And so it begins....

11pm
Me: This might be labour. Or not. Do we even have a hospital bag packed?
Husband: The hospital said to wait until they are regular and they hurt. Try to rest, k?

1:13am
Contractions painful. 2 minutes apart.When did that happen?!
It's go time.
Husband drives the most heavily constructed road in the city.I feel every bump along the way. Mental note: Kick husband's butt at a later date.

2:20am
Contractions hurt like a son of a bitch. 1 minute apart.
Nurse: So I can see you are already in a great deal of pain. What is your pain control method of choice?
Me: Drugs. Whenever you're ready to give 'em.

3:37am
Contractions never end. Loop o' pain.
Nurse: You're doing great, Carolyn. Just keep breathing.

In the quietest of whispers, I respond.

Me: I can't do this. Drugs. Please. Now.
Husband: The anesthesiologist is on the way. It won't be much longer now.

In an even quieter voice....

Me: Please, I am begging you. I need drugs.
Husband: I know...I know.....

2 agonizingly long hours later.....

5:02am
Nurse: We are ready to go, darling. Do you feel any pressure?

Pressure?? No wait, we can't go. Where the hell are the drugs?! I'm scared.

Me: I need to get up. Bathroom. Now.
Nurse: Whoa, hold on....
Me: Arrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!
Nurse: (in frantic voice) Stop pushing, Carolyn. The baby is here. Stop pushing! Call the Dr.!

5:06am
Contractions have stopped. A less than quiet scream emerges. She is here. I'm in love.

6:08am
Tea in hand, Nana and Meemaw in room, husband with baby, sister on the phone-wants to help with labour. Have to tell her the baby is already here. It seems the little one couldn't wait to meet us, too.

The sound of sleep.

Me: I look like a whale.
Husband: You don't look like a whale.
Me: Did you know I actually breach when I turn over at night? I breach!
Husband: So that was the noise I heard the other night.
Me: I'm being serious. Is it possible for a pregnancy to go on forever?
Husband: God, I hope not.

I've been pregnant since the end January 2011. I was pregnant when there were discount Christmas decorations being offered. I am still pregnant to see this year's Christmas displays being put up. I was in IKEA the other day and by god, they had set up a huge Christmas spread in their candle section. Is it possible to repeat seasons when you're pregnant? Should I talk to my OB about this?

We moved two weekends ago and our lives have been, oh, less than serene. Our house is wonderful, and lovely, and just right for us, but most of my thoughts are concentrated on taking care of my 2 year old baby and the baby inside me that is potentially growing to the size of a 2 year old. Thank god for friends, family, husband, and frozen yoghurt (I can't seem to get enough of it!). I overworked my body one day (and by overworked, I mean I actually did some work that required the slightest semblance of physical movement) and I paid for it big time that night. Everything hurt. I then read the next day about a woman who completed a marathon and then gave birth 3 hours later. Ya, I finished off the frozen yoghurt that night (stupid overachieving moms!).

As our house takes form, and I lose a bit more of the body I used to have, I think of what changes are to come in the next few weeks. I have to say, despite the boxes and the ginormous pile of recycling that the city refuses to take, I am ready for what adventure life will present us. I am scared of returning to many a' sleepless nights, but I can't wait for this little girl to make her entrance. Besides, she may even be walking by then.

Sleep on the run.

Daycare provider: Were you aware that Baby is saying (she leans in and whispers), "What the heck?"

Me: (Leaning in and straining to hear over the sounds of ten 2 year-olds running around) Ummm....yes, I am. (I smile, because really, it's pretty damn cute. And frankly, I am surprised it isn't another well known 4-letter word.)

Daycare provider: (smiling then quickly turning to her "concerned" face) Well, you see, it's not that we have a huge problem with it, and I know it could be worse, it's just that we are concerned that the other children will start using it. You know how they like to repeat things, right?

I blink a few times.

Daycare worker: And well, we are afraid that the other parents will complain. SO....we don't want him to say it anymore, ok?

Well, shit. At least he's not the daycare "biter."

Ok, ok, cuteness aside, Baby using "what the heck?" correctly is a wonder to me. We didn't deliberately teach him to use it, or how to use it, or when it's best not to use it. Like all of Baby's language, it has grown organically. I must say, I was pretty proud of the little guy for at least using it in the correct context. I mean really, sometimes situations warrant a good, "what the heck?!" Right?

We belong to a good daycare. They are affordable, adore Baby and are willing to take us part-time when Baby #2 is born. We can't risk losing them. So if that meant that, "what the heck" had to go, then so be it. "Jesus Christ Almighty, what's their problem?" was my father's response to the whole thing-like I said, I am grateful it was only "heck" we were dealing with. I sat down with Baby that very night. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Baby...(I turn the remote toward the TV and turn it off)

Baby: What the heck?

Me: Actually, Baby, that's why Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you. You cannot say "what the heck" anymore, ok buddy. (I look at my husband for guidance)

Daddy: You see, kiddo, it's better to say another word.

Me: That's right. Instead of "what the heck," how about you say, "oh my goodness?"

Both my husband and I grin foolishly at Baby and nod our heads like this is the best expression ever.

Baby: Ok.

We blink.

Baby: Oh my goodness, what the heck?

Well, it's a start.

Call me sleeper.

Oh.

Hmmmm.....

Silence.

Huh.

That's different.

I love it.

But that's a boy's name.

Really?

Well, you can always shorten it.

And that folks, is the varying response we have had to our little girl's name.

Long before the sleepless wonder came into our lives, his name was known to us. There was never any discussion, or arguing, or debating. It was easy and we were met with overwhelming support of our choice. Within months of his birth, we met a little girl at a friend's party. Without question, I knew we would both love the name. On the car ride home that night it was settled: if we ever have a girl, that is her name. And so it goes. It's not crazy, or that unusual, or even offensive. I love the name. My husband loves the name. That's all the matters, right? So why do all these blase comments have me so pissed off?

I tell my (adult) students who skip school to lie to me-I don't care if they were drinking until 4am, that they may or may not have bowel problems, that they think my class is boring, that they think English sucks etc...etc...LIE. TO. ME. Say you were sick. Tell me you had health issues. Whatever. I don't care, but I sure as hell don't want to hear the truth. Either does your boss. Either do your coworkers who have run out of sick days. LIE. TO. US. It shouldn't come as such a stretch, really. We all lie in some form or another if not on a daily basis, then on a weekly basis. We lie about new haircuts, weight loss, outfits, and c'mon ladies, I KNOW you have lied at least once in the last 3 months or so ...the list is endless. And we do this, not out of malice, but out of kindness. It really sucks to hear that the new haircut you love is really despised by a friend, or family member. So what do we do? We bite our tongue, smile and say, "Wow, you love it, so I love it." End of story, right?

So why is it that no one can lie to us about the choice of name for our little girl? And for the record, I am not offering the name; I am being asked. You asked, now lie if you don't like it. Really. Tell us,"that's wonderful", "congratulations," "lovely choice." As an expectant mom who loves the name she has chosen, I'd rather hear the lie.

Moving our way to sleep.

Me: No freakin' way!

Husband: We got it?

He says to me with a questioning tone in his voice, like even he doesn't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth.

Me: We got it!!

Husband: We got it!!

Holy shit, we just bought a house.

It kind of dawned on me, whilst cursing the Elmo I just stepped on and collecting crayons from in between couch cushions, that maybe our townhouse was a little small. We were, after all, expecting another little one in less than nine months time and both husband and I knew first hand that kind of "baby-stuff explosion" that happens in every square inch of space. Baby #1 had literally taken over our tiny place-I couldn't open a cupboard without something multi-coloured flying at me. Every surface, every shelf, behind every cushion and in every drawer, there was evidence of baby. Our two bedroom had been closing in on us for quite a while and now was the time to act. And sell. And buy. Groan.

Selling our house was chaotic and stressful and one huge emotional endevour. It had only been on the market two weeks before we sold to the Koks (No, really. I wouldn't make this up). We were elated, overjoyed, and could finally breathe a sigh of relief knowing we could then search and put in an offer on our dream home. Riiight. If only if were that simple.

