Colic is Hell

When I was pregnant and reading baby books, there was one word that lurked in the literature like an evil menace: colic.

The definitions of colic were varied, vague and sometimes conflicting, but I always skipped over the sections on it because, well, there was no way I was going to be cursed with a colicky baby.

Let it be said that I am now a self-defined scholar on the matter. So, what is colic?

Colic is hell.

Colic is what takes over your baby so that you and your husband stop referring to your son by name. Instead you says things like: "How was colic today?" and "We can't go out because we'd have to take colic with us."

Colic dehumanizes your baby, thieves your nights, and makes you feel like a really, really bad mom.

While other new mothers are joining yoga classes and going out for lunches, you are googling "gastro-intestinal" for the thousandth time and wondering why a baby sedative hasn't been invented.

Colic leaves you so delirious with exhaustion that you start scratching itches that aren't there.

After three months, you and your colicky baby are still only wearing sleepers for days on end and you constantly feel guilty because you spend what little energy you have willing away the days until your baby is eight years old and able to make you pancakes while you sleep in.

Colic convinces you that your baby's insides are shredding apart, that his farts are sharp as knives and that when he grows up he will have a weak disposition and complain frequently.

If your baby has colic your pediatrician will tell you "it will pass" and you will fantasize driving a pen into her eyeball.

Colic is being able to rock 16 pounds of distressed flesh in your arms for hours on end. Colic is denying your own physical agony, dislocating your thumb from so many hours of back patting, staying up for hours, days, on end.

Colic is nearly giving up a hundred times but always finding that little extra bit of resolve you need to keep on going.

For coping with colic, see www.fussybaby.ca, askdrsears.com, or visit a naturopath who treats infants.

If you are reading this because you googled "colic," my heart goes out to you.

No Matter How Cute They Are...

When you're pregnant, this insane maternal instinct kicks in where you can actually be brought to tears at the sight of a baby animal in jeopardy.

The first time I witnessed this was two-years ago, when my friend was pregnant and a group of us were watching a YouTube video of an alligator attacking a lion cub.

My friend backed up from the computer and waved her hands in front of her face. "Turn it off! Turn it off! That's horrible!" she shouted as we contined to watch the safari-gone-bad moment with wide eyes.

I found her sensitivity humorously touching at the time.

Then, three months ago, I saw a baby skunk stumbling in the park across from our house. It was mid-afternoon, not really skunk-patrol time. It was all alone. It lopped side to side. It was a baby.

My husband had to hold me back from running across the street and scooping it up in my arms.

A number of torrential rainstorms came shortly after, and I spent most of the summer convinced that our little Pepe Le Pewe was a goner.

Until this weekend. The little guy, still a runt with barely-there-hair on its tail, was spotted by my hubby Saturday morning limping through the park grass. He pointed him out to me and you would think my lost long baby had been returned. More tears were quickly wiped from my eyes. We drove off, me feeling a huge sense of relief that the natural world was indeed a just and good place.

That is until that night, when the skunk came across the street and shot his love juice at our house.

Two days later our living room still carries the residual stench of stunk.

What compelled this little black and white bundle of stink-ass to come to our property?

And why do I suspect that this is the same sort of payoff I can expect for the first six weeks of my baby's life?

Hypnobirthing: A Good Approach, Despite My Previous Post

So, my post on HypnoBirthing generated more comments than any other, and the responses were thoughtful and thought-provoking. I am very grateful to all the HypnoBirthing instructors whose comments underscored what the birthing approach is really about.

Reflecting on both the post and my experience with the classes, I shouldn't have been so cavalier and inflammatory in my accusations. My disappointment in the learning experience overshadowed the fact that I do think HypnoBirthing is relevant and important.

As someone who has studied mindfulness meditation (and in fact used it along with both Chinese and Western medical practices in order to get pregnant), the principles of HypnoBirthing seemed like a natural extension of my approach to pregnancy.

