Planet G

Two days before I found out I was pregnant I bought two pairs of the most indulgent six-inch heels. I traded them in exchange for over three hundred dollars, my entire bank balance. I fell in love with them the moment I slid them on my feet at danced around the store with glee. One pair was outrageous in purple patent shine and smooth grey suede with a stripper-worthy platform. You know, a classy stripper of course. The other pair was only slightly more wearable. Luxurious caramel leather with multiple wide straps that crossed well past my ankles. They were finished in the perfect teak without a hint of that shine that makes a wood heel look cheap. Oh. My. Goodness. I’m drooling just thinking about them now. They were exquisite. The evening I bought them was spent trying them on with every article of clothing in my closet, stopping periodically to bat my eyelashes at them admiringly.

The first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant was return them both. Before I told Jose or my family or saw a doctor or dealt with the news in any emotionally mature way I did a final lap of my house in the gorgeous shoes, placed them delicately back into their boxes and took them back to the store. If you’re not a shoe person this may seem ridiculous to you, but that was the first time in my life I had ever returned a shoe. It was like giving away a child (my two hundred and forty seventh born). I think about those shoes every day. Not because I miss them or because I wish they were in my closet today, but because those shoes will forever represent the moment I became a mother. For a girl like me those shoes were my first act of sacrifice and I didn’t think twice. I had no idea what I was going to do after I returned those shoes, but I had an inkling that three hundred dollars might come in handy.

Since Gaia was born we’ve gotten pretty much everything we’ve needed with the help of a variety of generous friends. I can’t stress enough how lucky we are to have so many amazing and generous people around us. It chokes me up to think about it. Still there was one thing, however unessential, I felt we were missing. I wanted a baby gym and I wanted one bad. One sure sign of Gaia’s maturity seems to be that we’re finding it harder and harder to fill the gaps between feedings and naps. The bottom line? She’s been getting bored. Today after a quick look at my finances it appeared I could afford diapers, food and a little something extra so we headed to the mall. Gaia was fast asleep when we arrived so I figured I could sneak in a little shopping for myself. I perused Vancouver’s finest. Shoes and handbags and dresses and more. I should have been in shopping heaven, but like growing apart from your best friend in high school, my favourite old stores just didn’t hold their same appeal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but somehow shopping just didn’t seem satisfying and I didn’t buy a single thing. Gasp!

When Gaia started to stir I steered us full speed ahead for Babies-R-Us. There amongst the aisles was the very thing I’ve been coveting while struggling to keep Gaia entertained for the past few weeks – a Fisher Price Precious Planet Deluxe Musical Activity Gym. I scooped it up and I felt that familiar stir. On my way out I grabbed some three to six month bottle nipples to replace the newborn ones we’ve been using and a Spanish speaking Baby Einstein Octoplush. Paying for my purchases I felt it. The supreme satisfaction of buying something you really, really want. When we got home Gaia watched me eagerly from her Bumbo as I constructed her new world (a world I’ve appropriately coined Planet G). We spent the next hour lying on the floor together listening to a plastic Polar Bear sing us songs as we swatted the dangling animals above our head. At one point Gaia caught a glimpse of herself in the sunshine mirror hanging above her and regardless of whether she recognised it or not she promptly welcomed the reflection with a barrage of coos and giggles. My heart swelled with the same consumer satisfaction I’d felt eleven months earlier with the shoes.













Becoming a mother wasn’t as jarring as I was expecting. I was ready for the sleepless nights and often overwhelming responsibility and letting my whole world revolve around someone small enough to fall asleep tucked comfortably in my arms. But the fact that I’ve happily given up designer duds and six inch heels for Fisher Price baby gear, well I don’t think anyone saw that coming.

I'm With The Band

When I was a teenager I thought I was pretty rad. I had black hair with ruby tips and pencil thin eyebrows and a tattoo in senior year. In the way only a teenager can I decided who I wanted to be and committed to it. My persona? “I’m with the band.” And I was. For a whole decade of my life I only dated pseudo wannabe rockstars. I started with guitarists (too shy) and moved on to drummers (too crazy). In the end I settled exclusively on lead singers. I revelled in the idea that I was their muse. I established an air of superiority as I sat, casually disaffected, in a corner booth at some local Battle of the Bands. “That song... it’s about me” I’d say. And it was. Of course the inevitable drama of screaming late night fights and tearful wordy apologies and the rampant infidelity eventually got to me and I moved on from tortured artists to a little more stable fare. As I grew older it seemed obvious that there was only room for one diva in my relationships and clearly I preferred that diva be me. Still, before I saw the light I spent the entirety of my formative dating years drinking beers at band practice and imagining my name in liner notes. It wasn’t all wasted time though. If I got anything from my rockband boyfriends it was an absolutely amazing musical education.

I used to be that girl. The one who isn’t quite a groupie because her knowledge of all things rock and roll is so extensive you don’t dare whittle her commitment down to some childish desire to sleep with someone famous (or, you know, almost famous). I didn’t come by it honestly. Instead, I listened. I poured over CD collections and read music magazines and mentally noted every observation made in casual conversation. When I moved to England at sixteen my musical education deepened. I became consumed with Nirvana. I wanted to play guitar and be Courtney to someone’s Kurt. I listened to the Foo Fighters on repeat for weeks. Dave Grohl was my soulmate. That much I was sure of. Concerts were my cocaine and I attended them en mass and collapsed into bed each night exhausted from mosh pits and stage dives. You’d never know it look at me now but there were two weeks of my life where I dropped everything to follow Weezer and the Foo Fighters as they toured the West Coast. I frequented music stores and diverged from band guys only once, for a crush on a guy I still call HMV Phil. I can recite the lyrics to every song from the alternative/grunge era with ease. On a good day I can tell you the year songs were produced, original line-ups and the realities of the rise and fall of fame. I will never know anything as well as I knew that particular era of music and that’s the way it should be. It’s the only it way it can be when you fall in love with something in high school.

Somebody told me once that the bands you listened to when you were seventeen will remain your favourite for life. I didn’t put much stock in it. Still, this morning I got in Robin’s car and was happily surprised when I stumbled upon a plethora of mixed CDs I’d made in senior year in the glove compartment. Somewhere along the way I’d left my vast collection of CDs behind and being the scavenger he is Robin simply adopted them all. Driving through downtown Vancouver at 9:00am singing along to Blind Melon I felt like my old teenage self.

“I just want suh-uhm-one to say to me... oh oh oh oh... I’ll always be there when you wa-ake....”

You couldn’t pay me to trade in my happily-married-career-and-mommy-life for the crushing awkwardness and angst of those days but I can’t deny I loved the little piece of it. For a minute it felt like dancing with my eyes closed in the middle of Jenks (my favourite Blackpool club) with a Strobe (a delightful combination of strawberry vodka and caffeine) in one hand and a mohawked manchild in the other. Like the first time I lined my eyes with black or peeling off the eyelash glue I used to stick craft store glitter to my lids. Like catching a lift from some guy I just met because I spent my taxi money on 4:00am pizza. I may be ten years older now and infinitely wiser. I may have been driving out to explore the Ladner market on a Sunday afternoon with my baby asleep in the backseat. I may have given up on backstage passes and guys with ironic facial hair. I may never feel exactly like I felt when I was seventeen and got so close to the stage I could smell the rocker sweat. But this morning, this morning I got close.

Baby Weight?

I can’t remember a time when I wore a single digit size. In fact, part of me suspects I was born a size ten and the numbers have been slowly climbing since then. I know why I gain weight. I have a passionate love affair with good food. I blame it on my father who introduced me to a world of culinary delights as a child. Plus I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like. When I started university in 2001 I thought I was gigantic. Looking back I was actually on the healthier side of average. My jeans were a comfortable size ten which is nothing to scoff at for a girl with hips like mine. By the time I completed my six-year-degree and finally graduated (finally) I was going through a gymnastics routine every morning to get my size sixteen jeans to do up. I refused to bite the bullet and buy a size up. At size sixteen I could still shop at The GAP, if I gave in and went to a ‘big girl store’ I was afraid it’d be a slippery slope to Mom-Jeans and muumuus. I knew the fact my jeans left permanent impressions in my belly was a little ridiculous, I just pretended not to care. I left university sixty pounds heavier then I’d arrived and I’d finally pushed the scale over two hundred pounds. Things were getting excessive.

Leaving for university in 2001

Leaving for ships in 2007

When I came home from my first contract on ships I was inextricably fifteen pounds lighter. I chalked it up to a strict diet of Corona and controversy. Sustenance was placed on the backburner as I became consumed with living a life of excess and melodrama. Somehow I managed to keep the weight off during my two months of vacation. Even more shocking was the additional thirty pounds I lost during my next contract. Having gotten a promotion, it wasn’t a beer and drama diet that did it this time, it was sixteen-hour workdays and repeatedly jogging up ten flights of stairs to get from my cabin to Adventure Ocean because I’MJUSTTOOBUSYTOWAITFORTHEELEVATOR. Neither strategy was the healthiest but I felt good. I was still fifteen pounds away from where I’d been completely healthy and thirty pounds from my ultimate goal, but I took pride in my size twelve jeans. In my last months on the ship I started eating well (not just eating very little) and Jose and I went to the gym almost every day. I even found myself turning away dessert (my favourite part of any meal). I had big plans.

