Siren Song

Sometimes (usually in the middle of the night after my son has crawled into my bed and is snoring two centimetres away from my ear), I think about all the freedom I had before I became a parent. I remember the glorious mornings of sleeping in, the nights full of pillow talk with D; going for motorbike rides or spur-of-the-moment ski trips; salsa dancing at the club till the wee hours; eating wine and popcorn for supper and to hell with dishes. And random naps. Oh, how I miss random naps. It's pretty wild to think about how much life has changed in nine short years.

As I made the kids' beds this morning, bleary-eyed from yet another night of broken sleep, I surveyed the happy wreckage of their room. I uncovered a layer of toy tractors under my son Dylan's comforter, and fought to find my daughter's pillows beneath a landslide of stuffed animals. A princess crown, a pair of flippers, sixteen stray blocks and a kaleidoscope were stuffed under Dylan's bed. Under Jade's I found her precious pink piñata from her birthday party last May and three pairs of crumpled pyjamas. Sitting on the edge of my daughter's bed to untangle the inside-out arms and legs from her PJs, it struck me just how empty my life would be without her and her brother in it. Which, considering I never wanted children for most of my adult life, is saying something.

In my experience, life with two kids under the age of five vacillates wildly between predictable routine and utter chaos. Most days, it's all about the cuddles and giggles and teachable moments. And then there are the days I want to run screaming down the lane and beg the first motorist to please give me a ride to ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE. I don't know if that's typical for most parents, but it's my normal. My kids are bright, hilarious, challenging, willful creatures who teach me every day how to be a mum, in good times and in bad.

I'm lucky, because thanks to school and day care and Grandma Lowry, I get lots of me-time every week to do the typical hausfrau stuff and write a bit, which preserves my sometimes tenuous hold on sanity. I'm aware that this is not typical, as most parents don't get the type of breaks from parenting that I do, let alone the opportunity to take a two-week break to an exotic locale sans children.

A few ladies from my Mom's Group got together last night for supper at the local Chinese place. We were celebrating an early Chinese New Year (aka making up an excuse to get out of the house and drink wine), and our conversation bubbled and swirled around a whirlpool of topics, punctuated with splashes of laughter. The stream of talk came to rest, briefly, on the subject of my younger sister, Tanzi. She's teaching at an international school in Bali for the next year, living in a glorious house with marble floors and a pool, learning to drive a motorbike and having supper at the beach every night. It's not all paradise, but it's a lot more exotic an experience than life in the Bruce is for any of us Moms.

"You should totally go!" one friend said, eyebrows raised.

"Of course you should!" chimed in another. "What a perfect opportunity to travel!"

"Well, I couldn't really take the kids," I began.

"Duh, of course not," said the first friend. "Go by yourself! They have an awesome Grandma to take care of them, they'll be fine." (Clearly, my mother-in-law's reputation is well-known.)

"But I'd have to go at least two weeks," I explained. "It's a 24 hour trip just to get there. I couldn't leave the kids for two weeks."

"Oh, yes you could," they assured me. One girl stabbed her finger on the page of the magazine another Mom had brought featuring our Chinese horoscopes, which we'd been reading aloud to each other. "Look, it says right here in your horoscope: 'World Travel.' You have to go!"

There are lots of people who travel with their kids to other countries outside of North America. Several of the women in my Mom's group have done it. I see photos on Facebook of parents in amazing locations with their kids and marvel at the sheer courage and fortitude it takes to pack and load up children, sit with them for hours on a plane, then have adventures together without the comfort of home and familiarity of routine. I applaud folks who do it - I think travel is magical for adults and kids alike. And I applaud equally loudly for the parents who leave their kids in someone else's capable hands and go on a vacation unencumbered by diapers and strollers. For a few days, maybe a week, it would be heaven.

But two weeks? Overseas?