What I should have underscored is how unnatural it felt to work a nine-hour day at an office, then race home, perform prenatal yoga for 90 minutes and then head directly to a 2 1/2 hour Hypnobirthing class that usually ended around 10:45pm at night.

Even when I gave up yoga (much to the chagrin of my hips) the late night class (and the instructor's admonishment when we arrived late) felt more burdening than empowering.

Did the instructor realize the strain my body and mind felt by 10pm? Maybe. Did she believe that the value imparted by Hypnobirthing was more important? Perhaps. Did I agree with her?

Absolutely not.

I appreciate that HypnoBirthing is about reinforcing the choice we have as parents to determine how our children are brought into this world. But that choice, that responsibility, doesn't start with contractions--it begins now. I've already made dozens of choices as a mother--my choice to be with a midwife, to practice prenatal yoga, to take classes, to warn my family that my hubby and I want privacy for the first couple of days with our newborn.

If I choose not to forgo dinner and thereby come 15 minutes late to a prenatal or HypnoBirthing class than I am making a parenting choice that should be respected by someone advocating for parents making informed decisions.

I was told by another prenatal instructor not to be "too skeptical" about HypnoBirthing. It's good advice for life in general, and upon reflection, my first post really didn't present a fair picture of my view on the practice.

To remember to breathe, to remember that we are our own advocates--these are important daily lessons that rest at the core of HypnoBirthing. In my exhaustion and prenatal-class overload, I may have lost sight of how simple these principles really are.

Hypnobirthing: Look Into My Eyes

Last night the hubby and I snuck out of hypnobirthing class like a pair of cons making a break from Alcatraz.

It was at 9:45pm. We were only halfway through class. We were exhausted. And when we explained as much to our instructor we got a barely concealed sneer of contempt.

Her flaring nostrils basically said: You Are Bad Parents.

We had high hopes for hypnobirthing when we signed up. I imagined calm weekly meditation sessions, similar to the mindfulness meditation course I took last winter. Lots of breathing. Maybe a babbling brook or two.

Instead, we've been subjected to weekly propaganda sessions held in a cramped yoga studio that stinks of unwashed feet. Hour after hour has been spent letting us know how the medical profession has every intention of wrenching our baby from our arms and stabbing it with needles as soon as it's forcepped out into the world.

We've been told 'stats' on the evils of epidurals and Pitocin. Eye drops? The doctor might as well drop his pants and piss in your kid's eye. And nurses? Hysterical, uninformed, and condescending.

The instruction has been fear-mongering at best. In fact, last night, I realized that I had never had any anxiety towards labour until I started going to these classes.

After painstakingly going through every detail of a three-page birthing plan that we are supposed to present to our health care providers, I finally asked: Does any of this apply to couples who are using a midwife?

The short answer: no. Turns out that 4 weeks spent belabouring the evils of the medical approach to childbirth were pointless since they have no real application to how my own labour will be.

And, in fact, some of the concerns expressed about the medical approach were irrelevant to Canada (we no longer have nurseries for newborns, for instance).

Despite all the emphasis on parents being advocates for their own choices during labour, it seems our hypnobirthing instructor has lost sight of respecting her own students' choices.

Already the hubby and I are considering skipping our last class. I mean, I've been staring at her illustration of a uterus for 4 weeks. I get it. It looks like a whoopee cushion.

Frankly, I've had enough of the hot air.

Why Is Pregnancy Congratulated and Motherhood Ignored?

Suddenly in the last couple of weeks, my pregnancy has been embraced by the world at large.

Waitresses, store staff and random female strangers are all now commenting on my belly, wishing me luck and basically cheering me on.

For some reason, the only men who rally my bump are homeless dudes, which is sort of sweet and also sort of sad. Usually because I start to imagine a time when the homeless dude was just a regular dude trying to get by, with a girlfriend and a baby.