I could blog about Toronto real estate all day. Lord knows I can definitely bitch about it all day (and have done so to friends, co-workers, family, the dude at the bus stop, etc...). Here's what a typical showing would look like: See home. Observe that home is smaller than current home. Note that said home is $300 000 more than current home. Bitch. Leave home. Commence tears.
We did this, nearly 3-4 times a week, for almost 2 months. Husband and I began thinking that maybe, just maybe, we had done an awful mistake. We decided to venture even further west, only to face more disappointment there. Sure, it was a great house, but the nearest store is a drive away, and I'm pretty sure our neighbours are of retirement age.

Just when we lost all hope-and I mean we were going to lose our home in just a matter of weeks-we found a beautiful, detached brick in our fave neighbourhood. With nothing to lose, we bid high, said a little prayer, and assured one another that we probably wouldn't get it, but at least we are learning along the way.

Well, we got it. And we are beyond happy. The only problem: we close October 7th. Baby #2 is due November 1st. Nothing like the stress of another move to kick start labour.

Sleep maker.

Me: What does Mommy have in her belly?

Baby: A baby.

Me: That's right. Can you show me?

Baby pulls up the hem of my shirt, bends down and lays the gentlest of kisses on my swollen belly. Damn, where's a camera when you need it?

Me: Awww....thank you, baby.

Baby: This is my baby.

He tugs his shirt up to reveal his own little belly, laughs and then runs after the dog. Huh. So much for sentimentality.

So here I am, posing in front of the bathroom mirror, wondering when in the hell I was told I was carrying multiples. Whoa, hold on there. I am NOT carrying more than one baby *wipes brow and exhales,* but I sure look and feel like I am. "Women tend to be bigger their second time around..." I am told by my doctor. Regardless, I feel like I am carrying more than one. This pregnancy is so different than my first that I am beginning to think there might be some truth to the whole carrying a baby girl versus boy mythology. Of course, I have no idea right now, but I wouldn't be entirely shocked if I was told a girl.

The moment I found out I was carrying can be described as nothing short of pure joy. With the sleeping wonder, I was nervous, scared and so utterly unprepared that I thought I would be doomed to fail as a mother. With baby #2 on the way, I am beyond excited, scared yes, but the thrill of having two overrides any apprehension I feel.

So what does this mean for our small family unit? I am not sure yet. And to be honest, I am trying not to over think it too much. We still are in awe of our little one who seemingly grows overnight and has become articulate enough to ask the music to be turned up and the windows to be down on a hot day. No lying. This actually happened today. Asking for any more happiness seems greedy, I know, but I'll take it.

Sleep on the road.

Me: Ummm.....are we crazy for even contemplating this?

Husband: Sure, but I think it'll be great.

Me: Are we ready, though? I mean, this is huge. Like, really huge.

Husband: Babe, it's a 12 hour drive to Virginia Beach. You were in labour for double that time. I think we can handle it.

Me: Hmph. At least we didn't have to keep a toddler happy during my labour.....

Well, it was settled: The Sharps were headed, baby and all, to Virginia Beach. Sure, the weather wouldn't be blazing hot. Sure, we were driving the longest we have ever driven as a family. Sure, this may well be the silliest mistake we have ever made, but dammit, we were going to give it a try anyway. With two other families joining us on the open road, the idea of a road trip actually became pretty exciting. This was not going to be the 24 hour whirlwind to Newfoundland that I made oh so many times as a child. Those days, I would fall asleep around the Kingston mark, wake to cursing throughout the Quebec mark, and then sleep again until the Sydney, Nova Scotia mark, where we would board an 8 hour ferry. My father, in his zest to get "home," forgot that road trips were supposed to be fun, or at least with the semi-delusional beginnings of fun. My mother, bless her, did her best to keep the three of us occupied and quiet enough to keep my father from idly threatening to, "pull this car over." Ya right, like he would "lose time" doing that. Once getting to Newfoundland, my father would immediately relax, boast about his driving time, and then look questioningly at his frazzled wife and three exhausted children like, "What? That wasn't fun?" Nope, this was going to be different, and different it was. And baby was surprisingly comfortable and happy. (Though not sleepy. At all.) The the drive down was seemingly, dare I say, easy? And we decided to do it in two stretches so we were able to stop early the first day, have dinner, watch TV, and wake up at a decent hour the next day for a shorter stretch. Could this be the beginnings of a yearly family tradition? Could we continue the drives without a portable DVD player? Could we, would we, attempt a longer drive? Maybe, just maybe.....

