Cómo Se Dice...

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked “Hablas español?”

It’s always the same. “Un poquito” I hesitantly reply secretly praying that whomever I’m speaking immediately gives up on me so my limited knowledge of Spanish isn’t put to the test. Most of the time I say it so quietly I’m surprised I‘m heard at all. Speaking Spanish I’m adorably shy, a far cry from my often brash and boastful English speaking self. I desperately want to be fluent. To feel the beautiful words roll off my tongue and see a light of acceptance in the eyes of a Spanish speaking native (instead of the polite giggles I tend to receive courtesy of my poor grammar and inability to speak in full sentences). You would think this desire was born of my Peruvian husband and recent love affair with Spain, but the seed was planted long ago.

As a child my family travelled extensively. What started with roadtrips across North America quickly became exploring the rainforest in Costa Rica and swimming in the ocean in Mexico. Together we were clearly tourists, my mother with her platinum hair and my brother peeking out under thick dirty blond curls, a fanny pack securely at his waist. But in the rare moments I found myself alone with my father we always managed to blend in. Although my features are clearly my mother’s I inherited my father’s mysterious cultural ambiguity. In all of our travels, both together and alone, we tend to be at home anywhere in the world. Of course this is ultimately worth the number of times I had to explain to old women speaking to me in rapid Hindi on the bus in Vancouver that I wasn’t actually Indian, or Greek, or Italian... you get the picture. Wandering through market stalls in Mexico people would approach my father and me with a barrage of Spanish lets-make-a-deals. Shortly after perfecting a lilting “Hola!” I quickly learned to say “Lo siento. No habla español” but I was always embarrassed by my inability to further communicate in the way everyone assumed I could. You don’t have to be a psychologist to see that Spanish is a obviously a signifier of my need to feel exotic and a reminder of the way it felt when people assumed I wasn’t just a farmer’s daughter from small town Saskatchewan. Yet in spite of my best efforts I find it impossible to make the language stick.

I dropped French in Grade Ten opting for whatever bird course was being offered in its place. To me French seemed terribly pedestrian. Who wanted to speak our country’s second language anyway? Of course, the fact I couldn’t grasp the concept of conjugating verbs and my French mark was consistently pulling down my average seemed minimal next to my developing high standards of cultural exclusivity. I had vision. I haughtily claimed I could see beyond Quebec and what I saw was sand and sun and salsa (the dance and the dip). I had a straight from the tourist brochures view of me with a permanent tan, a margarita and a mysterious dark-haired cabana boy. Spanish was meant for me. I could feel it with all the passion and naivety of a sixteen-year-old dreamer.

When I started my Bachelors at the University of British Columbia I was faced with the reality of my unfulfilled language requirement. I was sure this was my chance to really learn the language I knew was somewhere inside of me. I enrolled in Spanish 101 and predictably dropped out after just two classes. Undeterred I enrolled in the same class every semester for years. On my third try I made it to the midterm only to find the words swam in front of me, completely foreign. I failed. In fact I’ve never failed at anything as spectacularly as I failed at my academic attempts to learn Spanish. While I aced pronunciation and even managed to lock down an impressive amount of vocabulary, it was the sentence structure that inevitably tripped me up. Of course my failure caused excessive frustration and eventual surrender. It had become me against the Spanish language and the Spanish language was winning.

When I met Jose we made a deal that he’d help me with my Spanish if I always corrected him when he made mistakes in English. Unfortunately, Jose will always be a better language student than me. He eagerly devoured new words and grasped the random assortment of English language quirks with ease. Eventually he got so frustrated with my lacklustre attempts at learning that he started writing everything he said on post-its which he stuck above my bed. Of course, when I looked at his post-its all I could see was his beautiful face. It feels so horribly predictable to admit the brain space I’d reserved for new words became preoccupied with plans to make him fall in love with me.

Last Christmas, while visiting him in Peru I felt actual shame at not being able to speak the language. Not only did it feel disrespectful to be unable to communicate with my new family-in-law but I was driving Jose crazy with my constant insistence that he translate everything being said around us. I hated being left out of the loop and managed to conveniently forget it was my own fault. Obviously we have big plans to raise Gaia wholly bilingual. When Jose speaks to her he does so only in Spanish. Given that he’s not here I’ve been trying to do my part too. We read Spanish storybooks, my favourite being Margaret and Margarita/Margarita y Margaret where two little girls who speak Spanish and English respectively meet in the park and learn to play together in spite of their differences. “I like you. Will you be my friend?” Margaret says. “Tú me gustas. Te gustaría ser mi amiga?” Margarita mimics in my slow and accented Spanish. When talking to Gaia I use as many words en español as I can. “Say good morning Granddad, beunas dias abuelito” I say as we visit my father over breakfast. “Say Hello Daddy! How are you? Hola papi! Cómo estás?” I say as we greet Jose on Skype. Even something as simple as a baby sneeze is followed with a quick “Bless you baby girl, Salud niña.” At this rate Gaia may go through life thinking her every thought needs to be communicated in both English and Spanish.

Part of me feels like I should abandon my current attempts lest she end up with an accent as poor as mine but I have faith that Jose will be with us by Christmas which seems early enough to fix any bad habits I’ve placed in her baby subconscious. Although I know my Spanish is getting better all the time the progress is much too slow. I live in panic of the day I walk in on Gaia and her father making silly Spanish jokes and find myself left out of the world they’ll share. The more I come to terms with the fact I will likely never be fluent the more I find comfort in the notion that at least one part of my life has come full circle. While I was stuck in Saskatchewan wishing my father and I were exotic as everyone assumed, Gaia and Jose really will be. I know her Spanish will come as easily as her English and she’ll have the benefits of summers in Peru with her cousins where she doesn’t just look like she belongs... she does.

Actual Conversation

For those of who wonder what Jose and I talk about for two hours a day on Skype...

Me – Gaia and I went for a two hour walk this morning. It’s so nice outside baby... like 24 degrees.
Jose – Wow!
Me – I know! I had to cover Gaia head to toe in sunscreen just to sit in the stroller.
Jose – Baby? Is she very white?
Me – Yes baby, about the same colour as me or maybe a little lighter.
Jose – I was looking at the pictures of you both and she looked like a beautiful chubby vanilla ice cream.

Now you know.

I Am Mother... Hear Me Roar!

Gaia and I talk to Jose every day on Skype. It’s inevitable that at least once in our conversation she’s going to do something adorable. It’s also inevitable that when she does this adorable thing I’m going to proudly proclaim... “Look at her baby! Isn’t she beautiful/cute/smart/funny”... you get the picture. I like to gush. It’s become our routine that whenever I gush Jose responds with “Yes baby, she is sooooo beautiful/cute/smart/funny. Thank you.” For months I’ve vainly assumed his thanks were based on some belief that Gaia’s adorable babyness was in some way linked to my outstanding genes. As she grows older and starts to resemble him in every way imaginable I've been beginning to feel a bit guilty about these thanks. Last week I finally bit the bullet and said something.

“Baby,” I said “You don’t have to thank me... she’s really more like you anyway.”

“No baby,” he said “I thank you because you are the one taking care of her. You are feeding her and playing with her and making her happy every day. She is growing and healthy because of you baby. You are doing such a good job with her. So thank you... for that.”

Of course this got me thinking and you know what? He’s right! At this stage Gaia’s happiness is completely dependent on the care I give her. If she’s hungry I feed her. If she’s sitting in poop I change her. If she cries I soothe her. If she’s tired I help her fall asleep. I take her for walks and sing her songs and play games and teach her important things like how to cultivate a unique sense of style. I mean, it’s not as if those delightful baby outfits appear on her by magic.

See that smile?

I did that!

And this one...

All me!

I’m not just a grown woman sitting around in her pyjamas all day... I am Gaia’s mother! I have the most important job in the world! I’m the most important person in the world! I am the world! Gaia’s world. And with that I’ll leave you with this video... pregnancy is just the beginning.

