Are the neighbours using a palm sander?

On Saturday night, a few friends with children lamented their need to repeatedly ensure that their newborns were breathing. I'm sure that I'll do the same thing up to a point. That point being the day on which BabyBear takes up snoring like her mother.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I breathe deeply when asleep. Now that I'm pregnant, burdened with a lingering sniffle, and surrounded by strategically placed pillows, I flat out snore. Add it to the list of things beyond my control.

One night last week, I decided to practice my hypnobirthing exercises after dinner. PapaBear remained downstairs and was startled to hear the sound of a palm sander coming from our neighbours' home. "Why would Chris and Carolyn sand in the evening when they know the semi-porous nature of our semi-detached homes' shared wall?", he wondered.

Turns out that power tools were not the culprit. Instead, my relaxation track had put me to sleep and I was generating enough vibration to earn "Black & Decker" for a nickname. PapaBear was so concerned that he woke me up to protect our 80-year old plaster walls.

So when BabyBear spends her first night at home, I'm sure that I'll place my hand on her rising chest and look for fog on a mirror hovering above her face. Once she starts sawing away, however, the whole neighbourhood will know that she's sleeping just fine.

Knocked out by nesting

Maybe it was all the Sarah's House episodes I watched while laid up last weekend, but I ended the week with a fierce need to nest. PapaBear and I had just one major social commitment on Saturday night and that left plenty of time to hit a few household projects out of the park:

1. Final coat of paint on the door to the baby's room, a project that we began in warm weather
2. Third round of Christmas baking, including another hundred peanut butter balls, a rather labour-intensive Paton family classic
3. Gingerbread houses for the neighbour's boys
4. Two double batches of soup and a mac and cheese casserole
5. Christmas cards (with apologies for my being so late...hopefully yours will reach you before December 25th)

Unfortunately, all that time on my feet left me completely flattened. I took 2 naps on Saturday and an extra long one today. While PapaBear was out clearing snow, I was chilling, horizontal and warm under our duvet.

Fingers crossed that a snow day tomorrow lets me continue the fun.

If you thought I was whining in other posts...

...Prepare yourself for brand new levels of whimpering.

I'm sick. I have been for several days. My first fever in years meant that Saturday through Monday were spent horizontal. It is not the "most wonderful time of the year" in my house.

Being sick is crummy for anyone, but it's an unreasonable condition for the pregnant woman. In defense of my adorable little one and her developing brain stem, I am not taking cold medicine. This wouldn't be so bad, if I weren't the worst patient on the planet. Newborn babes have better coping skills than I do when I'm not in control of my time and energy.

I know only one thing for sure: there is no way to gracefully blow one's nose in public. My eyes are watering and my head is full, so I have no choice but to be one of those women who stuffs kleenex in her sweater cuff.

And worse - I occasionally have no choice but to use said kleenex in front of others. (I can just hear my mother gasping, "Such is not appropriate wasp behaviour!")

Oh well, add public nose blowing to the list of ways my social graces have slipped in the past 5 months.

Gold metallic crib shoes?

Via email, my sister wrote recently:

"You can scratch gold metallic crib shoes off your list of things the little princess needs. SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO cute."

This, after calling me this week and gushing over the pink bathing suit (complete with ruffled skirt) and purple tankini that she had found. Friends may recall that my mother started delivering monogramed onesies when I was just 6 weeks pregnant.

Am I the only one who doesn't know what crib shoes might be? I can honestly say that they were not on my baby shopping list. Should I be getting a pair in every colour?

One thing is certain, my family is out of control excited about BabyBear (AKA "The Princess") and her pending arrival. Not that I can judge, however, given that I debuted my child's very own website this morning.

What's in a name?

Over Thanksgiving weekend, PapaBear and I had a long drive to and from our family social commitments. We took the opportunity to start brainstorming names for BabyBear and created a short list for each gender.

I'm sure every couple struggles with finding a mutually agreeable name. In our case, there was a lot of PapaBear throwing out suggestions and me vetoing outright. Eventually, we came to a set of ground rules:

1. No names likely to be associated with strippers or weird Hollywood offspring (e.g., Bambi or Moonbeam)
2. No names commonly held by animals (e.g., Sophie, the name of Colonel Potter's horse on MASH)
3. No names shared by prominent Republicans or celebutants (e.g., George, Dick, Barbara and Jenna are all out)
4. Mind the North Toronto trendiness factor. There are already plenty of kids named Connor, Charlotte, Preston, and Victoria.
5. The name must be one you would call a future CEO. Cute names are fine for a while, but I will not limit my child's professional prospects with "Scooter" or "Chance".

