It's my blog and I'll cry if I want too

I cried at work today. Great big fat tears that rolled down my neck and into the creases of my too-small bra. I haven't cried in weeks, and I was having an otherwise easy deadline day. So what happened?

Yeah yeah, hormones schmormones.

What happened was this: My coworker mentioned a number of kids she knew with hyphenated last names. Smith-Murphy. Green-McDonald. For example. Asked what Baby would be.

Aha! Man and I have talked about this. I tease him about giving Baby my last name only. He clams up and grunts and doesn't say no, but doesn't exactly say okay either. I am teasing, because it is his kid as much as it is mine, and there's no singular argument for giving the child my last name (even if it is infinitely more cute than his last name. Just sayin'...). So I figured we'd hyphenate. I believe having family unity is important, if only for when travelling through customs. And seeing as I don't use his last name (we're not married), hyphenated is the way to go. If we were married, I'd go hyphenated (I really do love my last name, and it truly is much cuter than his) but the kid would have Man's last name. That way we'd all have one name in common and customs/air travel would be that much easier. Without a marriage certificate, it's Baby who is burdened with being the tie that binds. Sorry, kid.

And this is what set off the waterworks. Okay, maybe there's something to this hormone thing after all.

Oh to get a full night's sleep

Baby is not even born yet, and I'm already lamenting my lack of sleep! This does not bode well.

I recognize now that sleep is VITAL to keeping my hysterical episodes under control. I know, I know - Duh! right? But understanding this simple concept on my own terms is a giant step forward for me in my continued battle with keeping The Crazy under control.

MEANWHILE, I'm 10 weeks and 4 days to D-day, and our house? Our house looks a little something like this:

I wish I were joking.

Crazier than I thought

I've got an appointment with a counsellor in two weeks. Two weeks is a very short waiting period for a service that sees wait-times of up to six months. So now I feel guilty for commandeering time and energy and appointment slots away from people who might actually be crazy, and who need the counselling more than I.

After all, having a baby is nothing out of the ordinary.

I wonder if I sounded especially desperate on Monday? It also turned out that the social worker I met and I share an uncle - I would hate to think that this distant family connection got me in the door. Afterall, I know there are people worse off than I am. People without homes; people without friends; people who can't even afford to buy frozen turkey dinners on Christmas Day.

Outdoor decorations in the capital city

 On Monday, a colleague told this story: It was Christmas Day, about 20 years ago. Her own children were 8, 10 and 11 years old. They didn't have any batteries in the house to run some of the Christmas toys, so she and her husband ran out to the nearby gas station to pick some up. Inside, there was another couple with a toddler. They were picking up two Swanson turkey dinners, presumably to share among them. And my colleague remembers thinking, 'There but for the grace of God go I.'

I'm trying to see the bright side, but that image has stayed with me all week. At least the child had two adults in her life; at least they could afford the meals; at least, what? at least they were together on Christmas Day?

I can count on one hand the number of times I've been to church. I prefer to put my faith in trees and stars and the great outdoors, but Christmas, to me, is still a time to spend with family. To have 18 people squashed around the table, elbows in the neighbour's gravy and noses in their business. It's loud and hectic and there are inevitable insults, but I've been so, so lucky not to know a Christmas Day without friends or family.

An outdoor Boxing Day adventure. Hot chocolate and dark cake, as they should be. 
(I remember when that coat still fit)

Oh my leaky eyes

I would like to know just how people manage having one, two, four or eight kids. How do they do it?? I understand pregnancy isn't easy. I understand my hormones are out of whack. I understand I'm growing out of my clothes because of the baby GROWING inside of me, and not because I'm simply careening out of shape.

I understand my focus is off. I understand my body is slowing down. I understand all these things... And yet I can't handle them. Instead I'm pretending as if all this is no big deal.

But apparently I'm wrong. It is a big deal.

Today I had an appointment with a social worker. An intake meeting, to determine how Crazy I am, and how soon I need to see a counsellor.

Because apparently pretending everything is just fine is not an acceptable coping strategy.

The Man is not here, so this is the birch junk that will keep me warm tonight:
 

On the bright side, I found a month-old Globe and Mail in fire-starting bin. (As I live in a land where the G&M does not, this is almost cause for celebration). I will take the crossword to bed with me.

Ultrasound

It's a scary day. I was excited right up until yesterday lunch time, then I got scared. Today (in 3 hours) I will have my belly exposed and sound waves knocking off my bladder and, hopefully, my baby. It's ultrasound time. I'm 18 weeks and a couple days pregnant, and so far I've had no problems. But this is the first true test, I guess. And I'm scared.

What if it's a molar pregnancy? And it's already turned malignant?
What is it's an etopic pregnancy? Wouldn't I have felt that by now?
What if it's twins, and they are not growing properly?
What if it's triplets, and they are not growing properly?
What is it doesn't have all its arms and legs and ears?
What if the ultrasound tech says 'Hmmm, that's strange..." and goes to get a doctor?
What if there is no baby?
What if I have placenta previa?
What if the placenta is deficient?
What if the heart is not beating?
What if it's not breathing?
What if the ultrasound machine isn't working?
What if the tech has swine flu and my appointment is postponed?
What if there's something else completely wrong with Baby, something so rare that I haven't even read about it in any of my books?

This mother stuff is hard.

It's crazy time

I've been careful not to fall into pregnancy-stereotype-madness. I only use the excuse "But I'm pregnant!" when I really need it. (i.e: when Canadian Tire tried to sell me oil-based primer. Umm... I don't believe oil paint is healthy at the best of times. And I will definitely take my mother up on her offer to strip the last remaining wallpaper border from my house (see: wallpaper bordering, crimes of)). I haven't had any serious cravings, so I can't claim 'Baby wants it!" when I get a hankering for pizza. (Actually, what Baby wants most is mashed potatoes. I'm the one that wants pizza).

I also thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping a even keel. No major freak-outs. No driving into ditches (a la my friend, mother of 3). All in all, I didn't think pregnancy had changed me much. Apart from my new-found adoration of mashed potatoes, of course.

On Friday, all that changed. My friend and colleague has left for greener pastures in the Big City. Friday was his last day at work, and we got together that night for tunes, drinks (of the juice variety for me) and cake.

I found out I was pregnant in early August. I was 4 and a half weeks along, and I waited two more months to tell the office. (I would have waited longer if it wasn't such a gd small town - I was afraid they'd hear it on the street before they heard it from me). Anyway, I told my boss in private, and she called a staff meeting to announce it to the office. (We are an office of seven women and, until last Friday, one man). Reactions were predictable - the mothers shrilled with glee, there were hugs and questions and best wishes and choruses of "how long have you know?! Why didn't you tell us sooner!" etc. etc...

Friday night, we were reminiscing on the past two years, and my two months of pregnancy-secrecy came up. I was quite proud of myself for keeping mum (I am the WORST secret-keeper in the history of secret-keepers). The women were shocked that they didn't figure it out for themselves. (Though two of them admitted they thought I was getting a little think around the middle). The man? His take on those two months was, "I just thought you were being a really big bitch."

Wow. Let dooowwwwwwwn.

"But... but..." I stuttered. "I wasn't that bad!"

"hoo-ee," he exhaled.

"I APOLOGIZED for the dictionary!" I cried.

The Dictionary Incident happened the day before I peed on a stick. We're an office of writers, and he had passed me some copy to proof. I picked up on a word (I don't know what one) what had been misused. I'm pretty sure it was a synonym problem, where the word sounded right but meant something completely different. (My favourite example? Troupe and troop.  Ie: The troupes moved in for an assault.  Heh heh heh.)

So I marked the error and handed the copy back. Minutes later, he e-mailed "You can troop all you want. I'm going to troupe" (or something. It was a lot funnier when he used the actual word we're talking about here). Except I didn't find it very funny. In fact, I didn't think it was funny at all. I wanted the CORRECT word there, and I wasn't taking no for an answer. I picked up my Canadian OED and stormed across the hall. Pushed open his (glass) office door, slammed the dictionary (paperback) on his desk and shouted "Use a FUCKING dictionary!"

Needless to say, that day didn't end well. It was deadline day, and tensions were running high. In fact, that evening the manager asked me if I was pregnant. I said no, no way. but I went home that night and thought about it, and took a test the next morning.

I knew the Dictionary Incident was out of character, and I decided right then I'd apologize the day I told him The News. That day was two months later, but my colleague hadn't forgotten. Neither has he forgotten all my other hormone-charged bouts of the crazies.

I've apparently airbrused all my insanity from the record, and for that I give myself and absolute discharge.

So maybe there's something to this pregnancy-insanity thing. (see: The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy by Vicki Iovine, Chapter 1). I'll cut myself some slack, and not get too upset when I find myself acting just like the books say I will.

I just hate being predictable.