Bye Bye Baby

Last night when I was putting Gaia to bed I noticed she didn’t quite fit into her Pack n Play bassinet the way she used to. “Hmmm,” I thought, “I don’t remember her feet hanging over the edge like that last week.” And it’s not just her bassinet that has me puzzled. It seems that I’m confronted with the reality of her growing up every day. A couple weeks ago I tried to put her in one of the stripy newborn onesies that were the only thing that fit her for the first month of her life. I should have seen it coming when her head could barely make it through the neck hole. Perhaps that was a clue they’d gotten a little small. Of course it wasn’t until she was snapped in with a killer baby wedgie that I gave in and dressed her in something else. The way she spills over the edges of the newborn hammock in her bathtub, the fact that she sits up and grabs for toys and makes noises... on purpose. She’s even wearing the second size of diapers already. Sigh. Frankly this rapid rate of growth has got to stop. I know, I know, it’s completely normal. Of course I know. But the fact that it’s normal isn’t the least bit comforting when I feel like I’m watching Gaia’s babyhood slip away only eleven weeks after her birth.

Logically I know I’m being silly. Logically I’m glad she’s growing up. Logically I’m proud of every accomplishment and encouraging of her development. Emotionally I wish she’d stay a baby forever. Every time I notice how much she’s grown her whole unlived life flashes before my eyes. Talking, walking, her first day of Kindergarten, boyfriends (or girlfriends... whatever), broken hearts, homework and soccer practice and art class. I see her grow up and I see her leave me and then I cry, which of course makes me feel ridiculous.

The funniest thing about these new emotions? I’ve always been terrified of newborns. I’ve jokingly stated more than once that I wish I could give birth to a three year old. I think I’ve even claimed I’d go through the process of carrying and birthing a toddler to not have to deal with a newborn baby. Of course, you know, I wouldn’t because that’s just weird. Anyway, after mocking them for years I now understand the women who keep having babies every time their youngest starts approaching toddlerhood. Last week I even tried to convince Jose we should have another one, like, tomorrow if possible. Of course his valid points about focussing on a) getting him into the country, b) us both finding full-time jobs and c) finding our own place to live hesitantly dissuaded me. Not to mention the fact Gaia’s not even three months old. Seriously people, what’s happened to me?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: “Kids... (sigh) ... they grow up so fast.”

Now I’m off to take the bassinet out of the Pack n Play and weep.

Stupidhead Sillypants

Have you ever seen that episode of The Simpsons where Homer and Marge are trying to come up with a name for their unborn son? Marge keeps suggesting perfectly respectable names and Homer repeatedly shoots them down as he fires back possible playground taunts. The anticipation is palpable when Marge finally suggests Bart. I waited for the punch line that never came as they agreed on the name and left me screaming “FART... FART YOU JACKASS... BART RHYMES WITH FART!” Of course I realise the fact they completely missed something so obvious is the punch line but I never thought I’d find myself the butt of the same joke. I’ve worked in a childcare setting for the majority of my working life and if I’ve learned anything it’s that children are cruel. It’s true that at some point in life all children will be mocked, regardless of their parent’s attempts to prevent it. Still, I wanted to do what I could to insure my daughter was not an easy target. Unfortuntely it seems I have failed her.

When we finally settled on the name Gaia I racked my brain for months trying to figure out any possible associations or childish rhymes. The worst I could think of with was GAY-A (which she’s already been referred to by pretty much everyone who’s only seen her name in print). Frankly I’d like to believe she’d respond to something so unoriginal and inoffensive with the same casual eye roll I perfected after years of being called Reese’s Pieces. It’s a move that clearly states “is that the best you can come up with?” Then last night I was tickling her and calling her by the various pet names she’s becoming known as. It was all Gaia-bears and Gaia-roos when it came over me in a wave... Gaiarrhea... the kids at school are going to call my daughter Gaiarrhea. How could I not have realised sooner? That combined with her dramatic, if short, history of gastrointestinal distress and I’m more than a little concerned. I guess all I can do now is prepare her for the possibility and hope she doesn’t end up pooping her pants at her first day of Kindergarten. Although I guess if she’s a five-year-old pants pooper I’ll have bigger problems to deal with than her classmates realising her name rhymes with diarrhea.

"Gaiarrhea!?! OH SHIT!"

As far things go Gaiarrhea is pretty rough, but nicknames have special place in our family. I can count on one hand the number of times my husband has referred to me as Risa in the last year. As far as he’s concerned my name is Chancho. For Jose nicknames are the way he shows his love. The way you know you’ve been accepted into his world. Calling me Chancho seems cute when it was just the two of us, but when we were in public situations I can’t help but notice people cringing. For those of you who have no idea why, I’ll enlighten you. Chancho is Spanish for pig. Of course it doesn’t help that I’ll always be a little bit chubby. I’m sure most casual observers think Jose is being mildly abusive, but it wasn’t my ample hips that inspired the nickname, it was Nacho Libre.

TV on cruise ships is a funny thing. In addition to the regular circulating programming for the guests, the crew has three extra channels, my favourite being one that plays the same movie in a constant loop for weeks. Shortly after Jose signed onto our last ship Nacho Libre was this movie. I’m pretty sure he watched it upwards of two hundred times in the course of the month we finally became a bonefide couple.

For anyone who’s seen Nacho Libre you might remember Chancho, the chubby little orphan who looked up to Nacho. The nickname began innocently enough over an inside joke about the similarities between Chancho and me in my Adventure Ocean uniform. Shockingly the one-style-fits-all board shorts weren’t so flattering on my big-girl thighs. Not to mention the way my overstuffed jacket pockets made me look as if I had an oh-so-becoming beer gut that sagged over my waistband. I consider the fact that I wore this uniform day in and day out and Jose still managed to fall in love with me a testament to my awesomeness.

Before long the joke had morphed into an intellectual character study where Chancho’s ultimate belief in Nacho became a symbol for mine and Jose’s growing connection. Of course, I know it’s a little ludicrous to let two comedic characters from a ridiculous (if hilarious) movie be symbols for our love but so it is, and now that the name has officially stuck, so it always will be. That’s the thing about nicknames anyway; the good ones are always born from inside jokes and secrets and walk the line of appropriateness. Plus as far as I’m concerned Jack Black is my own personal cupid. In Jose’s mind things were rocky between us when I was Risa, and then he got to the Navigator of the Seas where I was re-born as Chancho and suddenly it was all rainbows and roses.

And it’s not just the nickname that’s stuck. Jose and I now celebrate Chanchoversaries and give each other Valenchancho presents. We share in the joy of a Merry Chanchomas and blow out the candles on our shared Chanchoday. We even have a Chancho theme song (in its original form and a dance remix). It’s been over a year since I’ve gone to bed without hearing him sing “Eres mi Chancho, mi unico, unico Chancho.” When we got married we automatically started referring to ourselves as Mr. and Mrs. Chancho. When we found out I was pregnant we were having a Chanchito or Chanchita of course. Now that Gaia is no longer a fetus as predicted he rarely calls her by her name. She started out as Gai-ita, a nod to Jose-sita, his mother’s pet name for him no doubt, but lately he’s been calling her Chancho-Mono, our little pig monkey, and I know it’s going to stick. Chancho because she’s ours, and Mono because of the way she bounces in continuous motion as we talk to him on Skype.

I’ve grown quite attached to being called Chancho and I hope our baby girl always feels as special as I do as an object of her father’s nicknaming quirk. The truth is, when you grow too old for childish playground rhymes that special feeling is the point of a true nickname. And if nothing else let’s be honest, anything’s better than Gaiarrhea. Can I get an Amen?

Art Prodigy

Lately Gaia has been talking up a storm. It’s all coos and goo-goo-gah-gahs of course but I like to think the prevalence of this baby talk in the last few weeks is indicative of some serious intellectual action going on in her little baby cranium. In reading about language development I’ve learned it’s important to encourage this baby talk and enthusiastically respond so Gaia learns about the art of conversation (speech patterns and the like). Given that I spend twenty-four hours a day with her and very little time with anyone else I feel pretty stoked that talking to my ten-week old makes me a good mother and not some crazy lady who has conversations with her baby. I started out simple, offering the occasional “Oh really?” “That’s interesting!” and “Tell me more.” Today I decided to go for the gusto and attempt some more meaningful dialogue. We went out this afternoon and saw the new exhibitions at the MacKenzie Art Gallery. Our conversation in the car on the way home went a little something like this:

Me – What did you think of the work we saw today at the gallery Gaia-bear?

Baby G – Well mother, I particularly enjoyed the Ted Godwin paintings. The pieces were so animated and intense. I can certainly see why he called the execution of these works “the big attack”. I think that phrase can have so many meanings... an attack on the accepted art forms of the day and a look towards innovation obviously, but also an attack on the senses, a nod to the experience of the viewer as they look at his work. I found they had great emotional power.

Me – Wow.

Baby G – Indeed. I also think it’s so inspiring, as a child growing up in Saskatchewan, to be exposed to such an important Canadian artist and see the work he produced right here in Regina. It makes me feel encouraged and reminds me that I don’t need to live in a major metropolis to make an impact on the world around me...

Me – I agree... I was thinking about that too and...

Baby G – Umm mama, I wasn’t quite finished.

Me – Oh. Of course. Sorry.

Baby G – As I was saying I think it’s so important to remember that you can be a part of something innovative no matter where you live. I look at the Godwin paintings and think about the Regina Five and I just feel so optimistic. It makes me think of Regina’s important place in Canadian Art History and about the gallery and what an integral role it plays in community education.

Me – Well yes. I’m glad you realise that. It’s just a shame that more people don’t take the opportunity to go to the gallery when it is such a great resource.

Baby G – Of course. I felt that went without saying.

She’s napping now and I’m left marvelling at the level of her observations. She’s obviously an art prodigy.

Ted Godwin: The Regina Five Years, 1957-1967 is on at the MacKenzie Art Gallery until August 30, 2009. Douglas Morton – Re: Surfacing, For Emily and Dana Claxton: Buffalo Bone China are also on for the summer. Please go see them. Admission is free and they really are inspiring.

Teen Mom

Today I was getting diapers at Superstore when I was approached by a woman with a clipboard. “Excuse me,” she said “I’m sorry to bother you but would you mind answering a few questions about your experience as a teenage Mom?”

That’s what I get for bringing back a hairstyle I abandoned shortly after my high school graduation.

Me at 18 - Not a Teenage Mom

Me at 27 - Still Not a Teenage Mom

My View

I admit it. I watch a lot of daytime TV. Let’s call it a personality quirk that’s developed since Gaia was born. Ellen is my favourite, obviously. I mean, who doesn't love Ellen? Oprah’s hit or miss and lately I find myself frustrated more than entertained. Occasionaly I tolerate Dr. Phil... barely. I tune into The View mainly because I love a good bitch fight. Yeah, I said bitch fight. I’m fully aware that last statement violates the very principles the show is founded on by trivialising the opinions of a “diverse” group of woman. Still. You gotta love the faux drama and the way a heated political debate ends with smiles as these woman, who obviously despise each other, come together to promote the latest mass market audience giveaway. But I digress. I promised myself I wouldn’t write about daytime TV, but here it is. I found Friday's episode of The View extremely interesting. It probably helped that Barbara wasn’t there. That woman drives me crazy.

Most interesting was Kirby Dick and Mike Rogers who were on promoting Outrage, their new documentary. I had a number of problems with their point of view. Firstly, I am a huge supporter of equal rights for all. My general belief is that I don’t have any right to tell another human being how they should live their life nor do I want to. It comes down to the golden rule really. Do onto others as you would have them do onto you. Live and let live and so on. In that vein I have a major issue with people being ‘outed’ without their consent. Although I eagerly consume the trashy celebrity gossip posted by Perez Hilton, it has never sat right with me when he goes after closeted celebs in passionate attempts to get them to claim their sexual orientation. Frankly, if someone chooses to keep that very personal aspect of their life private I feel it’s their right to do so. As far as I’m concerned ‘outing’ them without their permission is at best a gross invasion of privacy and at worst a case of full blown harassment. Now, I understand that the makers of this film and many others who call for closeted public figures to out themselves are concerned primarily with the message their staying in the closet sends. I understand the arguments around creating a perception of shame through secrecy and the like. Now I do generally agree that the more people who publically claim their sexuality the more accepted sexual diversity will be. I absolutely applaud figures like Ellen* who make a choice to be public with their personal lives and I have no doubt that she continues to inspire people every day to be true to themselves and live their lives unashamed. I just don’t think that anyone has the right to force someone to be that kind of public figure and make that kind of statement. In the case of Dick and Rogers the justification for this invasion of privacy is the journalistic intent to expose the hypocrisy they felt was inherent in the often anti-gay policies of the closeted politicians. This included policies against gay marriage and votes against gays in the military. In all my years watching The View I never thought I’d say this, but at one point in the interview I had to agree with Elisabeth. She notes that politicians really shouldn’t be making their decisions based on personal preference. Isn’t the point of having a representative in government that you believe your elected officials will do what’s best for the country and not what’s best for them personally? All I kept thinking throughout the interview was I’m straight... does that mean I should be persecuted for believing, quite passionately I might add, in gay rights? Criticised for not having a “straight enough” point-of-view? Were I politician, should I be making decisions based on my sexual orientation or what I really believe is right? What I find troubling about Washington politics is not the abundance of gay men voting against gay rights, but the fact that gay rights are being voted against at all. By anyone. Perhaps journalists should be attempting to get to the real root of the problem and discover why a country and a large portion of its people seem so content to repeatedly deny people their basic rights as citizens and human beings. A very large part of me believes that these public witch hunts just set the gay rights movement back by continuing to make a person’s sexuality an issue. While sometimes I do wish that every public gay figure would have the courage to proclaim their sexuality proudly and publically in the hopes of both acting as role models and bringing awareness part of me also wonders if focussing on a person’s sexual orientation at all is the problem. Perhaps if society could truly make sexual orientation a non-issue by allowing people to live as they choose (gay, straight or otherwise) without feeling the need to declare it then gay rights wouldn’t be an issue at all, instead rights for all would just be a given and sexual differences less sensationalised.



Sarah Symonds, a serial mistress, was also on promoting her book Having an Affair? A Handbook for the Other Woman. I found her extremely articulate and intelligent, especially in the face of some serious push back from the hosts. Frankly I applaud her, although I do find the fact she wrote a book a little trite. I feel for the “other woman”. I’ve never been with a married man myself but I do have friends who have. At the end of the affair these friends are always left crushed by the emotional minefield they’ve been in and seem to be universally hated and judged. As far as I’m concerned, no one has any right to judge the mistress. Sometimes I think people forget who they took their vows with. I know it’s easier to hate a stranger then someone you love, but the mistress didn’t really do anything wrong. She’s made no promises and broke no vows. I’d like to think that if my husband ever cheated on me I’d be strong enough to place the blame on him and not villianize his mistress. I’d also like to think that I’d take a look at myself and the role I might have played in his affair. I can’t help but wonder what goes on in a marriage where one partner feels the need to look elsewhere for companionship. All the men I know who have cheated have been with women who ran the gamut from emotionally distant to manipulative to just plain mean. I also know more than a few women who withhold sex at the drop of a hat or forget they have a partner at all as soon as their children are born. Now I’m not saying anyone deserves the kind of betrayal implicit when one partner cheats or trying to trivialise the pain that affairs cause. I just feel that there are two sides to every story. Or three sides I guess, in the case of an affair.