Because I was sure of BabyBear's gender, I started calling the babe by name in the weeks prior to our ultrasound. But I'm willing to step back and consider other options (although PapaBear wasn't completely wrong today when he said, "We all know that you are going to be the one to name this baby") .

We'll go with Paton as a middle name and finish with Greavette, leaving us just one slot to fill. Please feel free to lob over your suggestions for either flavour. If you need inspiration, check out The Baby Name Wizard, a handy tool of the "if you like Jack, you'll like these names" variety.

So this is how pregnant women exercise

Up to this point in my pregnancy, I've been burning calories by walking, doing yoga, and growing BabyBear. In my first trimester, this plan worked marvelously. The pounds have started to pile on of late, however, so I started wondering if yoga would cut it.

Looking for an alternative, I recently attended an aquafit class at the local community centre. What I hadn't anticipated was stepping into the Twilight Zone of fitness classes. Allow me to offer a summary:

• The instructor - A gentleman in his 70s, sporting a white headband and purple unitard. Head to toe spandex, leaving nothing to the imagination (especially when he emerged from the water halfway through the class and pranced about in the wet, clingy fabric). I couldn't contain myself when he led us through a series of pelvic tilts, hip sways, and even kegel exercises meant to help bladder control.
• The music - A Bette Midler dance mix, played on a pink 1980s cassette tape player, identical to the one I received from my parents for Christmas 1986
• The class participants - Seven elderly ladies, sporting Ester Williams-inspired bathing caps and skirted bathing suits, and 2 moms-to-be, doing our best not to laugh out loud at the spectacle
• The workout - What one would expect from an aquafit class. Lots of hopping around underwater, knee lifts, toe touches. The ladies kept warning me to pace myself, but I held my own.

How far I have fallen. Over the years, I have run 10 marathons and I ran 8 miles "for fun" just days prior to BabyBear's arrival. Now I'm doing aquafit with elderly women awaiting knee replacements.

I'm not sure what is more laughable: the class, the sight of myself in a maternity bathing suit, or the high probability that I'll return for another round on Wednesday night.

The verdict is in

For those following the play-by-play action in the BabyBear game, you may be wondering what today's ultrasound revealed. Because my MIL doesn't want to know what the flavour is, I'm not going to come right out and say it. So Donna, hide your eyes and don't scroll down...
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Keep scrolling - spoiler alert
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It's a girl!

I'll post a scan of the ultrasound as soon as we figure out our new computer's link to wireless peripherals.

I had heard of butterflies, but all I got was poke, poke, poke

I blogged a few hours ago about waiting impatiently to feel BabyBear move. Other moms-to-be had waxed on about fluttering butterflies in their 18-week bellies. I wanted my turn. I had waited 18 weeks to feel something other than light-headed nausea.

Either these women are actually hatching sociable little pupae or they lie. It's got to be one or the other, because I'm getting no flutters. I was promised tickles and instead I'm getting poke, poke, poke on my bladder.

Tonight PapaBear used his stethoscope to confirm that what I was feeling indeed were kicks. Then he encouraged our little one to high five him through my belly. And BabyBear was happy to oblige, over and over again.

What am I having?

I've been rather impatient of late. I'm waiting to feel the baby kick and I'm getting nothing. Lots of women have felt kicks or at least flutters by 18 weeks. All I'm feeling is the constant need to pee.

I'm also impatient and excited about our upcoming ultrasound. On Monday morning, we'll take a look at BabyBear. While the ultrasound tech measures every length, nook and cranny, I'll be looking for...length, or the absence thereof. Assuming our munchkin isn't bashful, we'll learn whether my mother's craving for pink smocked dresses will be satisfied.

Around Harlequin, the jury is divided on whether I'm toting a boy or girl. I would love a boy for Tom's sake and his male-dominated family tree suggests that boy odds are strong. Lately, however, I've had very strong girl vibes. I've even been using our favourite girl name in conversation with the little tike (now that I am pregnant, I have a captive audience...no more talking to myself when I can talk to the baby).

