  • You will be a wonderful new addition to this family and you’ll fit right in with us – you’ll have a huge appetite for life and give zero fucks about what anyone thinks (like me) but you’ll also be grounded and reliable (like your dad). And you’ll have all sorts of your own unique charms that delight us every day
  • Someday you’ll feel thankful that we’re your parents and lucky that you were born into our family

It’s been an interesting journey. We still have no idea what we’re having. I think the whole idea of a gender reveal is so tacky (to each their own, but it’s not for me). I always thought I’d want to find out the gender before the birth, but now I prefer the excitement created by not knowing. As we get closer though I can’t help but wonder about who I’ve got rolling around inside me. What kind of person did we make? What will the baby look like? I feel like I have some intuition about what kind of person this baby will be just based on how they behaved at various ultrasounds, how they’ve moved around inside me, and some dreams I’ve had about them. But there’s really no way of knowing until whoever it is decides to come out and meet us.

37 weeks – the homestretch!

I don’t think I’m freaking out any more now, man. I think I’m back to just feeling excited again. I’m 37 weeks pregnant and I’m going to meet my baby soon.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

Turn and face the strange…

We’ve been on a rollercoaster ride of major life changes this year. I look at my life back when 2019 started and don’t even recognize it anymore. We went to a New Year’s Eve bash with friends and had the best time. I burst through the front door of my beautiful condo in the city, with loud post-party rambunctious energy at 4am feeling on top of the world. You know that feeling when the new year is only 4 hours old and stretches ahead with endless possibility? That’s how I felt. I was happy and appreciative for all of the good things in my life: a wonderful marriage, fabulous career, lovely friends and family, and my special little kitten prince to dote on. I loved everything I worked so hard to make happen for myself with boundless ferocity. I knew that this was exactly what I wanted. I was where I wanted to be and everything was perfect. If I could freeze that day in time and live it in perpetuity, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, that’d be just dandy.

But life doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to freeze it in one spot. You have to keep moving, keep growing and aging and changing as time passes alongside you. So we took a trip.

We went to Chicago at the end of January to celebrate our anniversary. Yes, that’s right. Chicago. The windy city. The windiest city some might say. The coldest, windiest city possible in the middle of winter.

It was so much fun! We explored the city Ferris Bueller style, with carefree abandon and precocious ardour. I’ve always felt that my relationship with D has a very Ferris and Cameron dynamic, so it was the perfect trip for us. The Ferris in me always pushing the Cameron in D to forget about responsibility and just have fun. To go on zany offbeat capers and see where they take us. To consume as many memorable life experiences as possible, sampling everything at the buffet. The Cameron in D fussing and worrying, reminding me to think things through first and plan ahead.

I said “Chicago!”

He said “I’ll take care of it.”

And he did. Booked our flights, found the hotel, did the paperwork, found someone to watch Harv while we were away. I plotted our caper. Teamwork!

We had lots of time together on that trip to talk and plan and think about where our life together was heading. But in the spirit of Ferris Buellering, it was only light, tentative conversation.

A couple months later, in March, we went to dinner. We went to one of my favourite Toronto spots, the Lakeview. There we had a more serious conversation. There we decided next steps. There we decided to start a new journey.

A few weeks later in April, I was pregnant. I told D on April Fools’ Day and I wasn’t fooling. We were so excited, but also in disbelief too. That took hardly any effort at all. I told D that from what I’ve heard it can be a bit of a grind and might not happen right away. But he felt differently. For the first time ever he wasn’t overly concerned with planning and worry because he felt absolutely certain we’d have no trouble at all. It seemed the universe agreed with him because all of a sudden we were expecting.

So now I panic.

We need a bigger place! We can’t have a baby in a one bedroom condo, there’s no space!

We call our realtor, talk about what we’re going to do. Should we list our place? Should we move out of the city? The weight of this decision bearing down heavily on my heart. I love my city, I love my home, I don’t want to leave. But, we need to and ultimately I understand that it’s the best thing for our growing family.

So we get the ball rolling when I’m a bit farther along, to be safe. We make plans to have the condo staged at the end of May and listed at the very start of June.

The day we’re all scheduled to stage the condo, literally five minutes before the stagers are scheduled to show up, I start bleeding. Upset I call a cab to get to the ER. D can’t come with me, the stagers will be here any minute. He kisses me on my way out the door and tells me not to worry, it’ll be okay.

I’m at the ER for 7 hours. Multiple ultrasounds and tests. Crying and worrying and waiting all alone, silently begging my little baby to hang on, stay with me.  I see baby moving on the monitor, I feel a bit better, but still upset. I leave the hospital with a live pregnancy.

I come home to a completely unrecognizable home. All of our furniture gone. New trendy staging furniture in it’s place. I’m not sure where to go or what to do. It doesn’t feel like my home. I break down and cry to D and he comforts me. He orders pizza, that’s the right thing to do any time. Pizza is home. We go to bed physically exhausted, emotionally drained.

1:30am. I wake up in excruciating pain. I’m bleeding again and I know that this is it. This is the inevitable miscarriage, I’m losing my baby. 12 weeks in already, baby the size of a plum according to an app I’d been using. So close to the second trimester. So close to telling our family and friends…

Devastated doesn’t even begin to express what I felt.

And there isn’t even time to really think about it at all. The condo is listed and we have 65 viewings over the next 6 days. We’re constantly getting new requests for viewings, having to get out of the unit, get Harv out of the unit. One day we had 13 straight hours of viewings in a row. There was no time to think, let alone grieve.

Then on Monday night we’re taking offers. I’m freaking the fuck out. I can’t believe we’re selling our place, the beautiful condo I’ve loved living in, my home. And for what? No baby, not any more. What if I can’t have a baby? What if we’re selling this place for no reason? Toronto will always be a valuable market. Let’s pull the plug, accept nothing, stay here forever just us and Harv. We don’t have to move, we don’t have to leave. It can just be us and the city and we’ll be happy, we can be happy. D is upset, we’ve gone to all this trouble. It’ll be okay if he can just calm me down and get this process dealt with. He talks me off the ledge temporarily, we accept an offer. We’ve sold it, we’re moving, the ink is dry.

I’m supposed to be excited about this, but I’m not. I just feel panicked because now we’re homeless. Now we need to find a new place to live IMMEDIATELY because I’m freaking the fuck out again. People say stupid, unhelpful things like “you can just rent a place if you don’t find something else before closing.” NO. That is unacceptable. I will not let my entire life slide into house hunting limbo for who knows how long.

We forge ahead and start looking. I’m very aggressively looking at every new listing our realtor sends. D has to go away for work for a week, that’s precious house hunting time lost and I cannot have that. I spend the week that he’s away being sad by myself but also looking for houses. I get on a train out of the city and go to some open houses on my own. I find something interesting that hasn’t been in our listings.

A free-hold townhouse. We’ve been looking at detached homes, but this could work. I call D that night and tell him I think I found something special. There are actually two townhouses side by side for sale on the same court. We setup an appointment to go see both together with the realtor when he’s back in the city. D doesn’t like the idea of a townhouse, he’s not into it. We go into the first one, the one I already saw and D’s interest is piqued. He admits this is a special place. It’s not perfect, but he can see why I liked it enough to come back. We go next door to see the other one, the one I haven’t seen in person yet. The moment we walk through the door, D’s opinion has changed. He’s seeing through new eyes. He’s seeing something special. Character. Charm. Our home.

We make and offer, a little back and forth negotiation and the deal is done. We bought a house!

The two months before our closing date on the condo, our big move stretches out endlessly before me. These are my last months to enjoy living in Toronto. But I don’t enjoy it. All of the grief and sadness I’ve been putting off dealing with come crashing back down around me. I’m recovering from the miscarriage, letting my body reset, but I’m dying on the inside every single day and putting on a brave face to the outside world. Smiling when I see my friends. Telling them I’m excited about the sale and the move. Acting like I haven’t lost the most important thing I ever had. Acting like idiotic comments from clueless family members about how our niece who arrived earlier this year needs a cousin don’t stab me right in the soul. Suffering internally, but forcing myself to keep shining externally.

I didn’t even try to have a last hurrah in the city before we moved. I just buried myself in prep for the move and kept pushing ahead. We moved, that’s that, no looking back.

And for the first little while that was fine, there was lots to do at the new house, lots to get done. We spent some time figuring out life in the ‘burbs and adjusted.

D didn’t feel the loss the same way I did. He was upset too, but not nearly to the same extent. He didn’t get to see the tiny budding life on the hospital monitor that I did. He didn’t see the heart still beating and feel an impossible surge of hope. A part of his body, of his very being wasn’t suddenly ripped away too soon. He was very supportive though and comforted me as much as he could. He stayed optimistic, he knew loss was part of the process and he wanted to try again. I didn’t know if I could, I didn’t know if I was ready. But I knew it would be okay if we didn’t force it; if we just did that thing people do when the mood is right and let biology decide.

A warm sunny day in September there was a curious feeling in the back of my brain. I went and got the pregnancy test I had stowed away. I didn’t even have to look, I just knew. It was the same feeling as the first time, it would be a positive result.

I was happy, but I didn’t let myself get too happy. Now I knew how easily this could all be taken away and how much it would hurt if it was. As the weeks moved forward without any issues I started to accept it. This one was happening, this one would make it. The closer we got to the second trimester, the more I believed. Finally we got to the point where we could tell people and everyone is so happy for us. My belly gets bigger every day, my appetite gets bigger every day, and my love gets bigger every day too.

It’s been a hell of a year. Looking back to January 2019, I was having the time of my life. Eating deep dish pizza in Chicago, feeling like that was the absolute best life would ever be. I had no idea it would be one of the most challenging and transformative years of my life to date.

Other noteworthy changes:

  1. I did Invisalign this year and am now rocking a wonderful new smile
  2. Hosted a baby shower for the first time ever for my sister – we had a crazy amount of food!
  3. Our beautiful niece Vanessa arrived in March making D and I Aunt and Uncle for the first time
  4. We bought a new car! We call him Lou, he’s super cool
  5. My mom’s dog B passed away in the summer, it’s still sad when we visit and she’s not there to greet us
  6. I took driving lessons, passed my G2 road test and now I’m driving the new car by myself – I’m an excellent driver btw
  7. I DIY’d a bunch of shit like a boss. Repainted some furniture and our fireplace too
  8. BFFs Hoben and Shan got married and we were both in the wedding party. Handcrafted many fine dick decorations for the bachelorette, my finest work to date some have even said
  9. Saw Modest Mouse and The Black Keys in the fall (it was baby’s first concert too!)
  10. Hosted our first ever family Thanksgiving dinner at the new house, D cooked the turkey perfectly

We’ve had a lot going on, and I think that’s okay. I don’t expect 2020 will be any less eventful with a new baby on the way. It’ll be another year of huge life changes, but I’m ready for it.

Turn and face the strange.

Words for Nana

My Nana passed away last week. My cool, awesome, adorable, totally rad nana. My mom called last Monday night to tell me. We knew things weren’t good, but I didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did. It sucks.

My mom also asked me to write something to read aloud at the funeral, she said she trusted me to find the right words. Nana used to love reading my blog, she was so proud of me for writing. It wasn’t easy, but I would never refuse my Nana anything. I thought about it constantly in the days leading up to the funeral. Planning, writing, re-writing, editing, revising, reading, reading aloud. It had to be perfect, nothing less would do. Writing this piece helped me work through my grief, it helped me find closure and say goodbye. I’m so glad I got a chance to honour her memory in such a personal way; a way that I know she would have loved.

And so, here it is.

For Nana

There was this project I had to do in the tenth grade, for one of my English classes, an interview with a grandparent. The point was to learn how to conduct and transcribe an interview, but also to connect and learn about someone else’s life, to gain some perspective. I chose Nana to interview because I thought it would be fun. And it was. It was always fun spending time with her. But it was also a very meaningful experience because of how candidly she spoke about her life. We talked about everything… her siblings, her marriages, her kids, her homes, her travels and how she felt about all of it. Her stories were full of ups and downs, laughter and sadness. She told all of it to me like it was, she didn’t gloss over any of the tougher details and none of it was romanticized either. She was very matter of fact about it all.

It certainly wasn’t an easy life from the start, there were a lot of painful memories early on. We talked in-depth about what it was like for her to lose her mom at such a young age and to have to quit school to help raise her siblings. That tragedy set the tone for her life; after such a significant loss she had to grow up fast. She became first and foremost a caregiver and a nurturer. Someone who helped, guided, supported, and cared for everyone else. She always put the needs of everyone else first, and she sacrificed a lot doing that. Never once did I get a sense that she was complaining about it or feeling sorry for herself because that’s just what she had to do. That’s a core fundamental of who she was as a person, you always did whatever you could for family, without hesitation. That was very important to her.

She went through a lot, her entire life she was constantly having to rise to the challenges set before her. Helping her bereft father run the household and raise her siblings. Starting a family of her own and then having to go through the process of divorce before it became common to everyday life. Marrying again, having more children, seeing them grown and start lives of their own, then being widowed. She went through so much, and she did it all with a lightness in her heart that is just unimaginable to me. But again it comes back to her learning at a young age that such is life. You just have to keep going and you find it within yourself to keep giving as much of yourself as you can to the people who need it.

A recurring theme throughout all of the stories she told me was that even though times may have been tough, there was always something to be thankful for. They didn’t have much growing up, but they had each other. There was still so much love and fun all around her, wherever she went. She brought that fun-loving energy with her to everything she did. A coin has two-sides though, and I learned that despite her easygoing demeanour she was a very strong person. She had a quiet kind of strength though, it ran deeply, worked behind the scenes. She could find it when she needed it and use it to keep moving forward. But she didn’t make any scenes about it, or ask for any special attention, she just did it. Having to be so strong and shoulder everyone else’s worries throughout the many varied phases of her life didn’t define her. She didn’t let any of the hardships change her attitude or outlook. Tragedy would strike, and she would keep moving, she’d get through it, she knew how.

Later on, she married again, to Poppa Al, and the second half of her life she could finally begin putting herself and her dreams first. They travelled together, a lot when they first got married and that made her so happy. She saw the world. She rode around on Poppa’s motorcycle. She walked on the Great Wall of China! I remember how thrilling it was for her, telling her grandkids all about Beijing, bringing us back beautiful treasures she knew we’d love. She was finally getting to have her own adventures and do things she never thought she’d get a chance to. She loved being a mother and grandmother. A great-grandmother too! Her kids and all of their kids were her proudest accomplishment, she said that to me. But finally getting to travel and experience more of life made her feel young.

And that’s what I remember the most about her, her youthfulness. Never, not once did I ever think of her as an old lady. She was way too hip and stylish to be an old lady.

She had a beautiful, charming laugh that matched the knowing twinkle in her eye. She was funny and sassy, quick with her wit. She had a keen sense of humour and knew how to use it; we all laughed a lot with Nana. And she was a social butterfly, she loved meeting people, making friends. She forged lasting, meaningful connections with everyone she met because she was genuinely interested in and cared about others. When she hugged you, you felt it right down in your soul. Because she loved you unconditionally and you could feel it.

She was an incredible person. She was encouraging, generous, compassionate, and wise. Which is why this loss feels so unbearable to all of us, she was the heart and soul of our family. It’s hard to know what to feel and what to do from here. But we’re not alone, we’ve always got each other and Nana would want us to be strong together. Do lots of hugging, find ways to laugh. She’d want us to take care of each other, same as she always took care of us when we needed it.

I’m so grateful that I got to spend the time with her that I did. Every moment in her company was a joy. And I know there isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel the same.

Thank you, Nana. Thank you for sharing your stories with me, for helping me with my project all those years ago. And thank you for being such a remarkable role model, you’ve had more of an impact on the lives around you than you might have realized. You showed us how it’s done, with dignity and class. You are so loved, and you will be missed, deeply.

Nana

The Strongest Man in the Whole Wide World

I’ve always known that my dad is strong. All dads are. Every dad is the strongest man in the world to their kids when they’re young. He can lift you right up over his head and everything! It makes you laugh, it makes you squeal, and you feel light as a feather, swooping through the air in his powerful grasp. It’s a wonderful, but fleeting feeling. You’ve got to come down eventually, he can’t hold you up forever. But he is still the strongest man in the whole wide world. Until one day when he isn’t…

Eventually, you get older and you realize that it’s just your own silly little misbelief. But that’s okay. It doesn’t matter that he isn’t literally the strongest man in the whole wide world, he’s your dad and he’s still plenty strong for you. He might not be able to lift you right up over his head anymore, you’re too old for that now anyways, but you’ll always cherish those days when he could.

Dad and I, back when I was at the perfect weight to be hoisted up over his head

Dad and I, back when I was at the perfect weight to be hoisted up over his head

I got to watch my dad compete in a power-lifting competition this weekend, and I felt an overwhelming pang of nostalgia for those days when I was young and my dad was undoubtedly the strongest man in the whole wide world. Where did all of that time go? How did it slip away so quickly? Somehow, during that frantic dash to adulthood, I’d forgotten all about what it was like to believe in Dad. But thankfully for me, he’s constantly fanning the flames of belief in my heart, even when I’m out playing “adulthood” and am too caught up in myself to notice.

My dad has always been into weight training, he started doing it back in the ’70’s when he was only sixteen years old and it became a lifelong passion of his. You wouldn’t know it to look at his average height and build, but he’s a very powerful man. He’s totally unassuming in that regard. And he loves pouncing on an opportunity to show someone what he can really do with a set of weights. He’s used to being grossly underestimated by those that so wrongly assume that only “built” or “big” men can lift anything remotely impressive. When I tell people that my dad is a power-lifter they immediately ask me how big he is or they’ll remark that he must be HUGE. But power doesn’t come from having stupidly gigantic muscles. It comes from an unyielding will to conquer the impossible and a relentless pursuit of ever greater challenges.

a very old photo of my dad on his journey to greatness

a very old photo of my dad while on his journey to greatness

Although power-lifting has been a great passion of his for many years, he only recently started competing. He’s been competing for a few years now, but I’d never had the opportunity to go and see him in competition until now. And though I’m quite familiar with what my dad can do–I’ve seen him lift mind-boggling amounts of weight while growing up–he totally floored me. At 57 years old he was the oldest man in the competition by a mile. All of the other competitors were anywhere from 20 to 30 years younger than him. But that didn’t faze him one bit, it never does.

My dad, showing off the deadlift tattoo that I drew for him over ten years ago

My dad, suited up and showing off the deadlift tattoo that I drew for him over ten years ago

Dad gets out there and pushes all of the bullshit preconceived notions about his age and his build completely out of his mind. His only thought is about the lift. I watched as he stepped up to the bar, all determination and focus. I watched with unbearable pride as he shattered every expectation with every successful lift. And just like that, I believed again. I never stopped believing, I just forgot that you have to keep doing it if you want to keep the magic alive.

A power-lifting competition comprises three different lifts: the squat, the bench, and the deadlift. Each competitor will get three attempts at each lift, with the weight increasing progressively for each lift. My dad’s favourite lift is the deadlift. The announcer at the competition stated that it was her favourite too, because “it’s an act of defiance”. Defying odds and defying gravity. For his final lift of the day, my dad did a deadlift of an astounding 402 pounds. I know that’s not a record and it’s not the most that anyone will ever lift. But in that final moment when he dug into every last reserve of strength and snapped the weight into position, my dad was the strongest man in the whole wide world again.

My dad is a remarkable man and I admire him. He’s inspiring and he’s brave and he’s amazing. And I get to have all of the joy in telling people that he’s MY dad. I’m going to hold on to my silly little misbelief awhile longer yet and cherish it. He’s earned it.

My dad is the strongest man in the whole wide world. Everything is exactly as it should be.

Harvey’s Birthday

Harvey is my special little guy. Coming home to him is always the best part of my day. I get home and no matter what time it is, he races to the door to greet me. He weaves his chubby little body impatiently between my legs, oftentimes tripping me inadvertently as I try to get through the front door and kick off my shoes, because he just can’t wait one damn second for my loving attention. He demands that I crouch down and lower my face to his so he can “kiss” me hello by rubbing his nose up against mine. It’s our routine, it happens every night without fail.

D graciously lets Harv have the first round of kisses and affection every night when I get home. He knows how much I cherish those fleeting lovey dovey Harvey moments, because they don’t last long. Soon after he’s gotten his nightly greeting, he’s all rambunctious and hyper, practically bouncing off the walls. And once he switches to play mode you can’t get anywhere near him without being swatted in the face. Harv gives love on his own terms, and you take what you can get without any ifs or buts about it. So D steps aside, selflessly, and lets Harv get what he wants of my affection first. He’s amazing like that.

It’s been like this for three wonderful years now. Today is Harvey’s third birthday. I can’t even believe how fast the time goes. It feels like it was only yesterday that we brought him into our home and opened our hearts to him. It’s the best thing we’ve ever done, adopting him. Pets bring a special kind of happiness into our lives, a happiness that I can’t live without. The first year that D and I lived together we had no pet. It was sad, for me. I didn’t really realize what was missing at first, but I knew that something was wrong with our situation. Something was off, I felt sad often but nothing was really the matter with me.

Sometimes, we’d be sitting there at night, just watching T.V., and I’d suddenly feel an overwhelming ache. A gaping hole in my heart and the pain of it, so suddenly unbearable, I couldn’t make sense of. And then one day it dawned on me. I needed a pet. I needed something furry to love. There was always a cat or two roaming around in the house I grew up in. Fuzzy friends to play with and adore. I missed that. I missed the soft sound of kibbles being crunched in the next room over. I missed that pins and needles feeling felt in my legs while reading and cuddling a cat in my lap for hours on end. I even missed the constant assault of fur upon my clothing. I’d gladly spend a fortune on lint rollers for the love of a good pet.

So we made my universe right again when we adopted Harv. Because he means so much to me, and because I might be a touch mental, I spoiled Harv a bit for his birthday this year. He’s my special little guy and I dote on him so.

First up on the kitty birthday docket, a bath. We plunked him into the tub and scrubbed him up real good. He smells like a goddamned springtime bouquet now.

Next, an extravagance. A brand new kitty palace for my darling prince.

new kitty palace

harv's new digs

new toy fun

D thought I was being excessive. Harv already has a carpeted platform that he loves to play on and sleep in. But it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough for my precious Harvey. So more carpeted cat palaces it is! I’ll fill the whole frigging apartment with them if I have to, just to make Harv happy.

Then, we bought him a fancy can of wet food for dinner. The vet says that he’s a tad too fat so he’s been eating diet food for the past eight months, but we figured it being his birthday and all he was entitled to a diet cheat. We purposefully tried to buy the most expensive can we could find. $2.69 is as high-end as it gets for cats, I guess, because that was the priciest tin we could find. Harv lapped up every bite with the greedy enthusiasm you’d expect from someone who is cheating on their diet. Money well spent.

So maybe I spoiled him for his birthday this year. And maybe that seems crazy to you, but I don’t give a shit. Really, it’s the least I can do. Harvey totally changed our lives. He filled a hole in my heart, and he made us into a family.

our family

little harv and i

I owe him a hell of a lot more than $2.69.

Holiday Review

Well, there’s another Christmas come and gone. And a new year will dawn in a couple of days. I hope you kissed someone special under the mistletoe, ate entirely too much, and maybe even made an ass of yourself at a large family gathering. That’s what the holidays are there for, after all.

My holidays were fun, even though they veered off course a time or two.

The holidays started with the launching of a new tradition. My sister arranged a “Cousin’s Cocktail Christmas Party” and it was a great success. We got together with our cousins and their spouses/partners for some drinks, snacks, and general merriment. We then went to a comedy club to yuk it up. It was fun. Some of my best memories of Christmases past are of playing with my cousins. Our parents would get us all done up in fancy little outfits and try to impress upon us the importance of “behaving ourselves” at the dinner.

cousins at christmas

And obviously we’ve all grown up a whole lot since those days, but one thing that hasn’t changed is how much fun I still have with my cousins.

cousins christmas

Overnight we were harassed by an ice storm of disastrous proportions. We woke up to a world that had been completely consumed by ice.

ice storm

ice storm 2

ice storm 3

The storm took down countless trees and power lines. Over 250,000 homes in the city were without power for anywhere from 24 hours to a week. My cousin Ryan slept over at my sister’s place after the Christmas party, and awoke the next morning to find a tree had fallen onto his girlfriend’s car.

tree on car

The storm wreaked absolute havoc on the city, and I was glad to head north and out of the icy mess for a few days. But the fun just didn’t stop coming. On Christmas Eve I got sick. Really sick. Feverish, coughing, totally congested. I felt like a bag of assholes. My dad cooked up a feast and I barely even nibbled at it. My appetite was nowhere to be found. We then went to my mom’s for drinks and board games, which I normally really enjoy. But instead of having a bunch of Christmas fun with my family, I sat on the sidelines bundled in blankets, sweating buckets while a perpetual coughing fit racked my body. I was one pathetic sight.

On Christmas day, I was supposed to accompany D to his family get together. But I felt so goddamned shitty I couldn’t even get up off the couch without draining the last vestiges of my strength completely. I had to choose my battles wisely. D went on without me, and I stayed home. I laid on the couch and watched the entire 6 hours of The Stand miniseries on DVD. I had just finished the book, and my mom had the DVDs of the miniseries, so she let me borrow them. And they came in handy, that’s for damn sure.

The following day I felt well enough to go to lunch with D and his dad. At least I could be a part of some of his family celebrations, for his sake. But we didn’t do a lick of Boxing Day shopping. I usually love getting out there with all the other crazies, ripping shirts off of shelves like a maniac and bitching about getting cut off in the parking lot by some asshole who isn’t even looking. Jesus, he isn’t even looking! What is he, BLIND OR SOMETHING?

But even though I wasn’t in peak physical condition for enjoying the food, the shopping, or the gatherings, I was still plenty good at enjoying presents. And you know Smash loves presents. Just a recap for anyone who may not be familiar with this facet of my personality: I FUCKING LOVE OPENING PRESENTS. I can’t stand unopened presents. They make me insane. My fingers positively itch with the desire to rip and tear if they get within five feet of something that’s been wrapped up. It’s a compulsion.

I opened a lot of great gifts this year.

presents

Some of the gift highlights:

Star Wars Salt n Pepper Shakers!

star wars salt and pepper

Enormous Batman Mug!

batman mug

New Hobo Mittens!

mittens

Bitchin’ New Watch!

watch

A Big Bottle of Booze!

booze

His and Hers Robot Pillowcases! (My friend The Magpie embroidered these for me and they are absolutely stunning, I fucking love them to bits.)

pillowcases

And A Shitload of Chocolate!

chocolate

And I got tons of other great stuff too. I’m lucky. I have a lots of people in my life who love me and want to give me things that I love for christmas. Things that make me squeal with delight like a little kid. I’m probably the easiest person on the planet to buy gifts for. I’m easily pleased and I’m not picky. If I can have a thrilling time shredding a gift of its wrapping, I’m set. And as much as I love tearing into a pile of presents, I love giving great presents too. I know that everything I picked out for my loved ones this year was well received and will be cherished forevermore.

Even though the weather was truly frightful and my immune system totally flaked out on me, I managed to find some enjoyment in the holidays this year. Got some fantastic gifts, started a fabulous new tradition, and I took some time to plan my next big moves for the upcoming year. I’m really looking forward to the new year. I’ve got big plans brewing for 2014. It’s going to be my year. I’ve got a list of goals a mile long and I am going to be dogged in my pursuit of every single one.

Peace out 2013, it’s been a slice.

A Fugly Cake

My mom is crazy. Just, like, totally nuts.

I don’t know if she’s always been crazy, or if I’m just noticing it more now. It’s possible that she was just as crazy as she is now when I was younger but I was too self-involved to notice. Either way, she’s fucking crazy, you can trust me when I say that. And she reads this blog, so please know that I mean that in the best possible way, Ma.

It’s always something. Every time we head back home for a family thing or a holiday there’s some new strain of craziness that’s making its way around. It’s usually harmless though. Just some run-of-the-mill everyday insanity that we can all have a good chuckle about. Like the time she thought her eyesight had drastically worsened overnight, but then realized that the dog had just chewed the lenses out of her glasses. Or the time she thought that “bobody” was a word. That time she punched the neighbour’s lights out, with an admittedly precise uppercut. And who could forget the slew of wildly inappropriate jokes she’s always got handy for the telling. Seriously, a couple of weeks ago she told me this joke about a woman who masturbated with a Chiquita banana and insisted that it was just a “cute little joke”.

It’s just part of the deal I guess. You go back home, you have some craziness, and then you have to leave so all the crazy can start regenerating again for your next visit.

We went home for a belated Thanksgiving dinner last weekend and the craziness was in full force, let me tell you. There was that mothering intensity over my fracture, mom wanting to dope me up with all kinds of old pills she had leftover from her accident a few years ago. Which is sweet, that she’s so concerned. But really, I’m not just going to start taking a bunch of dusty old pills because a) who the hell knows what will happen to me if I do and b) I’m not insane. Then she pulled out some weird plastic contraption, from who the hell knows where, that supposedly helps you make your own ribbons and bows. It’s a technological revolution, I tells ya! Inevitably, the insistence that she needed help figuring out how it works followed. But that turned out to be a reasonable enough request once I opened the instruction manual and immediately noticed no less than ten typos. Again, where did this ridiculous thing even come from? Doesn’t matter anyway does it? You know the end result will be the same. We did our best with it, but damn did that plastic piece of shit ever cause a world of unnecessary frustration. Then there was also the bartering of her crocheting skills in return for a 50 lb bag of potatoes from a relative. And there was family and neighbourhood gossip peppered in for good measure, because let’s be real here, everyone is crazy and it wouldn’t be the holidays if we didn’t make time to swap all of our respective stories on the continual craziness that colours our collective lives.

And then, of course, there was the Thanksgiving dessert.

Normal families would just have pumpkin or apple pie and call it a day. But not us, oh no. Mom decided to be creative this year and try something different…

fugly cake

It’s different alright.

I took one look at that lump of frosting and wondered if maybe my mom had started dropping acid on her days off. Probably not, but a cake like that does bring up a lot of questions.

It’s two pumpkin cakes that were made in bundt pans and then stacked and iced to look like a pumpkin. For decorative flair there’s also a black liquorice stump and some candied leaves on his head, and a delightfully retarded little face. But that’s not all! Inside the pumpkin cake awaited another strange surprise…

back of fugly cake's head

Might be a little tough to see, but the fugly pumpkin cake’s head was filled with little pumpkin candies. So when we sliced it open it felt like we were all working together to perform a risky and delicate brain surgery. Or, you know, committing a really fucked up murder.

The cake itself was actually really good. Moist, light, and sweet. Covered all the bases in terms of what you’d want from a cake. We always used to love helping my mom with her baking when we were little. It was fun. She made a lot of carrot cakes, which I always loved. But they’d usually just have a nice light dusting of icing sugar on top. And banana bread. Oh hells yes, my ma could make the best banana bread you ever had the pleasure of eating. But the homemade baked goods of my youth were much more modest in appearance than my mom’s current day creations.

I’m not sure which I prefer.

On the one hand, I see a cake like that fugly little pumpkin one and I worry that a couple more of mom’s screws have tumbled loose. On the other hand, I kind of enjoy the zany, if not slightly affected, manner her cakes have recently adopted. Not a lot of people can say that they got to eat a cake that had a lazy eye.

fugly cake too

And I suppose that’s kind of special. Like my Ma.

She’s crazy, most assuredly crazy, but in a very special way. It’s okay though. I dig it, Ma. After a bit of consideration I think you should keep the weird little cakes coming. They’re fun, and they’re offbeat. Just like you.

Chunky Monkey

Poor Harvey. We took him to the vet this weekend for a couple of shots, but that wasn’t the worst of his problems…

The doctor said that he’s too chubby and has to go on a diet. Being of the curvier variety myself, I feel for the poor little guy.

This was our first meeting with the new vet and we loved her. Her face lit up when she first saw Harvey, she remarked on how handsome he is numerous times, and she gave him lots of affectionate pets throughout his examination. So clearly she’s very caring and really does love animals, which is important to us. We liked his previous vet in Richmond Hill too, more specifically we liked one of the two doctors working at that practice. The doctor we actually did like was nice, but her bedside manner was much more reserved than the one we just visited. The other doctor at the old vet was a total dick. D hated him almost instantly upon meeting him. He was unfriendly and unkind, not giving a single fuck about anything. He handled Harvey too roughly and barely gave us the time of day when we had questions about Harv’s overall health. Not the kind of person that I want to rely on for my cat’s care. One visit to him was more than enough. Whenever we made appointments for Harv after that one horrendous visit with Doctor Doom, we’d make sure that he would be seeing the doctor we actually liked. It was quite the hassle given their varied work schedules. Needless to say, I was quite selective in picking out Harvey’s new doctor in Toronto. We didn’t want to find ourselves in the same situation.

We were very pleasantly surprised. Like I said, the new doctor was outgoing, friendly, and showed extraordinary care to an animal she was only just meeting for the first time. A total slam dunk.  However, there is that whole diet thing to consider… Poor Harvey. He was called “chunky monkey” no less than 15 times during his visit. I know he’s got a small frame that has filled out generously since we first brought him home. But I didn’t think we’d have to resort to a diet!

The kibble he likes to eat is labelled “weight control”, and he doesn’t eat a single scrap of people food. But he is a bit of a pig for wet food. And as the vet said, the fancy feast he hungers for is equivalent to feeding him pizza for dinner every night. Like a really cheesy, deep-dish, grease ball of a pizza. Oh man, that sounds so fucking awesome. I can’t take that away from him, can I? I love my little Harv as is and I don’t want to deprive him of anything he may want. I mean, it’s not like he’s obese. He just has some extra chub to love, right?

Maybe we need a second opinion. What do you think, reader?

Figure 1: lounging on the bed last Sunday

Getting some evening sun last week

Figure 2: getting some evening sun last week

Figure 3: watching some T.V.

Figure 3: watching some T.V.

Figure 4: hanging out with his friend

Figure 4: hanging out with his best friend

Figure 5: napping alongside me while I read

Figure 5: napping alongside me while I read

Figure 6: joining us for dinner

Figure 6: joining us for dinner (but just for company, not for eating any of our food)

Figure 7: snuggling with D

Figure 7: snuggling with D

Figure 8: greeting me when I get home

Figure 8: greeting me when I get home

Is my darling Harvey a chunky monkey or just a naturally curvy cutie? As long as he’s healthy, I don’t really care how big he is. D and I will love him no matter what. Either way, we can all agree that he’s got a very happy life. And he clearly doesn’t give a damn how he looks. He’d probably be just as happy at ten pounds as he would be at thirty. But that’s because he doesn’t understand the negative impacts a life of excess can have. Which is where I come in…

Perfectly happy as is

Perfectly happy as is

His health and well-being are totally on me. And I don’t want to fuck this up. I want him to keep having a happy life, so I guess that means doing whatever it takes to keep him healthy. If feeding him junky wet food for dinner puts my standard of care in a similar class as that of the douche-bag vet in Richmond Hill, then I need to change that. Because I am nothing like that jerk when it comes to caring for the pets I love. Our new vet is right. She has a great big caring heart, and she’s right. She fell in love with Harv as soon as she laid eyes on him, so I know she wouldn’t steer us wrong.