Finally, Sharlene Azam was on talking about her book and film Oral Sex is the New Good night Kiss. I don’t think I need to say too much on this except that it is extremely upsetting, as a new mother to a baby girl, to hear about the prevalence of young girls becoming sexually promiscuous. I’ve been seeing more and more stories like this in daytime TV and reading up on new trends like sexting. It absolutely breaks my heart. Like many of society’s ills I feel it all comes down to a lack of self-confidence in our youth. I want to believe that I'll raise a truly confident daughter who will not engage in this type of behaviour, but I can’t stop worrying about the fact that she will grow up in a culture where overt teenage sexuality is the norm.

If you’re interested in watching Sarah Symonds or Sharlene Azam on The View you can see the full episode on ABC.com or specific interviews here.

* Speaking of Ellen, her commencement speech at the Tulane University in New Orleans was equal parts funny and inspiring. I love her.

Two Things

Firstly, today was one of those beautiful days where I felt sure I made the right decision in moving back to Saskatchewan. The sun was shining and Gaia and I met some friends for the Cathedral Village Arts Festival. It reminded me that Regina really does have a thriving arts community and that the city is full of interesting and inspiring people. Of course it helped that I ran into a counsellor from my years in summer camp who had a booth set up to promote the new alternative school she’s opening. I don’t remember ever reading about a school in Vancouver that meshes so perfectly with the way I want to raise my daughter. I can’t imagine a better educational model to encourage self-esteem, empathy and a sense of community responsibility (locally and globally) – all things I feel are sorely missing in the mainstream schools I’ve looked into. All I can hope is that the school gets enough support in the next few years to continue to be operational when Gaia is ready for kindergarten. If you’re interested check out their website here.

Secondly, on Friday Gaia and I got a package in the mail from Jose. Among the items in the package was a CD he made of his favourite Spanish children’s songs. Frankly, it’s amazing.

Being the true Canadian I am I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Raffi. Lately, when we’re all alone at home I’ve been singing Baby Beluga to Gaia. I don’t know if it’s the song or my terrible voice, but I always manage to get a smile out of her.



Peru’s answer to Raffi is Yola Polastry. Mi Ranchito is Jose’s favourite of her songs and he’s been singing it to Gaia since I brought her home from the hospital. He and his brother have big plans involving this song, costumes and choreography for Gaia and her cousin (due September 2009).



While I don’t think any comment on the inherent cultural differences as showcased by these songs is necessary but I will say this, from now on every time I get frustrated about immigration hassles or the distance between us and wonder if it wouldn’t have just been easier if I’d fallen in love with a Canadian I’m going to remember how lucky Gaia is too grow up in a family where she’ll learn to sing both Baby Beluga and Mi Ranchito... my little Latina-Canadian.

Postcards From the Edge

I met Jaydeen working as a counsellor at a summer camp when I was fifteen. We bonded over our mutual love for men, babies and questionable situations. When I got pregnant she was among the first people I told, mainly because she always knows the right thing to say, but also because she was my boss and I needed to know if I was going to have to resign from ships. In the nine weeks between the time I found out about the pregnancy and finally found a job I had a lot of time on my hands to harass her at work via email. Below are some of my favourite conversations.

July 30, 2008 (5 Weeks Pregnant)

Jaydeen – OK, so I am reading a book and there is a character named Venice because that's where she was conceived. So I was thinking... Celona?

Me – Haha! I was actually pondering Estrella as the middle name regardless of gender. That would be the infamous Barcelona "street beer" we got smashed on pre and post-coital. Tacky? It means star. We'll see what Jose thinks of that. I think the name conversation will take months.

Jaydeen – Estrella for a girl, awesome. I don't think Estrella will fly for a guy's middle name. Too feminine, especially with the "ella" at the end. Jose won't go for it... you might as well name your future son "Fairy". Dear future baby - If she goes with Estrella, I tried to help.

Me – Keep in mind though Jay... it's Spanish right so the double 'l' is pronounced as a 'y'. I think it makes it a million times less feminine. Besides... it's a middle name. No one cares about the middle name. It's true. Plus, if it's a boy he's going to be WAY more attractive than all the other little boys anyway so having a girly middle name can only serve to give him perspective.

Jaydeen – I speak español, I know the pronunciation... just throwing it out there. I do agree a boy would be beautiful, as long as he doesn't get Jose's ginormous head. Man Risa, I'm so excited. I already love this baby so much!

Me – I know you speak español... I was just reminding you lest you forget. Jose's head really isn't that big... I don't think. What about Rambla or Ramblas for the boy middle name? I don't think it's nearly as cool but the significance stands. Just keep your fingers crossed that all your little God babies don't get named after characters from Nacho Libre. If it was up to Jose we'd have little Chancho, Nacho and Ramses. Think on that. We shouldn't get too excited though Jay... I haven't even gotten my first ultrasound and gotten a viable heartbeat yet. Anything could happen at this stage. Anyway... now that I've been an official Debbie Downer I think I'm going to go eat some Mac and Cheese.

Jaydeen – You made me laugh so hard! In Barcelona for the next two days so I’ll have to be careful of roaming sperm attempting to impregnate me. And I understand the point that you're at with the pregnancy. Most people don't share news until three months so I am with you this whole way!

Me – Watch out... Barcelona is tricky. I think not having sex with your Latin boyfriend while you're secretly ovulating might help. We were asking for trouble really. Just keep those legs crossed.

August 28, 2008 (9 Weeks Pregnant)

Good Morning!! I just wanted to let you know that since we talked about two and a half hours ago I've thrown up no less than three times. The last one was the best... I didn't notice the chunk of regurgitated apple pie in my hair until it hit me in the face when I tried to get back in bed. Whoever said pregnancy was magical must have also been on meth.

September 1, 2008 (10 Weeks Pregnant)

Hopefully I'm not speaking too soon BUT... I DIDN'T THROW UP TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just so you understand the magnitude this is the first day since early July I haven't barfed at least once. I'm telling you Jay... this pregnancy thing blows hard. Does that make me a horrible person? Seriously though... don't do it.

September 7, 2008 (11 Weeks Pregnant)

Me – So I've been watching old episodes of ANTM and Project Runway so the baby comes out FIERCE. I know... I'm brilliant.

Jaydeen - That is oh so clever. Did you see the brand new one that started last week?

Me - Yes I did. That episode was great because it'll teach the baby tolerance should he or she ever decide they're transgendered or have to stand up for someone who is. Oh ANTM... it should be on TLC (the LEARNING channel) really.

PS. Did I tell you I`ve started calling the baby UBER-FETUS because it's already far superior to other spawn??

Jaydeen - Are you keeping a diary of this shit? Honestly.

September 24, 2008 (13 Weeks Pregnant)

I'm freaking out. I didn't know that this happened once the baby starts kicking. It's like an alien trying to escape. It doesn't look pleasant. EEK. Not pleasant. Seriously... why don't people tell you your baby is going to try and escape through your tummy prior to birth?


Finally, just for kicks, and because I`m enjoying this little stroll down memory lane, here`s a favourite from the week leading up to Gaia’s birth.

March 10, 2009 (38 Weeks Pregnant – 2 Days to Delivery)

Me – I took the day off today because I'm exhaustamified and now that I'm all napped out and bored I just wanted to remind you that you'll be here in FOUR DAYS.... Woot! Woot! You better be excited bitches! I may be gigantic and tired and boring and living in a house with only two chairs BUT we're gonna have good times!! Oh and I made some cupcakes that look suspiciously like boobs... I didn't realise until it was too late. Whoops. If you're lucky there may be some boob-cakes left when you arrive.

Jaydeen – Save me a BOOB-CAKE! Or half a boob-cake. I am OK with half because I am majorly dieting. I have this image of me coming back to work and telling everyone that I didn't go to Saskatchewan, but in fact went to fat camp.