So what's your take? Am I having a girl? Or a boy, who occasionally responds to a certain female moniker?

Definitely a 2008 baby

I bumped into an acquaintance of mine this week and appreciated his excitement over my pregnancy. Things got a little awkward, however, when he asked, "So will this be a Christmas baby or a New Years baby?"

This would be a fair question for him to ask, if I were...say...4 months further along in my pregnancy. This is not the kind of thing that a woman wants to hear at 18 weeks. I didn't have the heart to say more than, "Definitely a 2008 baby."

I think I'll use this forum to say all the things that were in my head at the time:

• "Christmas baby!?!? Christmas baby?!? Buddy, I'll still be 5 months pregnant on Christmas Day!"
• "Are you kidding me? I've only gained 8 pounds! It's true that more than 8 pounds appear to have settled on my breasts, but the scale says 8 pounds!"
• "When is your baby due, sir? Oh, I'm sorry, you aren't pregnant. You are just fat."

Of course, it could be worse. A friend's wife was heartbroken when someone asked when her baby was due...as she stood there holding her newborn daughter.

Mommy blogs and my hare-brained idea

Today's Globe and Mail highlights the emergence of infertility blogs in Baby Desperate Moms Share Every Detail Online. Although I got over my mommy blog obsession a few months back, I read a few on a regular basis.

One that I just love is a humourous take on a humbling journey from infertility treatments to parenting twins. The author's recent post on her husband's pending parental leave reminded me of my lingering to-do list for a little project.

The project is one of those topics that inspires extreme reactions among young mothers. No one is lukewarm on the subject. I'm either nuts or an incredibly chill mom-to-be who understands the importance of baby-inclusive adventure.

Next summer, PapaBear and I plan to take BabyBear on a trip. Over a 3 week stretch, we'll stay in 4 different locations. There will be planes, boats, and automobiles. We will cross multiple time zones. We aren't appearing on the next season of Survivor, but we will test our ability to outwill, outsmart and outlast.

I think it's going to be a hoot, but I've never travelled with a 3-month old. I've never done any of this mom stuff, so I don't know enough to be intimidated yet. Given that I've already paid for a bunch of the trip, it would be great if you would just encourage me and snicker once I'm out of earshot.

And think of it this way, I'm not having twins. Could be worse. Or better.

Sneezing and all that goes with it

For years, PapaBear has told me that I'm going to explode my eardrums if I don't change my sneezing technique. In attempt to be dainty, he says that I hold in the pressure. Naturally, I ignore him.

In my pregnant state, I discovered recently that sneezing and "holding in the pressure" are no longer compatible. But it is not the pressure in my head that is the issue. It's a little lower down.

In recent weeks, I have sneezed and wet my pants. That's right. Wet my pants. The floodgates did not open, but I definitely had to change my clothes. I have never seen PapaBear laugh with such abandon and utter lack of control.

When the ultrasound technician commented on how BabyBear likes snuggling up to my bladder, she was correct. I can only imagine what awaits when the little one starts treating my bladder like a soccer ball.

Do they make Depends for moms-to-be? If not, I'll just keep doing my kegels.

A fashion intervention

My friends at work have been incredibly supportive during my pregnancy. That is, until yesterday, when they insisted that I end the charade and just let it all hang out.

By "it", I mean my growing paunch. My Buddha belly. My munchkin's home for the next 5 months. For the first few months of my pregnancy, my fashion choices were motivated by a desire to hide the massive form. Compress it. Draw the eye away from the one thing on my body that no one can miss.

I attempted this impossible feat by way of the following sins:

1. Overusing my Bella Band: Although meant to help a woman transition from regular to maternity clothes, I kept wearing it in the land of panel-front pants. I felt like the snazzy girdle held me in. Turns out it just pushed fat up and over.

2. Embracing the layered look: If my Bella Band could hold in my gut, I hoped that more stretchy layers would do more of the same. Yesterday, for example, I enhanced my ensemble with support tights and one of those tanks that smoothes out the muffin top. Apparently the effect was less smooth and more sausage casing. I heard something about "skin on a weiner" before tuning it all out.

