The other day, I announced I was going to make some gingerbread cookies for our neighbors. Several hours went by, I become busy with other projects and quite frankly, forgot. But Jamie certainly didn’t.

J: So, are we ready to make cookies now?
A: Oh, you want to help? This’ll be fun!
J: [sheepishly] Well, uhhh, not really.

And then the light switched on.

A: Ohhhh, you asked if “we” should make cookies in the same way that I comment how “we” should take out the garbage. Or like when I casually infer how overheated “we” both are, which is just my way of telling you to get off your butt and turn on the air conditioning for me.
J: Exactly!

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

No sign of Junior making his entrance into this world. I thought for sure Friday was The Day, primarily because Thursday was The Night from Hell (day 14 of less than three hours of sleep). When I arose, I announced to Jamie I was marching into the doctor’s office and she was going to induce me Or Else. Because I am exceedingly intimidating and threatening these days; I could crush a person by merely sitting on them.

Turns out my plan didn’t exactly work but my doc gave me something even better than Junior at this point: Ambien. Sleep: it’s a whole new world….

During the rare times I do sleep, I’ve had really dramatic, sometimes psychotic dreams my entire pregnancy. My most recurring one is that I am at BYU and knocked up without a husband (for those unaware, BYU is my very conservative alma mater). Jamie’s lucky if he makes it into my dreams at all. And if he does, he’s usually the putz who knocked me up. What a coincidence.

The other night, I had a dream about Dwight from NBC’s “The Office.” No, it wasn’t anything naughty but he was a focal figure, which in itself is rather disturbing. For those unaware, Dwight is an irrepressible, irritating dweeb who has the uncanny ability to get under your skin. Someone who annoys the crap out of you but at the same time is equally hilarious and endearing.

Jamie and I were laying in bed the following night when I decided to fess up about my Dwight Dream.

“Jamie, I have a confession to make.”
“You farted.”
“No!!”
“Well, I did.”
“Gee, suddenly Dwight is looking really good to me right now.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I realized last night that much of my suffering is self-imposed. No, I didn’t actually give myself bronchitis. And I’m a little bit sure Hunky Hubby had something to do with my pregnant status due to the fact that I was barren before I ever met him.

What I’m talking about is the suffering within the suffering. Really, my illness and discomfort are only surface conditions to a deeper problem these days: extreme sleep deprivation. Before bronchitis and the all-nighter cough/convulsions, there was baby-on-the-bladder syndrome. But more telling was my obsession with Said Syndrome. If I wasn’t laying in bed stressing about how long it had been since my last potty break, I was dreaming within my dreams about going to the frickin’ bathroom. No wonder I get up several times in the hour to go a teaspoon at a time.

Last night was no different with my cough. I was prescribed a powerful pregnancy-approved cough medicine by my doc (can you say VICODIN), which zonked me out for two glorious hours that afternoon. I chirpily called Jamie at work afterwards, belting out an off-key rendition of “It’s a Whole New World!” and the fog was lifted.

Until last night when I had my usual wake-up at 2 a.m. I took a second dose of my medication, which should have conked me out immediately. But I somehow got it into this obsessed little mind of mine that my water was breaking due to some minor errr…leakage. Now, most people would have just blown it off and gone back to bed to rest up but nooooo, I had to spend the rest of the night fretting that I WAS GOING INTO LABOR. NOW. WHILE I WAS SICK. AND SOOOOO SLEEP DEPRIVED. Yes, the inner workings of an irrational mind.

Jamie tries to help but as we all know, men can’t possibly grasp estrogen-driven irrationalities. After dinner the other night when I should have been resting, I simply had to do the dishes. The thought of waking up to a dirty kitchen was no less serious than if the earth ceased to spin on its axis.

Jamie was passed out on the couch after a particularly rough day at work and must have felt guilty because he called out to me:

“Hey, Amber. Why don’t you come sit down and let me do those later.”
“Must. Clean. Right. Now.”
“I’ll tell you what: next week, let’s just use all paper plates.”
“Let me see: this means you’re offering to be on dish duty next week.”
“Gee, how’d you guess? “

Kudos to the poor man for even trying.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

For anyone who’s pondering doing this in the future, pregnancy and bronchitis do not mix. Take it from me. Ten days into my quarantine and sleep is nearly non-existent as I cough all night to the point of puking. And all those nice drugs that normally sedate you during such times of misery? Nothin’. You can take nothin’.

I’m heading to the doc today for my weekly checkup and I’m hoping she has a miracle cure. While I had previously prayed for Junior to make an early entrance into this world, I have ceased such supplications. I cannot imagine giving birth in this condition. I think it’s my fate. To not be whole when birthing, that is. With Haddie, I developed a benign tumor on my finger mere weeks before she was born. This resulted in surgery to remove it and excruciating pain during contractions. Convenient that it was at least on my middle finger so I could fully express my angst. But I didn’t even get out of diaper duty in the end. Bummer.

