What song is that lyric from? Darned if I can remember. But that's my MO lately - absent-minded as the proverbial professor. And let's not forget clumsy and awkward while we're searching for deprecating adjectives. Yes folks, these days, I'm a real treat!
As the summer draws to a close, so do my days as a pregnant woman. We've decided that this will be our last baby, so I'm trying hard to make the most of the time I have left as a swollen-bellied waddler. I'm savouring every bump n' grind going on inside my stomach, gazing affectionatly at my inflated reflection in the mirror when I brush my teeth and enjoying my cute maternity dresses while I can. I'm trying to stay positive, put my feet up whenever possible, think me some pretty pink and blue thoughts and above all, not freak out.
Which has been a challenge, because it seems as though the moment the summer threw off its sweltering cloak of heat and humidity to reveal a moody, cloud-curdled fall sky, my pregnancy also swung itself into a distinct change. Baby has crept downward in the last week or so, and baby's latest hobby is repeatedly head-butting my pelvic region like s/he's trying to batter his/her way out. My legs have begun cramping with such fierce intensity that massage and stretching don't even help any more. I could care less about ice cream and freezies; even Coke won't whet my appetite. To top it off, I'm prone to fits of weeping for absolutely no reason while Jade watches me with a look of puzzlement. Good grief!
I keep reminding myself I only have a few weeks to go and that most of what's ahead is beyond my control. I have to trust to the goodness of the universe, the medical profession, the care of my family and friends and to my husband's steadfast love that things will be okay, no matter what happens on (or before! GAH!) September 22nd. Fingers, toes and legs crossed...
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Monday, 6 September 2010
Friday, 27 August 2010
Five Things - from a preggo point of view
I know how darned lucky I am to be pregnant and relatively healthy, so far be it from me to moan and complain too much. There are so many folks who would kill to be in my situation, regardless of the sometimes unpleasant parts of pregnancy.
That being said, I feel compelled to say the following:
Five things I will deeply miss about being pregnant
1. The squirmy, kicky, hiccuppy feelings of new life swirling around in my belly.
2. How nice complete strangers are to me. Last week a guy helped me load my groceries into my car; this week two ladies stopped to tell me all about their pregnancies and how they had their kids really close together too.
3. Having boobs.(Seriously! A-cup girls will understand.)
4. The delicious, almost surreal quality sleep takes on...for the first 7 months, anyway. Sleep becomes as pleasurable and tangible as eating your favourite food.
5. Talking and singing to the little being inside me.
Five things I will be happy never to have to experience again
1. The bizarre "restless leg" syndrome that strikes every night around 3am. I feel strong urges to kick something - the bed, the covers, my husband - and I have to roll out of bed and do stretches to alleviate the weirdness.
2. Uterine cramps. Bloody hell, do they hurt! It's like baby has a little penknife and enjoys occasionally jabbing it into my abdomen. MD says I "have an educated uterus" and it's simply stretching and preparing for labour, no matter how many times I've told it we're having a C-section.
3. People who enjoy saying things like, "My God, you're huge!" or "Huh, you guys didn't wait long to get at 'er again."
4. Not being able to put cream or polish on my toes. Or pick up anything I drop. Or bend over to smell my roses.
5. The endless nightly marches to the bathroom. It's so unfair that pregnant women have the thirst of camels without the helpful storage humps.
But you know what? It's all good. Honest.
So yeah, we've got less than a month to go and no names yet. Gah! September 22nd is looming large and I am counting my blessings since I can't count my toes anymore. (0:
Sorry for the long absence from bloggy land folks. Hope all is well with y'all out in cyberspace.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Hormones: 1; Kimber: 0
You know you're pregnant when you find yourself sitting alone in your kitchen at 4 in the morning, eating ice cream straight out of the carton and weeping. Not a pretty picture.
My sister refers to this state of being as "hormotional," and let me tell you, it's not pleasant. I did have a pretty good reason though; I heard that an old high school friend of mine gave birth to a stillborn baby last week.