3. Banishing colour: If black is slimming, then wearing black from head to toe might mask my blossoming bosums and soon to be swelling ankles. Or so I thought. When I sported a black high neck pullover and long black skirt yesterday, my colleagues wondered when I had taken to burkas. Failing to accessorize adequately made this ensemble an HR violation...or at least inspired one of our HR gurus to lend me a necklace.

Today I decided to let it all hang out and hope that a cream and black scarf could lift my black/charcoal grey outfit to new heights. With some luck, perhaps my breasts will get some lift as well.

Driving on snow tires at 15C

Having a baby can be expensive. Maternity clothes, maternity leave, baby gear...and all the costs associated with a financial dependent for the next 25 years. I knew this going into this idea.

What I didn't expect was the ancillary stuff. Being pregnant made PapaBear and I rather adult all of a sudden. Rather responsible. We hired a lawyer to write our (first-time ever) wills. We bought more life insurance. A few weeks ago, we put snow tires on our cars.

I was prepared for the education fund contributions and extra airplane tickets. I did not expect, however, to drop $1,600 on tires. Or $400 on a lawyer. Or $130 a month in incremental insurance premiums. Note that none of these expenditures involve an element of fun indulgence. There is nothing fun or sexy about the Canadian Tire man telling you that the ads for $49 snow tires are intentionally misleading.

Thanks to global warming, it was 15C in Toronto yesterday - not exactly snow tire weather. But I'll be ready when the first flakes fall, with my life well insured and my assets bequeathed should the tires fail.

Revised due date and my horoscope

When Tom and I first learned of BabyBear's cellular existence, the medical community declared May 2, 2008 as our due date. Given that only 5% of babies actually wriggle out precisely on time, I knew to take this as a best guess. Since then, a few other credible sources have weighed in on the subject of dates.

Credible source #1: Harlequin's astrologer
Harlequin's Australian subsidiary publishes astrology guides each year. I got my hands on my sign's 2008 title a few months ago and was intrigued by the following snippets for April 2008:

"The presence of Pluto in your Sun sign now indicates the start of a 12- to 14-year cycle that will utterly transform everything about you and your life."
"Between the 18th and 20th, a shift in your attention to younger children is forecast. For most Capricorn women who are thinking of raising a family, this is a good time to pay attention to this aspect of your life."

These and other statements assured me that BabyBear will be born in April. I just love watching people try to keep a straight face when I make this assertion so confidently.

Naturally, the astrologer doesn't declare a specific birthdate for BabyBear, but his predictions point to an auspicious April 22.


Credible source #2: The medical experts
Not wanting to trust an astrologer, our friends at the York Radiology Consultants revised the due date to April 29. Something about how large the baby measured in our first ultrasound.

My OB shared some medical mumbo-jumbo, but I couldn't really hear her. I was too busy chanting, "I was right! I was riiiiiiight!" to PapaBear, who had predicted May 10 as the big day.

My intro to HypnoBirthing

One of my fave preggo podcasts, Pregtastic, introduced me to the idea of HypnoBirthing. In the book, Easy Labor, an obstetric anasthesiologist reports that HypnoBirthing is the only alternative to epidurals that offers complete elimination of pain. That news got my attention, so I started researching.

When BabyBear arrives next spring, I have every intention of getting that blessed epidural. But you can't get an epidural as soon as labour begins. PapaBear's delivery room stories suggest that women need to wait until 3 or 4 cm before relief is possible. And some epidurals don't do what they are supposed to do. With my luck, I'll be the woman who only gets one side of her body numbed.

With these possibilities in mind, PapaBear and I attended our first HypnoBirthing class on Saturday. Most participants want an unmedicated birth and there is a distinct granola, girl-power vibe within the HypnoBirthing community. I knew this going in and was ready to talk about how much yoga and organic tea have changed me.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when the instructor decided to nurse her 13-month son in the middle of her lecture. And let's be clear that she didn't take a break. She just kept talking while I tried to focus intently on her forehead. Who knows how much useful content I missed, simply because I'm a breastfeeding prude.

In the end, I remain optimistic about what HypnoBirthing can do for me. Relaxation, visualization, and back rubs certainly sound like a good way to deal with pain. I'd rather not be the labouring mom who screams at her husband, but we won't know how I react until the big day arrives. In the meantime, I'll sip my organic mint verbena, practice prenatal yoga, and fall asleep listening to "Rainbow Relaxation".

