>Wow, so I really haven’t kept up with this blog. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been so busy but really, it’s because nothing happens in the life of someone who is sitting around waiting for a baby to make his grand entrance. I thought for sure that bed rest would provide me with heaps of opportunity to write, and it did, but it did not provide heaps of ideas to write about. I am assuming that my fellow bloggers could care less that I spent a day sorting through my Vogue magazine collection and agonizing over whether to toss anything older than 2008 (I did not – I just can’t bring myself to do it, no matter how silly Andrew thinks it is to keep them). Or that I spent another day rearranging the DVDs into genre. Etc. So no writing for me.

But, in spite of having nothing interesting to say, I find myself really wanting to blog so here we are. The baby isn’t here yet, much to my chagrin. Every week I go to the midwife and every week they say “any day now”. “Any day now” has haunted me since the middle of March and I gotta say, at this point, I remain unconvinced that this child is ever coming out. To be fair, my actual due date isn’t until this Sunday. But come on! There is a mere 6mm of cervix holding this kid in…what’s the hold up? A sunshine and roses motherhood type might tell me that my darling little one is just so pleased with the environment I’ve provided for him that he’s not ready to leave. I know better. He’s procrastinating. He is my fetus, after all. I’ll bet he’s considered coming out earlier but decided against it because let’s face it, it’s hard work. And I’ll bet he’s keeping himself busy by tying the umbilical cord into different knots or practicing swallowing using amniotic fluid, skills he’s probably convinced himself are imperative to existing in the outside world so he better master them before he leaves. Sigh.

The truly frustrating thing for me is that I’m losing my enthusiasm for the whole labour process. For the past couple of weeks, I have been in just the right frame of mind to go into labour. I have been primed for the pain. Full of confidence and raring to go. But over the last couple of days, I’ve lost my ambition. Worse, I’m starting to feel like this isn’t really happening to me…that’s it’s actually happening to someone else. I dislike this out of body sensation. I felt more aware, more connected to this pregnancy a few days ago. Today, the whole thing seems surreal. I suspect that when I actually go into labour, I’ll be brought back to it again. But I liked the prepared mental state I was in before…this one is too wishy-washy. I’ve tried getting back in focus by reading articles or chapters about kidlets, but no luck so far.

Which is where tennis comes in. I really enjoy watching tennis, a habit I picked up when I started dating Andrew – a huge tennis fan – and this last two weeks, I’ve managed to keep my pregnancy/labour/kid-raising troubles at bay by focusing on the French Open. I’ve researched every player and watched almost every match. In the process, I’ve been chatting to The Fetus about tennis, educating him if you will on the finer points of a good tennis match. I choose to think he enjoys this. Unfortunately, Roland Garros ends on Sunday and Wimbledon doesn’t start until the end of June so he really needs to arrive on Monday at the latest. Fingers crossed.

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So today is better. On the advice of a doctor friend, I went out for a short sunny walk and it helped immensely. Mental health, as she noted, is just as important as physical health. That was nice to hear from a doctor, I must say. I went for another short walk today and my spirits are high. It’s 26 degrees here and sunny and I’m going to spend the day sitting on our porch with a good book and my feet up. Sweet.

>I’m living in a world of frustration right now. For 12 years, I have done everything by myself. I’ve moved myself to a number of different shitty apartments, I’ve found my own jobs, I’ve done my own cooking, I’ve done my own shopping. If I need to get somewhere, I figure out a way to do it. If I need to clean or arrange something, I clean or arrange the way I see fit. And even in my relationships, I’m the one who does these things. I clean, I cook, and I remember the ridiculous little things like garbage days, and birthdays and phone numbers and appointments and such.

And now, for the first time in 12 years, I am being forced to rely on others in every sense of the word. And let me tell you, it blows big time goats. I have no job, which means I have no income of my own to speak of. This has never, EVER, been the case. I have been working steadily since I was 13 and decided I was going to own a convertible by the time I was 16 (this did not happen…I did, however, own plenty of clothes…and books…and random knickknacks…and empty packs of cigarettes…and empty Ziploc baggies…). I can’t walk anywhere to do anything, so when sales happen at Clinique (eep!) for example, or when I suddenly realize we’re out of dish soap, or when I decide I might want to pick up some new vitamins or lip gloss, or when I need to fax something important, or when I want to make the trek out to that tiny bakery in the Glebe that sells the good bread, I can’t do these things. And I can’t really ask others to do these things because I’d be asking favours all day long. You know how it is: you wake up and you think, huh, I could really go for some good bread. And then when you’re walking way out of your way to get good bread you think, oh yeah! There’s a great little apothecary in this neighbourhood. And so on and so on. If you’re asking someone to get something for you, you have to think of these things all at once. Further, I hate to ask people to travel all over hells half acre to get the little things I like. I have no problem running around to different places to do the shopping, for instance, but I can’t ask Andrew to do that. He’d find it frustrating and unnecessary to buy apples in one place and bread in another. Argh.