Without a career ladder to climb, or even a regular job to clock into, my main focus when the kids are home is being Mummy. And I like it. On the days when I'm not writing (or trying to write) or volunteering at the school or being a hausfrau, and my children are at home, I don't try to pay the bills or blog or do anything that requires a lot of my attention. Those days are theirs, and as much as possible, they have my undivided attention to play, read, build, paint, bake, bathe, have dance parties, frolic in the snow, whatever. As much as my 25 year old self would recoil in horror, I often feel that I'm at my best when I'm with Jady and Dyl. I'm getting pretty good at this mothering thing, most of the time, even when I'm doing the not-so-fun stuff like wiping bums and getting barfed on at 3 a.m. It's more of an art than a science, and hey, I was an Arts major!

Right now, I don't need two weeks off, which is ironic because there's been plenty of eye-rolling on my part when D tells me he can't afford to take time off work on a certain day or week. But now I get it. Bali would be cool; I just can't afford to take the two weeks off from my kids' lives right now. Their crazy little siren songs are too strong.

Sleepless at Someday: Baba Pickles edition

I've written about being sleepless at Someday before, but last night was an epic no-sleeper. And I can't blame the stuff that used to keep me awake, like bad dreams or anxiety or heartburn or false labour. Nope, last night was my own damned fault: I allowed myself to fall asleep in Dylan's bed and though D (allegedly) tried to rouse me a couple of times, I didn't stumble out of the kids' room until 11:30 p.m. And then I was wide. Frigging. Awake. Argh.

D tried to coax me to come to bed, but I knew it would be hopeless. I pointedly took a bottle of wine and a pint of blueberries out of the fridge, which is when he gave up and went to bed and fell asleep in thirty seconds flat, like he always does.

I drank a small glass of wine and ate the wine-soaked blueberries at the bottom of the glass. Then I played online scrabble for a while. Then I did what any country woman would do when faced with a long night of wakeful alone-ness: I made pickles.

These pickles are just like the ones my Russian grandma, my Baba, used to make, with cold water and cold vinegar and kosher salt and about a dump truck full of garlic. Instead of boiling them, you just tighten the lids, give them a shake and leave them alone for four or five days to ferment themselves into fizzy, crispy goodness. The cucumbers and garlic and dill are from local Mennonite farmers, which Baba would approve of. She always admired the "Mennoniteskies," as she called them. She probably wouldn't have been horrified to learn that I made them at 1 in the morning either, as we sometimes caught her outside raking her lawn in the middle of the night when she was having one of those sleepless spells that afflicted her occasionally.

I'm so tired today that all I can offer you is a photo essay of my Baba pickles. I hope you like them. I think they're rather beautiful. But maybe that's just the sleep deprivation talking.

The 5 Virtues of Solo Parenting

I love D dearly. I don't believe in that soulmate crap, but we are all kinds of awesome together. He's a great friend, a superb lover and a rockin' daddy to our kids. What more could I ask for in a husband?

We're not joined at the hip like some couples; we've got our own interests outside our nest of domestic bliss - I do tai chi and yoga, he does hockey and farming - and we spend time apart each week. In fact, my dear D has been in California all week with his Dad on a farm show tour, which means I've been a solo parent for 6 days.

Which means.....

1) I can leave the windows open at night when I sleep. D HATES it when I leave windows open in the winter; he claims he can physically see dollar bills floating out the cracks and chides me for being an environmental hypocrite. I'm green at heart, but I need fresh air, and not just during the warm lazy nights of summer. It's not like I let snow come in and pile up on the floor - I just need the window open a crack. So right now, every window upstairs is open and the mild winter breezes are a-flowin'. Chilly goodness!

2) I can use obnoxious amounts of cinnamon in my french toast, pancakes, muffins and fruit salad. D abhores cinnamon almost as much as he claims to hate garlic; the difference is that while I can easily hide garlic in my dishes, cinnamon's flavour creeps out and attacks D's tongue no matter what.

3) Bedtime is negotiable. I'm a night owl by habit, and I'm currently hooked on the Game of Thrones books, plus I'm trying to catch up on my Oscar movies before the big night. So I haven't been to sleep before 1 a.m. since D left! D and I don't always necessarily go to bed at the same time, but I don't like to read too long beside him because the light keeps him awake. But with no D beside me, I can read into the wee hours to my heart's content. (Oh, and to eat popcorn in bed without someone complaining of kernels getting wedged in his butt.)