Then I realize something had to happen for him to make the leap to the street so I start wondering about the girlfriend and how maybe he didn't treat her so well when he got drunk and then I think about the odds of his baby making its way out of a cycle of poverty and substance abuse and I get depressed and sort of angry at the homeless dude because he's high and happy and hooting at me "Hey Congrats!" and meanwhile his offspring is rolling dubes behind her grade seven mold-ridden portable, begrudging her single mom while devising lists of high school boys she can fellate. Sigh.

Anyway, while my body is feeling the extra 35 pounds and the pressure against my organs mount, the general attitude of festivity has been appreciated. I like repeating my due date a dozen times a day because, frankly, it's all I'm thinking about.

But as the number of supportive strangers increases, so does my bafflement with social attitudes towards motherhood. Why is it that we cheer on women in their third trimester but huff with annoyance when we have to step around an exhausted new mom and her stroller?

As far as I know, women don't rush up to mothers and pat them on the back and say, "What you do is amazing. Congratulations!"

From what I've seen, new moms are basically invisible, while their squirming, time-consuming, pooping, barfing, crying babes are the ones who garner all the praise.

Which means I have 6 weeks to suck in all the attention and sympathy and well-wishes that I can. Because after that, the hard work begins and, until my kid can thank me in his valedictorian speech (after earnestly musing that high school was the 'best years of our lives,' hrmph) it's pretty much a thankless job.

Birthing Video Outburst Confirms: My Husband and I Will Never Fit Into Prenatal Classes

Last night the hubby and I attended a prenatal class at our midwives' clinic.

Now, the night before I had attended prenatal yoga and then we'd gone to a hypnobirthing class, so needless to say, we were already feeling some birthing burnout.

We were one of ten couples at the class last night. The instructor, a doula, announced she was going to show us a video of couples birthing in the Black Sea, just so we could see that birth does not have to take place in a sterile hospital environment.

Then the video started. Keep in mind my husband and I were sitting right beside the TV, in front of everyone.

So, first there's some soothing '70s flute tunes accompanying grainy colour footage of naked Russian couples hanging off each other while the mother labours. The couples are surrounded by other naked men and women who seem intent on rubbing the labouring mom.

More flute tunes worthy of a 1976 margarine commercial. A pale newborn and its umbilical cord float in the water. Then a slo-mo shot of a seagull soaring past the clouds.

This is when I started to giggle. I actively avoided looking at my husband while I tried to catch my breath.

Cut to a shot of a naked boy playing flute on a rock. I saw my husband's foot shaking up and down. I bit my lip and used my hand to hide my face from the other, very serious, couples around us.

At this point, tears were streaming down my face, my whole body was shaking with laughter. I could hear my husband making little squeaks as he gasped for breath.

More babies float in the water and then: the dolphins arrive.

I actually blurted "Dolphin!" and my husband and I made eye contact and all was lost. We both collapsed in hysterics, our faces bright red and soaked in tears.

When the movie ended a few minutes later, the class was silent. My husband and I hung our heads and stared at our toes. I used the cuff of my sweat shirt to wipe my running nose.

When I finally faced the room, I realized not a single person was at all amused. But we had just witnessed naked Russians and dolphins and flute-playing toddlers!

It wasn't like we'd laughed because birth is silly or naked women freak us out. We're not a pair of 12-year-old boys (which I was quickly starting to feel like). It was an awesomely bad video. And one that is apparently available on You Tube and hugely popular with birthing classes.

Maybe that's the real purpose of the film. When I'm in labour I can keep in mind: thank god some dolphin isn't lurking around me.

Because Labour is No Excuse for Looking Bad

On the Jezebel site, they note the latest in over-priced and unnecessary fashion directed towards pregnant women: the birthing gown.

Called the Dar-a-Luz Maternity Gown (Spanish for "to give birth"), it's basically a $98 jersey dress made with 100% organic cotton.

According to the marketing copy, "You're a fashionista in every aspect of your life, why not when you are bringing new life into the world too?"

Um, maybe because you have more important things on your mind? Like, uh, giving birth?

Despite my disgust with the marketing, I have to admit, the dress is pretty. But even this admission makes me feel shallow.