If I appear rather Zen when we next meet, we'll know that it's working.

How pregnant women make a point

In a recent meeting, I participated in a enthusiastic debate. My colleagues used sharp gestures to emphasize their points.

When I had the floor, I punctuated my argument by spurting blood from my left nostril. It turns out that pregnant women often get nosebleeds. Although I haven't had one in 25 years, this week marked the return of Old Faithful.

May I say that this is not the best way to gain credibility in a discussion? The meeting turned from a tone of animation to a mixture of pity and disgust.

After excusing myself briefly, I returned to the meeting and didn't say another word. Who knew what would happen amid my next assertion?

Marathoning moms

On Sunday, Paula Radcliffe, one of my distance running heroes, won the NYC Marathon. She did this after giving birth to her first child in January. Talk about losing the baby weight quickly.

If and when I return to marathons, I can assure you that I won't be pinning on my race number just 10 months after giving birth. When I race again, rest assured that I'll be wearing a sports bra. Looks like Katie Holmes forgot hers before lining up for NYC.

You are feeling veeerrrryyyyy sleeeeeppppyyyyyy

My friends with kids keep warning me of how severely life will change post-baby. "You won't go out for dinner anymore...I can't remember the last time I watched Leno."

I understand that life is going to change. I even understand that I don't fully comprehend the extent of the imminent shift in my life. But there is one thing that I know for sure: our 6-year old neighbour has a richer social life than I do.

On Friday evening, he was prepping for a night out. The neighbourhood was buzzing with activity - road hockey, talk of Halloween parties, and basketball in the driveway. I was in my pajamas at 7:30 pm and asleep by 8.

This routine repeated on Saturday and Sunday evenings. Plus I had a few naps thrown in for good measure.

If parenting a newborn involves never leaving the house and wearing pajamas 24/7, I'm already halfway there.

An assuring whirr

We listened to the baby's heartbeat last night. PapaBear brought home a Doppler machine from his office - one of the perks of being married to a family doc.

After a few minutes of hearing nothing but post-dinner gurgling, he finally found a rapid whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr...There were also the sounds of a few kicks and a triple lutz for good measure as the baby moved around.

PapaBear did this because (a) he's a star and (b) he was tired of hearing me worry about the twinges I had been feeling. I went at life a little too hard over the weekend and the baby let me know loud and clear. With all well last night, however, we got a reprieve from my neurosis.

Naturally, I started worrying about something else. Specifically, if I'm supposed to play music for the baby, do Justin Timberlake minutes offset Mozart time? Do I need to cut out Mix 99.9 completely in favour of CBC Radio 2?

Bread, raspberries, and other cravings

For most of my first trimester, I craved berries. A typical day involved at least 3 cups of blueberries and raspberries. Daydreams involved sweet, tart, watery goodness. I became a woman obsessed.

PapaBear and I long ago stopped buying groceries for the week in one big trip to Leaside Loblaws. I never know what I'm going to be able to eat for dinner and he got tired of guessing. So most nights I just stop in on my way home and pick up the taste du jour.

A preggie friend of mine shares this obsession with raspberries. Recently she stirred a pot of tomato sauce on the stove and thought about how good the sauce would taste with raspberries. Her usually rational brain was convinced that tomato and raspberry sauce would make the gnocchi dance on the plate.

This week's craving weirdness centred around bread. While turning south at Eglinton and Laird, I spotted a strip mall of carbohydrates. The Great Canadian Bagel, Subway, and Panzerotto Pizza called my name. By the time I reached the Loblaws checkout, I had a loaf of whole wheat, a loaf of raisin bread, crumpets, and bagels in my basket. (Who even eats crumpets?!?)

Fortunately, the carb crazies passed quickly. By the time I arrived home, the thought of bread was completely offensive. I skipped dinner and went straight to raspberries and yogurt. Good thing there wasn't any innocent tomato sauce within my innovative reach.

Hon, did we get new fitted sheets?

One of my pregnant colleagues, of which there are many at Harlequin, is due a few weeks before me. AP swings by my office every few days to enlighten me on new frontiers in pregnancy. Today's topic: maternity underwear.