4) The kids go to bed early. Or on time, at least. D works long hours, has a 40 minute commute both ways and picks up and drops off the kids at daycare. This means we don't eat supper until 6:30 or 7. Then he and the kids like to have some time to play together, so I don't have the heart to send Dyl and Jady upstairs before 8 o'clock. But since it's just me, and I'm done work at 5, they've been in bed at 7:30 every night - leaving me a glorious evening free to catch up on laundry, cooking, email and movies. Huzzah!

5) Our suppers have been lazy, decidedly non-gourmet affairs. Coldcuts and avocado slices, french toast and fruit, cereal and frozen veggies. I did make salmon one night, and a big pot of tuscan soup for my lunches, but apart from that, our meals are simple, and eaten wherever we feel like it. I'm not saying this is smart, or an example of exemplary parenting. It's just how I've chosen to roll this week. And I like it for a change.

I can't wait to see D tonight and wrap my arms around him. I can't wait to see his creased smile when the kids attack him. It's been a weird week - a funny combo of lazy and busy - and a good week, mostly, but it will be even better having my man back home to complete our family circle. Solo parenting is fun for a while, but I wouldn't want to do it this way forever.

Finding the silver (toilet paper) lining...

Yowzer, that was one vicious (and viscous!) flu bug. It took D down, and that man is never sick. I'm a wuss when it comes to being ill, but when he stays home from work, you know it's gotta be bad.

All that being off work & laying around moaning did give me a chance to reflect on some of the advantages of being sick, though. Cuz there are advantages to almost every situation, if one is willing to dig through the muck and find them.

1) Unlimited sleep.
Everyone knows that the cardinal rule when you've got the flu is to REST. But it's hard to slow down and take time out when the household screams to be looked after, your inbox is overflowing and your co-workers are on vacay. Luckily, the flu takes one look at your pasty complexion and says, "Oh, you're supposed to go to Yoga tonight? Nuh-uh. You wanna login to just one conference call? Think again. Feel like you should do up those dishes and scrub that mashed banana off the wall? Forget it kid. Now lay down and shut up." So you crawl up the stairs and fall into bed and sleep for 4 hours straight. And, cramps and nausea aside, it's heavenly.

2) MIL to the rescue
Those of you who read this blog regularly will know I extoll the many virtues of my saintly mother in law. She shines her brightest when D or I are ill; she swoops in with ginger ale and soup, whisks the kids over to her place and refuses to give them back unless we really beg. D and I are capable adults and good parents, but she is the master of all things maternal. Even though we sometimes feel guilty for letting her do so much for us, I know she thrives on it. Cuz who doesn't love to be needed? (Not to mention adored)

3) Unintentional Weight Loss
I've developed a really weird pot-belly over the winter. I'm not sure how I feel about it; I've always been thin, and having C-Dif made me too thin. So now I regard my pot-belly with equal parts confusion and admiration. My daughter likes to poke it, pat it and doze on it, proceeding to plunk her fluffy blonde head on my jiggly gut as though it were the softest of pillows. It wasn't until my neice asked me if I had a baby stowed away in there that I thought I should probably do something about it. But hey! The flu looked after Ms. PB for me. Thanks, flu. Now my daughter has to find somewhere else to rest that little head. I think my butt still has room...

In Praise Of....Naps

Ah, the nap. One of my favourite mid-life discoveries. I was too energetic, antsy and - let's face it - caffeine fueled to appreciate the art of napping until I hit my 30's; now that I'm in my 41st year, I find that napping is one of those under appreciated pleasures I simply cannot live without.

To those of you who might say that napping's not an art, or that it's a luxury few can afford, I acknowledge that the pursuit of the perfect nap is not unlike the pursuit of the perfect cup of coffee: elusive and often disappointing, but oh so satisfying when you do find it.

To me, a really good nap has to be unplanned. It's not something you thumb into your BlackBerry calendar or block off on your day planner. A truly gratifying nap can only occur when you stumble upon a block of time in your day that you suddenly realize can in fact be sacrificed to the gods of slumber.

A nap should be at least 20 minutes long. But snore for longer than an hour and you'll wake up feeling more sloggy than refreshed. Snoozing should enhance your evening sleep, not supplant it. But the 20 minute thing is what makes napping so accessible. We can all find 20 minutes in our day. We just have to be willing to look for it, and sacrifice it on the altar of sleep.

I don't think you have to have kids to fully appreciate the restorative powers of a good nap, but it helps. After Jade came along, I quickly learned that crusty dishes, mountains of laundry, dust elephants and full email inboxes all paled in comparison to a snooze on the couch with her nestled snugly on my chest. I couldn't have survived the long nightly nursing sessions without those treasured daily naps. Baby Dylan's arrival has helped me rediscover the beauty of a good sleep, housework be damned! When I spy him snoring away with his arms thrown over his head in that utterly vulnerable, utterly content way only children have, I remember the inherent pleasure of a good nap and lay down beside him to partake of some zzzzs.

There's a good deal of guilt one has to overcome in order to perfect the art of napping. In this age of addictive social networking, high self-expectations and super-parenting, it's hard to stay offline, pursue a career, keep the house looking beautiful and dream up new ways to educationally entertain your kids. Naps? Ha! Those are for lonely, lazy people! Underachieving slackers! People who don't eat right or work out enough! Right?

Well, all I can tell you is that even on my most energetic days, naps have saved my sanity countless times and become a simple act of self-preservation. I come up with some of my most creative ideas as I'm drifting off to happy nappy land. I'm a better spouse and mother when I've taken that precious time out of my day to recharge. Trust me: napping is more than just an art we should all attempt to master. It's a life preserver in our hectic, scary-busy sea of life.

Just whistle while I work...

Whew, it's been a couple of weeks since I've been on here. But I have excellent excuses: Jade's official birthday party was the last weekend in May, and I started work on the following Monday. Zoinks!

Since I only have to work for 5 weeks - from home! - to fulfill my EI requirements for the second maternity leave, I have nothing to complain about. At all. Really. Except...

a) I keep dozing off in front of the computer.
b) My little make-shift home office ranges in temperature from wilting, suffocating heat to icy, foot-numbing cold. And the windows don't open.
c) I get twinges of wistfulness when I hear Jade and her Auntie shrieking with laughter on the other side of the wall.

After being away from work for over a year, I thought I'd have trouble adjusting. But apart from the occasional computer-induced doziness, it feels as though I'd never left. Email, databases, toggling, internet sites, documentation strategies, meeting invites - nothing feels the least bit foreign. It's as though someone flicked my "insurance industry" switch back on and I'm plugged into the matrix again. My fingers tap across the keyboard like they could do it all on their own. Which is a good thing, because parts of my brain seem to have dissolved during the course of my maternity leave. We'll see what kind of quality of work I leave behind after 5 weeks.

At the very least, my co-workers seem glad to have me back and I'm happy for a little social interaction, albeit through email and our messaging system. We're having a big Italian lunch in the 'Loo next week so it should be a nice, goofy reunion where I can catch up on the office gossip and get hugs all around. I'm so very lucky to have excellent people to work with. Even if it's just for a month!

Jade's party was a blast. I concocted a chocolate banana bundt cake that was a hit with the adults, although my girl wasn't keen on it (D's horrified comment as I pulled it out of the oven: "Is that all there is???" But it was so rich and heavy we only needed slivers, so there was plenty to go around). Jade had been busy stuffing herself with raspberries and cheese all afternoon, so I wasn't offended when she had a tiny taste of cake and then majestically raised a hand to signal, "No more, thank you very much."

Doesn't she look darling in her birthday dress? D's cousin's personal care worker made it by hand when Jade was born and she grew into it just in time for her party.


We are making her a time capsule to open on her 10th (or 16th) birthday. All the guests contributed a small item; something to represent either themselves, or the year 2010. It should be good fun opening it up when the time comes, although I have to admit that it's KILLING me to not know what everything is! I'm one of those people who loves surprises, but secretly wants to know what's under the tree at Christmas. And yeah, I often read the last page of a book first.

One week of work down; four to go. Wish us luck!