Stupid Things People Say to Pregnant Women

Before I was pregnant, I could usually be counted on to say things to pregnant women that, in retrospect, were entirely un-funny and/or stupid.

I share my former ignorance with you now, if only to save me from having to hear you repeat these same ridiculous comments.

It Must Be Awesome Not to Get Your Period for Nine Months
Oh yeah. 50 days of heavy to light bleeding are totally unbearable compared to a 100+ days of random fluids leaking into your underwear.

The other morning I was chatting to my husband when I realized I had a dribble of pee running down my thigh.

Being period-free is so glamorous.

Looking Bloated!
I actually used to say this to a pregnant coworker while pointing my finger at her like a schmuck.

The fact that I was completely jealous of her pregnancy and on some pretty heavy-duty drugs is no excuse.

A pregnant woman has a giant uterus taking up space previously occupied by her lungs, stomach, bowels and bladder. She is not bloated, or fat, or as one giant asshole recently called me "tubby." A pregnant woman is pregnant and the best way to acknowledge it is by offering her your goddamn seat on the bus.

You Look Tired
My husband and I debated this one the other week. He thinks that when people tell me I look tired they are expressing a genuine concern for my well-being.

I say bullshit.

Unless it's my boss directing me to leave work early so I can sleep, there is no concern being expressed. It's just damn rude to point out to someone that she looks haggard.

I look tired? Dude, I am tired. And guess what? Tired people are not the people you want to go insulting. I spent all night getting kicked and punched from the inside out. And now I have the privilege of having my appearance scrutinized?

How about I follow you around for a week, sucker-punching you every time you shut your eyes? But don't worry. I'll then tell you how exhausted you appear, proving that I really do have your best interests at heart.

Is Labour Just Too Uncivilized?

On the CBC Radio this afternoon, they hosted a call-in on C-sections.

To be honest, I ignored most of the broadcast, since I assumed it would be the classic face-off that makes doctors look like scalpel-wielding monsters and midwives appear like pro-vagina-stretching pilgrims.

But the last caller of the show was so confident and weird, she grabbed my attention. According to the caller, after she watched a filmed delivery in her pre-natal class she announced she was going to have a C-section and left.

According to the caller, she insisted both her babies be delivered by C-section, despite what she characterized as unfair pressure from her medical caregivers to deliver naturally.

In her words: Giving birth is "barbaric."

She also equated ignoring the option of a C-section as being as absurd as ignoring medical life-saving measures when faced with death.

When I heard the woman's vehement description of the barbarity of birth, I felt an intuitive disgust with her. Is this the same kind of woman who carries anti-bacterial spritz in her purse and keeps her eyes closed during sex?

Last night I accidentally caught a C-section delivery on the Discovery Network (it's baby month)and I have to admit, when I saw them whip the baby out of the stomach, I was like: That is fucking disgusting.

It just looked so wrong seeing a baby come out that way. Of course, I didn't fault the woman (who had no choice in the matter; it was deemed necessary by her doctors). That said, the woman was actually smiling while the doctors pulled the kid out, and chatting to someone off-camera.

I've spoken to a woman who recently had a C-section and she said that she didn't even realize the kid was out until the doctors handed it to her. Apparently morphine trumps motherly instincts, which would explain why there are so many heroine-addicted moms on Intervention.

I also recently saw a natural birth on the Discovery Network and my stomach did a complete Holy Shit flip. I mean, wow.

So the real question is: when is too much information, well, too much information? Without the context of knowing the woman and celebrating the miracle of birth, should expectant parents bear witness to labour? Does watching a complete stranger in what appears to be great anguish do any kind of service for first-time parents-to-be?

It's not like watching CSI stops folks from killing each other, so I can probably safely assume delivery shows won't inadvertently put an end to the human race.
But as Western medicine becomes increasingly specialized and patients become increasingly disempowered, perhaps de-contextualized labours should be shelved in favour of discussions with our mothers on how they remember their labours.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but sometimes the words they express aren't the ones we need to hear.

Watch Out, Fat Chicks

Now that my belly is out there in all of its 25-weeks-of-fetal-development glory, there is no doubt that I am pregnant (or hiding a small watermelon under my shirt).

What is most amazing about my growth (other than the miracle of life, yada yada) is how fat chicks take on pregnant women like it's a challenge.

So far today, four overweight women have: out-wobbled me to a seat on the bus, pushed me out of the way as I was exiting an elevator, budded in front of me in line for a free hot dog, and glowered at me in the mall.

I know: buses, dogs and malls, sounds like a dream life I lead. And perhaps it would be if women with unjustifiable lumps of upper arm fat, wide loads and bad 'tudes weren't raining on my hormone-happy parade.

I have now been offered a seat on Toronto public transit exactly twice during my entire pregnancy. And I take transit every day. Meanwhile, I was on the subway in NYC last week for one minute and was offered a seat.

When I look around in the morning, the people avoiding my gaze are the men (because no man of any age seems aware that offering his seat is sort of a nice thing to do for any woman, let alone a pregnant woman).

Meanwhile, every fat chick spreading her seams over a seat and a half is staring right back at me with indignance as I shift my weight from hip to hip.

I like to imagine they are thinking, "I weigh more than you so I deserve to sit more than you." And when I think about it, maybe they're right. The are just as responsible for their fat as I am for my fetus. Is a fetus-bearer any more entitled to rest than a fatty?

Probably not. But along with my growing belly is an ever-growing fearlessness in using it for both good and evil. Which is why I hip-checked Miss Chunky at the elevator and tsk'ed openly at the bus budder. I may not deserve to be treated with any special kindness because I'm knocked up, but I don't plan on getting shoved aside by any ass, no matter how big they are.

If Your Friends Jumped Off a Bridge...Oh, Never Mind

What do you do when you're a bored high school student in Gloucester, Mass.?

You sign a pregnancy pact with your BFFs!

In a high school of 1,200 students, 17 girls under the age of 16 are entering summer va-kay with some serious muffin top action.

Residents blame the bad local economy, Time Magazine blames the school for "accommodating" pregnancies by offering onsite daycare. Meanwhile, the school's nurse and doctor resigned in protest in May after being denied the authority to provide birth control to students.

Expectant freshman students are apparently looking forward to the "unconditional love" their babies will provide. Very little is noted about the fathers, other than the school's principal discovering one of them is a "24-year-old homeless guy."

I feel sorry for these girls, mostly because they have totally bypassed the greatest phase of sexual development: dry humping.

This is the profoundly pleasurable stage of adolescence where down-the-pants action is still somewhat forbidden and all desire locates itself in the harsh rubbing of teenaged crotches. This jean-on-jean foreplay can last for hours, providing endless erotic ecstasy.

That is, until you actually have sex.

After that, dry humping never really regains its magic because instead of being an end in itself, it's relegated to the status of foreplay (not the forte of any teenaged boy, or homeless dude for that matter).

So, realities of mothering aside, young ladies, before you go signing a pregnancy pact, consider this: Are you really prepared to foresake dry humping for wet diapers?

Angelina Makes Us All Look Bad

Are you pregnant and feeling good about how you're handling all the changes in your life?

Well, unless you are expecting twins, piloting planes, leading peace missions to Afghanistan, having your doodles made into permanent tattoos and enjoying hot sex with Brad Pitt on a regular basis, guess what?

You're not feeling as good as Angelina Jolie.

When Angelina Jolie is not pregnant, her status as Better Than Everyone Else is slightly diminished. Sure, she is already the mother of four (soon to be six) but she slips her kids Cheetos and can be assumed to have a fleet of domestic help (despite her claim that nannies never sleep over).

However, pregnant-Angelina seems hellbent on remaining on the cover of every tabloid magazine, where her beaming plump-lipped smile can remind all women (pregnant or otherwise) that no matter how much they accomplish in life, They Will Never Be as Accomplished As Angelina.

