Conversating

This past Sunday was Mother's Day, as I'm sure you know. Mine was pretty damn great, how was yours?

I received a big bouquet of flowers, a handmade card with squishy baby hand prints inside, a gift certificate to my favourite clothing store and...(drum roll please)...I DIDN'T HAVE TO COOK. That's right I had breakfast and dinner served up, whilst I kicked up my heels and read. Oh man, it was a great day.

That evening as we ate dinner (beef stroganoff, Dan's speciality) Dan opened a bottle of red wine to go with, and when I brought the glass to my mouth for my first sip I had an urge to do something I never do. Something that makes me laugh, quite honestly, because I'm immature and don't really believe it's a 'thing' even though yes it's a mega established 'thing' in the wine world.

But I was inspired.

Sideways had just been on the television a few weeks ago, I watched maybe three seconds of it (I don't find it to be that great of a movie. You?), and those three seconds involved Paul Giamatti making love to his glass of wine with his nose. You know the part(s). It's where he waxes poetic about the bouquet of aroma effusing from that crimson beverage and it makes him heady in the head.

So I decided to give it a go.

I decided to sniff my wine, even though--haha--I still think it's the most ridiculous thing in the world, and am quite aware of the fact that this makes me uncouth.

Whatevs.

So I swirled the wine around, brought the glass to my nose and heavily inhaled, then was surprised that it was actually a quite pleasant sensation, this aroma of wine. I smelled raspberries. So I asked Dan to do the same.

"Swirl the wine around and smell it. What do you smell?"

Dan obligingly swirled his wine around and thoughtfully brought his nose to the glass.

"Hmm...", he exhaled.

"What do you think? What do you think it smells like?"

"I think it smells like..." he trailed off again as he swirled his glass with due deliberation. "I think it smells like...cellar."

"Cellar?"

"Yeah, it smells like a dark old cellar that has potatoes in it."

Then I laughed so hard food flew out of my mouth.

Look What I Did!

Two weeks ago I did something unimaginable.

Something unbelievable.

Something stupendous!

I STARTED USING MY PROPER CAMERA AGAIN.

*everyone throws confetti and applauds*

*I bow*

Here's a few:

Lilac smells the best.

 

Serious thoughts being thunk.

My guess: "How do I crawl quieter, so Poppy doesn't know I'm coming?"

 

Cow!

You know you missed them.

 

Baby blue eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh Hufflepuff!

Don't you guys think that "Oh Hufflepuff!" would be a great replacement for "Oh F....!"  Yes, clearly I'm obsessed with having some sort of exclamation to fall back on now that I'm on the quest for a cleaner vocabulary around LB.

Anyhow, the point of this post is about Hufflepuff and if you don't know Hufflepuff that means you don't know Harry Potter and that means I don't want to know you.

Sorry.

The truth hurts.

This past weekend my friend sent me a YouTube clip mocking the House of Hufflepuff, and the best part of the clip goes as follows:  "Gryffindor is for the brave, Slytherin is for the cunning, Ravenclaw is for the wise, and Hufflepuff is...for the rest."

So funny, because it's so true! No one wants to be a lame ol' Hufflepuff. What's so great about them? They're nice and work hard? Pfft. So what! Give me a little rock 'n' roll, please.

Because I am a Harry Potter nerd, this obviously means I have taken many, many online Sorting Hat quizzes. Many. When taking the test, it's no secret that everyone wants to be sorted into Gryffindor because obviously they're toats the best; however, no matter how many tests I take I am stubbornly...a Hufflepuff. I just can't get sorted into Gryffindor for the life of me! And I think it boils down to one question paraphrased as follows:

If you stumble across an abandoned building that has a sign saying "DANGER do not enter!", what do you do?

Um, it's obvious.

YOU DON'T ENTER.

And that sums me up. I am a rule follower. If there's a rule, I will follow it. Otherwise I get sweaty and nervous, and am constantly checking over my shoulder looking for the rule police who are going to sneak up on me and shout I HEREBY ARREST THEE FOR NOT FOLLOWING THE RULES.

And then my life is over.

Boom.

Clearly I was the easiest teenager to raise.

In October my sisters had great fun gently teasing me (those damn Gryffindors!) for being a Hufflepuff. In fact, they even guessed which question I kept getting hung up on. I suppose I could just lie on that question, but then where would I be? A Slytherin? I THINK NOT. Lying is breaking the rules of truth and I will not do it!