We don't care about sleep.

Me: Good lord, he's possessed!

Husband: C'mon baby, let daddy help you.

Baby: NO!!!!

Baby then hurls his body to the ground (without any regard to his own personal safety,narrowly missing the change table), covers his eyes, and violently kicks the air.

Me: My,oh,my. Come here, little one. Mama can help you.

Baby lifts his head,and for a moment I think he might spit pea soup at me whilst his head begins to spin.

Me: Fine, you can put your own diaper on if it matters that much.

Hell hath no fury compared to a near 2 year old who wants nothing more than to do everything himself. And when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING. While this whole independence thing is pretty cute at first, "Awww....look,he wants to put on his own sock," that sentiment quickly fades as baby won't wear said socks unless he puts them on himself-not so cute at all when the temperature outside is -22, it's 7am and you had to be in the car for daycare 5 minutes ago. Ya, not cute at all.

What's worse than these major outbursts is that even in all it's dramatic form, at the height of the screaming, and the crying, and the hysterics, baby can just as quickly stop at the whisper of "Elmo," or "Would you like a drink?" Just like that, baby says a sniffly, "Ya," and proceeds to head to the kitchen. Whoa. And the Oscar goes to......

Wilder than even that, is baby's nonsensical rambling as he is in full blown hysteria. Words, barely intelligibly said often include, "Soother, bunny, Mama, Nana, bath, water, Charlie, socks, TV, banana, yellow," and well, any number and combination of words that he knows. It's as if he is doing a verbal reminder of all the vocabulary he learned that week. That in and of itself is pretty damn funny. You know, except for the thrashing and kicking and stuff.

So what do we do to help ease the frustration of a tantrum? No really, what the eff do we do? So far, we have waited him out, or have sung a song or two. Often times, these moments are pretty ill-timed so we take hold of the socks, literally, and put those little feet in, much to a very pissed off little boy. I don't suppose there's much to do with a boy battling to grow up, and a mom who desperately still wants to help him with those little socks.

Sleep, sleep, sleep

Me: I love you.

Baby: Eyyeyuvyooo.

Me: Are you my baby?

Baby: Ya.

Me: Am I your favorite mommy?

Baby: Ya.

Me: You just want a cookie, don't you?

Baby: Ya.

Me: That's ok. I love you anyway.

With Valentine's Day approaching, I can't help but feel all mushy and gushy about all the things I absolutely (and sickeningly) love in my life. So if you are up for some serious sappiness, read ahead.

Having a baby is overwhelming (see the first 10 blog entries). But it is the best decision we have ever made as a couple. Baby fills all the tiny nooks and crannies, all the ups and downs, all the highs, the lows, the joys, the upsets, and everything else in between. He is my laughter after a shitty day at work, the squeals of delight when I pick him up from daycare, the foot tap to a Saturday morning dance-a-thon, and really, the most amazing little boy. When it's just the two of us reading a book at night, all cuddly, and jammies and softness, I literally can't hold him enough, or kiss him enough, or tell him I love him enough. It's pure goo.

I also would be totally and without a doubt, lost, broke, miserable, and without a weekly meal plan if not for my husband. He is the peanut butter to my jam, the bacon to my eggs, the guitar to my (air) drums, and my silly partner in crime (albeit, my very responsible, level-headed, organized partner in crime-Hey, someone has to book the get-away car, right? and make sure it has oil in it).

And finally, how would I even survive without my total and utter devotion, love, and overall unnatural addiction to my family and friends?? (I often have a flare for the dramatics when I get all sappy) God, I get teary just thinking of the amount of support I have and the amazing network I rely on that help me either directly or indirectly with Baby. If I could give you all a giant Hershey Kiss, I would. Instead, take this entry as a giant love you and thank you, even if I don't say it enough to your lovely faces.