Tragedies like these leave me swirling in a vile gumbo of emotions: heartsick for my old friend, reliving the awfulness of Rose's birth, terrified for Bumbo and just generally pissed off at the universe - hence the sleepless/ice cream/weeping combo.
My sisters have calmed me somewhat with their sagacity: I'm healthy and so is Bumbo, my friend's sad experience is not some cosmic sign that something bad is going to happen to me. D has also helped me by saying, simply, that he is there for me, no matter what happens. These are all things that I know and try to reassure myself with, but it still helps to hear them spoken out loud.
I wrote my friend a letter today (and went through half a box of Kleenex) to try and tell her how sorry I am; if there is one thing I'm grateful for after having had Rose, it's the increase in compassion I now have for others who may be going through something similar. Pregnancies, children - I'll never take either for granted again.
As mad as I am at God right now, I cling to the hope that someday these things will make sense to me. There's gotta be a reason. And until I figure it out, there's always Haagen-Daaz.
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
My sister refers to this state of being as "hormotional," and let me tell you, it's not pleasant. I did have a pretty good reason though; I heard that an old high school friend of mine gave birth to a stillborn baby last week.
Tragedies like these leave me swirling in a vile gumbo of emotions: heartsick for my old friend, reliving the awfulness of Rose's birth, terrified for Bumbo and just generally pissed off at the universe - hence the sleepless/ice cream/weeping combo.
My sisters have calmed me somewhat with their sagacity: I'm healthy and so is Bumbo, my friend's sad experience is not some cosmic sign that something bad is going to happen to me. D has also helped me by saying, simply, that he is there for me, no matter what happens. These are all things that I know and try to reassure myself with, but it still helps to hear them spoken out loud.
I wrote my friend a letter today (and went through half a box of Kleenex) to try and tell her how sorry I am; if there is one thing I'm grateful for after having had Rose, it's the increase in compassion I now have for others who may be going through something similar. Pregnancies, children - I'll never take either for granted again.
As mad as I am at God right now, I cling to the hope that someday these things will make sense to me. There's gotta be a reason. And until I figure it out, there's always Haagen-Daaz.
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Boo to Braxton Hicks
All the baby books warn you about "false" labour, namely something called Braxton-Hicks contractions. Bah, I thought. I won't have fake labour. I'll know when it's the real thing. I'm no dummy!
Turns out fake contractions aren't anything to scoff at at 2:30 in the morning when you're starting to wonder if you should wake up your snoring husband, stuff your assembled hospital gear into the suitcase and hightail it for Waterloo.
Before diving into full mommy-alert mode, I crept downstairs and pored over the baby books and our Baby Class hand outs. Neko was happy to see me, even though it was the middle of the night, and kept me company as I tried to decide whether a call to the hospital was warranted. Apart from back and abdomen discomfort, I didn't have any of the other symptoms of labour so I made an executive decision and decided to wait it out. But not before D woke to discover me missing from bed and came thundering downstairs to demand if I was all right. Poor man.
Thankfully, the pains subsided and I'm fine this morning. But it was good practice for the REAL THING...whenever that should happen. Kind of like a dress rehearsal (except I wasn't wearing much). I'm perfectly happy for baby to come, but if I had a choice, I'd like to wait a wee bit longer before making the frantic dash to the hospital...at least until after my two weeks of vacation are over!
Monday, 2 March 2009
The Perils of Pregnancy - Part III
The final segment...
7) "Wow, you're so Tiny!/Huge!/Tired looking!/Gorgeous!"
It's hard to know what to believe when so many people tell you so many different things about yourself while you're waddling past their desk or grocery aisle. Some days I feel radiant, with an E.T.-like glow emanating from my heart region. I'm sure my belly is just the right size, that the weight I'm gaining is perfectly normal and that my hair is definitely curlier than it used to be. Other days I feel like Shamu, dragging my bloated self wherever it has to go, wrinkly, bloaty, saggy bits and all.