Comfort for a sniffling soul

That's what my Nana wrote above her recipe for chicken soup in one of her recipe "scribblers;" I often think of it when I'm suffering from a wretched cold like I am right now. Ugh. What a way to ring in the new year. (By the way, HAPPY NEW YEAR my bloggy friends!)

I haven't figured out how to get rid of a cold quickly, but I have come up with a roster of remedies that trick me into feeling better. Half the battle with a cold is to do everything in your power to stop yourself from feeling completely miserable. Because I find that when I'm sick and miserable, I make everyone around me miserable. I am a terrible, terrible patient.

First, get as much rest as possible. I know, I know - that's what everyone says. But hardly anyone does it! No, most of us slug ourselves off to work or school anyway, where we moan and snuffle and infect 3/4 of the people we come into contact with. Stay home, for pete's sake, get into bed and stay there for a few hours. Enlist the help of friends or family or whoever you can cajole into looking after your kids/pets/plants so you can catch at least one or two hours of rest. I think colds are our bodies ways of telling us, "Dude, slow the freak down." So listen to your body, get under a blanket and get prone, pronto. Better yet, go to bed a few hours early. I dare ya.

I've already expounded on the joys of taking a bath in an earlier blog, so I won't blather on about it again here. It does wonders for your sinuses though, and loosens up all the guck in your chest too. Add a drop or two of eucalyptus oil and suddenly you'll remember what it's like to breathe through your nose again.

My Dad's remedy for neutralizing all things germy that come within 10 feet of him is pretty good too: slice a raw clove of garlic very thinly. Place it on a cracker with a piece of cheese or better yet, a chunk of venison salami. Eat. Watch all your loved ones flee to the next room. But seriously, garlic and onion do seem to help me feel better when I have a cold. And it doesn't have to be as drastic as dear old Dad's pungent remedy; think fresh salsa with raw onion and garlic (I like Garden Fresh from the deli), or hummus or baba ganouj. You won't be able to smell yourself anyway.

The best thing about having a cold is that it gives me an excuse to drink hard liquor, which I rarely ever do. My version of a hot toddy is the ultimate sickie sleep aid. As a bonus, it also numbs the throat and soothes any of that nasty coughing business. Take a cup of boiling hot water and add a generous glop of honey. Then add the juice of half a lemon. Then add two slices of fresh ginger. Crown this glorious concoction with an ounce of cognac or sherry. (Yes, I know it's supposed to be whiskey or scotch but I'm trying to cure, not kill myself.)

Finally, buy some Vicks Vapo Rub. Find someone you really like, and get them to slather it all over your chest and back. It's surprisingly soothing and stimulating at the same time. (0:

Stay well everyone.

Sleepless at Someday...again

Things I like to do when I can't sleep:
1) Write letters to people in my head. Most of the time, they are witty, harmless epistles to my favourite pen pals E and K, but sometimes they're poisonous, vitriolic notes dripping with hate and bitterness. Mostly to companies where I've received sub-par customer service.

2) Think of all the things I wish I'd said to my ex when he left me. Sometimes I play out the scenarios in my head. They usually come across as campy soap-opera type scenes where I am full of righteous anger and say cutting things while he just stands there, mute and helpless. Not especially productive or healing, but it's reallllly fun. Especially when I simply have to roll over to see the absolute best man in the world sleeping beside me.

3) Drive. I know, I know, it's the STUPIDEST thing to do when one is tired, cranky, worried, etc. I've actually given up the practice ever since I was pulled over by a cop in Point Clark for driving around late at night without my headlights on. Oopsie. I was tired and upset and incoherent. Luckily, he figured out I wasn't drunk and was very kind. But he insisted on following me back to my brother-in-law's place (where we were living at the time) because I couldn't find where D had put the ownership. Ah yes, there's nothing like having your brother-in-law wake up to find a cop in his front foyer.

4) Go down to the kitchen and eat whatever I can get my hands on. Olives. Cheesies. Ice cream out of the carton. My husband's lunch. Food tastes oh-so-delicious when it's eaten sneakily and stealthily in the middle of the night. (Even better than eating it in the bathtub!)