So this Valentine's day, don't get caught up in complaining about this "entirely manufactured and commercialized" holiday (ya, ya, we get it). Instead, think of everyone in your life that fills your heart to the point that you think it might burst. And then give them a big smooch.

I am a sleep.

Daycare worker: Hiiiiii.... (with pouty frown on her face)

Oh,oh. This can't be good.

Daycare worker: Well it seems that Baby has had a bit of a rough day. He's coughing, (what's new?) he's sneezing, (what's new?) and he had a fever of 102 (oh, that's new).

Me: Ok, but he seems fine now, at least. (thank god)

Daycare worker: Actually, his fever has come down and he has really perked up, but...(she pauses) just know that I hate to do this to you (another pause).....our policy states that a fever over 101 means Baby can't come to daycare for 24 hours. I'm really, really sorry. I know Baby has missed a lot of daycare these past few weeks.

Me: That's ok.(I smile weakly at her) I have lots of sick days. (I have 5 per year. And it's only January.)


So this whole sick day debacle and family time off has really got me riled up. I mean, for the most part (without regards to a year off for maternity leave) the workplace is really not designed for working moms (and dads). What the hell am I going to do with 5 (now 4) sick days per year, when Baby seems to average that in only a couple months time? OK, ok, so husband has a great job, with great benefits, and actual "family leave" in addition to his sick pay. But what about mom here? You know, the person who actually carried and birthed the wee one? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. What's up with that? (que SNL skit)

What can we do to make our jobs more family friendly? How can we convince the patriarchal policy makers at the top that a happy mom means a happy employee? Statistics have shown that working moms are more efficient and work harder after returning from maternity leave. This is in part to their huge effort to get all their work completed so they can spend more time at home. Hmmmm, makes sense. And yet, I still feel like I have to call in "sick" cough cough instead of telling my employer about my ill little boy. Something just doesn't seem right about this.

I've talked about this before. see: blog post about my rant and rave over inaccessible childcare. And now I feel like I really need to take action. Anyone care to join?

We wish you a merry sleep.

Me: Vaaaacaaaay!

Husband: Hells to the ya! I need this. We need this.

Me: Ummmmm.....what the Rudolf is this?

*I peer curiously at baby and my eyes quickly scan the rest of his face.

Me: I think he got bit last night. Strange, it seems to have gotten him...(I furiously add up the little red dots that mark baby's face) like 8 times. Sweet baby Jesus in the manger.

* I carefully lift baby's pjs from his belly and gasp. No, no, no. It couldn't? Not on the first day of our Christmas holidays?!

Yep, baby had chicken pox.

What the eff? The world still has chicken pox? This so called childhood right of passage still inflicts North American homes? Isn't there a vaccine for this? Why yes, yes there is. And if you are following the vaccination schedule, then your 15 month old has indeed been vaccinated for the dreaded pox. But, if you are like me and just a teeny bit behind on your vaccination schedule. then beware: the pox could be headed to your home. Swiftly, I went into panic mode and memories of my 8 year-old itchy, spotted self flood my brain. How in god's name are we going to get through this? What about all of our Christmas plans? What about the baking, the shopping, the pictures, the family, the friends, the daycare Christmas recital? Wait, the recital?! The recital where Baby has a starring role playing none other than Santa himself?! But he's been practicing his "Ho, ho, ho," all week!

Breathe, mama, breathe.

Let's face it, life throws you giant curve balls and really, I have no idea what that even means. I guess what I am trying to say is that sometimes life is unpredictable, situations unavoidable, and sometimes it's just downright crappy and in no way can you prepare for it.

Take the next two weeks for example. After being quarantined with baby for a week, celebrating a wonderful, but brief interlude of Christmas joy with the family, we endured anther week of the flu (myself included in that little germ fest). It was pure misery through and through. We passed the time between Sesame Street on Youtube and Maury Povich. Honestly, we had reached and all time low and just as I began chanting, "Big Bird, you are not the father!" I began to feel like myself again. A sure tale sign you are beginning to feel human again: You look around your house with disgust AND you actually start cleaning. And cleaning we did. With bleach.

So what can I say of my sad story? What lesson can be learned? What health wisdom can I impart?

Nothing. Next year, I want to go to the Bahamas.