I never know quite what to believe when people tell me I'm something or other; I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It helps that my radiant days outweigh my Shamu days so I try not to care what other people say. Except D, who always tells me I'm beautiful and means it. Even when he's informing me in awed tones that my bottom is starting to resemble Beyonce's.
8) The Name Game
Names are VERY IMPORTANT. So we are NOT calling this child "Carmen Paulina" after D's two brothers. Nor are we calling it "George W. Lowry" as D recently suggested. (He loves to aggravate my lefty proclivities.) But what DO we call Bumbo once s/he arrives? I have a list of names but none of them seem quite...right. D has some suggestions too, but again...nothing feels quite right. Perhaps we'll leave Bumbo nameless until we figure out a moniker that actually suits the child. THAT oughta rile the relatives.
9) The Stupids
I used to call this phenomena "baby brain," but The Stupids is what my colleague's husband calls it, and it's more brutally honest. Someone else told me it's called "momnesia," which sounds more clinically acceptable.
Again, I blame this one on the aforesaid hormones doing their crazy dance through my body. It is downright embarrassing to be mid-sentence in a conference call and forget what you were saying. Literally. Eg:
Disembodied conference call voice: "So Kimberlee, how will your department manage this change?"
Me: "Well, I'll ensure our documentation is updated today, and I'll post a reminder in our....um....our....I'll be sure to..." UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE "Right, I'll make sure the department's, um...ready."
It's times like these I thank all my stars that I am not an air traffic controller or brain surgeon.
Also popular: walking all the way upstairs, then standing in the bedroom trying like hell to remember why I'm there. Cursing, walking downstairs, then wondering if I'm supposed to be upstairs.
7) "Wow, you're so Tiny!/Huge!/Tired looking!/Gorgeous!"
It's hard to know what to believe when so many people tell you so many different things about yourself while you're waddling past their desk or grocery aisle. Some days I feel radiant, with an E.T.-like glow emanating from my heart region. I'm sure my belly is just the right size, that the weight I'm gaining is perfectly normal and that my hair is definitely curlier than it used to be. Other days I feel like Shamu, dragging my bloated self wherever it has to go, wrinkly, bloaty, saggy bits and all.
I never know quite what to believe when people tell me I'm something or other; I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It helps that my radiant days outweigh my Shamu days so I try not to care what other people say. Except D, who always tells me I'm beautiful and means it. Even when he's informing me in awed tones that my bottom is starting to resemble Beyonce's.
8) The Name Game
Names are VERY IMPORTANT. So we are NOT calling this child "Carmen Paulina" after D's two brothers. Nor are we calling it "George W. Lowry" as D recently suggested. (He loves to aggravate my lefty proclivities.) But what DO we call Bumbo once s/he arrives? I have a list of names but none of them seem quite...right. D has some suggestions too, but again...nothing feels quite right. Perhaps we'll leave Bumbo nameless until we figure out a moniker that actually suits the child. THAT oughta rile the relatives.
9) The Stupids
I used to call this phenomena "baby brain," but The Stupids is what my colleague's husband calls it, and it's more brutally honest. Someone else told me it's called "momnesia," which sounds more clinically acceptable.
Again, I blame this one on the aforesaid hormones doing their crazy dance through my body. It is downright embarrassing to be mid-sentence in a conference call and forget what you were saying. Literally. Eg:
Disembodied conference call voice: "So Kimberlee, how will your department manage this change?"
Me: "Well, I'll ensure our documentation is updated today, and I'll post a reminder in our....um....our....I'll be sure to..." UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE "Right, I'll make sure the department's, um...ready."
It's times like these I thank all my stars that I am not an air traffic controller or brain surgeon.
Also popular: walking all the way upstairs, then standing in the bedroom trying like hell to remember why I'm there. Cursing, walking downstairs, then wondering if I'm supposed to be upstairs.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
The Perils of Pregnancy - Part II
A continuation of the previous post...second trimester...
4) Hands off the merchandise!
I can't say I wasn't warned about people who would be drawn to my watermelon tummy like moths to a light. I just didn't believe people would actually have the nerve to rub a complete stranger's belly - but they do.
The first person to fondle my stomach was an acquaintance of D's we ran into at a New Year's party. Said fellow was in a wheelchair, so I guess I can't blame him, since my tempting tummy was directly at his eye level. But it really threw me when he reached out with not one, but TWO eager hands and began rubbing my stomach. "Oooh," he said, "it's so big!"
I stood there, giggling nervously, somewhere between shocked and amused, and let the rubbing continue. All I can say is that if you are NOT in a wheelchair, and you attempt to massage my stomach without permission (because if you ask, I'll let you), you may very well be seeing stars rather than the graceful curve of my belly in front of you. All you compulsive tummy-touchers, consider yourself forewarned.
5) The Weepies
I never was much of a crier. In fact, my colleagues have informed me on occasion that "I'm all dead inside" because I don't get teary over emailed chain letters about friendship, kids or puppies they way they do. That stuff makes me gag and roll my eyes simultaneously. At least...it used to, before I got myself up the stump.
Now I weep at just about ANYTHING - Latter Day Saints commercials, Sarah McLaughlan songs, sad bits in books, cloying annecdotes about children or animals or the elderly...you name it, my chin is wobbling over it.
It's tiresome to think that I have absolutely no control over my tear ducts these days. My sudden sogginess amuses D to no end; he's always worried he's the softie in our relationship, but I taught him a few weeks ago that the tables have turned: he came home late without calling, and I burst into a torrent of tears when he walked into the kitchen, so worried was I that he'd been upside down in a ditch on the Shore Road.
Yeah. I know. Pass me the tissues.
6) POP goes the belly button
The other day I sneezed, and happened to glance down just in time to see my belly button pop out under my t-shirt with the force of my breath. Cool! I laughed; it popped again. I coughed; same thing. What a party trick!
When I demonstrated to D, however, he looked freaked out and begged me to stop. Hmmm. I wonder how he'll cope when it pops out permanently?
4) Hands off the merchandise!
I can't say I wasn't warned about people who would be drawn to my watermelon tummy like moths to a light. I just didn't believe people would actually have the nerve to rub a complete stranger's belly - but they do.
The first person to fondle my stomach was an acquaintance of D's we ran into at a New Year's party. Said fellow was in a wheelchair, so I guess I can't blame him, since my tempting tummy was directly at his eye level. But it really threw me when he reached out with not one, but TWO eager hands and began rubbing my stomach. "Oooh," he said, "it's so big!"
I stood there, giggling nervously, somewhere between shocked and amused, and let the rubbing continue. All I can say is that if you are NOT in a wheelchair, and you attempt to massage my stomach without permission (because if you ask, I'll let you), you may very well be seeing stars rather than the graceful curve of my belly in front of you. All you compulsive tummy-touchers, consider yourself forewarned.
5) The Weepies
I never was much of a crier. In fact, my colleagues have informed me on occasion that "I'm all dead inside" because I don't get teary over emailed chain letters about friendship, kids or puppies they way they do. That stuff makes me gag and roll my eyes simultaneously. At least...it used to, before I got myself up the stump.
Now I weep at just about ANYTHING - Latter Day Saints commercials, Sarah McLaughlan songs, sad bits in books, cloying annecdotes about children or animals or the elderly...you name it, my chin is wobbling over it.
It's tiresome to think that I have absolutely no control over my tear ducts these days. My sudden sogginess amuses D to no end; he's always worried he's the softie in our relationship, but I taught him a few weeks ago that the tables have turned: he came home late without calling, and I burst into a torrent of tears when he walked into the kitchen, so worried was I that he'd been upside down in a ditch on the Shore Road.
Yeah. I know. Pass me the tissues.
6) POP goes the belly button
The other day I sneezed, and happened to glance down just in time to see my belly button pop out under my t-shirt with the force of my breath. Cool! I laughed; it popped again. I coughed; same thing. What a party trick!
When I demonstrated to D, however, he looked freaked out and begged me to stop. Hmmm. I wonder how he'll cope when it pops out permanently?
