>It’s 1:45 am. I am lying in bed with a three month old on my stomach, a three month old who refuses to succumb to sleepland. His daddy is going back to work tomorrow so I don’t want to disturb him with light. But I also don’t want to sit in the dark. Enter the iPhone. The glorious, glorious iPhone. One-handed sudoku and a flashlight all in one. Win win win!

>Right so this post is just a test. A test to see if I can write posts on my iPhone while Budsie sleeps on top of me. If this post is successful, the world is my oyster. Whatever that means.

Update: Success!! Sweet.

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My new phone arrived today. An iPhone4 courtesy of Andrew. It is hands down the spiffiest piece of technology I’ve ever owned. I really don’t even know where to begin with how cool it is. It’s just so cool.

So I basically spent today looking after Ewan and fiddling around with the features on the phone, of which there are many. And I therefore have nothing interesting to say. Maybe tomorrow….

>For the month or so leading up to the wedding, my Trying-To-Fit-In-My-Gown-While-Breastfeeding diet was haphazard at best. I had days where I ate pretty well. By that I mean I opened the day with one croissant instead of two and limited my chocolate chip cookie intake to less than four per hour. But most of the time I was less inclined to care, putting away pizza, potato chips and any number of other tasty treats with the spirit of someone who believes that the world might turn into a giant block of tofu tomorrow.

So it wasn’t really a diet. Just toned down pregnancy binge eating. Which worked out fine because, as I’ve noted many times before, I’ve been fortunate enough to inherit my mother’s stellar metabolism. Thus when it came time to put on the dress, I did it. I didn’t breath much during the ceremony, but the 30 or so pounds that I needed to shed came off with little to no effort on my part. Win!

But now here we are. I’m married, post-honeymoon – a holiday which saw some EPIC binge eating, the highlight of which was when I tried to eat 3/4 of a lemon meringue pie by myself (and totally would have succeeded if we hadn’t had to leave) – and still about 20 pounds overweight. Or rather, 20 pounds more than I’m comfortable with being. Not a big deal but something to be dealt with, if only because I’m cheap and don’t want to buy new clothes. The thing is, I’ve never had to really deal with weight issues. I mean, in highschool, I was the kid who could pack away a medium pizza every day and actually lose weight. For most of my adolescent and adult life I have stayed the same size, a respectable 120-125 lbs. Indeed, the only time in my life I’ve ever had weight issues per se was when I lived in Toronto and was consuming at least three pints of Guinness each day along with a fantastically unhealthy diet of McDonald’s, take-out Thai and croissants. At that time I was about 20 pounds more than is comfortable for me but I never tackled it. I just so happened to find myself in a financial position which made it necessary for me to work three jobs and eat very little; I was therefore able to simply overwork and stress the weight off. Healthy, no?

This time, I think I might have to put a bit more effort in. My age, post-babyness, and disinterest in working three jobs while eating nothing must be factored in. As must my general inclination to eat whatever passes by my face. I have zero will power because I’ve never really had to have will power when it comes to food. Hmmm. I dislike the idea of dieting, in part because I’m breastfeeding and that’s just plain unhealthy, but also because I’ve never liked the idea of eating boring low fat food or worrying like crazy about every fat, carbohydrate and protein calorie consumed. I’m also not a fan of breaking food down like that. Seems unnatural. I don’t like the idea of looking at a tin of black beans and instead of seeing a wonderful salad, seeing x number of protein grams. Boo.

But I do need a strategy of some kind to keep me on track. I think I’m going to go with portion control and careful consideration of whether or not I’m actually hungry and not just in need of water. We’ll see how that goes for the next couple of weeks. Because I’m not in the mood to give up my 18% fat yogurt. Or my croissants…

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I’m married! And on my honeymoon so I’ll write more soon….

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So Andrew and I took Ewan to his first house party tonight. It was a birthday party for a younger friend of ours, a fantastic gentleman by the name of JW who I did my Masters with. JW used to live in the bachelor apartment above our old place and is famous for getting “disasterfaced” and saying/doing hilarious things. When Andrew was away, I spent many a night drinking and joking around with JW and the odd night dragging his drunk ass up a few flights of stairs to bed. It had been ages since I’d had a drunk JW night so I was particularly excited to go to his birthday party, have a beer, and reminisce.