Me – I hate you tell you this Jay... but I think visiting your pregnant friend is the exact opposite of going to fat camp. Today for lunch I had a protein smoothie, three boob-cakes, numerous scoops of icing and an entire box of Kraft dinner (extra creamy). Oh, and I added some cheddar to the KD.... and by some I mean two handfuls. When I got your email I was seriously considering getting off my ass for the fudgcicles in the freezer. Seriously.

Water Baby

One of the perils of having a baby with a partner who lives four thousand, six hundred and twenty five miles away is a decided drop off in personal hygiene (thanks again Canadian government). Back when Gaia was napping for a solid three to five hour chunk every afternoon I was managing to shower regularly. Now that she’s abandoned napping almost all together I’ve had to get creative. Lately our routine has me putting her in her chair at the bathroom door and playing peek-a-boo behind the curtain as I frantically wash. Alas, yesterday she was in such a cranky baby mood that I knew our routine was a no go. By the time her bedtime hit I felt disgusting so I did what any inventive new mama would do. I ran a bath for two. Until now I’ve been too scared to bathe with Gaia. I learned quickly that wet babies are slippery and always felt it best to have one of us with two dry feet planted firmly on the ground. Still, I decided to take a chance.

I lowered us both in the water and I waited. Gaia looked up at me, obviously wondering what the big deal was. Before I knew it I was bouncing her and pulling her through the water and she was positively giddy with delight. Then it happened. I got sloppy. In my co-bathing bliss I let my guard down and lost my grip on Gaia. I watched as her happy little face slid under the water. It only lasted a second but panic washed over me in waves. Of course I knew she’d be OK, but I was sure that in one moment of carelessness I had just ruined my high hopes of her loving the water. Perhaps I was being a tad melodramatic. I pulled her back out of the water and apologised as earnestly as I could. I expected a pouty lip and tears at the least, full blown cries of course and obviously a look of deep seeded mistrust in her eyes. Instead, she blinked for a minute, blew a few raspberries and sneezed. Little streams of water poured from her nose and she smiled as if to say “that was fun... let’s do it again!”

Now I feel justified in the fact that my ten week old baby owns three bathing suits. 2028 Summer Olympics here we come.

Muffin Top

Domesticity is not my forte. Before I married Jose I made sure he was fully aware of the strict no cooking, no cleaning, no mending clause in our vows. Lucky for him my talents lay in other areas. Still, since I’ve been at home with Gaia I’ve been thinking more and more about what type of mother I want to be. Turns out I’d like to be the kind who serves homemade muffins, fresh from the oven every morning as I prepare my babies for their day. Who knew?

Not to fear, I haven’t completely mutated into some 1950s housewife. I still plan to toss said muffins at my children as we run out the door on the way to school (them)/a super satisfying career (me). Luckily a good family friend and secondary mother figure passed on a recipe for delicious muffins that even I feel I can master. Yesterday I got together with some Mommy friends and made a huge batch. From what I could tell they looked pretty easy to make. Of course, I took a backseat in the actual prep opting to measure the ingredients that most closely resembled candy (raisins and craisins and dates oh my). On my own away from the real action I operated on a strict one for you, one for me policy. I have hopes for domestic competence but feel baby steps are best.

Take it from me, normally I hate anything with bran on the ingredients list, but these muffins are super tasty. And the best thing about them, the batter can save in the fridge for up to six weeks, thereby stretching my once monthly attempts at baking and creating the illusion that I’m domestic goddess. When Gaia’s old enough to appreciate it (and you know... eat solid foods) I have big plans throw a batch of these in the oven a few mornings a week. Until then I’ve got a stockpile in my freezer to enjoy.



6 WEEK BRAN MUFFINS FROM LANA'S KITCHEN

6 cups combination of Bran Flakes Cereal, All Bran Cereal, Natural Bran
2 cups boiling water
Place cereals and water in bowl and let stand.

1 cup margarine/butter
1 1/2 cups white sugar
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
4 cups buttermilk (can substitute 1% milk)
1/4 cup molasses (optional)
Cream butter, add sugars. Beat eggs in one at a time. Add buttermilk and molasses. Stir in cereal mixture.

5 cups flour
2 tablespoons baking soda
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups raisins
2 cups combination of craisins and chopped dates
Mix thoroughly and add to batter.

Fill muffin tins lined with greased paper muffin liners. Fill full to top and some above (this batter does not rise up as it bakes). Bake 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 20-25 minutes.

In honour of our adventures in baking Gaia debuted her own muffin top in her first pair of jeans. My muffin top was also in attendance but thankfully remained unphotographed.

I ♥ BabyLegs

If you have a child and haven’t heard of BabyLegs you must check them out immediately. The idea is simple enough. They’re essentially mini-legwarmers for the infant to elementary school set. What makes them so fantastic is that they’re tight enough that they stay put on a newborn but stretchy enough to grow with your child well into the school aged years. They’re way cooler then tights, which are ridiculously hard to put on a baby and make diaper changes a breeze. Plus they can be worn as armbands should the mood strike you. I love them because they give the illusion that I’ve dressed Gaia for an outing, when actually I’ve just added a pair of BabyLegs to the onesie she’s been wearing all day at home. Lately, if I’m feeling especially ambitious, I’ve been putting them under the shorts and dresses I bought her for spring and she couldn’t look more adorable. They’re the perfect answer to Saskatchewan’s multiple weather personalities. Can you tell I love them? And the fun doesn’t have to stop this summer! They just came out with a new line called BabyLegs Cool. They’re made from breathable mesh and offer SPF 50 sun protection. Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.

If you’re living in Regina you can find BabyLegs at Hello Baby (2561 Quance Street) and Groovy Mama (3100 13th Avenue), but the selection is limited. After scouring the web for a Canadian supplier to order from I eventually got mine from Baby’s Best Design because they had the most styles availible. They cost the same as in store and they didn’t charge me shipping. Plus I got a bonus pair for free. If you need further incentive my entire shipment arrived less than a week after I made my order. I wish all online shopping was that hassle free.

Tomorrow I promise I’ll go back to writing about something that doesn’t make me sound like a walking, talking (blogging?) infomercial, but for now heed my word and at least go look at the ridiculous array of styles. You won’t be sorry.

Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three.

Is anyone out there? It seems I’m making a real go at this blog thing, but part of me wonders exactly who, if anyone, is intrigued enough by my average life to be reading. Who are you? What do you like about the blog? What do you hate? What would you like me to write about? If you’re out there let me know. I’d love any feedback you have! Oh but if you’re going to tell me I’m wordy and a tad self-indulgent don’t worry... I know. I’m pretty sure after twenty-seven years of much of the same that’s not about to change.

In other news I finally took a picture of the super creative baby gift we received from “Mahi Mahi”, a good friend and one of the sweetest, most adorable Royal Caribbean Youth Staff I met in my travels. Moulded from Model Magic, an Adventure Ocean staple, it’s an adorable version of my little family. Until life can imitate art I guess I’ll have to make do with the fact that at least the Crayola version of me gets the two people she loves most in the world in the same country (and living quite a happy life on my shelf I might add).

What's the Opposite of Cuddly?

* UPDATED MAY 19, 2009 (10:41PM)

If it’s true you get what you deserve then I must have done something really special to deserve Gaia. I jokingly tell people she’s my reward for everything Jose and I went through in 2008. My reward for staying positive and not falling apart while struggles were casually and repeatedly tossed our way. She really is a wonderful baby. After the initial “getting to know you” stage and a few rough nights she’s barely cried in the past month and a half (save for a few isolated instances of gastrointestinal distress). She loves long walks and shopping trips and chats over coffee. She’s also super social and seems to thrive on the outings where she’s passed to someone new to be fussed over every ten minutes. Her personality is such that if she wasn’t my baby I’d secretly wish she was. Finally, the piece de resistance, for the last two weeks she’s been... dare I say it?... sleeping though the night. That’s right. In just two months I have stumbled upon the holy grail of all new parents. Of course I fear that saying it out loud might jinx it but every night, without fail, she’s fast asleep by 10:30pm and doesn’t wake until around 10:30am for more than a single fifteen minute feeding at the seven-hour mark. Some days I feel drunk with rest. Add in the fact she’s been waking up laughing and frankly, I feel almost guilty for having it so good. I’m not actually naive enough to believe her demeanour has to do with anything other than luck but there is one crucial area where it seems I truly am getting what I deserve. Practically perfect in every way, sadly my newborn hates to cuddle. Sigh.