On Canada Day, I had to cancel the little baby shower/luncheon my mother-in-law had planned. And then I missed The Dinner Party of the Year that night by a friend who spends weeks preparing the most amazing gourmet cuisine. I insisted Jamie and Haddie go without me and spent my evening comatose on the couch watching “The Notebook.”

Note: pregnancy + bronchitis + sappy, contrived love story do not mix. The result is ugly. Or as in what Oprah calls The Ugly Cry. Noo, not gently weeping like those heroines of days gone by but rather, those convulsing, uncontrollable sobs. The kind that make men really uncomfortable as they mumble, “Oh crap…she’s freaking out. What am I supposed to do now?”

And then there was Independence Day. Our house is in an ideal location: on a hill overlooking a huge soccer complex, which is where they shoot off the fireworks. Our neighbors got a permit to close off our street so the plan was to have an ongoing block party all night long. It was the one day I have been looking forward to.

And you know what? It rained. And rained. And rained. It was the second time in several months we have had a torrential downpour. You will recall the only other time was when I was supposed to have my R&R weekend while everyone went camping. And it never happened, of course. A mere coincidence? I think not.

Fortunately, I’m starting to see humor in all these misfortunes. I mean really, what else could go wrong? As someone joked tonight when they saw me miserably hacking away whilst huddling up to avoid the rain: “Someone should just put her out of her misery now.” They don’t call me “Amber Murphy” (as in Murphy’s Law) for nothin’….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Even though Hadley was born in the U.S. and will probably spend her entire life here, I try to make her aware of her Canadian roots. We celebrate both Canadian and American Thanksgivings. We sing the Canadian anthem. She waves the Calgary Flames flag that my parents bought Jamie (a.k.a. Mr. Avalanche) in jest. That same flag he once threatened to burn.

This morning, Haddie was going through her toy box and found a bear bell with a Canadian flag on it. She started ringing it.

Jamie: Haddie, that’s Mommy’s Canadian bell! Can you wish her a Happy Canada Day?
Haddie: NO!!
Jamie [to me]: I guess our little Half Breed is more 60:40 American….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

This is just one of many ways how NOT to empathize with your sickly pregnant wife (did I mention just how sick I am?)–

When asked to pull the laundry out of the back of the dryer (you know, that same laundry she just washed for you), just do it.

DO NOT: stuff a giant, purple beach ball under your stomach, comically waddle over to the dryer and bend over to remove the laundry in a vain attempt to prove that said wife is faking her inability to reach the back of the dryer.

The grave consequence may just be that it is YOU who will forever be on laundry duty. That is, if your wife ever lets you out of the dryer after stuffing you and your Beluga beach ball in it. Just to prove her point, of course.

On a related subject–

TO DOCTORS EVERYWHERE: This is how NOT to empathize with your sickly pregnant patient. Do not take one look at her and proclaim, “Man, SUCKS to be you!” (though having a medical professional ascertain that life does indeed suck somehow adds validity to my current condition. In a pathetic sort of way.) Kind of like when the employee at the Children’s Museum commented this week that The Hurricane was the messiest painter she’d ever seen. ‘Twas a conflicted and warped sense of pride….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I’ve been frequently talking to Hadley about how Junior’s presence is going to change our lives. And for the most part, she has been very receptive, even excited. But nothing we have discussed surpassed how thrilled she was with our conversation the other day about breastfeeding.

“…And so, Haddie, Junior is going to be drinking milk from Mommy.”

She looked suspiciously at my mammaries. “Drink milk dare?” she asked in disbelief as she pointed.

“Yes, Mommy will make milk,” I encouragingly responded.

After pondering this for a few moments, suddenly doubt turned to appreciation. Imagine that: Mommy has magic mammaries!

“Mommy make bagels, too?”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

It’s not enough that I have swollen to record levels. It’s not enough that I’m only getting a few hours of sleep at night. And it’s not enough that I have started having contractions. Contractions that don’t even count. Fake contractions that just serve as a reminder of the pain and suffering I have in my near future.

Nope, now I have to get sick on top of all this? And even worse, The Hurricane has to get sick as well? You know. That same kid who is a crummy sleeper in health. I won’t even get into her sleep patterns in sickness. I’m trying to look on the bright side of things that we’re getting this out of our system so we’ll all be healthy and happy for Junior’s arrival. Errr, right?

Now, onto other rants. I’ve complained in the past about the redundancy of the weekly newsletters I receive re: how my pregnancy is progressing. Week 37 presented the mind-blowing information that I have become increasingly clumsy and off-balance. Gee, that takes a genius to figure out when you’re wearing a bowling ball on your stomach. Good thing my butt has grown exponentially to balance things out.

I’m not exactly someone you’d call graceful when not pregnant but my condition has only augmented my klutz capacity. The other day, I took my shoes off in the middle of the floor and my beloved Jamie tripped over them. I chortled and laughed as I often do at the expense of another…until I did the same thing over one of Hadley’s toys only a few minutes later. But unlike Jamie, I did not make a quick recovery and instead did a side-Beluga roll to avoid landing on Junior. Saved!