Monday, 23 February 2009
The Perils of Pregnancy (aka "Good Lord, is that REALLY my belly?"
I vowed that if I ever had the good fortune to become pregnant again, I would never, ever utter a word of complaint. And these are not complaints by any means - simply some obstetrical observations I feel compelled to share.
Here are Nine Perils in Three Blogs...think of them as trimesters!
1) The Queasies
I've experienced pretty violent morning sickness with all three of my pregnancies. This confession is met with puzzled looks from many of my formerly pregnant friends and family members, who perkily inform me that they never had any nausea at all. WTH? I thought EVERY woman who was up the stump suffered from the queasies. Apparently I am one of the chosen few. I think my many mornings of retching means my child will sleep through the night, learn to change his/her own diapers and despise Barney and Teletubbies. Right?
On the bonus side, The Queasies prevented me from having to attend early morning meetings for the first four months. And now that the Queasies have left the building, eating has become a near-divine experience, where all the flavours I once loathed taste fresh and new again.
Aside: I have to insert a few blessings here on the makers of Stoned Wheat Thin crackers. I should really write them a thank-you note for single-handedly ensuring I didn't starve to death between September and January. And blessings on D for learning to make fresh ginger tea, which he dutifully carted to my bedside for innumerable weeks.
2) Tipsy Doodle
Hormones are funny things. Being pregnant, I am apparently full of them. They course through my body, pausing to wreak occasoinal havoc with my emotional state and, recently, my balance. I'm not any dizzier a blonde than I used to be, but I tend to tip over more often than I used to. No spectacular wipe-outs; just gradual, slo-mo descents into snowbanks or walls for no apparent reason when I walk out to the barn or try to put on my boots. One minute I'm filling the bird feeder, the next I'm inhaling snow thinking, "Alright, who just pushed me?" I'm being very careful and walking slowly, but I think pretty soon I'm going to have to buy one of those funky carved walking sticks old Swiss men use.
3) You're going to put WHAT WHERE?
I suppose it's because of my venerable age and past medical history that I'm subjected to bi-weekly ultrasounds, poking and prodding from a variety of medical professionals and, most recently, hideous procedures that even really mean aliens wouldn't perform. The ultrasounds aren't too bad - I love seeing Bumbo making faces at me - but some of these other tests are hard on a girl's dignity. But not to worry: my friend R, who recently had a baby, informed me that after a few hours in the delivery room, I will not have any dignity left anyways.
Stay tuned for the second trimester...
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
The summer of eating dangerously
As sad as I still am over losing Rose, I find myself reluctantly enjoying some of the small blessings that come with not being pregnant. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just talking myself out of trying again. You know, a kind of "See how nice it is not being fat and sick all the time?" mantra. But perhaps I'm doing the mature thing and learning, as my counsellor suggests, to take pleasure in the "now."
It's not that I hated being pregnant. Despite the barfing, having the appetite of a ravenous dog and the urge to pee every 30 seconds, I found pregnancy to be an extremely interesting and satisfying state of being. I relished my belly and my nice big breasts. I adored my jiggly bum. Feeling Rose squiggle around filled me with wonderment. Being un-pregnant, however, has its positive aspects too.
On the side of pure greed, I can gorge on spicy tuna maki, drown myself in caffeinated lattes and eat brie and smoked turkey sandwiches again. I can play a rousing game of tennis with D. I can drive from the Kink to Waterloo without having to screech to a stop at Pizza Pizza in Listowel to dart into their grimy washroom. My breathing doesn't mimic Darth Vader's when I walk up a flight of stairs and I can bend under smelly cows and lift milking machines over my head without a care. I'd forgotten about these happy things in my months of grief. It's nice to discover them again in the warmth and breezes of summer.
We haven't completely decided whether we will roll the baby dice one more time, or pursue other avenues. And so this will be a summer of small pleasures, of getting reacquainted with my body and soul. And of riding on the back of D's motorbike as much as possible.