Sure, you might be a pilot. But are you a pilot in your second trimester?

And hey, you might be keeping in shape while your belly expands, but would you call pregnancy "great" for your sex life? This morning I woke up to discover I no longer have the ability to turn myself over on our soft mattress. For a few minutes I panicked wondering how I was going to turn the alarm clock off.

Since when is feeling like an overturned turtle good for the booty (unless you are, in fact, a turtle)?

Never mind the multi-million dollar chateau in France, the mansion in New Orleans, the UN speaking engagements and Cannes Festival. Forget about the endless supply of designer bags, designer mat frocks, and cheekbones. I could look past the leading roles, the graceful and unwavering self-assurance and even the perfect body.

But please, Angelina. For the love of god. Go back to adopting. Until you are cursed with DNA that causes stretch marks, acne and sagging boobs, you need to stop creating such an unreasonable benchmark for pregnant women.

Because there is only one Angelina. Which means the rest of us are reduced to being that chunky ass in the portrait behind you. Our message is clear.

Mommy Herding May Cause Stampedes

Apologies for the delay in posting. I have taken on new professional responsibilities, which make blogging nearly impossible. It has also been a busy June with lots of birthdays, parties and I-thought-were-parties (yes, I showed up at a friend's house on Friday with a chilled bottle of Proseco and some stinky cheese only to learn that the party is actually next week).

But I did make it to my sister's fete on Saturday where I was faced with the first of what will inevitably be many instances of "mommy herding."

Mommy herding is what non-pregnant, childless people do to expectant mothers. It involves steering all the bumps in the room into one central area where the bump-bearers are expected to spontaneously connect over all issues baby-related and otherwise.

The hostess intro goes like this, "Amber, meet Jane! She's pregnant, too." Hostess exits. Two pregnant women are left staring at each other.

It is assumed that pregnancy is a universalizing force which can bond the most disparate of individuals. In fact, bringing two pregnant women together is the social equivalent of air-dropping a thousand mines into an open field.

See, when Jane tells me she's seeing an OB/GYN, she makes note of the hospital, relating a sense of pride in where she is delivering. I respond that I am using a midwife and immediately Jane wonders if I am judging her for using a doctor and I am wondering if she assumes I am a masochistic Wiccan.

When I ask Jane how the pregnancy has been for her, if she says it has been good, she sounds like a show-off. If she complains she sounds ungrateful. I admit to back acne and get a scrunched nose, but Jane admits to gaining 10 pounds more than me and a smug grin inadvertently pries my lips apart.

With the exception of steroid-pumped professional athletes, there is no one in the world with a more volatile competitive spirit than an expectant mother. Even the moms-to-be that, at eight months pregnant, brag about not having read a single book are still competing to win the unspoken title of "World's Potentially Greatest Mother." They're simply opting for the falsely humble "who-me?" approach to winning the title in which not only do they get to claim the prize, but they also get to claim that they weren't even really trying.

The hopes that us moms-in-waiting bestow upon our still-developing babies are huge but they hardly measure to the expectations we place upon ourselves.

Take our mounting insecurities, hormonal surges, and physical discomfort, and then double it by throwing us in the ring with another crazy, swollen lady and it is no surprise that us sober ladies at the party will opt for the company of our drunk baby-free friends.

At least we can feel reassured that we won't feel as bad as them in the morning.

Be Scared of This Feminist Mommy-to-Be

When you're pregnant, the world starts to act as if it owns your ass.

I am referring to the strangers who touch your belly or comment on how you're "exceptionally big," and basically everyone else who judge pregnant women as if they were cattle grazing at a fence line.

Yesterday was my first experience with the general expectation that Pregnant Women Are Carrying Our Future and Must Therefore Dress Neutrally, if Not Matronly.

I was walking through the park on my way to brunch with a girlfriend when a couple walked past me. The woman crinkled her nose at my t-shirt and shook her head. Yeah, I was wearing a shirt that read "Kiss My Ass" but it always received snickers of amusement when I wore it pre-belly.