Of course I know I’m being “rewarded” in this instance for a lifetime of refusing to cuddle with my own mother but honestly, it’s devastating. Who doesn’t want to cuddle with their soft, sweet-smelling baby girl? If anything it’s a mother’s right and one that Gaia repeatedly denies me. After her first week of indulging me by napping lazily on my chest, Gaia quickly began refusing to be held close. My attempts at co-sleeping were laughable as she did everything but say “seriously Mama, you need to back off, I’m trying to sleep and you gazing at me lovingly is beyond annoying”. Her rolled eyes said it all. My excitement is palpable when she falls asleep during a feeding. I wait for her to go limp stretched out on her back across my arm and carefully, ever so slowly shift her to my chest so I can hold her close. I barely get a sniff of her perfect baby head and she’s wide awake, doing her best Stevie Wonder impression* as she frantically turns her head and tries to come up with an escape plan. In the morning while scooping her out of bed I almost get close enough to kiss her chubby cheek and she’s pushing me away. Didn’t think a two month old baby had the coordination or drive to push her mother’s face away? Mine does. And it’s not just cuddly naps and morning kisses she detests, she’s also doing everything in her power to prepare her little baby legs for walking, surely so someday very soon she can walk away from me. Pumping and kicking in continuous motion she reminds me of a wind-up toy being held above the ground. If I let her go I secretly fear she’d zip across the floor. Baby carriers that warn against the forward facing position for the under three-month set have obviously never met my child. I have to shirk the warnings in fear of her little baby wrath should I make her turn in towards me and miss the big wide world she’s so eager to explore. The list of ways she desperately tries to be independent doesn’t end. If I didn’t know better I’d swear I gave birth to a seven year old in the underdeveloped body of an infant.


* Just in case you needed a visual on the Stevie Wonder reference... enjoy.

I know some of you might find my heartbreak more then a little annoying. Even I wonder what right I have to complain since a newborn who isn't clingy enough is my biggest baby issue. Not to worry though, if I get what I deserve in the teenage years I’ve got a lot of sleepless nights ahead of me.

UPDATE: I just got an email from Momma Pants, my first (and thus far only) Mommy-friend. Apparently Gaia’s Stevie Wonder impression might be a sign she’s overtired. Thankfully it’s not just invaluable advice she’s doling out, I’m also the proud borrower of a magic swing that put Gaia to sleep for over three hours this afternoon. If you’re not lucky enough to have friends like her (or even if you are) make sure to read her blog – By the Seat of Mom’s Pants – I can’t imagine a more informed mother and, just your luck, she’s funny too.

A Rose By Any Other Name (An Epilogue)

This long weekend Gaia and I are lucky enough to have a visit from Rachel, one of my favourite Vancouverites and official auntie/baby stylist. Being around Baby G seems to have sparked a pretty solid case of baby fever in my previously anti-baby friend which, of course, led us to spend our evening poring over The Baby Name Bible. Amongst debates over the validity of colour names (both for) and a struggle to imagine what type of person would name their baby Bran, I found myself thinking of our battle to name Baby G. Here’s how we finally came to our conclusion.

GAIA (GUY-ah) ~ Greek, “Earth Mother” ~ The name of the Greek mythological earth goddess and universal mother.

My heart broke a little the day Jose put an official vito on the baby name I’d been coveting since my early teens. From that point on I couldn’t imagine any suggestion he made standing a chance. Call it selfish, but I dare you to feel differently should you ever find yourself in the same situation. On my first night in Peru, while sitting in the sand and watching the moonlight on the ocean I finally asked Jose what he thought we should name the uber-fetus. He suggested Gaia without missing a beat. In his mind, her name was Gaia from the start. Depending on his mood when you ask him his likely to give you one of two versions of the official name story. The first one has him waxing academic about mythology and his time in Greece. The other has him extolling the virtues of a video game he was obsessed with in the months of unemployment he went through while we made our first attempts to get him into Canada. I’ll leave it to you to decide which one sounds more plausible.

It took a lot of convincing, but in the end I gave in to his beautiful accent and the way he looked when he called my belly Gaia. Plus it just seemed right to tell the baby her papi had chosen her name. It provided a kind of proof that he loved her from the start, even though he was so far away. My concerns about mispronunciation and spelling errors, while valid, seem silly now that I’ve met the baby who was on the inside for so long. She was always meant to be Gaia. I’m sure of it.

CELONA (suh-LOE-nuh)

I fell in love with Barcelona the minute I stepped off the boat with Jose on our first overnight stay in the city. I walked around entranced with the energy of Las Ramblas, drinking “street beer” and listening to locals shout in lispy Spanish. It was our first official date, almost a year after we met. We spent two months exploring Barcelona every chance we got. Port Vell, the gothic quarter, Parc Guell, the Aquarium, La Sagrada Família, the marketplace and of course Las Ramblas, the place that started my love affair with the city – we loved it all. We spent our last night in Barcelona after a week apart, when the ship’s second overnight visit coincided with my European vacation. It was “street beer” and people watching again, but this time fate saw fit to bring us our baby girl. In my life story the night of her conception is among my favourite chapters.

Months later I was telling the story to my friend and Gaia’s eventual Godmother, Jaydeen. About a week later she emailed me this:

“OK, so I am reading a book and there is a character named Venice because that's where she was conceived. So I was thinking... Celona?”

I think it was a joke but frankly, I couldn’t have come up with anything more perfect.

We went Latin with her last name taking the paternal surnames from both sides (no hyphen thankyouverymuch) and saddling her with a double dose of unpronounceable fun (only seven syllables long). You’d be surprised how hard it is to try to explain to people that you, your husband and your baby all have different last names. Call me naive, but I thought it was pretty commonplace these days? Naming the baby was no easy feat but I’m more than satisfied with our choice. If nothing else I’m just glad we didn’t have a boy... if that was the case it’s likely the poor little guy still wouldn’t have a name.

PS. Here’s a pic of our little trio enjoying the sunshine this afternoon.

Baby G

The G is for Gangsta...Obviously.

Potty Mouth

I used to swear. Ahem. I used to swear A LOT. As I’ve gotten older I’ve tried to tone it down a bit and while it’s not uncommon to hear me drop a f-bomb in polite company I’d say I’m getting pretty good at keeping up appearances as someone with a touch of class. Yes indeed, I’m one classy bitch. Unless you happen to catch me in the driver’s seat that is. Sigh. I know it’s cliché but I have a serious case of Road Rage. Of course moving to Regina didn’t help. I think the worst drivers in the country all come to Regina and hop in their cars as soon as they hear my garage door open. Merging seems to be a lost art here, as is efficiently changing lanes. I can’t take the Ring Road without being prepared for the inevitable hoarse voice that comes after shouting “THE LEFT LANE IS FOR PASSING... YOU FUCKING MORON” over and over again as I speed by on the right. Aggressive driving seems to have no place here. It breaks my heart to see three cars turn on a green arrow where sixteen cars in Vancouver would have been and I swear I tense up at the very sight of a four-way stop. Note to all the drivers out there – politeness has no place at a four-way stop. To make matters worse everyone drives at or below the speed limit. I know it only takes about fifteen minutes to get anywhere in the city but I don’t think that’s any excuse to be so blasé with your time (or more specifically, mine). Besides, aren’t those “limits” a little arbitrary anyway? Driving anarchy, that’s what we need. Now who’s with me?