It's not that I hated being pregnant. Despite the barfing, having the appetite of a ravenous dog and the urge to pee every 30 seconds, I found pregnancy to be an extremely interesting and satisfying state of being. I relished my belly and my nice big breasts. I adored my jiggly bum. Feeling Rose squiggle around filled me with wonderment. Being un-pregnant, however, has its positive aspects too.
On the side of pure greed, I can gorge on spicy tuna maki, drown myself in caffeinated lattes and eat brie and smoked turkey sandwiches again. I can play a rousing game of tennis with D. I can drive from the Kink to Waterloo without having to screech to a stop at Pizza Pizza in Listowel to dart into their grimy washroom. My breathing doesn't mimic Darth Vader's when I walk up a flight of stairs and I can bend under smelly cows and lift milking machines over my head without a care. I'd forgotten about these happy things in my months of grief. It's nice to discover them again in the warmth and breezes of summer.
We haven't completely decided whether we will roll the baby dice one more time, or pursue other avenues. And so this will be a summer of small pleasures, of getting reacquainted with my body and soul. And of riding on the back of D's motorbike as much as possible.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Do I curse thee?
***WARNING...this blog contains language unsuitable for people who don't like to read naughty words. Although there are only 7 of them.***
I really have never been much of a curse-word person. But I'm telling you, living with farm boys is changing all of that.
My parents rarely said anything worse than "hell" or "dammit," although they did favour taking the Lord's name in vain fairly frequently. I remember being throroughly shocked the one and only time I ever heard my mother drop the F-bomb: she was tipsy, it was New Year's eve, I had about a dozen friends over and we had just run into the house after being screamed at by our neighbour for almost setting his roof on fire with misdirected firecrackers.
My mother appeared on the landing, asking if we were having fun. I screwed up my courage and told her what had happened, knowing if she heard it from someone else that my punishment would be even more dire.
Mother surveyed me and my panting gang of friends with her chin uptilted. She shrugged and swayed slightly on the staircase.
"Tell Jim," my mother said, "to f*ck off." An awed hush fell over us. Mrs. F had just said...F*CK! It was too much to believe.
My friends were usually in awe of my sophisticated, imposing mother. That particular night she was wearing two different earrings, stiletto heels and a fancy silk dress and was on her way to my Aunt Grace's for a new year's eve nightcap. Her hair was teased up into her usual blonde puff and she was wearing bright lipstick. She'd already been to one party and had just stopped in for a moment before going on to the next. But alcohol consumption didn't usually soften her attitude towards wrongdoing or misbehaviour of any kind. Yet tonight, she had not only defended our reprehensible actions with a naughty word but seemed genuinely amused by our attempt at vandalism/pyrotechnics. It was a New Year's Eve miracle.
Anyway, I didn't grow up around much cursing. As an adult, I still didn't hear too much of it, having spent most of my formative adult years with good Christian folk. Even a 6 year stint working for Bell Canada with a variety of guys who installed cable didn't give me a taste for naughty language. But after living with C and D for 6 months, my vocabulary has taken a decided turn onto Profanity Avenue.
At first, it was sub-conscious. An occasional "shitball" (thanks to D) or "piss bucket," muttered under my breath when the dog ran onto the road or I got dripped on by the leaky eavestrough over the front door. Not pretty talk, but nothing too foul either. Lately, however, the fouler stuff has been edging its way into my conscious mind, popping out on all sorts of occasions. I didn't really recognize it until I caught C laughing at me one day. He had popped by to use my computer since the one at the farm was down. I had to finish up one piece of work before I could let him have the controls; I had just about to publish the document when I got the red screen of death and Lotus Note crashed. Which caused me to unleash the floodgates on a string of profanity so gnarly it surprised even me.
This evoked muffled laughter from C, waiting patiently for his turn while lying facedown on the bed (my lavender office is also the spare-room).
"What?" I demanded, a little embarrassed but not willing to admit it.
He raised himself up on one elbow and shook his head at me. "Ohhh, Kimmy. You've been livin' here with us too long. You'd better move out before you really start losin' it."