And when it comes to stuff at home, I’m going really nutty. Frankly, I’m just ignoring the bed rest thing at times because there is just no way I’m asking Andrew to get me a glass of water and then oh yeah, could you cut me up some carrots, and maybe add a little cucumber with salt, oh and could you bring me my phone…and my notepad…oh and I need a pen….and another pillow etc etc etc. Because I’m terrible at remembering everything I need all at once. And I need to have things tidier than he does so I’ve been loading the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen (lightly) and keeping on top of laundry and so on. I’m not convinced that others in my position don’t do the same. I can’t expect Andrew to suddenly morph into a cleaning god and I certainly can’t expect him to suddenly remember all the things that I do. And I flat out refuse to sound like a nagging wife-y. As if the guy isn’t under enough pressure with work and his bed ridden girlfriend and the fact that a baby could be arriving at any second. Yeesh.

So I’m frustrated. Because I want to be doing more and because I like to take care of my own things. Because it takes me two hours to do dishes what with all the sitting I have to do in between. Because we just moved into our new home and I want to feel settled but I can’t until the boxes are unpacked which I can’t do because I’m not supposed to be lifting things so I’m sitting in a messy living room that makes me want to scream. Because I’m tired and cranky and I know a good walk in the sun would make me feel better but then just when I think screw it, I’m going for a little walk, I am suddenly wrought with guilt…what if The Fetus comes out early because I couldn’t listen to bed rest instructions and blah diddy blah blah. Which is ridiculous because there is no way one walk is going to damage this kiddo. WIHGLAENKGKDLFKSDJAFLIEWJL. Sigh.

I’m aware that at the end I get this beautiful baby. Which is just great and I’m super excited. But forgive me if that isn’t enough to console me at present. I just don’t feel like myself and no amount of thinking about the cute little baby, who is happily dancing around in my uterus as we speak, can fix that right now. Maybe things will be better tomorrow.

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So two weeks ago, everything was going pretty great. Indeed, as I walked into work that morning, I couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky I was. Not many women can cheerfully walk an hour to work every morning at 7 months pregnant, I thought, and even fewer get to enjoy this walk with a crisp Pink Lady apple from Herb & Spice. Further, I noted to myself as I walked past yet another yummy smelling bakery, I was not walking to a job I hated. On the contrary, I was really starting to enjoy my job; I mean, it was still pretty dull and very very easy, but I worked with nice people and was generally left to my own devices during the day, which I loved.

Things were good.

That day, I had an ultrasound appointment to check out The Fetus’s left foot, which an ultrasound tech. had noticed might be growing a little funny. By nightfall, I was being ordered to go on ‘modified bed rest’. Wha? Not because of the foot, mind, but on account of my ‘insufficient cervix’, which as it turns out, is less than 1/3 the size it should be. W-T-F.

The last two weeks have been pretty lame, I must say. I had to stop working. I had to stop walking. I did not, thankfully, have to stop eating Pink Lady apples but I could no longer make the 45 minute trek to purchase said apples. Worst of all, though, I had to stop flying. In planes, long distances. Most inconvenient timing as my one and only little brother is getting married this weekend. I cried for days and writing about it still bothers me, so I’m going to stop.

What has perked me up immensely is the fact that Andrew and I now live in our first Grown-Up House. Crazy, eh? I’m going to miss my old neighbourhood, with its boutique shops and spiffy markets, but nothing beats having your own home. With two stories, no less. And a tiny patch of grass. Woot! There’s a bit of work that needs to be done….the last people who lived here had a penchant for pink and a smoking habit that would clearly have made Winston Churchill blush, but whatever. Its ours. *beams*

Anyway, so that’s what’s new. I would imagine that the posting is going to get a lot more frequent as I’m basically stuck on the couch for at least another four weeks (and possibly for another ten weeks…). Lately, I’ve been thinking that this blog needs a focus. You know, more than just my random ramblings. So perhaps now is the time to make this change…we shall see.

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Dear G*d, but I’m bored. Andrew is in NY until next week, doing important things. I should be doing important things, like planning the wedding or packing the house, but I’m just not in the mood. I’m not in the mood to do much of anything. I’m bored with all of my activity options. Boo.