5) Count my blessings. I like to think about the first time I danced with D, in the hallway at the U of W during our first ever salsa lesson. Or the way Jade fit perfectly on my chest every night we slept at the hospital after she was born. The way my friend R snorts when she laughs and the crazy sense of humour both my sisters have. How beautiful the sun looks against my bedroom wall on an autumn morning. How lucky I am to have a big, comfy bed to sleep in.

High five, Dr. Ferber!

Finally: Mummy - 1, Jady - 0!

Well, I guess it's more of a win-win situation. Ye olde Ferber method worked LIKE A CHARM. Baby Jade cried violently for the first night only, and has slept like an angel ever since. Clever baby. Clever Mummy. Clever Dr. Ferber.

Nighty night!

Help me, Dr. Ferber...you're my only hope

Call me cruel, call me unfeeling, call me a bad bad mummy. We are Ferberizing this kid, and the process starts PRONTO.

I used to brag that I had the best little baby in the world, because up until a month ago, Jade usually went to bed around 9pm, got up once at 3am and then slept until 8am. "What a good baby!" people would exclaim when I proudly told them she only got up once. Yes, she was my good, smart, perfect child. Until she turned 5 months old, that is, and began to display a penchant for partying in the wee hours.

I don't mind getting up once a night to feed and change her, but 3 and 4 times gets to be a little much. I become Zombie Mummy, Jade becomes Miss Crankypants, and together we don't win any congeniality contests. Ferberization began to sound pretty good.

Ferberizing, for those of you not up to date on your kiddie psychobabble, is a method of sleep training where you let your baby cry in small increments, while reassuring her that you are still there, you still love her and it's okay for her to GO TO SLEEP. The trick is that you don't crack and pick her up. That's what she wants you to do. That's what she knows YOU want to do. So you have to fight every instinct in your body that is commanding you to go and seize your screaming child in your arms. Instead, you have to fight nature and let her "cry it out," as they say in Ferber parlance.

Several of my friends have used this method with great success. Several others, proponents of attachment parenting, think I am sick and cruel. My step-mom, who is a nurse, applauds Ferber, but I have a feeling that my mother-in-law is in the second camp, although - to her credit - she rarely offers advice. But you can tell a lot from the tone of a MIL's "Oh?" in response to your declaration that you plan to let her beloved granddaughter cry herself to sleep.

Our first attempt at the whole Ferber thing occurred last night. Jady Lady sleeps in a crib in our room (Daddy's idea) which makes the whole process even trickier. D is a big softie and I was hoping he'd sleep in the Blue room so as not to disturb my resolve, but he stayed put and admirably held fast to the rules. I fed Jade at 10:30, then again at 2:30, but when the fussing began at 4:45am, I said a silent prayer to Dr. Ferber and let her cry for the recommended 3 minutes before going over to give her a comforting pat. I went back to bed. The crying turned to screams of rage. D and I clung to each other; neither of us needed to say a word, but we were both thinking, "LET GO OF ME! I MUST GO AND PICK UP MY BABY! MY BABY NEEDS ME! LET GO OF ME!!!" We tightened our grip on each other.

At the 5 minute mark, I went and talked to Jade again. The screams turned to shrieks so loud my eardrums reverberated. Same thing at the 9 minute mark, and the 12 minute mark. But at the 15 minute mark, her shrieks subsided into angry hiccuping sobs, punctuated by the familiar "squish squish" sound of Jade sucking the heck out of her favourite two fingers (think Maggie Simpson's soother sound, but wetter). She was still ticked off, but had figured out that screaming wasn't going to help. And she slept through until 7am. Whoo hoo! Best of all, when I asked her this morning if she still liked Mummy, she gave me her signature gummy grin and squealed. Phew.

Tonight is Return to Ferber Mountain; let's hope it goes smoothly. If we crack now, baby Jade will know she rules the roost and that won't do us any favours now...or in 16 years!

Enter Sandman

I swore to myself that this blog would not become a repository of baby-related rhapsodies once I gave birth. And I am going to stick to that promise. Right after I tell you that Jade has the biggest belly I've ever seen this morning. Geesh. That kid can eat. Apparently I AM a "high producer," as D says.

Anyhoo, in the interest of promoting reduced baby content on this blog, did I ever tell you about the time I attended a Metallica concert?