I have to admit, this is becoming a problem. The last time I was in the city office, I read an incredibly convoluted email from someone on our project team and said "Oh, f*ck me!" - out loud. Seriously - I channelled C, as "f*ck me" is his cuss of choice. Just like I would have if I was at home with only the dog to hear me. Oopsie.
I'm not sure if my newfound love of swearing is due to the fact that I've been watching more Trailer park boys, or that C and D let fly with the nasty words fairly frequently. Or maybe it's the wretched hormones raging through my pregnant body. Maybe it's just that my own inner bad girl has finally awoken. F*ckin' A!
I really have never been much of a curse-word person. But I'm telling you, living with farm boys is changing all of that.
My parents rarely said anything worse than "hell" or "dammit," although they did favour taking the Lord's name in vain fairly frequently. I remember being throroughly shocked the one and only time I ever heard my mother drop the F-bomb: she was tipsy, it was New Year's eve, I had about a dozen friends over and we had just run into the house after being screamed at by our neighbour for almost setting his roof on fire with misdirected firecrackers.
My mother appeared on the landing, asking if we were having fun. I screwed up my courage and told her what had happened, knowing if she heard it from someone else that my punishment would be even more dire.
Mother surveyed me and my panting gang of friends with her chin uptilted. She shrugged and swayed slightly on the staircase.
"Tell Jim," my mother said, "to f*ck off." An awed hush fell over us. Mrs. F had just said...F*CK! It was too much to believe.
My friends were usually in awe of my sophisticated, imposing mother. That particular night she was wearing two different earrings, stiletto heels and a fancy silk dress and was on her way to my Aunt Grace's for a new year's eve nightcap. Her hair was teased up into her usual blonde puff and she was wearing bright lipstick. She'd already been to one party and had just stopped in for a moment before going on to the next. But alcohol consumption didn't usually soften her attitude towards wrongdoing or misbehaviour of any kind. Yet tonight, she had not only defended our reprehensible actions with a naughty word but seemed genuinely amused by our attempt at vandalism/pyrotechnics. It was a New Year's Eve miracle.
Anyway, I didn't grow up around much cursing. As an adult, I still didn't hear too much of it, having spent most of my formative adult years with good Christian folk. Even a 6 year stint working for Bell Canada with a variety of guys who installed cable didn't give me a taste for naughty language. But after living with C and D for 6 months, my vocabulary has taken a decided turn onto Profanity Avenue.
At first, it was sub-conscious. An occasional "shitball" (thanks to D) or "piss bucket," muttered under my breath when the dog ran onto the road or I got dripped on by the leaky eavestrough over the front door. Not pretty talk, but nothing too foul either. Lately, however, the fouler stuff has been edging its way into my conscious mind, popping out on all sorts of occasions. I didn't really recognize it until I caught C laughing at me one day. He had popped by to use my computer since the one at the farm was down. I had to finish up one piece of work before I could let him have the controls; I had just about to publish the document when I got the red screen of death and Lotus Note crashed. Which caused me to unleash the floodgates on a string of profanity so gnarly it surprised even me.
This evoked muffled laughter from C, waiting patiently for his turn while lying facedown on the bed (my lavender office is also the spare-room).
"What?" I demanded, a little embarrassed but not willing to admit it.
He raised himself up on one elbow and shook his head at me. "Ohhh, Kimmy. You've been livin' here with us too long. You'd better move out before you really start losin' it."
I have to admit, this is becoming a problem. The last time I was in the city office, I read an incredibly convoluted email from someone on our project team and said "Oh, f*ck me!" - out loud. Seriously - I channelled C, as "f*ck me" is his cuss of choice. Just like I would have if I was at home with only the dog to hear me. Oopsie.
I'm not sure if my newfound love of swearing is due to the fact that I've been watching more Trailer park boys, or that C and D let fly with the nasty words fairly frequently. Or maybe it's the wretched hormones raging through my pregnant body. Maybe it's just that my own inner bad girl has finally awoken. F*ckin' A!
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