Anyhow, this all ties in with little LB. What if she has a personality where she might choose to be...a rule breaker? I guess the first thing I'd do is demand a DNA test. Well, that would have been the first thing I'd do if we hadn't looked at baby photos of me when in Canada and determined LB is my little dopplegaenger. (Oh hell yeah, that was the best feeling evah!)

But in seriousness, Dan posed this semi-philosophical parenting question to me recently: "Why will [LB] listen to us? Just because we set a rule, why will she follow it?"

(In case it's not obvious, Dan is a damn Gryffindor too.)

My argument was, "Because they're rules. Why wouldn't she follow them?"

[insert confused face.]

"Yes, but there might be instances where she does not want to, and will not, follow them. Then what?"

"I...don't...but it's, it's...a rule..."

"So?"

"...a rule..."

In case it's not obvious, this question is blowing my mind. You mean my baby might not grow up to be like me? (But hopefully with better math skills.)

Wha???

Day in the Life

 

It's lunch, and Dan's home to eat with us.

 

My computer is out and in the way, and my empty breakfast bowl, coffee cup, and mid-morning yogurt cup haven't yet found their way into the kitchen.

 

One of LB's crib sheets is freshly washed and hanging off the chair to dry.

 

Wrapping streamers were discovered before lunch, and have been appropriately pulled and pulled from their roll.

 

LB's 'Mama's making lunch, here's something to play with' piece of bread has been torn to shreds and tossed onto the floor. She patiently waits now for the rest of her lunch, and watches her dad eat.

 

And in the background is a cat, strolling through my empty planter boxes, eating the dirt, which he will later throw-up inside the house.

 

Probably on the only piece of carpet we own.

 

That's life, Internet.

 

And it's grand.

All You Need Is Love

I have been operating under the impression that I'm a bit 'no worries, be happy' about this whole raising a person, dealy-o. If polled, I would have confidently replied: 'Yep, I'm pretty easy going when it comes to my baby girl.' Except yesterday, Interent, as I was drifting off to sleep I realised with a jolt that I am actually...not that laid back when it comes to LB.

GASP.

You see, in the past two weeks or so I have sent my good friend three separate emails that can be boiled down to: I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING OR WHAT'S GOING ON.

I think it's safe to say I was fairly easy-breezy when LB was just a little immobile LB who slept all the time, ate, then slept some more, then occasionally woke-up to gently play with her rattles, or just wanted to be tightly cuddled wherein she would stare-up at me and coo the softest most adorable coo.

Oh those days, I was definitely easy-breezy back then.

You know, four months ago...

Anyhow, this past month there have been some wicked awesome changes with our baby girl. She is rolling all over the place (she rolls over to the cats' water bowl and delights in playing in it! Cool! Except for actually cleaning up the mess), she likes to play peek-a-boo, she's a good eater, she strews her little toys all over our living room carpet, she has two teeth, and she's really...um, vocal. Yes...vocal.

These changes happened fast, and I'm left all, "Huh...what...but you were just here?...And now you're...over...there?"

So anyhow, I'm feeling a little "What the...firetruck?" 

(Potty mouth! Working on the potty mouth!)

And this has resulted in me sending Dear Jana (p.s. Jana, you should start an advice column in the local paper) three emails in two weeks, because WHAT? WHAT'S HAPPENING?

The first email was about LB's large voice. I'd been at Starbucks with a new friend, and LB was happily, so happily, screaming away. My new friend couldn't believe how loud LB was, but not in a negative way. Just in a, 'Wow, that's quite a set of pipes on her.'

Then LB and I were out for lunch with another friend and her baby, and every time LB would scream this deeply upset my friend's baby and it would cry. LB would watch the baby cry, quite fascinated, and when it would stop she'd scream again. The other baby would cry again. She'd watch, then as soon it stopped she screamed again. This went on for about fifteen minutes. Sort of funny...except if you consider my LB realised she could make another baby cry.

Anyhow, this got me over thinking (key here is over thinking) and wondering, 'Am I supposed to be doing something about this? Asking her to please be quiet? Why is she screaming? AM I DOING SOMETHING WRONG?'

So I emailed my friend who reassured me this is pretty normal, LB's discovering her voice, it's a toy, and most reassuring of all: all my friend's kids went through this, too.

The next "What the firetruck?" email was about LB's diet. I'm just left so confused because even though I don't know a lot about kids I was pretty aware that there's things they aren't supposed to eat until 'x' age. However, our paediatrician only gave me a few (as in, three) major things to avoid until she's a year...and that's it. I distinctly recall the list used to be longer! And it was! But now they've changed it! What's going on? Why have they changed the rules that I didn't really understand to begin with? I'M CONFUSED.

Result? Email.

And finally, the last email to round out this trio of, "Caitie doesn't know what she's doing or how to play it cool," came as result of me letting my exhausted defences down. I'd been wondering all day if 'x' change in LB was because of one thing, and then in a moment of weakness I found myself logging onto that crack practitioner Dr. Google (I KNOW BETTER, I REALLY DO) and utterly scaring the crap out of myself because the results were a heck of a lot scarier than what I originally was thinking the reason could be.

So, email number three was fired off with a reassuring reply to ping in my inbox shortly thereafter. Phew. Thank goodness for friends. The last thing I wanted to do was call the REAL doctor's office this morning and have the nurse stamp, "MOTHER IS INSANE AND CLUELESS" into LB's chart.

I'm so thankful for Dear Jana, to have a veteran friend (well, her kids are still little but they're older than my LB) who giggles with fondness over this clueless species of parent known as the 'first time mom' before setting me on my feet again so that I can toddle off into the next new and unknown territory. One day I hope to be able to be this reassuring person for another mom, because the support that women can lend to each other is really invaluable.

It takes a village, Internet, and the most important thing to remember is all you really do need is love (and a good internet connection, to fire off the emails).

Potty Training

Oh yes, Internet, our eight month old is so advanced that we've already begun potty training!

Not.

No, no, what I mean is I need to start potty training...my language. I can, and often do, curse the air blue when something has upset me, hurt me (like, you know, SLICING OPEN YOUR THUMB), or just plain confused me.

I've heard many, many times that swearing is the unintelligent way to express yourself and this is a perfectly valid argument. My counterpoint being that when you open your mailbox and find you've been summoned for jury duty, are you really going to pause and say, in your most erudite voice, "Oh bother. Those muttonheaded, copulating, cretins down at the courthouse want me to give up a week of my pre-booked summer holidays! Well they can go make love to themselves! I'm deeply aggrieved by this and feeling a lot of hostility!"

Um, chances are you aren't going to say that.

And who can blame you?

Only assholes talk like that.

OOPs.

Did it again.

So yeah, I'm trying to train the ol' potty mouth right now and to be honest, Internet, it's not going well. And while I don't smoke, I think stopping swearing might be a little similar to quitting smoking (minus the whole nicotine addiction). In speaking with a colleague about stopping smoking, she noted it's not the addiction that's the most difficult to overcome but rather it's the habit: when a cigarette is just part of the ritual. That's what I'm realising is hardest to overcome about swearing: I curse in situations out of habit, and nothing else.

But as I previously mentioned, there's a little slice of sweet potato pie with whipping cream on top who's listening to everything I say, and it would really be nice if LB's first word was, "Mama," instead of, "What the f-ck?!"

So Internet, anyone have any experiences with potty training your language?

How long until you were fully trained?

Did you still have accidents at night?

Thumbs Up!

So this happened when I was chopping onions for dinner.

Neat!

If you need me I'll be lying on the couch for the rest of the night with my arm in the air.

#hurtslikeamofo

Heading to the North Country

During our time in Canada, we split our time between Vancouver, Kamloops, and 100 Mile House. "100 Mile House?" you ask in confusion, "Is that a real place?" Yes, it is, and you can't be blamed for asking; the passport agent in Zurich asked my sister the same thing last October when he looked at her passport and noted that's where she was born.

100 Mile House is where Dan's mom and her husband live, and it's the town where Dan's family moved to when they immigrated to Canada. I too lived there when I was a kid, and as a result I've always had a nostalgic fondness for the place. It's not a huge city by any stretch of the imagination, but I think it's a nice town full of friendly people, has a bookstore (what more do you need?), and it's nestled in some truly gorgeous country.

We got married in 100 Mile House, so when we were visiting we decided to take LB to the heritage site where we exchanged vows. It was a storm cloud of a day, which is perfect for taking dramatic pictures. I didn't bring my proper camera with me on this trip (no room in my carry-on! Babies require a lot of stuff!) but I did get some pretty awesome pictures on my phone, ifIdosaysomyself.

See!

 

View off the deck at the in-law's place.

 

Another shot, without the tree or storm clouds.

 

Area where we were married.
This road runs behind the site, and if you follow it it takes you around the lake.

And this barn?
I wanted to have our wedding reception here. A barn dance! How fun
would that have been?!
Logistically it didn't work out as I wanted our guests to have a good time and not worry about driving back to the resort where we were staying.
 

Another shot of the barn.

 

The chapel where we were married.

Back view.
 

(Note, our actual wedding day was A LOT sunnier than this. I got a sunburn.)

 

The old heritage house.

 

Just a cool old cabin at the end of the road.

 

See what I mean, Internet? Isn't it pretty?

Back to the Future

So here's the thing about little babies: they don't understand flying back to the future. They did okay flying back in time (Zurich-Vancouver = going back in time) but shot putting them nine hours into the future...yeah.

It was a nightmare.

While we were back home, I had a lot of help. Loads. Everyone wanted to hold LB and I was all, "SURE."  Even people who didn't ask to hold her, I was all, "Want to hold her? Sure you do. Here you go. Come on, unfold your arms. Take the baby." Babies get heavier as they get older, Internet. My arms are tired.

But have you ever asked a friend or family member to hold their baby and could tell the person was visibly reluctant to hand over their spawn (older babies I mean, I never asked to hold a newborn because they freaked me out)? This has happened to me a handful of times through the years, I didn't really get it, but now that I have an eight month old LB of my own (eight months today!) I really don't get it. They are asking to relieve you of your 9 kilo kid. SAY YES. I mean, what do these parents think will happen? That the person is going to get a hold of the baby and then toss it through the air like a frisbee, gleefully waiting to see if Fido will jump up to catch the baby in his mouth? Or purposefully drop the baby, to see if it will bounce?

I was thrilled that so many people wanted to hold our LB, and it was good for LB; just so she knows, "Hey, it's cool. People are awesome, don't be scared of them. Mama's still right here, ready to catch you if they decide to see if you are bouncy."

So it was all hands on deck when we were in Canada, and it was freaking awesome. Now we're back to the future. Just Dan and me. Nine hours into the future to be exact, and little babies were waking up at 3 a.m. and were all, "Yowza, it's playtime Mama! LET'S ROCK." Then you gently tried to explain, "Hey little love of mine, it's three in the morning I think we should keep sleeping."

Then the baby blew a raspberry (for real, this is happening now) to let you know, "Woman, I'm jet lagged AND cutting a tooth. I think I'll stay awake now and just to let you know I'm not falling for the ol' "toys in the crib, amuse myself routine", you have to get up with me. Like, now. Right now. Then again at 6. Thanks. RAZZZBERRY."

Trust me, I wouldn't mind having a few more hands on deck right now.

Don't believe me? Look at this.

Vacation, loads of help, Caitie:

 

Vs.

 

Back to the future, no help, Caitie:

 

 

My hair looked like this for three days and I will not apologise for the application of a filter to this image: a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

 

I think we're over the worst of it now. Want to know how I know?

 

I brushed my hair today.

 

For real.

They Are My People

When we landed in Vancouver, our good friends met us at the airport to take us to their place where we were staying for the next few days.  As we didn't yet have a carseat for LB, we had to travel a very short distance via Skytrain and a bus to get to their condo.

I was wearing LB in the ergo carrier (Babies! The latest fashion craze! While sporting your baby just remember the golden rule: the more organic looking you are the more in style you'll be!) and when we got on the bus there were no available seats so we were standing. As Alexi and I were gossipping away, a man stood up from his seat and approached me. Then he did something insane. Something you only hear about in urban legends. He...offered me his seat.

I actually was at a loss for words I was so surprised and confused by the gesture.

"Ah...oh....um...really?...THANK-YOU."

I have only ever been offered a seat once while here in Switzerland, and that was obviously when I was pregnant. I can assure you, Internet, that there was a lot more than one time when I was heavily pregnant that I climbed on the bus, found no seats available, and then had to stand for the duration of the bus ride while the seated passengers around me tried to avoid eye-contact so they could avoid feeling the resulting shame of knowing they were sitting down while I was standing.

Once a teen even aggressively pushed their way in front of me in order to get the last available seat.

I was seven months pregnant.

So...yeah. Passenger courtesy doesn't happen too often around here.

And if you live in Switzerland, are reading this and thinking "I give up my seat all the time" or "people always give up their seats on MY bus" then I want to live on your bus route, because hardly anyone does on mine. After everyone has strategically tried to position themselves to be first on the bus (side note: people were lining-up for the bus in Vancouver. I was really confused!), then comically shoved themselves through the bus doors, it's a mad scramble to get a seat and even the elderly are often left to fend for themselves if they aren't fast enough.

So as you can see, it was a great shock to me that this man offered me his seat. I wasn't even pregnant. Just had the baby on my person. But once I got over my shock I felt all warm and fuzzy inside: These are my people! They really are so nice! I love you all!

And in case you're wondering: Duh, of course I offer up my seat on the bus.

I'm Canadian.