So tomorrow is the big day. She will be here….TOMORROW. Frankly, I’m not sure what I’m more nervous about: the operation or the fact that I’m going to be responsible for a second small human. If I’m perfectly honest, it’s the latter. Gah.

Ok. So on Wednesday, I was just about 37 weeks pregnant and feeling…well, pretty good about things. A teensy bit nervous about going into labour at Shoppers Drug Mart or something, but otherwise pretty good. The chance to have a home birth was in sight, and I started to get all excited about relaxing in my bed post-birth with my new Little Lady lying on top of me, all wee and awesome. Warm fuzzy feelings were all around.

On Thursday, I went in for a precautionary ultrasound. I had been measuring small for a few weeks, you see, and while this is normal for someone with a bicornuate uterus, I still wanted to be sure she was growing properly, had enough fluid etc. So I asked for this one. Why, why do I do these things? Anyway, so it turns out that Little Lady is breech. Head thrust into my rib-cage, bum jammed in my pelvis, legs crossed like a little yogi breech.

This news was delivered to me in a sort of off-hand way by the ultrasound technician. She figured I knew. I didn’t. I left the clinic with my little picture feeling completely at a loss. The home birth option was gone. Indeed, the natural birth option seemed gone too. The term ‘C-SECTION’ started flashing across my brain and I began to feel ill.

You see, one of the big bonuses of having a second kid, I thought, was having a slightly better idea of what to expect. Yes, natural, drug-free labour terrifies me, but at least I know what it is. More to the point, I know I can do it. Because I friggin’ did it. I don’t know anything about c-sections or breech vaginal births. I don’t know how I feel about them, what they feel like, any of it. Do I want to shoot for a vaginal delivery, knowing that an emergency c-section could be just around the corner? Or do I want to schedule a c-section, knowing that there is always the (however small) possibility she could turn and come out just fine with much less pain and hassle? Major abdominal surgery does not appeal, but somehow I can’t get my mind around the pain that giving birth to a baby ass first is likely to be. GAH!

So now I’m back at square one. The small ounce of comfort I was getting out of having personal experience is gone and I can’t get it back.

To add insult to psychological injury, I’ve had a wretched cold for the last week, one which for the last couple of nights has kept me up all night hacking and vomiting. This has resulted in two problems. First, I am now being asked to make a decision regarding my new “birth plan” and I can’t think clearly enough to make a piece of toast, let alone decide the method of transportation my baby should take out of my body. And second, I’m an emotional over-tired basket case, who sobs over an accidental over-squeeze of toothpaste on her toothbrush.

In short, I don’t know what I want to do. I’m scared half to death of what lies ahead in the next couple of weeks because I don’t know what lies ahead in the next couple of weeks. And I am acutely aware of my inability to handle medical stress when it comes to my own person. Gods help me when I get old and have a real problem. Yeesh.

Of course, this will all be fine and funny in a couple of months, I can feel it. And I’m stupid excited to meet Little Lady. I just have to find a way to get through the next couple of weeks without falling off the edge, mentally speaking.

The yoga mat calls, I think.

So.

Mere days ago, I was up to my eyeballs in xmas cheer. Budsie and I were baking up a daily storm of treats, enjoying the outdoors, and packing up all the prezzies for mailing. I pumped out 80 xmas cards with photos and pleasant notes. I completed the Santa presents and stocking gifts. I knitted an obscene number of homemade xmas gifts. And the whole time, I kept the house in complete order. Super mum!

Friday’s reward for such hard work was the most amazing concert I’ve been to – three hours of Leonard Cohen’s oh-so-sexy voice. Pure awesomeness. I came home feeling so at peace with the world. Saturday was family fun times with the in-laws. Dinner out and a nice chat with AH post eats. I went to bed excited about the xmas dinner I was going to make everyone the next day. Roast chickens with vegetables and ginger cake with hot-buttered apple sauce for dessert. Nom.