Well, Ewan charmed the pants off of everybody and even though it was 2000 degrees in JW’s apartment and there were semi to full-on intoxicated gentlemen everywhere, he didn’t seem bothered. It seemed that as far as he was concerned, there was heaps of stuff to look at, plenty of people goo goo-ing at him, and so therefore nothing to get upset about. Excellent. But Mummy Ezmy? Well, she had fun. But it was all weird, for a number of reasons. First Andrew and I are the first of our younger group of friends to have kids. For obvious reasons – we’re in our early 30s and they are in their mid 20s, an age difference that generally means nothing but in this case is something. I got the distinct impression that some people were uncomfortable with the presence of said baby or at the very least thought I was strange for bringing him. And maybe I am strange. I’ve always been of the mind that kids should only change things so much; further, I’ve never quite understood why some places/social situations aren’t considered kid-friendly. I mean, it’s probably not the best idea to bring a toddler who has just discovered her own voice to, say, an important speaking event or a quiet restaurant, but house parties are house parties and as far as I’m concerned, people need to get used to the fact that I come with a kid now. So there was that.

Second, it was the first time I had gone to a place where I wasn’t expected to talk about the kid the whole time and that was beyond refreshing. It can be tiring, relaying the labour story and such over and over again, and the great thing about a room full of mostly young men is that you can be pretty much guaranteed that none of them wants to hear the tale. Instead, I got to talk about school and politics and life outside our house and that was just delightful.

And third, there was the fact that I had to leave early. Boo. It was the first time that Andrew and I had to do the “ok, so we’ll both go but one of us has to leave early to look after the kiddo” thing and, because the kiddo needs me as a source of nourishment, I had to go home early. Lame with a capital L. See, the house party was moving to the bar and of course I can’t bring Ewan to the bar. Which is stupid – bars are non-smoking now and he sleeps through pretty much anything so what the hell. Sigh. Andrew drove me home and went back out and I felt…well, sad. Like I was missing out on something – fun conversation, dancing, and so on. But here’s the kicker – I was tired too. I needed to go home. I needed to relax on the couch with the kid. And as I sit here, writing this blog with my handsome little boy lying next to me, I can’t help but be happy to have these few moments alone with him, all maxed out on the couch with a hot milk.

So I’m between Ezmys. I feel like I’m losing this old way of life that I’m not quite ready to let go of. I loved that life – random pub nights and wine bars and house parties and dancing. I loved the freedom and I miss it. A lot. But then I look at this little man and I suddenly don’t want to do anything but stare at him and kiss him all over his cute-as-hell little face. Most confusing.

I feel like things will get better when he’s not breastfeeding and when we can actually get a babysitter. Breastfeeding in particular really takes away from my sense of self. Indeed, I can’t think of a single activity in the child-raising experience that makes me feel less like myself and more lost and disconnected than breastfeeding. If it weren’t for the health benefits and the money, I’d stop right now. And it’s more the money, if I’m being honest. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed by this realization. I always thought breastfeeding was weird – great for other people but weird. But I thought that once I had my own kid, I’d sort of come around to it. Well, here we are and I still think it’s weird. I have moments where I’m proud of myself for creating such a fat baby with my own homemade food. But a lot of the time, I resent the fact that I alone am responsible for feeding him. I hate that I’m chained to him through the boob and others (read: Andrew) are not. I just don’t feel like myself when I’m engaged in this act – sometimes I even feel like I’m losing a part of myself while I’m feeding him. Terrible. Worse, I find myself looking forward to a time when he’s on solid food and on the boob less and that troubles me because I don’t want to wish away this time when he’s all cuddly and little. Sigh.

Speaking of feeding, off I go now to pump the little munchkin full of boob milk….tata for now.

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Ewie. Duder. Buds. Budsie Bumpkin. My little man. He’s just over 7 weeks old, 12lbs and almost 24 inches. He’s outgrown almost all of his 0-3 month clothes, which I’m convinced are all made for short, squat little children. It occurred to me the other day that I may have given birth to a future 6 foot 4 inch child who takes after my brother. This frightening thought was quickly followed with the realization that I’m going to have to feed this child. How!? My brother used to drink, like, 4L of milk per day and eat entire loaves of bread like they were single croissants. Egad.

So I need a career. Not just to feed the kid, but to satisfy my starving brain. But what to do…what – to – do. Use my MA and work for the government? Meh. Go back to school and nab myself another degree…maybe law or a master’s of journalism? Possible. Get my teaching certificate for yoga and spend the rest of my life teaching others to live in a zen-like state? Sounds the most fun, methinks, but might not feed the kidlet. Huh. I have 1o months to think about it…thoughts and comments are appreciated.

I was going to write more but the Bumpkin is stirring…back again soon.

>My loyal blog readers will remember that I purchased a wedding dress last fall before finding out I was pregnant. It’s the most beautiful dress in all the land. And you will recall too that after finding out I was pregnant, some concern was expressed by others about whether or not the dress would fit. I wasn’t really concerned – I figured if it did great, if not whatever. I became slightly more concerned when I realized that there are so few dresses that I like in the first place but figured things would sort themselves out.

So at two weeks post-baby, I tried on the dress. It fit except for one (well, two) tiny (well, enormous) glitch – the breastfeeding boobage. Two extra inches of breastfeeding boobage stand between me and my dress. The rest of the dress actually fits better – I’m filling out the ass better than before for one thing. Win! But the boobage may be an issue. True, I’ve shrunk a bit in the past week so it’s really more of a 1.5 inch gap, but I can hardly wait until the day before the wedding to find out if this dress is going to fit. My genetics say it will (thanks, Mum!) but still.

The dilemma – buy a second dress and become one of those ‘two dress girls’ or hold out and risk having no dress at all. Hmmm. I decided to swallow my pride, go dress shopping, and embrace my ‘two dress girl’ status. After all, I’m not a traditional ‘two dress girl’. I didn’t buy a dress and change my mind, and I didn’t decide to buy two because I couldn’t make up my mind. I just need a safety net. A safety net made of silk and tulle. Which I found today after a brief hour long stint at a tiny bridal shop. It’s a perfectly respectable dress and if I end up wearing it, I won’t be sad.

Success!

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Ewan is three weeks old today. Nutty.

The past three weeks have been a total blur, as I suspected they would be. Week One was ‘get used to having a baby in the house’ week. Andrew spent this week cleaning, cooking and generally keeping the house from falling down while I attempted to master the art of breastfeeding. (A note about that: I care not what the breastfeeding advocates of the world say – breastfeeding is not a magical or beautiful bonding experience. At best, I think it goes from being the most frustrating learning experience to a relatively straightforward and necessary chore. I enjoy the fact that the Kid is eating and I like that I’m able to provide for him but I do not feel like I’m bonding with him; indeed, I usually just feel bored. What? It’s a lot of time to just be sitting around. I’ve taken to reading at the same time but then I feel like a bad mother for not paying attention. Sigh.). Neither of us really slept and we both drank our weight in coffee. Week Two was ‘meet the grandparents and attempt to leave the house’ week. Two of the three sets of grandparents came to visit so Ewan had is first stroller walk, carrier walk, trip to the park, trip to the museum, and restaurant meal out. A busy week. And Week Three was ‘recover from company and try to establish some semblance of a routine’ week. Andrew went back to the gym, and I went back to pulling together the wedding, balancing a baby on my boob while filling out some last minute wedding invites that somehow did not make it out the first time around.

So here we are at the start of Week Four and I found myself on Saturday suddenly wondering if I should be doing something with the baby. You know, more than feeding and changing and cuddling with him. Should I be playing with him in some primitive educational way? Should I be eating certain things to make him smarter through boob milk? Should I be watching out for certain developmental events and if so, what events? A friend asked me on Saturday about what age certain things happen (crawling, sitting up, talking, etc) and it occurred to me that I do not know. I can’t even ballpark it. That’s because while I was pregnant, I focused my reading on how to look after the basics for baby, and how to handle a colicky baby (I assumed mine would be…thus far I have thankfully been wrong). I never bothered to look at the age and stage thing…eep. I realize that the age and stage thing is an estimate anyways, but still. I should know something, no? So Saturday Ezmy started to worry a bit that she was a substandard mother.

But today Ezmy knows a bit better. I still don’t really know when things happen but I have a great baby book (Sears book) that gives me some helpful estimates. Woot. This same book also informed me that what my baby needs right now is playful chatter on my part, food, clean diapers and cuddles. Check, check, check, and double check. Phew. I don’t know…he seems happy. How can you really tell with babies? I mean, he still looks at me like he’s unsure of whether I’m a good thing. And sometimes he looks at me with this ‘Really, you’re the mum I got stuck with?’ look but I have decided to pass this look off as gas.

He does smile sometimes. This is encouraging.

So the motherhood thing is growing on me. I don’t feel like the best mum in the world but I’m certainly not the worst. So far, so good.

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He’s here! Ewan Aynsley Cameron Howard arrived at 11:30am on June 7, 2010 after a shockingly short four hour labour. And I do mean four hours. Woke up at 7:30 with a slight cramp, water broke all over the place about five minutes later and baby was out and in my arms exactly four hours later. Ambulance rides, no time for drugs, and all kinds of fun. But he’s here and he’s perfection. Yayaya!

I’m up between feedings right now so I really should head back to bed. Will write more soon…