I was dating a guy who liked metal a lot at the time. He coaxed me into coming to the concert with a few of his friends, and a mutual friend of ours who was a rare breed: a female metalhead. I liked Metallica well enough, but I wouldn't say I was a huge fan. Sure, in the 80's, I had veered dangerously into metalhead territory with my growing penchant for bands like Motley Crue and Ratt, but I was saved by the punk and new wave music some friends introduced me to. It was like an intervention.

I thought Metallica did have considerable talent despite the screaming vocals and grinding guitars, so I bought a ticket and off we went to Copps Coliseum in Hamilton. When we got there, I realized I was dressed completely inappropriately: everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - was wearing black. Black shirts, black jackets, black jeans, black boots. I wore my favourite red shirt, embroidered jeans and running shoes. Oops.

The thing I remember most about that concert was the song "Enter Sandman." I'm still partial to the song because of the creepy lyrics and trance-inducing rhythm, but that night I was particularly excited about it as it was one of the few songs they played that I knew the words to. As I belted out the lyrics along with a coliseum full of other people, I decided it was time to try thrashing. My friends had been doing it to every song, and practically everyone else was doing it too, including the band.

Thrashing, for those of you who have never tried it, is the act of flinging your head (and preferably your long, dyed black hair) back and forth in time to heavy metal music. If you're good, you can lean to one side and get your whole torso going. If you're REALLY good, you can do this all while playing air guitar.

What I failed to realize was just how much neck muscle is actually required in order to thrash to more than one song. Encouraged by the thumbs up I received from my female metalhead friend, I thrashed enthusiastically for the rest of the concert. The next morning, I couldn't lift my head off my pillow. It felt like I had a pumpkin attached to my neck by a thread.

Why am I telling you all this, dear reader? Well, this was just one of the many random memories that's drifted across my mind during a 4am feeding. It seems particularly significant because Jade's head bobs around like a drunken thrasher if not supported, and because the Sandman is someone I have come to appreciate during these first four weeks of mummyhood.

I can't say I've ever appreciated the wonder of sleep the way I have lately. I can actually pinpoint the moment before I fall asleep, something I've never noticed before in my life. It's like I'm tiptoeing up to the edge of a very deep chasm - think Grand Canyon or Hoover Dam or Niagara Falls - looking down for a moment, then blissfully plunging over the edge. No screaming, no splat; just a delightful floaty feeling and poof! I'm asleep. It's glorious.

At first I was afraid I'd be irritable and resentful at having my sleep interrupted by baby. As lovely and wanted as she is, I am a pretty big fan of my zzz's. Thankfully I have come to view the 2, 3, or 4 hour stretches I get to sleep as exciting opportunities to nap, rather than whinging about the fact that I can't get a good night's sleep anymore. Napping is always a good thing, right? Thankfully Jade shares my enthusiasm for naps too. Enter Sandman indeed.

Guess I did end up talking a bit about baby, didn't I?

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!

5 things I learned the hard way

1) When buying certain edibles, don't skimp. Don't be tempted by generic brands that look the same or by no-name prices. Your taste buds and stomach will thank you. My list includes pickles, mayonnaise, ketchup, ice cream, maple syrup, Coke and champagne. It's better to spend a little bit extra and actually see the bottom of the mayonnaise bottle after a few months instead of throwing out an almost-full jar. It also prevents long lectures from disgruntled husbands ("You didn't buy HEINZ ketchup? Kimmy, there ain't no other kindz!"). Plus, life is too short to drink crappy champagne or fake Coke.

2) Buy good sheets, no lower than 300 threadcount, preferably Egyptian or organic cotton. Trust me on this one: once you have experienced the soft, gentle embrace of good sheets, you will never again suffer your body to sleep on scratchy polyester disasters from Zellers. Even D, who was a die-hard flannel sheet aficionado, has become a convert to my silk/cotton blends.

3) Some dogs just want to chase cats. No matter how much time you spend trying to teach them that cats are not their personal wind-up toys, or encourage a feline/canine dialogue, certain dogs are hard-wired to chase small furry things. No amount of patient instruction or angry yelling will help. It's easier to accept this phenomenon and strategically prevent said dogs from having kitty contact.