It was on Sunday that I started to think something wasn’t right. It isn’t right, for example, to suddenly find yourself hiding in your bed under the covers, frantically texting your sister that you’re afraid to go upstairs because then the day has to start. As if the day won’t start if you don’t go upstairs. I was totally fine with making dinner for seven adults only the day before – “come on, Ezmy, get your ass in gear,” I muttered to myself. So I made the food. But as I was making the food, I could feel my mind start to….go. I was slowly taking leave of my senses. While chopping carrots, I found myself wondering if I’d be able to look after my new kid and my first kid. While prepping the chickens, I started to become convinced that I wasn’t actually a good mother after all, although I couldn’t identify what it was that suddenly made me a bad mother. By the time I was serving dessert to my totally happy guests, I was certain that the best thing I could do for my family was to leave. Run away. Never return. Because I was incompetent.

Oh the sense-making.

Monday, I woke up exhausted. The kind of exhausted one feels after weeks of 3 or 4 hour nights, followed by jam-packed, hold-it-all-together days. By the end of Monday, I was alternating between vomiting and crying uncontrollably for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON. Things did not improve much on Tuesday. Assuming I had the stomach flu or something, I asked my likely somewhat confused husband to stay home and look after Budsie, while I spent the day trying desperately to sleep. Just a little bit. Even just for an hour.

But I couldn’t. And I didn’t last night either. A. went back to work today and after he left, my mum came by and I was crying again. FOR NO REASON. Seriously, nothing is wrong. I’m stoked about the baby, stoked about xmas, stoked about my life in general. Best husband and son ever. Years of joy to look forward to. But I can’t get to sleep and am in constant pain. The combination of which appears to actually be driving me insane. I’m sure the hormones don’t help either. Sigh. I find myself dreading all the things I was looking forward to only a week ago. I can’t get excited about baking, knitting, reading, or even watching a damn tv show. The Big Move Next Summer simply terrifies me. Don’t even get me started about the having the baby part. Even responding to a text message takes all of my mental strength because I don’t want to sound pathetic or sad in said text. WHICH MAKES NO SENSE BECAUSE I AM NOT ACTUALLY SAD. Omfgs.

Pregnancy is for the birds, I tell you. The. Birds.

Right, a proper update.

So what’s new? Well, I’m still pregnant, heading into the third trimester now and feeling pretty good/terrified about things. Typical mixed emotions I expect every pregnant-with-second-child woman goes through – can’t wait to meet baby number two, but don’t actually feel like giving birth to baby number two. Excited about having a friend for Budsie, but not excited about staying up all night feeding that (likely screaming) friend. That sort of thing.

As mentioned in my previous quick post, baby number two is a girl. Her name will begin with an E, just like Budsie’s. We did ask Budsie’s opinion on names, but his suggestions (Wyatt, ABCDP, and GAHHwem) didn’t seem to stick. Instead, we’ve let him choose other things – special toys for the baby, a few girly onesies, and so on. He’s pretty excited about the whole thing, a feeling that is sure to last precisely one hour into her life on this planet, at which point he will realize he has to share his folks AND his books. Ah well.

I wish I could say that other things are new, but life has been chugging along at a pleasant speed and in the same pleasant routine for the last month or so now. It’s the definition of calm before the storm. Budsie and I spend our days baking, playing games outside and in, and organizing the house for The Big Move next year (more on that in a future post). We also spend our time chatting about stuff and this is where things get interesting. To me, anyway.

Budsie asks roughly a billion questions each day. Some questions are relatively simple (Where does milk come from? Why Zoe no talk?) but others require considerable thought. Questions such as “Where Daddy’s Bubba go?” when I explained that A.’s grandfather had died, for example, have forced me to choose my words carefully. On the one hand, I don’t like to blow off or overly simplify the answers, but on the other hand I don’t want to be too wordy and weird in my response. Yes, answering a 2 1/2 year old’s questions is tricky business indeed. For instance:

(while standing in line at the grocery store…)

Budsie: “That person is sad.” *points to a sad-faced Kardashian pictured on one of the assorted tabloid magazines at the checkout counter*

Me: “She does seem to be sad, yes.”

Budsie: “Why she sad?”

(The overly simple answer: “I don’t know.” This will not satisfy my two year old. “I don’t know” never satisfies the curious mind, but instead prompts further questions regarding my intelligence. Why doesn’t Mummy know? Why is Mummy so useless? But the complicated answer isn’t much better: “I don’t really know, kid. She’s young, beautiful and living in the 1%. But she keeps making these terrible life choices, hooking up with idiots, and partying a bit too much, and worrying far too much about what people think. What she should do is take a step back from it all and think about what she needs and wants. And then just go out and get it, you know? ‘Cause she has the means! Nothing but her mind is holding her back from having a great life and being happy. This stuff drives me crazy.” Yeah, that’s going to go over his head.)

Me: “Well, sometimes when people have too much money, they don’t know what to do with themselves, and so they get kind of sad.”

Budsie: *nods head in solemn and concerned way* “Ewie make her feel better? Give a hug and kiss?”

Me: *heart melts* “Yes, I’m sure you could make her feel better by giving her a hug and a kiss.”

Budsie: *beams*

*still here

*still pregnant

*having a GIRL! omgs

*will be back to write proper post soon

Ah, the second trimester.

Pros:

1) Eating an entire homemade pumpkin loaf in one sitting – something I may or may not have, but definitely did just do – is socially acceptable. At least I choose to believe it is, and few people are willing to pick a fight with a pregnant woman over food.

2) Increased energy. See pumpkin loaf note above. That’s right – I baked that! Couldn’t have brushed my teeth a month ago, and now I’m baking again. Win!

3) Vomit bags are no longer a staple in one’s purse. Or jeans pocket. Or glove compartment. Or bedside table. On a related note: no more only wearing hair in a ponytail because it’s the most conducive to regular vomiting.

4) Back to the food: everything tastes GLORIOUS! After months of most things tasting like awful and death, with all but the blandest of bland foods coming back up, the second trimester is like having your tongue re-tastebudded. Toast and jam? GLORIOUS! Egg noodles with green beans? GLORIOUS! Pumpkin loaf? OH SO GLORIOUS!

Cons:

1) Too small for maternity clothes, too big for regular people clothes. The modern woman has a number of tools at her disposal to tackle this situation – Bella Bands, loose-fitting dresses, and of course the MacGyver-esque safety pin+hair elastic solution – but none quite do the trick 100% of the time. I don’t care to think about the number of times I’ve looked down only to realize that my pants are totally undone and I’m showing my undies to the world. To be fair, these solutions did work a lot better when I wasn’t spending my days on park slides or sitting in a sandpile covered in rocks, pretending to be a ‘Mummy mountain’.

2) Energy does not equal stamina. That is, this new found energy is great and everything, but I keep forgetting that I really can’t stand for two hours to bake pumpkin loaf AND muffins AND snacktimes AND dinner. On several occasions in the past week, I’ve had to sit in the middle of the kitchen floor, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Budsie thinks this is hilarious (“Mummy sit on kitkit floor BAHAHAHA!”), but all it does for me is make me realize I need to clean under the stove. Ugh.

3) You can easily forget you’re pregnant. And then suddenly be overcome with terror at what awaits you in mere months. Also, you can accidentally sip some wine, forgetting that you aren’t really supposed to be doing that (but delighting in the fact that it is oh so good).

4) This trimester is shorter than the others. Mathematically speaking it’s the same length. But it goes by way too fast. Waaaaay too fast.

Today was one of those days that started out pretty awesome and ended up totally poopster.

I began the day by waking up at 5am. As usual. Thank you, Darling Fetus, for prodding me awake at such an ungodly hour. I wrestled with sleep until 6am when I gave up. I have averaged four hours each night for the last couple of weeks and things are starting to get a little hairy in my head. But instead of thinking “Christ this day’s gonna blow” I decided that the four hours I had got last night was totally enough to get me through to Budsie’s nap time at 1pm when I too could fall asleep. This nap was a sure thing, I reasoned, as Budsie had been up until 10pm the previous night (night time travelling still beats early mornings). So I caught up on some news, mapped out my day’s to-do list, and when the kidlet woke up, I responded to his “Hi Mummy” with a cheery “Hallo Budsie Bumpkin!” This day was going to rock, I decided, and armed with coffee and a plan I truly believed this would be the case.

Things went fine until nap time. We did crafts, looked at rocks, had a fun reading time on the potty, and ate tasty snacks and lunch. By nap time, we were both tuckered out. But 20 minutes into nap time, things turned ugly. I was just about to fall asleep when Budsie started screaming. He never screams, so I feared the worst. When I went into his room, he was pointing at the ceiling, completely terrified. There was nothing there. I STILL don’t know what might have been there, or if it was just a nightmare. But whatever it was, it cursed the day. There was no consoling the kidlet and after 30 minutes I gave up and we read books. Except he didn’t want to read books. Or sing songs. Or play sports. Or play with puzzles, play-doh or crayons. What he did want to do was yell “WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY NONONONONONONONONO WHYWHYWHYWHY WHY NONONONONO” and giggle insanely. For 45 minutes. Then he decided it was time to bang his head against everything. And then to throw things. And then to burst into tears. By the time Fialonia showed up for a quick visit at around 4pm, I didn’t recognize my child and I certainly didn’t want to be anywhere near him. All of my positive energy had been drained and I suddenly felt wholly negative about life in general. I missed sleep. I missed Life Before Children. I was overcome with horror at the thought that I was already well on my way to another one of these things. What the HELL was I thinking? These thoughts turned to more irritating things such as why don’t I own a car? Why does it take me 3 hours to do what it takes car people 15 minutes to pull off? Because I don’t work – but why am I not working out of the home? When did this become my plan? What the hell am I doing with my life?

And blah diddy blah blah.

Now I find myself completely deflated and drained. My wonderful husband came home and I could barely muster the positive energy to give him a hug. I retreated to our bedroom as soon as dinner was eaten and here I sit feeling vomity (Darling Fetus does not seem to grasp the concept of second trimester), haggard, and completely sorry for myself. It is absolutely amazing how lack of sleep + pregnancy hormones can really fuck with a person’s day and general attitude towards life.

Thankfully, tomorrow is another day. And by the looks of it, the PQ isn’t necessarily going to get what they wanted in tonight’s election. Which pleases me.

When Budsie was about 20 months old, he said he wanted a potty. Who am I to say no, I thought, even though I was pretty sure he didn’t know what he was asking for. We got one, he used it every so often, sometimes as a reading chair and occasionally as an actual toilet, and then lost interest around about 23 months. And I thought: meh.

Now. Any number of (lame-o) parents and (ridiculous) parenting books will tell you that I shouldn’t have let this slide, that I should have aggressively pursued this toilet training business as if my child’s life depended on it. If I let him have his toilet-training way, he’d become spoiled. Or dependent. Or whatever it is that kids become when they decide things for themselves. I was even told by one mother that if I let him “just give up,” he’d never train properly, (so presumably he’d be in diapers, what, forever??), AND he’d probably have a “give it up” attitude his whole life. In other words, by allowing my child to guide the process, I was setting him up for failure.

What a load of hooey.

A couple of weeks ago, Budsie suddenly realized that Elmo is potty-trained. I then mentioned that his cousin Frojo was too. This got the gears going. A few days ago, he found out that his little pal Mr. T had also begun using underwear. So he inquired about the underwear that sat in his sock drawer. And I said “Why don’t we give it a go on Monday? Monday can be super duper underwear day!” “YES!” he shouted. Again, I’m not sure he knew what he was agreeing to, but I can tell you this: we’re on day four, and he’s had only one accident today and two successful trips. Plus he’s super dedicated – if he doesn’t make it, he gets frustrated and then says “ne’ time in potty.”

Yep, those are the words of a quitter. Pfft.

At the end of the day, this might not be a good time for Budsie either. He might give up. He might decide he’s not ready. And when we have the second kidlet, Budsie might decide to regress a bit. Whatever. I feel like my job is just to encourage him and tell him to do what feels right. He won’t be in diapers when he’s 15. Heck, he probably won’t be in them when he’s 5 either. People worry too much about these things.

Right, off I go to have some more cake. I had TWO birthday cakes on my birthday and have been trying to pace myself. It’s been tough, but I’ve managed to keep it down to two slices of cake per day *pats self on back*.

You were probably starting to wonder if A. and I even talk anymore. Or at the very least if we talk about anything more than my physical well-being, or what he needs to nab for me from the shops…

Scene: A. and Ezmy are in bed, preparing to watch an episode of The West Wing. Prior to said episode watching, A. decides to peruse his new GQ. Jealous, Ezmy curses the postman for not bringing her the much anticipated September issue and then moves on to some light Jezebel reading. But she does notice a handsome fellow on the GQ…

Ezmy: “Who’s the fellow on the cover? A football player? He sure is dreamy….”

A.: *looks at cover*

Ezmy: “…handsome, handsome, handsome.”

A.: “It’s Tim Tebow.”

Ezmy: “Who is…wait…”

A.: “The crazy Christian one.”

Ezmy: “Shhhh…shhhh, no he’s just handsome.”

A.: “Uh huh.”

(pause)

A.: *holds magazine up to Ezmy’s face* “ooooh I lurve Jesus.”

Ezmy: *glares at A.* “shhh handsome.”

(pause)

A.: *holds up magazine to Ezmy’s face again* “I’m super pro-life!”

Ezmy: *tries to ignore A.*

(pause)

A.: *holds up magazine to Ezmy’s face again* “Vote Mitt Romney!”

Ezmy: “Hmpf.”

(pause)

A.: *holds up magazine to Ezmy’s face again* “Tom Akin had a point.”

Ezmy: “Why?! Why. No. Just handsome.”

A.: *snicker*

After three months of persistent nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells, headaches and the overwhelming feeling of “why the fuck am I doing this again?”, I find myself entering the second trimester a little worse for wear and more than a little apprehensive about this whole second baby business. I look and feel terrible – there’s no two ways about it. There are stray cats living in East Vancouver who are doing better than I am, a fact I find decidedly unfair. When I was pregnant with Budsie, I glowed almost the entire time. Even when I was vomiting, my hair was shiny, my skin perfection. This was my consolation prize, I felt. Sure, I had to get ridiculously bloated and have never-ending heartburn, but at least I had great skin for the first time in my entire life. Worth it.

Not so with baby number two. Hair? Limp and lifeless with a hint of dishwater. Skin? Polkadot with a slightly greyish hue. General headspace? Poor. Relationship with fetus thus far? Largely negative.

Also different about pregnancy number two? The persistent, all-consuming thought that I am, in fact, going to have to push this kid out. Yes, I knew I was going to give birth to the baby last time, and I knew it was going to suck, but I was blissfully unaware of how much it was going to suck. My strategy at that time was just to avoid all mention of labour right until the end, choosing instead to focus on the now. How quaint.

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as focusing on the now with baby number two – I know too much about the future. So instead I find myself trying to get internally psyched about the horrors* that lie ahead. I’ve taken to going over my previous labour much like I imagine an athlete goes over a previous athletic performance: self-critically and with a mind to improving one’s technique such that the awfulness isn’t repeated (at least not entirely). There are things I could have done differently, I’m sure of it. Maybe I should have made a playlist of inspiring hard rock music to help me power through, much like I do when I’m running. Maybe I should have been more particular about the personalities that got to join me in the birthing process (I’m looking at you, Bitchy Negative Midwife who gave me the general impression that I sucked at labour). And maybe I should have stayed at home, rather than a) sit in an ambulance with a paramedic who insisted I couldn’t have the baby in the ambulance because she had never done this before, and b) give birth in a too-bright, too-hot room with no ice or nibblies of any kind.

Anyway, so that’s what I’ve been up to lately. I’ll be back soon with a much more positive-sounding post. For now, I retreat to my bedroom which is well-stocked with chocolate biscuits, ice cold beverages and an August Vogue I finally feel up to reading.

*Note: there are those who say their labour was easy. Well good for them. I fall into this category of people. It was a ridiculously fast, and positively terrifying four hour labour with no breathers between contractions and no pain relief. I had flashback nightmares for six months after Budsie was born. I woke up shaking violently, crazy worried that I’d somehow become pregnant again and convinced I could never do it all over. So ducky for those easy labour types who say it wasn’t that bad. I’m thrilled for their success.