I think the fetus is bored too. He spiced up a bit when I was singing and doing the dishes, and again when I ate a bunch of chocolate chips and pumpkin seeds and read him some Harry Potter (we’re on the Chamber of Secrets right now…). But now he’s pretty quiet…just the odd boot to the ribs now and then. Which I take as a sign of boredom. No surprise, really. It can’t be that exciting in my uterus.

These are the times when I wish I was my cat. Well, these times and every morning when she’s all maxed out on the bed and I’m frantically trying to remember where I put my glasses/bus pass/keys while at the same time hopping around trying to squeeze my ever-expanding pregnant ass into the only decent pair of pants I have left. Z-bone is rarely bored. Right now she is passed out after a half hour stint with a piece of velcro she managed to detach from my printer cord. In a few minutes, when I close the blinds, this movement too will excite her and cause her to stare at the window intently for a good 10 minutes. When all else fails, she can always resort to chasing nothing. Lucky Boney.

I know I’ll look back at this post in a couple of months and hate this Ezmy. Future Ezmy will never be bored and will long for the days when she had time to write lame posts like this. But right now, this Ezmy wants something new to do. I need a new book or a new painting project. Or maybe I just need sleep. Blllllaaaaaahhhhh.

>…to find a dress for my little brother’s wedding that does not a) make me look like a pre-teen baby mama (baby doll dresses are therefore out of the question), b) have sleeves (why on EARTH would I want sleeves on an evening dress that I will likely be dancing in and definitely be over-heating in??), or c) have giant stupid geometric prints, fake rayon/lycra sashes, random bows that sit on my stomach, or flowers on it (I’m not against all flowers, mind you, just stupid house-wifey looking ones. You know what I’m talking about).

This will be a challenge. Particularly as there are no cool maternity shops in O-town. Only Thyme Maternity which is not only a billion miles away from downtown, but is also the blandest shop I have EVER seen. It’s the Suzy Shier/Reitman’s of the maternity crowd. Lame with a capital ‘L’.

Part two of today’s mission is to find new shoes to go with said dress. I suspect the shoes will be the easy part. I’m in the market for a pair of nude coloured shoes, methinks. Spring-y and such.

So that’s today. Wish Ezmy luck.

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Yesterday, I was super grumpy. And here’s why. First, I was at work on my lunch break and had to listen to someone try to convince me that “The Liberals” own all of the newspapers and that “The Liberal Media Bias” is all too real and threatening The Truth. Fuck – off. I instructed this douchebag to turn his attention to such conservative rags as the National Post and the Ottawa/Calgary/Toronto Sun where I’m sure he’ll find his version of The Truth, and then politely told him to go away. Next, I went to the midwife’s office to pick up some paperwork I need in order to get my negatory blood-type all fixed up for the kidlet. This involved me getting on a crowded city bus which just makes me grumpy because people push me around and I’m not enough of an ass to push back. Happily, someone did give up their seat for me. This happy moment carried me over until just after leaving the midwife’s office when I called a cab to come pick me up in an effort to avoid going back on a city bus that was going to take an hour to get me home. I waited 1 HOUR for the cab to show up. ONE HOUR!! Outside in the cold all seven months pregnant and uncomfortable. This is where the grumpy really started to kick in. Worse, I couldn’t even complain about it. Why? Because there is no one to complain to. And I can’t stop using this particular cab company because they have a virtual monopoly on the cab service in Ottawa. Blerg. The cab eventually arrived and I got in and decided to peruse the paperwork the midwife gave me concerning the shot. While doing this, I realize that I actually did not need to pick up this paperwork at all. I could have waited until my scheduled appointment next week. I was led to believe, see, that it was imperative that I get my WinRho shot now…it is not. It is not imperative for another two weeks. Which means this whole leaving work/city bus/wait a billion years for a cab thing could have been avoided. GODAMMIT. Then I get home to find that Andrew has also had a shitty afternoon which means there is little hope of him cheering me up. Boo.

I realize that this is all trivial. Earthquakes tearing the world apart, war on-going, children dying etc. etc. But in the small world of Pregnant Ezmy, little events can really pile up to make me grumpy, useless, and uninspired by the very thought of doing anything but lying in bed. Which is what I did. With a pizza. Nom.

Today is much better. What is interesting about today, though, is the fact that I am SO HUNGRY. Seriously. Right now, I could eat a shwarma wrapped in pad thai and poutine with a side of apple pie and I’d still be looking for more. There is food in the house, but it requires…effort. I have little of this to spare at present….sigh.