4) Men think farting is funny. This does not change with age, maturity or marital status. No amount of dirty looks or talks about respect or how when you were dating they never passed gas in front of you will ever change this. *sigh*

5) Some people are just better than you are at doing stuff. Writing, baking, scrabble, witticisms, decorating - there's always someone who can do it better than you can. And that's okay. Cause it probably means you can do something better than someone else out there too!

Guilty Pleasures

1) Sometimes I spend the whole morning wearing nothing but one of D's shirts and some socks. Why? Because I can. (I love working from home!)

2) Once every couple of weeks, I take myself out for lunch. I'll either gorge on the Chinese buffet at New Seasons, or indulge in goat cheese & black bean quesadillas at Watercress Cafe. Then I drive home, stuffed and happy. My afternoon productivity is all the better for it.

3) Quite often when I cook supper, I throw on my favourite Bollywood CD and wind around the kitchen. (Admittedly, this is getting harder to do the bigger my belly gets...)

4) There is nothing more satisfying than taking a good hot shower in the middle of the day. On my break, of course.

5) I've given up buying no-name ice cream. It's either Haagen-Daaz, or it ain't in my freezer.

6) I'm a rabid X-Files fan. Yes, I know David Duchovny is now a balding sex addict. And yes - I know the last two seasons were bad enough to make even the most loyal fans want to poke their own eyes out. Don't even get me started on the latest movie. Call me uncool, passe, even a bit nerdy. I don't care. That's why I just finished reading the Season 6 episode guide from cover to cover. I cannot wait till my friends are finished with their DVD collection - seasons 4-8.

7) Sometimes I'll eat lunch at my desk, then use my allotted 1/2 hour to have a powernap. My heavens, it feels gooooood.

8) When I'm on a conference call, I sit in the beanbag D bought me a few years ago for Christmas. It feels so naughty to be chin-deep in softness when I know other people are stuck in an uncomfortable conference room.

9) Every year, without fail, I re-read every single one of the books in my extensive L.M. Montgomery collection. I find them comforting.

10) When I'm not Bollywooding, I listen to Ryan Seacrest's top 40 countdown while making supper. It kills brain cells, but I find it strangely addictive. There's only so much CBC downer show content I can take.

Now, I've gotta know: what are YOUR guilty pleasures?

Holy bad sleep, batman

I had the world's worst sleep last night, thanks to two very distinct nightmares. A few people have reassured me that vivid dreams are the norm during pregnancy, but holy! I've had bad dreams before, but nothing like these full-on nasties of nighttime. I've always been big on interpreting dreams (see the link on my left nav bar) but honestly, I don't even want to scratch the surface of these puppies.

They were so scary that I was actually to afraid to go to the bathroom after I woke up from Nasty No. 1 (I was watching a guy go around and murder people with a large, sharp sword but was unable to do anything about it..until the very end, when, of course, he decided it was time to murder me). So I crossed my legs, snuggled up to D's reassuringly warm body, took a few deep breaths and went back to sleep - only to be plunged into Nasty No. 2 (a lovely end-of-the-world-apocalyptic-chapter-outta-revelations-devil's-comin'-to-get-us type deal). I will spare you the details, but rest assured (oh, terrible pun) that they were sufficiently gory, grisly and freaky-deaky enough to make me pull D back into bed this morning and comfort my whimpering self.

The result of these nightmares? A near-sleepless night, a tearful morning and a horrendous day. I felt like the walking dead. I yelled at the dog. I lost my temper with a colleague. I haven't done any dishes or brushed my hair and I'm currently clad in one of D's shirts for lack of ability to pick out anything from my own closet.

To top off this stellar day, I called my favourite Chinese place to order a nice Chinese New Year's supper, thanking my stars that D wouldn't be subjected to another of my brain-dead supper creations. And guess what? They're CLOSED on Mondays.

Thankfully, D is doing chores tonight so I can schlepp around in a stupor for a few more hours. Supper is bound to be interesting...peanut butter sandwiches, anyone? As long as they are not served on the end of a long, sharp sword, I think they'll have to do.