I’m going to go ahead with the diet because I trust and respect her opinion. And because I want this wacky little kitty to stick around for a very long time.

All Wrapped Up

It’s no secret that I love opening presents. I’ve mentioned it before. A few seconds spent feverishly shredding the paper off of a neatly wrapped gift is a divine high that I’ve treasured for as long as I can remember. It’s especially good if I’m opening a gift earlier than I’m supposed to!

I know that I’m a maniac when it comes to presents. But I’m not a total monster. I thoroughly enjoy the pleasures of gift giving as well. So it’s okay if I lose my head every now and then because every gift given in return absolves me of this egregious misdeed.

I’m good at putting thought into my gifts. Finding something that just fits the recipient so well, something worthy of genuine gratitude. I bought The Magpie a purse for Christmas last year, which doesn’t sound remarkable, I know. But everything about it was so on point for what she would like. The pattern, the size, and the style all perfectly complimented her unique personality while catering to her purse needs. And that made me truly happy. Choosing the gifts isn’t an issue, it’s the wrapping that can be a real bitch.

I’ve stumbled at wrapping on many occasions. If something doesn’t come in a nice square package, I’m fucked. And I won’t go out of my way to buy boxes for things to fit into. I just can’t bring myself to do that. It’d be like paying for a soda at the movies. Why should I have to do that when anything I could ever want to drink can be purchased at a reasonable price elsewhere and then smuggled in with ease? Plus, I don’t want to miss out on the fun of smuggling! There are so few opportunities in life for a good harmless smuggle. You know I’m taking every one I get.

So if a seemingly decent box isn’t lying around for me to use, then I’ll just try my luck at wrapping whatever it is freestyle. I’m capable, right? I can figure this shit out. It’s not like we’re trying to crack the Da Vinci Code. We’re just trying to get some paper taped nicely around some weirdly shaped thing. All jutting angles and strange bends disguised to my satisfaction. Try though I might, the mental blueprint I’m following isn’t always translated so well.

A couple of the more noteworthy examples would be wedding gifts. Wedding gifts cause the most grief because the registry is usually a plethora of oddly shaped housewares. And sometimes that shit doesn’t come in a box, sometimes it’s just there, loose on the shelves. Loose housewares, the bane of gift wrapping. Another part of the problem is that I’m a very arrogant eye-baller. I always tackle the challenge thinking that my superior skills of eye-balling out the amount of paper needed will get me through this. Only to realize afterwards that I probably should have tried at measuring. A handle, an arm, a surface area, anything actually measured might have helped. But by the time I’ve rounded up the gifts, the wrapping paper, the scissors, and the tape, I’ve no energy left to search for some measly implement of measuring!

These are the gifts I wrapped for the last two weddings I went to:

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A badass new frying pan for The Magpie

Cheese knives for my beloved sister

Cheese knives for my beloved sister

Damn you metal flap!

Damn you metal flap!

It’s total garbage. And I don’t even have kids to blame it on! I can’t be like, “Oh, little blah blah really wanted to do the wrapping so we let it.”

All the bits wind up getting covered up eventually. But unfortunately for me, you can’t cover up shame. The only thing you can do now is attack the open bar with a vengeance and hope that people go easy on you; blaming your constantly drunk and disorderly behaviour for that shitty looking wrap job instead.

My cousin’s wedding is coming up soon and there’s a bridal shower for her this weekend, which means more attempts at wedding gift wrapping for me. Looking back over past transgressions though, I realize that I shouldn’t just do the same half-assed job I always do. She deserves better. Everyone deserves better than this, but unfortunately I’m only coming to this realization now. I apologize profusely to any gift recipients I’ve wronged in the past. You deserved better too. I was just too cocky to think about it from your perspective, and I know that was wrong.

This time around, I actually paid for it. I bought the gifts online and then worked up the humility to put a tick in that little box for “gift wrapping”. I paid for someone else to do something for me. It felt dirty and wrong, going against every one of my gift giving instincts that way. But when I went to pick up the gifts and saw how they looked, I was actually glad that I did. For once in my life I’m going to roll into a wedding like a goddamned champion because I’ve got a thoroughbred gift in tow.

Much better!

Much better!

Look at that gorgeous mofo. Hells yeah bitches, that gift is with me! All of the weirdly shaped items I bought have been neatly packaged into boxes that fit and have been covered in wrapping paper so hearty it can withstand a nuclear blast.

And it’s big! It’s a honking huge gift. I also love rolling into a wedding with the largest possible gift I could get. When I look over a registry, I always look for the biggest items. Because then people are more excited about opening them. It’s not some boring little doodad. All other gifts on the table orbit around my gift because it’s so large it’s got gravitational pull. It’s a fucking planet. Congratulations on your nuptials, I bought you guys a planet of your very own!

I love giving gifts, and I love tackling challenges with gusto. But I’ve been to this rodeo enough times now to know that sometimes I need help. I’ve done enough atrocious wrapping jobs to know when I’ve been bested. And nobody should have to suffer my misguided intentions on their wedding day. They already have to foot my bar bill, and trust me, that’s painful enough.