A couple of years ago, I was not so lucky. Y’see, I was eight-months pregnant with Hadley and we’d just finished building our home. We’d had Jamie’s brother, Chris, over for dinner and decided to go out for ice cream afterwards. Things started smoothly. I waddled out the door in a semi-straight line when, outta nowhere, I lost my balance. I stepped off the sidewalk and onto our mucky, grass-less lawn. My foot immediately sank and stuck. And then in a move only executed in a game of Twister, my other foot landed at an awkward 540-degree angle. Keeping this pose is an impossibility as an able-bodied person but as a pregnant Beluga? Just say no to those visuals.

And then everything got really, really slow. There were flailing arms, there was an exasperated “Noooooo,” and then splat: I went face-first into the mud. I wasn’t hurt but rather, absolutely mortified. Jamie and Chris stood there stunned, unsure of what action to take. I reacted for them by breaking out into fits of hysterical and embarrassed laughter, which only augmented when I saw my tracks: knee and hand marks, and a big, round place for my belly.

We kept it there until we sodded. In remembrance. Haddie’s reminder is that big ol’ dent in the side of her head.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Jamie and I had a great weekend! We figured The End (a.k.a. Junior) is drawing near so we’d better get out and enjoy some alone-time now. Friday night, we hit a church BBQ and Saturday night, we saw the Da Vinci code. We read the book a couple of years ago and have been eager to see the big-screen version. I had only one reservation: sitting through a 2 1/2 hour movie without any potty breaks.

Miraculously, I did just fine. Until the last 15 minutes. The most climactic of the movie. It was reminiscent of when we saw Lord of the Rings: Return of the King a few years ago. Jamie had downed a 32-ounce drink and by the end of it, was ready to explode. After about the fifth ending as they were weepily saying their farewells prior to sailing away, a desperate Jamie seethed “JUST GET ON THE DAMN BOAT!!!!” He was touched in his own way, I’m sure.

My experience wasn’t too different. Just add a baby bouncing on your bladder. And a few “shock” sequences where they jump out at you, thereby testing any bladder control you may (or MAY NOT) have. By the end of the movie, I leaned over to Jamie and simply muttered “JUST GET ON THE DAMN BOAT!” He busted out laughing and quickly ushered me to the potty. Point taken.

Over dinner, we discussed plot twists and changes in the big-screen version. I had forgotten many of the key points in the book, such as who The Teacher was, an integral element that added to the suspense. Jamie, on the other hand, remembered.

“Knowing everything totally took away from the movie,” he complained.
“That’s too bad. You need to just have a crummy memory like me.”
“Naw, I’m just never going to open a book again.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Hurricane Hadley has been downgraded to a Tropical Storm. Previously fearless, she has become obsessively afraid of noise. Specifically loud noise. Like the lawn mower. We’ll be at the playground and if one comes within two miles, we have to pack up and go home.

Another unfounded fear has been on her favorite new program, Dora the Explorer. No, she’s not afraid of the scary troll, Swiper the Fox or even Dora’s freaky sidekick monkey, Boots. But it’s the map. Yes, the Hurricane is afraid of an inanimate object. For those not familiar with the show, The Map plays an integral role for Dora aka Explorer Extraordinaire. And this isn’t just any map, but a magical, interactive map that shows Dora where she needs to go on all her adventures.

I would be stumped over her angst but in the deep recesses of my mind, I understand. Y’see, I, too am afraid of maps. No, I don’t run and scream at the sight of them but my reaction is more along the lines of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Especially when Hunky Hubby is ripping on me for my inability to read them. But if I had a magical one? Bring it on! The Hurricane doesn’t know how good she has it.

Besides her fear of The Map, Haddie adores everything about Dora. Y’see, the kid loved Teletubbies. You know, those annoying, baby-talking good-for-nothing creatures. We had a funeral for them last week when I told her they went bye-bye forever, just like binky. My mother-in-law almost blew it the other day when she attempted to resurrect them without knowledge of their demise. But I am pleased to say they still rest in peace.

Another part of Dora’s explorations involve solving riddles along the way. The first time we watched it, I thought “Oh, how cute!” as I easily solved the first riddle, “What swings in trees, eats bananas and goes hoo hoo hoo.” “MONKEY!” I triumphantly shouted as an alarmed Jamie and Haddie looked on. But then it got ugly.

Y’see, Jamie and I are just a little bit competitive. OK, a lot competitive. And those riddles get tougher and tougher, believe you me. But then came the granddaddy of riddles: who can jump higher than the tall mountain? Dora jumped. Not even close to surmounting it. Then, Boots. Next came all their friends. Nothing. We were stumped.

But then that brilliant, deducing Dora: “How high can the tall mountain jump?” Errr…it can’t, which therefore means they could all jump higher than the tall mountain. It was then that the truth was revealed: a toddler’s show had kicked our butts.

Maybe it’s time to go back to Teletubbies….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog