On Hating Haircuts (or why I need to invest in a Flowbee)

I think there were about ten minutes in the mid-nineties that I wasn’t either growing out my bangs or deciding whether to cut bangs. I am currently doing both (as my longish side bangs are so annoying that I am trying to decide on the easiest way to end the misery).

This is not to say that I have never liked my hair. I had a good two year run with one stylist whose personality did not make the cut (wow. I’m so sorry) but more often than not, I’m either committed to a mediocre stylist whose personality I love or I’m bouncing from stylist to stylist like a crack addict with memories of that one awesome haircut that worked and the high the came with it. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I will also admit that sometimes it’s not my hair that’s the real issue--it's my face. I have had several haircuts (including, but not limited to the one that I am currently sporting) that would look awesome if I had someone else’s face.

I am not a cutter or a substance abuser or someone who engages in extreme (or team) sports, but I have been recklessly using Groupons for haircuts lately, my logic being why pay $100  for the same cut you can hate for $15.00? My husband thinks that I’m cheap and that I’m getting what I pay for. That said, he also claims not to notice any difference between haircuts. Ever. If this is in fact true, it’s kind of sad for him because when I do get that perfect cut, he won’t be able to revel in the joy that I am imagining accompanies a good haircut. I might not even invite him to the I-have-the-exact-right-amount-of-layers party.*

I feel like a big issue with my recent (10+ year) run of bad haircuts has a lot to do with communication. However, because I happen to be an excellent communicator (obviously) I have narrowed it down to two possibilities--either the stylists I’m dealing with are hard of hearing or the music they play at salons is just too loud. I mean what other reason is there to explain the fact that when I say “no layers”, the stylist hears “ ‘mo layers!”  Or when I say  “just a trim” she hears “short, like him” or if I say “just a bit off the back” she hears “if you don’t cut a big chunk off the front, I might have a heart attack!” So my next step is to stop frequenting salons that play music**.  

The crazy part is that I have easy hair and I’m not at all adventurous -- my hair has never been cut above my shoulders, dyed, permed or even highlighted which is why I have to get this issue under control NOW. I’m not sure how much time I have left before the grey sets in, but I need to find someone who can cut my hair before I venture into the scary and exciting world of colour.***

In the meantime, the longer this issue goes on, the more empathy I have for fellow sufferers- the most famous being Britney Spears****, who you may remember was so unhappy with a lousy haircut back in February 2007 that she shaved off  all her hair and immediately suffered a breakdown. Though I hear that it’s grown back quite nicely-- maybe I should find out who cuts her hair (and whether he accepts Groupons.)




*Extravaganza

**And to stop using stylists that can only communicate by reading lips without and interpreter who is fully versed in American Sign Language by my side.
***I can already hear how the conversation will play out “What? Dark brown? I thought you said you wanted a colour that you can see across town”.
****Or possibly, Sinead O’Connor

On Hating Cell Phones (or why yes, I *am* a 75-year-old woman)

I remember staying home sick from school one day when I was in the third or fourth grade, lying on my parents’ bed and watching a fashion show from the future on Donahue. I don’t remember much about the show other than models dressed in flashy metallic jumpsuits (so similar to the ones we all wear now....how did they know?) and a woman pulling a phone out of her handbag while the announcer talked about how the future would be communication-driven and that everyone would have a portable phone. I looked at the phone  (attached by a cord to the model’s handbag) and was pretty skeptical. The idea of a purse phone seemed just about as likely as the realization of my fantasies of having a TV in the car or my brother being abducted by aliens.

Surprisingly (given that I had been given so much time to prepare, thanks to my friend Phil Donahue), I was the last of my friends to get a cell phone. It happened one day when a friend marched me into a store, told me that I was unreachable and that I had to get with the times. Because said store was offering a free phone for signing up with a plan (I love free so much that I signed up for 3 different Visa cards in undergrad just for free oversized T- shirts) I signed up. For a three-year plan. And, as luck would have it, my work gave me a Blackberry later that month (also free) so quite quickly I went from being a tech loser with no cell phone, to being a tech loser with two cell phones.

I am a terrible cell phone owner. It took me 2 years to learn my phone number. I leave it in my purse for days at a time. It rarely has any charge (please refer to “purse for days at a time”) and I will not give you my number unless there is a very good reason (ie. we are married or you have temporary possession of my child).  If you do have my number and venture to use it, you will likely be met with a voicemail message warning you not to leave a message because I don’t check messages (my plan came with free voicemail so obviously I had to take it).

I do use my cell phone-- it’s great for calling to say that I am running late or for calling my husband to see why he is running late. But I still have as many reservations as the average tech savvy 75-year-old.

Most importantly, I think that they are dangerous. They cause accidents on the road (I suspect a drunk driver and texter have the same level of skill and awareness). They cause brain tumours and brain cancer (okay, this hasn’t been conclusively proven, but I I’ve read enough studies and compelling arguments to believe it- particularly in the case of children who start using cell phones at a young age). I will remind you that even people as learned and earnest as TV doctors used to say that cigarettes were safe too.

I also think that they make us rude. It’s entirely normal to pick up a phone call during a meal or while out with a friend (or your wife). People text while others are talking to them. People speak loudly on the bus, in the airport, in stores invading everyone else’s space and comfort level.

Cell phones make it free for our in-laws to call us from anywhere, any time of day or night with their ludicrously cheap plans (which would be annoying for people who don’t like hearing from their in-laws as much and as often as I enjoy hearing from mine).

I am also not comfortable talking on a cell phone (it doesn’t tuck behind my ear the way my home phone does) or touching someone else’s cell phone (I know you’ve had that Petri dish in the bathroom with you). But finally, I am not comfortable calling a call phone, which seems to be something I have to do more and more frequently as people ditch their land lines.

I don’t think that anyone needs to be reachable all the time. I don’t want you calling me when I am at the park with my kid and frankly, I don’t want to be calling you. I don’t like when you call me from the grocery store as you shop with screaming kids and announcements in the background as you tell me to “hold on” while you ask some dude about where the buttermilk can be located. Also, I am nervous calling you. I am nervous that you will pick up while you are driving or that my call will interrupt an important meeting (who hasn’t forgotten to turn off their cell phone during one of those?) and that I will somehow be blamed.

That being said, I do see the benefits of having a cell phone. I like to be able to call my husband to find out where he is or to tell him something important (read: important-ish). I like knowing that my kid’s school can get hold of me in an emergency (in theory- if I were to charge my phone) and I like having something to look at and play on when you are boring me (but hate when you do it when I am boring you).

I just don’t want cell phones to replace land lines until metallic jumpsuits replace jeans and sweaters (or until my brother is finally abducted by aliens). 

Someone please tell me how to make time slow down. Seriously.

Since the day Benji was born I’ve been sad because he’s growing up too quickly. Okay, I am obviously exaggerating. I didn’t start getting really sad until he was about 3 months old when I had to put away his tiny little newborn sleepers, hardly able to believe that my big three-month-old once fit into them. I realized then that even though 6 p.m grocery store line-ups and morning meetings that are still going strong past noon seem to take forever, they actually don’t. Nothing does. Time goes more quickly the older you get (don’t believe me? Think about how long a two-hour car trip used to take when you were six) and I know that soon-- too soon-- I will be one of those weirdos who stops people with babies on the street to tell them to enjoy every second because of how quickly they grow up. I know that I will blink and my kids will be grown-up people making excuses not to have to see me (please God don’t let this happen--please let my children live next door because they can’t live without me)(or at the very least let them have me on speed dial).

The thing is that it’s hard not to mentally rush things-- you look forward to your child sleeping through the night and learning to walk and run and speak and read and he does all that stuff and it’s the best, cutest stuff ever and then he is asking to learn to drive and before you know it he doesn’t want to cuddle with you or kiss in public and then he tells you that he is bringing someone else to the prom. Sad stuff.

At least once a day I remind myself to enjoy a moment. It can be a moment when 2-year-old Benji old and 4-month-old Aviva are holding hands while Aviva nurses or when Benji is singing the ABCs at the top of his lungs while simultaneously clapping and marching though the kitchen or when sweet Aviva is sleeping on me, her warm little body splayed out on my chest as she periodically sighs contentedly. Even in those moments I know that too soon they will be sepia memories (was it Benji or Aviva who used to march through the kitchen while singing ABCs? How did Aviva get the cat to hold her hand while she was nursing? ) but I don’t know how to make them last. I don’t know how to make time go more slowly (other than spending all of our time in meetings with my colleagues). Every day I find myself tucking Benji in or feeding Aviva at 3 a.m. and I realize that my babies are one day farther away from me.

It’s not that I don’t want my kids to grow up, I just want it to take longer. I want more spit up in my hair and diapers to change and play dough under my finger nails. I want more wet kisses and middle of the night cuddles and for bubbles to stay amazing for a while longer. I want to always be able to kiss any pain away. I want to be the protector and confidante and best friend for twice--no-- ten times as long.

Recently I was in a store while Benji was sucking on his fingers and an older woman came to tell me that her daughter used to do the same thing. I asked how she got her to stop and she told me that the daughter did it until she was ten, but in secret. Then she lowered her voice and said that she’d better watch what she says because her daughter is in the store. She also added that her daughter is now in her fifties but that she didn’t want to embarrass her. This gray-haired woman hasn’t sucked her fingers in over forty years but in her mother’s mind it was just last night that she snuck into her bedroom and pulled her fingers out of her mouth as she slept.

The reason those crazies stop you in the street to tell you that time goes quickly and to enjoy every second is because it’s true. I know that too soon I will be looking back at this post* and ten or twenty years will have passed and my heart breaks a little just thinking about that.

*Well, that’s assuming this Internet thing is still going strong. I don’t know about you, but I think that it might just be a fad.

It's been a while, but I had a baby, okay?

It’s been a while. I know. Since I last posted I had a baby girl. While I am delighted to have her, I did find the process of getting in her in much easier than getting her out. Also, newborns keep you busy. And tired. And often stained. But I feel like the fact that my kids are now two years and four months respectively, things are getting easier (I was going to add a joke about my third child being 35 years old but decided against it because I knew that I would get in trouble)(and also because of how mature and helpful my 35-year-old child husband is).

For the record, It’s not that I haven’t been blogging, it’s that I’ve been doing it for someone else’s website* as I’ve found having forced deadlines works best for me (as evidenced by the fact that I haven’t updated this blog in 6 months). That said, I prefer to blog without a fear of being edited (many of my good jokes were edited out because I tend to put them in brackets and some editors don’t like brackets)(I do)(see?).

So my plan is for this to be my last catching-you-up-because-I haven’t-bothered-to-update-update-recently post. Regular posts ahead. No joke.


*I will hopefully get around to including links to those posts in case you care to catch up on my very glamorous and exciting life. In the meantime, if you are super-keen you can look them up on www.Mommyish.com.

Everyone in My House Is a PIcky Eater Including My Cat (alternate title: I Hate Making Dinner)

Are you one of my Facebook friends who posts pictures of stuff they cook -or worse- grow and then cook for all the world to see? If yes, please don’t send a friend request to my husband. Seriously. I don’t need for him to find out that pita pizza, taco night and pasta isn’t what everyone else is eating on a regular basis. I mean it.

I do try really hard to make healthy meals for my family but there are a few complications, namely I have a new baby (okay, newish-- she is four months old but really doesn’t like to be put down for any length of time)(she is indeed on my lap as I write this in case you’re wondering); I am a vegetarian (who eats fish); my husband is a meat eater (who also enjoys fish but hates eggs, quiche, eggplant, lentils and most bean dishes) and my picky toddler is allergic to fish and seafood. In addition, at least 66.6 percent of us are lactose intolerant and finally, I really don’t enjoy cooking.

In the old days, I used to make fish a couple of times a week-- as an easy, healthy source of protein that my husband and I could agree on but now if we want to eat fish we have to do it after our son is in bed or eat at the table with him while he eats something else, which involves getting up about every three minutes to wash our hands using techniques gleaned from the movie Silkwood.

I won’t lie- the picky kid is the easiest to feed (well other than me)(and the baby who is not yet on solids). I make him casseroles and quiches and bakes and freeze them in individual servings. Unlike my husband, he is also happy to eat and omelet or crepes for dinner. However, the difficulty lies in the fact that everything I read says that we should all not only be eating meals together but eating the same meal together.

I spend a lot of time on cooking websites optimistically searching through articles with promising titles like “Easy Meals For The Whole Family!” and “Everyday Dinners That Everyone Will Love!” but generally three out five contain meat, one is a fish dish and the last one involves lentils, beans or both. I suspect that if I had unlimited time and a modicum of talent when it comes to cooking, this wouldn’t be an issue, but I really don’t. Entertaining is always stressful for me when I have to make something new, because cooking really just doesn’t come naturally to me (though, weirdly, I am a kickass baker-- if I could serve cake, pie and squares for supper every night, there would be no issue)(in part because most cakes that I make do not contain fish, lentils or beans).

This isn’t to say that I haven’t found any meals that we can all enjoy together -- I have -- and I’ve been quick to add them to the weekly rotation. But owing to the fact that it is a weekly rotation, my husband quickly gets sick of them and we soon find ourselves eating pita pizza or Subway or TV dinners while my son enjoys quiche and broccoli.  

I have come to terms with the fact that I might eventually have to start feeding my children meat, particularly if my son doesn’t outgrow his fish allergy --a fantasy of mine that has taken the place former fantasies, like waking up with perfect eyesight (or perfect breasts). I even took the step of buying free range, locally raised, humanely slaughtered, organic beef for my son, worried that I was depriving him of an important source of protein-- but he didn’t like it (we tried it a few times). And while I am okay with the fact that my husband eats meat, and even barbeques (aforementioned free range, locally raised, humanely slaughtered, organic) meat at our house, I just can’t bring myself to prepare it for him as vegetarianism is something that I truly believe in for health, environmental and ethical reasons (also, who the crap wants to cook three separate meals?).

My hope is that with experience I will become better at preparing new and exciting things for dinner but in the interim if you are a Facebook friend of my husband’s and you do plan to post something about the amazing six course dinner you prepared last night, would you at least change your privacy settings? We’re having tacos again tonight and I’d like him to believe me when I tell him that you probably are too.

Note: An edited version of this post was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Two-Baby-Guilt

It’s dinner time, my husband is out of town and my two-year-old is asking me over and over to go get him another piece of corn (which involves pulling said corn out of boiling water, running it under cold water and then possibly cutting it off the cob, depending on his palate). My three-month-old however is happily drinking milk -- you know, the kind that comes out of me. Apologizing profusely I pull the baby off me and put her in her bouncy chair while I go get the corn. She starts screaming, I come back with the corn and it’s too late. I have missed my son’s corn window-- he has suddenly remembered that he is a terrible eater who prefers to play during dinner rather than eat. I feel guilty -- but not just regular guilt -- two-baby guilt.

What’s the difference between two-baby guilt and one-baby guilt you might be asking yourself (assuming you have one baby or less). Well basically it’s the difference between worrying that you are letting down two children as opposed to just one.

I long for the days when the only things I had to feel guilty about were not working, taking my baby with me to get my hair/eyebrows/nails done on occasion instead of the library/art gallery/museum and serving eggs for dinner a little more often than I should.

When my son was a baby he spent his days being read to, sung to and going to baby-centered activities. My daughter on the other hand gets read to by default as she’s stuck listening to her brother’s books, is sung to when my son wants to sing (even when she is trying to sleep) and goes to activities aimed at two-year-olds (with the exception of a weekly mom and baby massage class which she generally sleeps through as she’s finally far enough away from her brother’s singing that she can get some peace and quiet). Even her bath time tends to be weirdly focused on trying to include my son and letting him “help” (luckily she is not at an age where she thinks it weird that her various body parts are being washed on her brother’s recommendation but I suspect at some point this might become an issue.)

Because I don’t want my son to resent my daughter, I’ve tried to keep his life pretty much the same (well if you don’t count the fact that I recently convinced him that a group cuddle in mommy’s bed would be a fun activity for the three of us after a particularly trying night with the baby or that he is occasionally stuck talking to himself in his crib long after he wakes up from his nap while I finish feeding his sister). While I understand that feelings of resentment after the birth of a sibling are generally temporary (I got over the resentment I felt after the birth of my brother within seventeen or eighteen years) selfishly, I am also worried that my own relationship with my son will change. But then --of course-- I feel guilty that my daughter and I might never have that same bond-- the one that my son and I forged as a result of him being the most important person in my life until just after his second birthday.

I keep telling myself that having a sibling is good for both kids-- that forcing my son to sit and do a puzzle at the museum while I nurse his sister for half an hour builds patience (and puzzle solving skills, obviously) and that even though she gets very little alone-time, watching my son and listening to him talk and learn is just as enriching for my daughter as having my undivided attention all day long, but sometimes I have trouble believing it. I do know however that in the long run they will be happy to have each other. They will know how to share. They will have less parental pressure to procreate (provided one of them steps up within a reasonable amount of time) and they will have someone who shares their history (assuming that they don’t compare notes about the first two years of life).

The cat on the other hand -- well she got screwed. Don’t get me wrong -- I do feel very guilty for ignoring her ever since I started making human babies, the problem is that I don’t feel guilty enough to do anything about it.

Note: An edited version of this post was originally published by b5media www.mommyish,com

Why Yes, I am Terrified of My Kids' Doctor's Receptionist

My heart is racing as I dial and I hear the phone start ringing at the other end. A machine picks up and I do exactly what the outgoing message directs me to -- speaking slowly and clearly, I leave my name and phone number twice-- trying to sound friendly but not too desperate for a return phone call. The person that I am trying to woo with my friendly telephone manner? The receptionist at my children’s pediatrician’s office.

I’m not sure why I find this blued-eyed woman with a blond perm so scary. What I do know is that I am so intimidated by her that when she called a couple of weeks ago to remind me about Ava’s next appointment- not only did I not have the courage to tell her that the time was not great for me, I didn’t even have the guts to tell her that Ava is not my daughter’s name (it is an A name though, so I figured that she was close enough)(besides, I do like the name Ava, so what’s the harm?)

For the first few weeks of my son’s life she didn’t seem to like me and that was not fun- particularly for a crazy person such as myself, who enjoys calling the pediatrician on a regular basis with random health concerns I have read about on the Internet. And then something happened. I said something and she laughed (bonus! I was actually trying to be funny- she wasn’t laughing at me this time) and I saw a glimmer of what could be. And since then she has been really nice to me- I’m not sure what I did right, but now I have so much more to lose. Now that I know what its like to be on her good side, I am terrified of going back.

Because of my newly acquired status (we’re not exactly besties, but I can say with confidence that she doesn’t loathe me) I will take ANY appointment she gives me and the one time I had double booked and had to reschedule I rehearsed what I was going to say with a friend (who shares the same doctor so that we could role play) before making the call. I also seriously contemplated rescheduling the other appointment -- with a specialist whom we’d been waiting to see for several months-- so that I could avoid calling to switch.

For the record, I am not simply motivated by a pathological need to be liked -- I know this because I am quite certain that my dentist’s receptionist hates me (I often switch appointments at the last minute) and really don’t care all that much. It’s the fact that the pediatrician’s receptionist has power. She can go ask the doctor a question on my behalf or make me schlep my sorry ass in to see her myself. She can call a prescription into the pharmacy, or not.  She can make me feel like an idiot when I call to ask about green poo or tell me an anecdote about her niece’s similarly coloured bowel movement. She is the gateway to my children’s healthcare (and okay, maybe sometimes my self-esteem).

Though when I was there last week I realized that maybe I don’t have to try quite so hard. The woman in front of me spent almost ten minutes trying to set up an appointment for her son, yammering about why each suggested day and time didn’t work for her. And in that time the best thing ever happened - the receptionist looked up at me (while aforementioned annoying mom was looking at her Blackberry) and rolled her eyes. At me! I won’t say that it felt as good as the first time my kids smiled at me, but it was pretty close.

Would It Be So Wrong to Lie About My Baby's Age?

My husband made me stop lying about my age while we were still dating (I used to shave off a year, just to take the edge off) and I truly haven’t done it since. Though recently I have been tempted to shave a couple of weeks off my daughter’s age. See, the thing is that I make small babies so my seven-week-old currently looks about three weeks (she weighs just over eight pounds) and I went through the same thing with my son.

Her small size is not something I worry about as she is healthy and growing and has been able to hold her head upright without support since the day she was born thankyouverymuch but I am still exhausted by people asking how old she is and then inevitably following up by telling me how tiny she is and how she looks younger than her age (as though I had not yet given her a really good, hard look).  I do have a bunch of stock responses along the lines of “small people make small babies” or “a big baby would have required a paternity test” or even the “my son was small too and look how well he’s doing” at which time I point to my 26-month-old (who still wears size 18-24 months) as proof that I do indeed feed my children, but it’s still a conversation that I dread. Incidentally, people’s follow-up question (yes. they have follow up questions) tends to be “how much did she weigh when she was born?” which I find so irritating that my follow-up question has almost become “Why? How much do you weigh?”. Of course these comments fall into the harmless if irritating box --worse are the ones that are downright rude.

Take what happened three weeks ago - I was sitting on a bench outside, nursing my daughter while talking to my son (we had been walking home from the grocery store when the baby got very hungry). A random woman sits down next to me and tells me that my daughter is pretty. I realize that she is talking about my son and I correct her, while thanking her for the compliment. She defends herself by bringing my son’s long eyelashes into evidence (they are apparently “too long for a boy”)(at which time I make a mental note to stop putting mascara on my two-year-old. Son) She then looks at my daughter, who is now finished nursing, and tells me that she is too skinny. At this point I muster up every ounce of self-control I have (as this woman was surely NOT too skinny and I was tempted to tell her as much), put my daughter back into the stroller and walk away with my skinny daughter and girly son.

Afterwards, friends were full of suggestions about what I should have said to this opinionated stranger -- from the overly-polite-too-highroad-for-my-blood “thank you for your comments” to the clever “she is a girl-- she can never be too thin” to the very rude “eff off” but the bigger question is not necessarily what I should have said, but why this woman felt like it was acceptable to say anything to begin with.  I mean, had I been standing there alone with my husband, would she have felt entitled to make similar appearance-related comments? (NOTE TO HUSBAND: I am not implying that you are girly-- I am merely tying to illustrate a point). Why are people’s children fair game? And by children, I am also including zygotes given that comments start the minute pregnancy is suspected (“is that a baby bump or a big lunch?”). And while most comments are harmless if inappropriate (for example the time a normally very respectful friend’s husband commented on the size of my usually-small-but-bigger-when-I’m-preggo-breasts) some really are not. For example, I was constantly made to feel worried and self-conscious because I didn’t show all that much until the very end of both of my pregnancies (“Wow! You’re nine months pregnant? You look less then six!”) and I have a friend who was constantly made to feel like a beluga whale during hers (“Wow! Only six months? You look like you’re ready to pop!”)

I wonder if people feel entitled to comment because of the manner in which pregnant celebrities and their babies are objectified in gossip magazines or because it’s assumed that once you are “with child” you are less person, more vessel. Though I have no clue why people feel a right to comment on our children’s appearances. It must come from the same place as their desire to constantly give unsolicited advice. Which I don’t know about you, but I find super helpful – in the same way that I find people who remind me that my baby shouldn’t be crying in public by giving me dirty looks helpful.

Note: an edited version of this piece was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Co-sleeping is better than not sleeping, right?

Before having baby 2 I used to joke that there was no way that I was going to have another baby who was as good a sleeper as my son-- likely in a sad attempt to unjinx myself, thereby forcing fate to give me another awesome sleeper. 

So if you didn’t know this already, preemptive unjinxing doesn’t work. At least not for me. From the day she was born my daughter was one of those babies who needed to be held constantly and who would express her dissatisfaction at being put down with a shrill, piercing scream.

By day four I was so exhausted that when my doula suggested that I try co-sleeping (something that I’d already dismissed as too dangerous and too granola for my liking), I actually listened. She showed me how to lie in such a way that I wouldn’t roll over onto the baby and so that she could nurse when she felt like it.

To say that it was relaxing would be a lie- I was sleeping with the light on, without blankets, on my side with my arm raised in a crazy Twister-esque pose which is supposed to make rolling over impossible. I would wake up with a sore arm and a sore hip, but I was waking up (read: I was actually sleeping!) This went on for two weeks.

During this time I tried to convince myself that co-sleeping was okay- safe- natural- but it was hard. When I finally got around to sifting through the package of papers that I’d been given while in hospital, I found one which set out in no uncertain terms that co-sleeping is never safe. This scared me enough to start transitioning Captain Cries-a-lot to her bassinet. Then, at our two-week appointment my pediatrician asked about my daughter’s sleep and I mentioned that I often had to put her into my own bed in order to get her to sleep at night. Now I might have read her wrong, but the doctor’s response (“if you keep doing that you will kill your baby”) leads me to believe that she is not a fan of co-sleeping. She then told me about an infant patient who died when his mother rolled over in her sleep. And no, the mom was apparently not drunk or high- just tired. Because this story knocked the wind out of me, I didn’t ask any more questions but I kind of wish that I had. Had the mother been taking all of the precautions that I had been?  Were there other extenuating factors?

Last week there were a bunch of reports on a new infant sleep study being conducted by a nurse by the name of Jennifer Combs. Combs reviewed 45 infant deaths and found that because some infant sleep deaths had not been classified as such, the number of sleep-related infant deaths was 1 in 3, as opposed to 1 in 5 which is the standard number. She is now reviewing a much bigger sample and says that she is seeing the same 1 to 3 ratio.

According to Combs the two main causes of sleep-related infant deaths are accidental smothering with a blanket, pillow or other soft item and adults rolling on top of babies while sharing a bed. But the media reports covering the study made it all about co-sleeping - about how we should never co-sleep.

Now it seems to me (in my sleep-deprived mostly stupid state, please see above) that there are a few things wrong with the way this story has been reported by the media- the most obvious being that the story should not be mainly about co-sleeping, it should be about safe sleeping. It should be about keeping soft toys and pillows out of cribs and about putting babies to bed on their backs and-- yes-- it should be about helping those people who will co-sleep despite scare tactics to find a safe way to do it. In fact, I think that my pediatrician should be doing that too. So should the hospitals.

This is not to say that I think that co-sleeping is completely safe even when no booze or drugs are involved and every precaution has been taken because, like my pediatrician says, new parents are sometimes so exhausted they are basically drunk*. But I’m a crazy person - the minute that I hear that there is a modicum of risk to my child, I will stop whatever behaviour is in question, even where most rational people might not. I am my doctor’s target audience. But some people are going to co-sleep regardless and because of that I feel as though our medical community has an obligation to provide information about safe co-sleeping practices.

After seeing the pediatrician I started putting my daughter (now five weeks) in her bassinet at night and for naps and she has somewhat adjusted, but it has not been easy. There are times I want to cry with her. And, there are times in the early morning when because it’s light out, and because I know how to co-sleep safely, and because I don’t want to start the day so exhausted that I won’t be fit to take care of my children or drive safely or remember my husband’s name (or that I have a husband), I put her into bed with me. And we both sleep.


*As someone who is currently “drunk” I will use this opportunity to remind you that this post would be at least 40 percent more readable if I were sleeping at night.

Note: An edited version of this piece was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Why I Wish I’d Bought a Designer Handbag Instead of a Doula

A doula can provide comfort, support and guidance during pregnancy and labour and that extra boost of confidence you need after your baby is born. The cost? About $750. Or you can buy a really great designer handbag - a handbag that can also provide comfort and support (it would carry all you r stuff, right?). And, not unlike a doula, your fancy new purse can give you an extra boost of postpartum confidence when you are walking around in your stretchy pants, not quite able to fit into your pre-pregnancy jeans (as people will be looking at your awesome bag instead of your post-baby muffin top). The cost? About the same.

Two years ago I would have told you that the doula is the way to go, no matter how nice the bag. The first time I gave birth my husband and I engaged the services of a doula. It seemed only logical given how apprehensive my husband was at the thought of seeing our beautiful child burst out of my body. And she was fantastic- calmly guiding my husband through my labour and convincing me that pushing was the ONLY way to get the baby out when I refused to do so after learning that it was too late for an epidural. She helped me with nursing and our son’s first bath and showed me how to use our carriers. She was such an invaluable resource that we called her immediately after the 18-week ultrasound to book her for baby 2. And when we learned that she would not be available for our baby’s birth, we hired the woman she recommended after one meeting-- no references necessary.

Thirty-six weeks into my pregnancy my very conservative OB suggested that we induce around 38 weeks. Not sure what to do, I called the doula for advice. And then I called her again. And again. It took so many tries for her to return my phone call that I started to worry about what would happen when I was actually in labour.

When she finally called back I could tell that she did not think the induction was a good idea, telling me that my baby was obviously a tough baby and didn’t need to be born early (what?). She also told me that the best (and only real) way to know what to do was to lie down in a dark room and ask my baby whether she was ready to come out. Now I am not a medical professional (okay, I haven’t taken science since high school), but from what I understand, most babies are not super-keen on coming out (hence all the pushing). I also feel like it is probably hard to communicate with one’s unborn child about such issues, no matter how dim the lighting.

Once the induction process was underway we called the doula from the hospital to give her a status report at which time she reminded us that we didn’t have to go through with the induction (super helpful). She also told us to call back in a couple of hours because she was one hundred percent (!) sure that I was going to have a baby that night.  But I didn’t have a baby that night. Or the next day. So when we finally called her after twenty-six hours of contractions to tell her that my water had broken and that I was in active labour, we thought that she would be almost as excited as us to get this baby out. As it turned out, she was more excited about her supper, which she told us that she was just sitting down to and would need to finish before she got ready to come meet us. My designer bag on the other hand would have been at the hospital with me as soon as I needed it, radiating beauty while holding precious things.

When she finally did arrive, I wished that she hadn’t. Her advice was annoying (No. I don’t want a bath) and often contrary to what the (amazing) labour and delivery nurse was suggesting. And as the evening progressed her questions went from irritating (are you sure you don’t want a bath?) to downright annoying (are you going to eat this sandwich?)(I gave her the sandwich but was tempted to do so on the condition that she eat it somewhere else).

Around 2 a.m. my husband decided to take a nap, which I fully supported. I was less supportive of the doula’s nap owing to the fact that I was paying her to, well, not nap. Also, I feel like the least she could have done was ask if I minded. That being said, my biggest regret was waking her up when it was time to push four hours later. If I had to do it again I would have let her sleep. In fact, I would have had everyone whisper while I pushed on the chance that she might wake up.

It will not come as a surprise to learn that her post-partum support has been less than stellar, though happily I remember most things from the last time I did this. I guess the thing with a handbag is that you know what you are paying for when you buy it. A doula on the other hand, requires a little more research as she -unlike a handbag- is not returnable.

*An edited version of this piece was first published by b5media www.mommyish.com.

Why I will never choose the hospital as a vacation destination again

Seven weeks into my pregnancy (I am now 31 weeks) I woke up with the worst pain of my life. Worse than labour. Worse than the time I was hit by a car. Worse than the time I was run over by a motor bike. Worse than the time I was run into by a cop who was chasing someone down the street (by foot)(it still hurt - he was giant) and I ended up with a concussion and fractured elbow. Worse  then the time I fractured my knee cap. Or the other time I fractured my knee cap. So on this day of the terrible pain, I was convinced that I was having an ectopic pregnancy or that there was an alien in my body ready to burst out at any moment*. So I called my doctor’s office (not really knowing who to call for alien extraction)(do priests do this?)(for Jews?)

I knew that my doctor was on holiday in Israel but that there were several people in his practice covering for him. The doctor I spoke to told me to go to  emergency (owing to the fact that I was throwing up from the pain while we were talking) but I convinced him to let me come to the office instead (owing to my hatred of emergency rooms and hospitals in general).

After being assessed at his office I was sent to emergency with a promise that he would come see me that afternoon and that the hospital would give me morphine (which is safe for pregnancy. Crazy, right? Why don’t they tell the crack addicts about THAT?), which at that point was all I really wanted anyway.

Now before we get any further into the story, I would like to point out that I have  a crazy-high pain threshold. I worked out on a fractured knee cap thinking that it was a bruise. I missed my chance for an epidural because the nurses all thought that I was still in early labour while I was in transition**and by the time they got around to checking to see if my labour was progressing they could actually SEE MY SON'S HEAD (for some reason they will not give you an epidural at this point,  even if you beg and promise to stay very, very still)(even if you refuse to push the baby out).

So I was admitted into the hospital, into a ward room - not because our insurance wouldn’t cover a private room but because it’s Canada*** and that’s all they had. By this point they had also determined that the pregnancy was not ectopic  (phewf) but that I had two 5 centimetre (yep. Centimetre) cysts on my right ovary thus making a part of my body that should be the size of an olive (or walnut, if you prefer) the size of a grapefruit. But oddly, the doctors were not sure if that was the (only) source of the pain as they also suspected that my ovary had twisted on itself but had no way of knowing for sure. Had I not been pregnant, they would have done surgery right away (as a twisted ovary is a big deal), but because I was, we decided to wait it out (which would have been fine but for the fact that “waiting it out” includes not being allowed to eat or drink anything in case emergency surgery becomes necessary).  Needless to say, after about 48 hours of this, I was telling my husband that if he really loved me he would get me a glass of apple juice (I was on a saline IV, but I was SO, SO thirsty) and after 72 hours I was telling him that if he didn’t bring me a bagel with peanut butter I was going to have to leave him after I got out of the hospital. And I mostly meant it.

Because my doctor was out of town, I was seen by colleagues who were covering for him - a different doctor every two days or so. Interestingly, most of them could not agree as to my treatment, or even about what was wrong with me. It was super-reassuring. The first two days I was in hospital, I had Dr A - a very caring doctor who was very pro-surgery but who said things like “I really think you need surgery, but I’m just going with my gut and, to be honest, I HAVE done surgery on people unnecessarily in similar situations, so it’s really up to you”  What? Seriously?

So I asked the OB on call what she thought (no surgery). I asked the resident on call what he thought (no surgery). I asked my busy-body senior citizen roommate who knew my case better than any doctors due to her brilliant eavesdropping skills and she too voted for no surgery. So I decided to wait it out, given that unnecessary surgery is at least 93 percent more annoying than necessary surgery and also because I was pregnant and I didn’t want to put the baby at risk.  

On Monday (day 3) I met Dr. B who said that I did not need surgery which made me feel pretty good --until Dr A stopped by to tell me that he had been thinking about my case all night and that he was now almost **** completely convinced that I needed surgery. Needless to say, I did not know what to do, but I did know that I was so hungry the hospital food smelled good (I hadn’t  been allowed anything to eat or drink since Friday evening) and that if I didn’t have surgery I could have a drink. And dinner. So I chose apple juice and a peanut butter bagel over surgery. Though as soon as I ate the bagel I said to Jacob “I think I made a mistake. I think I need surgery”.

To recap, the reason I had not yet had surgery was because no-one was sure whether of nor my ovary was torsed (the doctor term for twisted) given that I was apparently not acting like I was in as much pain as someone with a torsed ovary should be (please refer to high pain threshold, Supra). However, by Tuesday, my left side was even more sore and ludicrously swollen owing to the fact that my giant right ovary had migrated to my left side. So obviously Dr. B decided that the pain and increased swelling were related to constipation (as there was a large bump when one touched my left side)(though I don’t think that I am ruining the story by revealing that this bump actually turned out to be my ovary). I tried to explain a few simple things to him - firstly, that I might not actually be constipated given that I hadn’t been allowed to eat in days (makes sense, right?) and also that the pain was so much worse than that. His response? “Constipation can be very painful.” Well guess what? So can a giant twisted ovary that has migrated to the wrong side of your body.

By Wednesday evening I decided that I’d had enough of my three roommates (one teenager and two seniors) and the very helpful protocol of laxatives they had me on, and I proceeded to sign myself out against (the mostly incompetent) doctors’ orders. For the record, I am not that rebellious - I was merely exhausted owing to the teenage roommate’s late night visitors, and my senior citizen roommate’s calling for Jesus all night long (incidentally, as far as I know, he never showed up). Also, I missed my kid so much I physically ached. So I went home.

By Thursday night I was in such excruciating pain that I called the doctor on call (a medical fellow whom I had been dealing with since I’d been admitted) at midnight to tell her that the pain was so bad I couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit or lie or stop throwing up. We’ll call her Dr HI (for humongous idiot)(because she is one). Dr HI told me to take a Gravol. So I did (which makes me a pretty big idiot too, given that I already knew that I couldn’t keep anything down.) I then waited a couple of  painful, tearful hours and called again-- very apologetically explaining that I was sorry to be calling again but that I could not take the pain. She told me to meet her at the clinic at 8 a.m. as there was no point going to the hospital that night (for her maybe). Too exhausted to argue, I agreed and waited for 7 a.m. to come.

The next morning, Jacob,  Benji and I all piled into the car at 7:30 and headed to the clinic. Because Dr HI was late, I saw Dr A again who told me to go back to the hospital ASAP and asked why I hadn’t gone when the pain started the night before. Call me petty, but I totally tattled on Dr HI at that point. It felt pretty good.

Back at the hospital (by myself- I didn’t want Benj to come in so Jacob was taking him back home where my mother was going to meet them) the admissions nurse couldn’t find my information despite the fact that Dr A had assured me that Dr. HI was going to call to arrange for my re-admission. They eventually found my information, but let’s just say that her name is Dr HI for a reason. Once admitted, I had a nice little cubicle in emergency, a morphine IV and a fifteen hour wait (owing to the fact that Dr HI had ordered the wrong type of ultrasound --they only looked at my ovaries as opposed to my bowels and abdomen-- and I had to wait all day to get the one that internal medicine actually needed to assess my case).  Luckily, they provided lots of entertainment while I was waiting in the form of enemas ***** and blood tests.

At 1 a.m. I was told that I could no longer stay in my comfortable emergency cubicle (despite the fact that there were several empty ones) because Dr. HI had signed me onto my old ward on the fourth floor and they had no choice but to move me. The problem was that there were no beds left on the fourth floor, which is why I had asked to remain an outpatient until a bed became available. Apparently Dr HI didn’t remember or care about this, so I “slept” in the hall that night while my comfortable (relatively speaking) cubicle in emergency remained vacant .

This part of the story is starting to bore me, so I will try to sum up - basically I was handed off again to another incompetent  doctor who prescribed more enemas and walking around the ward (“to get things moving”)(obviously). My giant right ovary was still hanging out on the left side of my body and the pain was getting worse. Oh- and I finally got a room. And then a different room.  And more roommates, one more annoying than the next (who likes sharing a room with sick people?). And I was eight-and-a-half weeks pregnant.

On Monday I was informed that the ultrasound I had been waiting for all weekend had been postponed until Tuesday or Wednesday and I’d had it. I called my doctor (who had returned from his vacation the night before) and told him what was going on (he'd been briefed about my case but did not know that my ultrasound had been pushed back, yet again). So my doctor, who is not at all incompetent (I am not being sarcastic - I know it's hard to tell sometimes) took my case back. By that evening I’d had an MRI and had met with the surgeon who was going to perform my emergency surgery as my situation had become -get this-  life threatening.

The lead-up to surgery was scary. I was wheeled down to the OR, blind (you are not allowed to wear glasses or contacts) and alone (you are also not allowed to bring husbands and friends with you past a certain point) and was left outside the operating room while the doctors prepped. So I had time to worry -  to worry for my babies - the one that I had been carrying for almost nine weeks whom I had not yet met, but really, truly, already loved and the one who was at home likely wondering why the crap I hadn’t been around lately. I worried for myself - as I feel like my own life has become so precious, so valuable since becoming a mother. The idea of not seeing my sweet boy grow up, not being there to kiss him and nuzzle him and smell his sweet smell brings tears to me eyes even as I write this. I didn’t - don’t ever- want to leave  my son without a mother and Jacob all alone (at least for the six to eight week mourning period before he can conceivably start dating) to raise our beautiful boy. So I lay there in the stretcher and hoped that no-one could see that I was crying (because I’m pretty sure that rule about people not being able to see you if you can’t see them is not a real one).

So my fabulous doctor removed my right ovary and fallopian tube (which had been dead for days - had they untwisted it when the whole thing first happened, it would have been okay) and spent hours -literally- removing all of the necrotic tissue that had wrapped around my bowel causing an obstruction. I was fine and -miracle of miracles- so was the little baby that I was (am still!) carrying.

Post-surgery, the hospital sucked as much as ever (I finally got a private room having been on the wait list for nearly two weeks only to have it taken away again that day)(after I moved all of my stuff) as did the staff (my nurse forgot that she was supposed to catheterize me post-surgery leaving me with OVER A LITRE of liquid in my bladder until a very nice doctor figured out what was going on) and my recovery was slow (I wasn’t allowed to eat any solid food for another two weeks and I was STARVING) but being wheeled out of surgery was the beginning of a really happy ending to a story that could have ended much differently. So, in sum, I have one working ovary******, one amazing toddler, one healthy pregnancy and a husband who reminded me how incredible he really is. How’s that for a happy ending?

*okay, so this is supposed to be an Aliens reference, but I never saw the movie and can’t be bothered to Google it. Just humour me, okay?
**the part of labour that most people are generally drugged for and if they’re not it’s the point that they start begging for drugs. I too begged for drugs, but apparently I wasn’t screaming loud enough so they assumed that I was still in early labour.
***I actually love and believe in socialized medicine, I am just still a little bitter about the room situation. A few sleepless nights in a room with a slutty teenage roommate and a demented senior roommate who won’t stop crying out for Jesus will do that to a girl.
****Almost? Seriously?
*****You’d think that the fact that said enemas did not um- deliver any results- would have been their first good clue that I had a bowel obstruction, but it wasn’t. It was just a reason to keep giving me enemas. It was awesome and not at all uncomfortable or humiliating.
******Dr A had prescribed daily progesterone shots at the beginning of my hospital stay on the chance that my right ovary was no longer functioning. Had he not done so, I would have lost the pregnancy.

More excuses

So I haven’t updated my blog in a really long time. There have been a few reasons, including but not limited to the start of the fall TV schedule. Also, I enjoy writing about things that are going on in my life, but for quite some time I wasn’t able to discuss those things because they included trying to get pregnant* (I am still not planning on talking about this part, don’t panic Jacob) and then getting pregnant. The getting pregnant thing was fantastic but it also made me very tired. Tired enough to choose napping over blogging** And then I got sick. Like in-the-hospital-not caring-if the-back-of-my-gown-is-open while-I-am-wheeled-down-the-hall sick. But now that I am  healthy, thirty-one weeks into my pregnancy and the fall TV schedule is winding down, I really have no more excuses.

The post after this one is the one about my whole ordeal in hospital. I hope it isn’t too long or too un-funny but if it is, please just stop reading. It’s just one of those things I wanted to get out (and to have to refer people to when they ask about what happened so I don’t have to keep telling the story) but  in future I promise to go back to shorter, less serious and more regular posts (when I’m not napping).


*this phase only lasted a couple of months, but it really is all-consuming. Ask my husband. Actually, no.  Don’t.  Please, please don’t.

**hair washing, etc.