Gaia, that’s who. It seems that while my daughter snatched the majority of her good genes from my husband, she managed to inherit the Road Rage gene from me (I of course got it from the foul-mouthed road warrior more commonly refered to as my mother). For the last few weeks Gaia has started screaming the minute I snap her car seat into place and not stopped until I snap her back out upon reaching our destination. A few days ago, after a particularly long journey across the city, nearing the end of my patience for baby screaming, I flipped on my signal light and began plans for a quick lane change en route home. I checked my mirror. The coast was clear, save for a sporty black car a good ten car lengths back. Mere seconds later the same black car was purposefully accelerating to close the gap and deny me my rightful place in front of him. This seems to be a Regina specialty. I couldn’t help myself. I shook my fist with fury and screamed.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! THAT’S RIGHT... YOU! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! ASSSSSSSSSSSSHOLE!”

Suddenly Gaia got quiet and, I kid you not, she laughed her little baby laugh and promptly fell asleep. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Wasn’t I concerned that my newborn found my screaming obscenities calming? Mildly. More concerning still was the brief moment I seriously considered screaming obscenities as a valid soothing strategy.

Between Womb and World

Baby G is officially two months old today. Last night as I crawled into bed I couldn’t help thinking that only two months ago I was still pregnant. Sometimes it’s hard for me to look at Gaia and believe that she used to live inside me. I find the whole thing completely surreal. Anyway, in honour of our anniversary and because I’ve been promising it to people for so long, here it is... our birth story.

The day before Gaia was born I had my last appointment with my OBGYN. Everything was good, except for my blood pressure, which, normally very low, had spiked since my last visit prompting him to finally insist I stop working. Anyone who knows me knows I hated being pregnant. I spent the first three months sleeping next to the toilet as my days became a blur. I was so sick I actually lost five pounds. When the sickness finally dissipated I spent the next six months growing at a rapid rate. I stopped sleeping and struggled every morning to turn my normal wardrobe into maternity gear (if you’re pregnant and feel horrified at the thought of maternity clothes the Bella Band is your new best friend... I wore it until the day Gaia was born... and about a month afterwards). By my last month I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t sit for more than five minutes without wanting to cry and standing wasn't much better. If I hadn’t been distracted by working every day at a job I loved I would have gone crazy. Work and prenatal yoga made me feel like a human being and not just a baby factory. Thank God. Still, my labour was awesome. If I had the choice I’d give birth over and over if it meant I’d never have to be pregnant again. Unfortunately the two go hand-in-hand. But I digress.

After a standard night of fitful pregnancy sleeping I woke up around 7:00am on Thursday, March 12th with what felt like mild cramps. I lied in bed for awhile trying to get back to sleep and noticing the cramps were coming at fairly regular intervals, about fifteen to twenty minutes apart. Since it was still ten days before my due date I was pretty sure the cramps were Braxton Hicks. I even managed to get a little excited about the thought of my body finally “practicing” for the arrival of Baby G. After about an hour had passed and I realised I wasn’t going to get back to sleep I got out of bed and set to work on the gigantic pre-baby checklist I’d made. I cleaned the house, washed baby clothes and finally opened the Pack n Play I’d bought for Gaia to sleep in. As the cramps continued I casually thought they might be the early stages of labour, but I was still relatively unconvinced. I even remember mentioning to my Dad that I might be in labour but not to worry about it since I was probably overreacting. All I kept thinking was if I was in labour I’d be in a lot more pain than this... wouldn’t I? At about 2:00pm I made a trip to Wal-Mart. I still find it amusing that my priorities lay with buying a door hanger so I could finally organise my scarves. By the time I got to Wal-Mart I found myself having to stop and focus on my breathing every five to ten minutes as the cramping got stronger. At this point you would think I’d realise what was going on, but no. I stopped at McDonald’s for a McNugget meal. Just a note to all pregnant women out there, if you have any inkling you might be in labour, don’t eat McDonald’s for lunch. In fact, I’d give it up about month seven, just to be on the safe side. Regurgitated nuggets swimming in a pink milkshake sauce are not what you want to see in the hours before your baby makes their entrance. Trust me. I got home around 3:30pm and took a break from ‘nesting’ to talk to my husband on Skype. Not wanting to alarm him, since, and I can’t stress this enough, I was POSITIVE I wasn’t in labour, I didn’t mention anything about the cramps or the way that the tightening sensation had travelled to my lower back and was, if not painful, getting increasingly uncomfortable. By the time we said goodbye the cramping was much stronger and coming pretty regularly every five minutes or so. My plan was to have a bath and then finish the rest of my checklist and call it a night. By this point I think subconsciously I must have known what was going on. Consciously I was still in denial. I called Labour and Delivery at the General Hospital just to be on the safe side. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi. So sorry to bother you. I’m 38 weeks pregnant and... ummm... how would I know if I was in labour?
Nurse: Are you having contractions?
Me: Oh... well... umm... some cramps I guess. But I’m sure they’re nothing. I’m probably just being silly.
Nurse: Did your water break?
Me: Oh... well no. So it’s probably nothing right. I’m sorry I bothered you. It’s probably nothing. I’m just being ridiculous.
Nurse: Well we’d be happy to check you if you want to come in.
Me: No. No. I’m sorry. You’re probably really busy. I’m fine. I’m really sorry to have bothered you.
Nurse: Are you sure? Why don’t I take your name a number and give you a call to check on you in a few hours?
Me: Oh God no! I’m fine. I’m probably not in labour. I’m fine. OK. Ummm... right. I’m going to go now. Thank you. Oh and so sorry, again, to have bothered you.

Then I hung up.

I assume the nurse thought I was a nutcase. Now, I feel I should explain something here. I was a huge hypochondriac when I was a child. I pitched a fit over even the smallest scratch. As such, as an adult I’ve developed a pretty stiff upper lip when it comes to instances of medical need. My worst pregnancy nightmare would be arriving at the hospital only to be sent home for thinking indigestion was advanced labour. Oh the shame. Still, I think I might have taken my fear of judgement it too far. By the time I called my doula at 5:30pm, I was having trouble standing and walking and I finally admitted to myself that maybe I should start packing my hospital bag. My doula and I played the same phone game I’d played with the Labour and Delivery nurse, although she seemed far less convinced by my attempts at being nonchalant. After calling me every ten minutes to check-in, I finally agreed to track my contractions with an online tracker. After a half hour I was finally coming around to the idea that contractions less than three minutes apart and lasting about a minute might actually be labour... maybe. At 6:30pm I called my Dad. Anyone who knows me and my Dad can imagine how the next fifteen minutes went.

Me: Um... Dad... can you help me pack my bag? I think I might be in labour.
Dad: Oh. Yes. Um... do you want to go to the hospital?
Me: Um... well. I’m not sure. Should I go to the hospital?
Dad: Do you want to?
Me: I don’t know. Should I? I just timed my contractions online. They’re pretty close together, but my water hasn’t broken. So maybe not? I don’t know.
Dad: You timed your contractions online. What do you mean?
Me: It’s this program... it’s really cool... you just press the space bar and... (pause for contraction)....
Dad: Are you OK?
Me: Yeah... that’s what I’m talking about though. It happens every three minutes. Weird right?