When I shopped for maternity clothes a few weeks back, the sales clerk asked if I needed any maternity thongs. "As in sandals?", I thought. "Oh, you mean thooooongs. Right, um, let's stick with the empire-waisted tunics for now, 'K?", I said with a strained smile.

I should have known that this topic would resurface at some point. And today it was AP who brought it all to the fore. Below belly, above belly...so many options, but none of them attractive. And here I thought my Victoria's Secret cotton briefs would do the trick. They'd get stretched to hell and then I would just buy new ones. All would be fine.

AP advised me to seek out the above belly briefs - think elastic waist at one's sterum. Her husband refers to these articles as "Passion Killers". While folding the delicates on a recent laundry day, he asked, "Hon, did we get new fitted sheets?"

For now, I'll revert back to a state of denial. There are some things that should only be understood once there is no choice but to dive into the giant swathes of stretchy fabric.

Early days in maternity clothes

Today I came thisclose to wearing an empire-waisted knit dress. I bought the cute little shift at Mimi Maternity. And I need maternity clothes at just 3 months along because my breasts need their own postal code. My suit jackets feel awkward, so something had to be done.

When I studied at Wharton, I did a research project that required cooperation from a large, multi-site retailer. Motherswork Inc., parent company to Motherhood, Mimi Maternity, and A Pea in the Pod, stepped up to participate. As I walked through their offices in 2004, I knew that I would be back one day to buy their delightfully stylish maternity clothes.

Over Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, my entire family made maternity clothes shopping their mission. My parents and sista headed to The Somerset Mall, just outside Detroit Rock City. We dedicated a day to outfitting me and my hard to outfit bod. (Let's just say that I've carried baby weight for years prior to conception.)

To be clear, my father walked the mall while the ladies hit the stores. Eventually tired of wandering, Dad wanted lunch. He searched high and low and could not find his family. A call to my mom's cell revealed that we were still in the same change room we had entered 2 hours previously.

Thankfully, the time invested paid off. I left Detroit significantly poorer, but carrying my new maternity wardrobe. And before you lecture me on cross-border shopping, let me say that I simply don't care. The loonie is powerful and MamaBear has expensive taste.

I also bought a Bugaboo Frog online and shipped it to my parents, saving myself more than $200. I'll keep buying in the US for as long as my parents will accept FedEx parcels in my name. And for as long as my waistline and imagination expand.

I've been inspired

A friend just sent me a link to T.O. Mama, a website dedicated to maintaining sanity and bliss among Toronto-based moms. The site's blog is laugh-out-loud funny and cry-out-loud accurate. The truth hurts and then it makes you wet your pants in giggle fits.

At any rate, the blog has inspired me to record a few rambles during my pregnancy. On Friday, I'll be 13 weeks pregnant and kissing my first trimester goodbye. This seems like as good a time as any to expand my blogosphere footprint (everything else about me is expanding, after all).

When I first learned that I was pregnant, I thought about recording my thoughts online. Less for myself or blog readers, and more for the sake of my child. But I got freaked out by the online-liness and how I would feel if I miscarried. Besides, I wasn't thinking perfectly angelic thoughts as I scarfed goldfish crackers every 90 minutes and begged for the room to stop spinning.

In the meantime, I've lost momentum in my other blogs. My running-related blog ceased publication when PapaBear and I pulled the goalie (that's Canadian-speak for ceasing to responsibly use birth control). The Whisperer has waddled along, but it lacks the spark it once had. Or perhaps its author does.

Either way, I'll blog about my thoughts on pregnancy and keep The Whisperer alive for as long as there are MBAs out there desperate to leave consulting. (So, um...like...forever.)

This blog's title is meant to be somewhat tongue in cheek, although the subtlety may be lost on everyone but me. You see, PapaBear and I live in Moore Park, a posh Toronto neighbourhood. In truth, I share a postal code with spiffy mansions, but my house is smaller than some of the garages in the 'hood.

If you qualify, a mother in the area can join the "Moore Park Moms" group. Yesterday I was blessed with an invitation, but only because there are some cool chicks controlling the email distribution list. Plus, PapaBear is a family doc, so he's nice to have around when a little one cracks his head against a cement wall.

At any rate, that's my longwinded introduction. Check back for a few updates each week. Or maybe more - the comedy that is pregnancy just might generate enough content for hourly posts.