A few weeks after signing off of The Navigator of the Seas - Almost 3 Weeks Pregnant (who knew?)

Then I got pregnant. Determined not to succumb to the “I’m pregnant so I can eat what I want” trap I tried my best to stay on the healthy eating bandwagon. Sweets were my major vice, but I rationalised that eating an entire sheet cake in one sitting was probably not going to kill me. Right? I did everything I could to stay active. I did yoga three times a week and went on walks and never let the pregnancy be an excuse at my often active job. I felt proud at my six month check up when I’d only gained seven pounds. My ultrasound showed the baby was just the right size and developing perfectly. I decided all my best efforts must mean that I was losing weight while my fetus took all the nutrients. This suited me just fine.

Then I went to Peru. To this day I’m not entirely sure how it happened. It might have been the Inca Kola, the cookies or the ice cream bars I consumed in bed every day pre and post-nap. Or maybe it was the fries I had with every meal? Regardless when I got back to Canada and back to my doctor for my seven month check up I had gained a whooping ten pounds. “Okay. No big Deal.” I thought. “Seventeen pounds is nothing during pregnancy.” And it wasn’t.

Two days before Gaia was born.

Then I gave up. By the time I hit seven and a half months I was so sick of being pregnant I ate whatever I wanted, mainly to make myself feel better. I started sleeping through yoga and gave up on walks and I even took the elevator up one floor at work more than once. By the time Gaia was born I had gained a total of almost thirty pounds. I still weighed less then when I’d graduated university but just barely. I hadn’t expected miracles but when I weighed myself for the first time post-pregnancy I was down over fifteen pounds. “At this rate,” I thought “I’ll be back into my old jeans in no time.” Sigh. Not only have I not lost a single additional pound since then, I’ve actually gained five more. Not to mention the fact that my belly, which even at my heaviest had been reasonably flat, is now sad and droopy. Distantly reminded of squishing a sleeping bag into it’s too-small casing every time I tried to get into my jeans I began living in yoga pants.

Last night I went to dinner with I friend. We were chatting when I looked down and realised I was casually rubbing my belly. Even more shocking was that it appeared to be about the same size it had been at around the five-month mark of my pregnancy. Sure I haven’t been watching what I eat. The aforementioned meal had a caloric content I don’t dare think about. Still, I just had a baby right? Ummm... sort of. The’ just’ in ‘just had a baby’ is getting to be a bit of a stretch and somehow I don’t think the excuse holds much weight anymore. It’s gotten to the point that continuing to refer to my extra chub as “baby weight” is laughable. Instead of blaming the baby, perhaps I should face facts. I think the real culprit might be the gigantic cookie and frappacino I had for breakfast this morning. Or maybe it was the quesadilla oozing delicious cheese I just snacked on. Hmmm. It’s true that the moments I actually find myself able to cook are rare. Also true is the lack of opportunities to go to the gym. Still, I know I could be taking better care of myself. I’m choosing not to.

Weight is such a sensitive topic, one I’m especially aware of now that I have a daughter. The last thing I want is for my struggles with weight to have any impact of Gaia’s view of her own body. Still, she deserves a healthy mother. My husband deserves a confident wife. Hell, I deserve to feel what it’s like to zip up my pre-baby jeans again. I’m not planning on getting obsessive or anything but it seems clear that now that I’ve found myself in yoga pants on a Friday night, rubbing my belly while I casually eye the cheesecake at the table beside me I’m sliding down the aforementioned slope that ends in Mom-Jeans and muumuus. It may seem vain, but there’s no way I’m I going to nab MILF status if I keep wandering down that slope. And you can deny it all you want but don’t pretend you don’t want to be a MILF too.

Blog-Lazy and a Baby Birthday

The beautiful weather in Vancouver is officially making me blog-lazy. As in, I spend every spare second outside exploring my new summer neighborhood with Baby G so when we finally come home to sleep I’m far to tired to string together sentences in any coherent fashion. I promise I will try and rectify the situation tomorrow. In the meantime today is Gaia’s three-month birthday. How it’s even possible that I have a three-month old baby is beyond me. I wonder if I'll still feel like that when she's thirteen?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY G!

Homosexual Ties and Other Reasons To Be Friends with Robin

Lots of you know Robin. I’ve also blogged about him here. Being the fantastic guy he is he’s opened his home to me and Gaia for the next month or two. Just to make things crystal clear I’m talking single-guy-scrapes-pizza-crusts-off-floor-cleans-toilet-moves-out-of-bedroom-onto-couch-walks-to-work-so-we-can-borrow-his-brand-new-car-completely-shares-everything-with-a-ONE-for-me-TWO-for-mama-and-baby-attitude opens his home. His generosity knows no bounds, nor does my gratitude. I just thought I should put that out there.