I thought I was maybe being paranoid when another woman passed me (this one with a small child) and said out loud, "Kiss my...oh my god."

Now people, "ass" is one of the most banal words you hear on TV these days (and I am not even talking cable channels). And the shirt is a shout-out to one of the most entertaining bands of the late 70s, a band whose outfits were not that different than those worn by circus performers.

But I got dirty looks from folks for the rest of the day, even in the Dufferin Mall where I walked past a woman who was showing off a g-string tan line that would have taken months at a tanning salon to achieve. This is the fashion-morality barometer at the D-Mall and I was dressed inappropriately?

The thing is, a pregnant woman is falsely held as this ideal of virginal innocence (thank you Old Testament) when really all her belly says is, Yep, I had unprotected sex!

It takes neither altruism nor inherent goodness to get knocked up and yet many people seem to regard a pregnant woman as an icon of both (ah, the Madonna complex nails us again).

For the same reason strangers feel free to yell at you for taking your child out into the sun without a hat on, they also feel entitled to let you know that you're a bad-mom-to-be.

Of course, these are the same people that would never interfere in a domestic dispute, one situation where a woman's body may actually require some intervention. Because the judgement placed on mothers is not about a communal concern for women or children; it is about believing that a woman's body is not really her own.

Whether it is a partner, or an unborn child, the masses will generally be willing to hand over a woman's rights to the nearest possible claimant.

As someone who has no intention of anyone owning my body but me (and yeah, my little one has unencumbered billeting and feeding rights) I might have to bust out the Kiss My Ass shirt more often. If anyone asks, I'll let them know I mean it.

Does Procreation Destroy A Home's Aesthetic?

After our fire, my husband and I paid the original cost of the art to salvage some of our more sentimental pieces (including a Heidi Conrod oil painting whose new smoky finish lent it a certain other-worldliness, and a massive Duncan Johnson piece that continued to smell like a chemical BBQ for months afterwards).

We then used some of our insurance money to buy a few more oil paintings, a double-headed Kristy Langer polar bear, and a whimsical Heather Goodchild diorama.

It's only recently that folks have started pointing out to us that our tastes are rather dark, a judgement that seems to be facilitated by the fact that we will soon be parents.

This weekend, we had friends and their one-year-old over for a visit and the chaos that is the world of young-uns commenced. In the arm's reach of a child, all cherished objects become either projectiles or landing pads.

Cleaning up some salsa spatter from the cover of the latest Art Review, I self-consciously touched my expanding pregnant belly.

I considered our possessions in a new light: our hanging paintings (bulls' eyes for baby pee streams?), our polar bear installation (would the bared fangs accidentally bang into our newborn's fontanel creating permanent brain damage?) and the diorama of a murder scene beside the bed (would the bloody axe be a deadly choking hazard?)

When I told my mom that my husband wanted to hang his Chairman Mao portrait in the nursery (thereby necessitating a red and black colour theme for the room) she paused before moaning. "Noooooo. Not for a baby."

I weakly argued that red and black are the first colours a baby can discern and that perhaps old Mao could aid in our kid's cognitive development. But inside I too was thinking: How much longer can we keep our aesthetic identities in check before caving into the power of pastels and primary colours?

Some folks with kids manage to keep their cool look, like blogger Jim Harbison and his wife. However, I am not sure my hubs and I are that cool or that competent with room design. And Jim's look doesn't appear to include a diorama called "Motherless Children" or an illustration of a pile of steaming dog turd.

Will we be replacing oil paintings with Dora place mats?

Probably not. But just as the fire drew us to art with obtuse and dangerous narratives, perhaps the experience of parenthood will inspire a new creative perspective.

Then again, I can't imagine anything more terrifying than raising a child.

Child Proclaims: Boobs Better Than Mango

Um. Er.

I am generally uncomfortable when people judge mothers for breastfeeding their children for "too long." Since the global average age for weaning is 4 years old, most babes in Canada are ahead of the curve (for better or worse).

But Jezebel has a clip of a British doc called Extraordinary Breastfeeding, which shows a mother breastfeeding...her eight year old.

Cue involuntary, politically incorrect shudder.

Her articulate daughters claims breast milk is better than anything in the world, better than a "million melons" (melons, heh) but um, wow. I mean, the mom and kids all have great, milk-fed complexions, and they seem content in that "we might live on a compound and believe in aliens" sort of way.

So why do I find this so...wrong?

Getting Waxed Doesn't Make You a Bad Mommy-to-Be

Today the New York Post has an article on women getting primped for labour and cites a number of cases where dilated woohoos got Brazilians and nails got manicured during contractions.

The Jezebel site has a link to the article and sums it up as being another example of women getting their priorities all wrong.

I've got a couple of issues with both sides.

First of all, whoever Dr. Lisa Fishman is, any doctor who recommends a blow-out so your hair looks fab for delivery is an idiot.

Having read exactly one book on pregnancy-- Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs (which reveals more about Jenny McCarthy than pregnancy)-- I know that you get cold compresses on your big old sweaty head and any kind of 'do will last all of about 5 minutes in active labour.

That said, the article suggests that women are getting Brazilian waxes before labour for the same vain reasons. But um, hello, who would choose a nurse's razor over a professional waxing? It's not like a woman goes into contractions and thinks, "man, I better get my vadge looking porny for my ob/gyn."

Last week I got my hair highlighted and cut for the first time in six months. It felt great. And I admit, when I was there I was sorting out in my head when to return for my last effortless colouring and cut before my due date.

This doesn't mean my priorities are messed up. It simply proves that I am fully aware that my priorities post-labour will be completely different.

The Expansion Begins

Finally paying attention to my pregnancy means finally getting nervous about what the hell it's going to do to my body.

If I had to pick one word to sum up my biggest fear (disregarding all my ongoing paranoia about whether or not the fetus is still alive): streeeeeeetch.

As in stretched-out belly, stretched-out boobs and stetched-out vadge.

Since I've never paid that much cosmetic attention to my vee-jay (oh, and a bikini wax while you're preggers is a whole other level of hell) my new sudden obsession is keeping my skin as smooth post-labour as it was pre-pregnancy.

This means feeling justified in spending money on new body products since I had to throw out so many when I got knocked up. Good-bye parabens, hydroquinone, salicylic acid. Hello Mama Mio.

This British product line created by three mommies has just been introduced to Canada thanks to The Bay. I was there today picking up my Mama Mini-Kit and Tummy Rub Butter to prevent stretch marks.

All the ingredients are mom-to-be-friendly, including the fragrance.

Whether or not these products will actually have a positive cosmetic impact is sort of secondary to the fact that I need some pampering. Yes, pregnancy feels cool and I am totally pumped about walking around with two hearts beating in me.

However, not fitting into your fat pants and being sober requires some compensating.

Sad Dads Now Another Thing to Worry About

After four months of a distracted pregnancy, I am finally starting to pay some attention to all things baby-related.

Holy shit. Ignorance is bliss.

At some point in recent history, parenthood became really complicated.

Never mind trying to make your baby a genius, apparently your mood will affect your little one's vocab.

As if it's not enough that parents suffer from sleep deprivation, sex deprivation and general dishevelment, it now turns out that parents are twice as likely as the general population to be clinically depressed. Oh, and if daddy's feeling the black dog, well, your kid will be spewing "mama" while the rest of the tikes are waxing philosophic on the merits of Jack and Jill.

Toddlers with sad dads have more limited vocabularies than those with glum mums. Perhaps this is because in the tradition of Sylvia Plath, low women tend to be hyper verbal, while depressed men clam up?

Regardless, moms and moms-to-be now have the added pressure of keeping their baby daddies happy or risk raising children perpetually at a loss for words. For some kids, this might not be such a bad thing...