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Every so often, when I’m at work, I come across really cool words. Because I work in a patent firm, see, one of those big ones that deals with Big Auto and Big Pharma et al. (please don’t get me started on the guilt I feel over this…I’ll save that for another post…my principles had to be set aside in order for me to feed the fetus once it, you know, stops being a fetus and such…much like they had to be set aside when I worked for Starbucks, the Gap, Jacob Junior, and Microsoft in order to a) eat and b) pay for an education…that I don’t use now….because I work for a patent firm….sigh). And pharmaceutical companies in particular can sometimes have the niftiest way of outlining their latest inventions. Using excellent words like “equidistant” and “coagulate” and “orifice” and “amorphous” (which to my delight was followed by “blob” in one instance), words I know but never get to use in sentence. Words that roll off the tongue deliciously, like only truly great words can. And I thought, when I took this job, that I would be joining others like me who enjoy saying things like “enCYclopeeeedia…” or “discomBOBulate” or “BOISterous”, particularly in the shower for the echoing effect. Alas, this is not the case. My co-workers, while nice and all, don’t seem to get the same kick out of words that I do. Which is depressing in a job that deals entirely with the organization of words. Worse, not only do they not seem to appreciate spiffy words, but they lack the sense of humor to appreciate when said spiffy words are put into serious and yet silly sentences. Sigh. So today, when I came across a particularly amusing passage in a set of legal claims that I was reviewing, which included the aforementioned “amorphous blob” phrase, I had no one to chuckle with about it. Disappointing, really.

>Look! My uterus!

It’s been awhile. But really, there hasn’t been much to say. Well, I suppose I could write each day and talk about my latest adventure in pregnancy, but most of the time these little adventures aren’t really worth writing about. I mean, who needs to hear about the time last week when I woke up at 3am and ate the better part of a gigantic bag of peanut butter M&M’s in the dark while Andrew lay sleeping next to me? Or the moment last night when I realized, in most embarrassing fashion, that I can no longer put my winter boots on standing up? Nobody, that’s who.

Thursday was a day of note. Thursday was “Check-out-the-inside-of-Ezmy’s-uterus” day. It was also the first day that Ewan really decided to make himself known. I’ve been feeling him bustle around in there a bit since xmas time, but up until Thursday, these bustlings have resembled Dairy Extravaganza Days and I haven’t thought much of them. Thursday was a completely different story. It all began when I started drinking heavily – not booze, mind you, but water for the ultrasound. Personally, I don’t find the ultrasound bladder filling too difficult, largely because I do not try and consume 1.5 L of water an hour and half before the ultrasound like they suggest. Instead, I drink water steadily from the morning until 1 hour before the appointment, emptying when necessary. I cut the washroom trips off 1 hour before, drink two glasses of water and I’m good to go. But I’m still full and riding the bumpy bus to the hospital isn’t exactly a treat. Which is why I was excited/annoyed to feel Ewan give my bladder a super solid kick on the way to the appointment. I guess my bladder was in his way or something as he continued to beat the crap out of it all the way to the hospital. I was torn – I mean yayayaya to feeling the creepiest feeling in the world of my darling parasite kicking me but boobooboo to having one’s bladder treated like a punching bag when it’s taking all of one’s strength to hold in the contents. Yeesh.

But it didn’t stop there. So we’re in the ultrasound room, and the poor ultrasound tech is trying to take measurements of the kid; you know, making sure the kidneys, bladder, stomach etc are all on track, that all four heart chambers are functioning, that he isn’t growing a second head, that his cerebellum isn’t in the wrong place, etc. But is my darling parasite cooperating? No. Instead, he is tearing around my uterus like a mad animal, hitting everything in his path and flashing his junk whenever he gets the chance. Awesome. Frustrated, the ultrasound tech tells me to get up and dance around a bit, to see if that gets him to move to a more suitable position. So I dance around like a fool in the middle of the office and sure enough he moves, but not where he’s supposed to. Now he’s facing the camera and hiding everything that needs to be measured. Sigh. We were there three times as long as last time. And when we left, he continued to dance around in my uterus for another hour. He’s got spunk, I’ll give him that.

But other than tales from my uterus, which really excite no one but me, nothing new is happening. The job is the same, although the work environment has improved immensely. Now that I’m pregnant, see, no one thinks I’m after their job and they are super friendly. Sigh. Andrew came back from gallivanting all over South America and we’ve spent most nights maxed out in front of an episode of The Office. I visited the talented Cassy W. last weekend, which was lovely. I’m thinking about packing for the Move to Grown Up House…thinking about it is a start, I figure. But that’s it. Life is ridiculously peaceful, like the calm before a twenty year-lifelong storm. It’s a bit eerie…

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Andrew has gone away for a week and a half. I am sitting in bed with a stack of Premium Plus crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and a butter knife, eating away and watching 30Rock. I have definitely gotten more than a blob or two of peanut butter on one of Andrew’s old shirts. I’ve never looked sexier. Ha.