Plus I'm pretty sure when we're hanging out each of us is just that much funnier. Case in point - last night Gaia fell asleep on my chest on the couch. Not only did I make Robin turn off the TV so she would stay that way, I shot him a series of death glares every time he made the slightest noise (baby sleep is not something I take lightly these days). Suddenly, devestatingly, I knocked the remote control off the couch with a shift of my ample ass and cringed as it crashed to the ground. The following transaction took place in barely audible whispers...

Roberge - WHAT!?! Are you serious?
Me - What?? It wasn't me. It was my big ass and you better believe I'm going to give it a stern talking to.
Roberge - Yeah man... you better cut that thing down to size... (cue rimshot)

I'm pretty sure we're the only people who think we're funny but I laughed so hard the baby almost ended up on the hard wood floor beside the remote control. I'm happy to report she slept through the hilarity.

PS. I decided the homosexual ties story might not translate thus omitted it from the post as originally written. The title stayed. Just trying to throw you all for a loop.

Tick. Tick. BOOM.

The way they locked eyes the minute they met and barely looked away until she was tucked into the backseat of the car. TICK.

The way I could see his heart breaking as she cried in her car seat on the way to the hotel. TICK.

The way he told her stories while he fed her a bottle and she smiled so wide the milk ran right out of her mouth. TICK.

The way he seemed to have a never ending supply of gifts for her, like a magician with a bottomless hat. Finger puppets, toys, a new alpaca sweater for every month of her infancy. The thought of him picking them out. TICK.

The way he never took his eyes off her as we walked with her in the carrier. How he put his arms around us to protect us from the world. TICK.

The way he took her from me when she fell asleep at dinner and how she relaxed against his body without protest. TICK.

The way they played in the hotel room for hours and she laughed and he laughed and I laughed. The way we finally got to laugh together. TICK.

The way she knew him, right away, and stared at him all night, enthralled by his face... his eyes... his voice. The way I know that feeling... how easy it is to love him. TICK.

The way they are the same. Their eyes... their noses... their toes. How they raise their eyebrows in matching expressions. The way he dances and she wiggles and the way they never stop moving. TICK.

The way they sat in the bathtub together and he pulled her through the water and washed the bubbles off her back. Our little naked baby against his chest. TICK.

The way he watched me put on her pyjamas. Goodnight feet... goodnight knees... goodnight belly... goodnight arms... goodnight Gaia. TICK.

The way he looked at us like we were his favourite people in the world as I bounced her to sleep. The way I know we are. TICK.

And then it happened. TICK. I’d felt it coming. TICK. Through family hugs and family kisses and family cuddles. TICK. Through silly songs and tickles and Gaia soaring through the air in his arms. TICK. Through dinner time and nap time and bath time and bed time. TICK. We watched her sleeping. TICK. Could not tear ourselves away, we watched her sleeping. TICK. He held me close. TICK. He whispered in my ear. TICK.

“Me and Chancho-Mono, we are so lucky to have you." He said. "This is the best day of my life.”

Tick. Tick. BOOM. My heart exploded. Just like that... BOOM... my heart exploded.

Later when he fell asleep and I was surrounded with the sounds of their matching sleepy breathing... their matching sleepy snores... the sound of the ocean from her Sleep Sheep... her favourite thing to fall asleep to... his favourite thing to fall asleep to... they slept and I snuck around the room collecting all the pieces.

(Almost) Everything That Didn't Fit On Facebook

Like too many people I know I spend a large portion of my day pondering how to turn my daily experiences into interesting Facebook status updates. This is sad. I know. This is also why I refuse to join Twitter. I’m positive it would become all consuming. This morning I had so much going on in my head I had trouble nailing down just one status update. These were the frontrunners.

Risa is scraping little pieces of her heart from the ceiling… it exploded over how amazing Jose and Gaia were together…

Risa is pretty sure she has the most adaptable baby ever… in the last forty-eight hours she’s been on a plane, met a never ending supply of strangers, waited at the airport for a flight delayed for over an hour, met her father and fallen asleep in no fewer then eight locations (naps included)… and she didn’t break down once…

Risa is surrounded by a consumer’s utopia… the super stylish urban shopper in me is in heaven… the hippy-dippy, crazy broke, brand new mama in me is silently weeping…

Risa is drinking Inca Kola and watching 'Monstruos vs Aliens' en español... toxic yellow pop and pirated DVDs... I missed you Peru...

Risa just realized last night was a full moon… her mother says this is when all the crazies come out… her father-in-law claims amorous adventures under a full moon are how he ended up with four sons… we didn’t come across any crazies last night and somebody’s got to be right…

In other news yesterday was perfection beyond words. Still, I’ll try to put in into words soon. For now I’m exhausted and drunk with memories and planning on crawling into bed with Gaia for a nap.