We carried on like this for awhile. We were like the blind leading the blind. Eventually he packed my bag for me while I sat on the toilet leaking what I can only assume was amniotic fluid and periodically throwing up into my garbage can. I kid you not, I was still sure I was overreacting and I’d be sent home once we got to the hospital.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, I prepped for the labour with Hypnobirthing classes taught by Marie Berwald. The basic idea behind Hypnobirthing is that our bodies are made to give birth and that painful, stressful births are a product of fear which causes you to work against your body. The point is to learn to trust your body, and your baby, and relax through the birth process by practicing self-hypnosis. The goal is a healthy, natural (ie. drug-free), pain-free birth. Initially I was a sceptic but the classes made sense to me so I thought I’d give it a go. I completely credit Hypnobirthing with my calmness throughout the day and through the birth that was to come. The erratic screaming and mass panic of movie births had no place in my day and I managed to get through each contraction, even in the latest stages, by quietly and calmly focussing on my breath and my body. If you’re pregnant and looking to have a natural birth I highly recommend you look into it.

We got to the hospital at about 7:00pm and I finally made it up to Labour and Delivery by 7:30pm. My doula met me there and we waited at the door to be officially admitted. My nurse, an absolutely amazing woman named Linda, went over my admitting sheet with me and I gave her my prenatal records and carefully thought out birth plan. Then she led me to a bed in the assessment room. At this point I’d told my Dad not to bother parking since “I’ll only be a minute” so he quietly milled around the waiting room, assuming I’d be right back out to let him know if I was staying or not. After a quick pee-in-a-cup I stripped down and hopped up on the bed where Linda checked me and calmly announced I was fully dilated. All I could think was that maybe I missed it when my water broke. And then my water broke. Trust me... you’ll know when it happens. Frankly it’s almost comical. I felt like I should push pretty much immediately so I focussed on my breathing and bore down. In the walk from assessment to my delivery room I periodically stopped mid stride to squat and push. This was probably the first indication that all privacy and poise goes out the window in labour. By the time I got onto the bed it was close to 9:00pm. Linda started monitoring the baby’s heart rate which was extremely low. Throughout the pregnancy it had been consistently around one hundred and fifty... during labour it was closer to fifty. I should have been worried but I wasn’t. By this point I really felt like me and the baby were a team and I swear I knew we’d be OK. Linda called in a resident to get an internal heart rate monitor in place (which is not in the least bit as uncomfortable as you’d think) and calmly told me I had to push, as hard as I could, as fast as I could, to get the baby out as quickly as possible. I briefly thought about how contrary to Hypnobirthing philosophy her instructions were, I think I even said “no pushing, I’m just going to bear down and let my body birth my baby” but frankly, I’m a do-er and pushing felt right. So I did it. I tried with every bit of my being to keep breathing while I pushed, which worked about half the time, and before I knew it my doctor had arrived and I was crowning.

Just a note on childbirth... I have what I would consider a regular threshold for pain and there was no point where I felt like I couldn’t handle it. If anything I was exhausted (punctuated by the moment I declared “I’m too tired, I can’t do it anymore” and was promptly told that wasn’t an option). Labour is absolutely hard work, but pain isn’t the right word for it at all. I don’t judge anyone who’s had an epidural or plans to and I feel like everyone is completely entitled to be proud of whatever birth experience they have. I’m just saying if you’re pregnant and interested in a natural birth it is one hundred percent possible. Exhaustion? Yes! Pressure? Absolutely! Pain? Not so much. Oh but if you’re one of those people who’s in labour for days get an epidural and get some sleep. Seriously. Moving on...

Once the doctor announced I was crowning I gave one strong push and the head was out. The mystery of her low heart rate was solved when he announced the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and asked if he could cut it before we continued (I had made a huge deal about wanting delayed cord clamping/cutting but in this case I feel medical need dictated otherwise). Focussing on holding the baby halfway between world and womb while the cord was cut was not entirely desirable but before I knew it I was being told I could finish the job and with one final, monster push Gaia came into the world. It was 9:30pm.

Because she had been in distress I wasn’t able to hold her immediately after birth. Luckily the nurse from the NICU unit came to the delivery room so I could watch as they checked her vitals and made sure she was breathing regularly. I watched her as I delivered the placenta (which made me think of jellyfish) and stitched me up (I had some minor tearing, probably due to the rate at which I pushed her out). About ten minutes after she was born I finally got to hold her. The speed of the delivery caused me to go into shock, so I was wrapped in warm blankets and if you ask me that was the perfect way to spend my first moments with Gaia. Warm, with my new baby on my chest and distantly reminded of the days when I used to come home from swimming lessons to be wrapped in towels fresh from the dryer by my Mom. My doula, who was amazing through the entire experience and who I could not have done it without, snuck out to tell my Dad what had happened. Presumably he was still waiting to see if he should go park the car. Somewhere in the hour and a half I was in active labour my Mom and brother had also arrived and they all came to the delivery room to meet Gaia. As soon as I could I called Jose, who was asleep, and told him about the baby. Needless to say he was shocked (maybe I should have given him some indication when we were chatting in the afternoon, but when you’re pregnant and your husband has no option to be with you, you do what you can not to worry him).

Before I knew it I was wheeled to the Mom and Baby unit. I said goodbye to my entourage, made a few more phone calls and spent the night with Gaia beside me, too much in awe of her sleeping face to get much sleep myself. The next morning Jose called me to tell me about a dream he’d had. “Baby,” he said “I had a dream that you had our little chanchita last night... so maybe she is coming soon?” I laughed as I told him it was real. That's what I get for trying to tell him news that big while he was sleeping. Then I told him about her perfect face... perfect eyes... perfect little feet that looked just like his. Two months later I think Jose had it right. Sometimes I feel like it was a dream. One morning I woke up pregnant and the next morning I woke up next to Gaia. The time in between is just details.

All The Hopes I Hope

It seems crazy that this time last year I had yet to meet Gaia. Crazier still that I didn’t see her coming now that I’m sure she was meant for me all along. Now I have trouble imagining who I would be without her. Mostly, I’m full of anticipation for the life she’s beginning and feel so privileged to bear witness. Someday I’ll be able to say “I was there all along”.

I hope she grows up to be a force to be reckoned with. I hope she always speaks her mind and that her mind is always full. I hope she reads more than she watches TV and learns to think critically. I hope travels the world and really sees it. I hope she never stops making mistakes, so that she can always learn from them. I hope she is always quick to smile and that she’s funny, like, pee-your-pants funny. I hope she is honest, especially with herself. I hope she learns to swim and play an instrument and takes on every challenge that comes her way. I hope she really likes art, and that if she doesn’t that she finds something, anything, that she really likes. I hope she is never ashamed to ask for help. I hope she doesn’t take herself too seriously and tries not to get embarrassed if she accidentally farts in a business meeting. I hope she is wise beyond her years. I hope that someday very soon she learns to give me baby kisses since the current kiss tally stands at Mama – 7,324,174, Gaia – 0. I hope she is a strong, capable woman who can take care of herself but knows when to let herself be taken care of. I hope she is empathetic and kind. Empathy, yeah, I really hope she has that. I hope she tries to see the good in every person and the silver lining in every situation. I hope she is proud when her father speaks to her in Spanish when he picks her up from school. I hope she learns to listen to herself and trust her instincts. I hope she never says she hates me, and even more that she never means it. I hope that when she looks in the mirror she likes what she sees and always sees what matters most (which, of course, you can’t see in the mirror). I hope she has pets. I hope that she finds someone to fall in love with and that they love her back. I hope every night when she goes to sleep she can think of one thing she’s done that she’s proud of and all the ways she is blessed. I hope she always knows that whoever she is is always okay to anyone who matters. I hope she never stops telling me “about her day”. I hope she always demands respect (that’s right, DEMANDS). I hope if she’s scared to try something new, she does in anyway. I hope she is humble. I hope she is confident and never lets the man get her down. I hope she is affectionate and greets people by kissing them on the cheek even though we don’t live in Peru. I hope she always, ALWAYS knows how much her papi and I love her. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I hope she doesn’t like mustard.

Since the day I peed on a stick (or three) and saw the line(s) turn blue my head has been filled with all of the hopes I hope for her and only one for me...

I hope I am always strong enough to raise the type of woman I hope she will be.

Happy Mother’s Day.