Hurricane Hadley has a new best friend of whom I don’t approve. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not some snobby mom who doesn’t let her kid play with a certain sort of people. But this friend? Welp, he’s purple. And he’s a dinosaur, fer heaven’s sake. And he’s annoying as hell.

Yep, Hadley is obsessed with Barney–that very show I vowed I’d never expose her to. And I didn’t. He’s on after Sesame Street and I have made valiant efforts to drop whatever I’m doing and promptly terminate the TV when Elmo says his final good-byes.

The blame goes to Grandma who innocently introduced her, obviously not knowing the ramifications. Who could’ve known he would be the ONLY one in the whole world who could calm her down when she wakes up moody from her naps? Or that his love song to her at the end of the show “I love you, you love me,” could make her combust into a fountain of tears because she knows their time together is drawing to a close. Or that she would lay awake at night wondering what her offspring would look like if she and Barney ever had babies together.

After watching Barney the other day, we went to run some errands. For months now, I have been incessantly reciting 123s and ABCs wherever we go. She finally relented and said the number “1″ a few weeks ago (a major victory because she has stubbornly refused to say it). In addition to 1, she’d occasionally list off the occasional number just to shut me up. But really, her attentions have been focused on learning the alphabet. So when I was in the car with her, I turned my focus back to numbers as I attempted to teach her how to say she is “2 years old,” in honor of her birthday at the end of the month.

She gave me her typical teen-aged “Why are you bothering me, Mother,” look and then casually blurted out, “1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.” I stopped, shocked. “Did you just count to 10, Hadley?” She repeated herself, this time throwing in the number 11 for good measure. Showoff.

I was practically jumping for joy! Finally, all those countless hours of teaching her, of slaving over her growth had finally paid off! I had a glimmer of hope that I was making at least some difference in her life! Bursting with pride, I wanted acknowledgment and gratitude for my efforts. “Hadley, who taught you to count to 10?”

“Barney!!!!!!!!”

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.

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

I braved the zoo yesterday with Hadley and Friends. Admittedly, I’m not a huge fan of the zoo. I mean, I don’t mind it but there’s something about enduring the crowds to go look at an animal who’s sleeping behind a rock that just doesn’t excite me. But I do it for Hadley. Of course, she gets enthralled with the swinging doors on their garbage cans. Add a slumbering animal in there? She’s in Haddie Heaven.

One area Hadley LOVED today was the primates. We spent a good portion of time watching the monkeys swing from tree-to-tree, pick their butts and eat it. Frightening how truly huMAN they are.

When we arrived home, we called Jamie to give him an account of our outing. “Monkeys! BADDD!!” Hadley blurted out. “Really, Haddie? What did they do?” She then proceeded to share their rebellious tale.

“Jumping.”

“Bed.”

“FALL!”

“Bonk.”

Jamie suddenly clued in. “Hadley, did Mommy call the doctor? What did he say?”

“No!! Monkeys!! Jump!! Bed!!!!”

Stay tuned next week for her rendering about that B-A-A-A-A-d rule-breaking lamb of Mary’s she saw on the way to school one day….

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

So, my weekend was spent taking umpteen baths. To let you know how significant this is, I hate baths. Particularly now when it’s just one more thing for which I need a crane to get out of. And despite my bravado regarding bodily functions last week, I am not one of those tactless people who shares my pains with the world. Well, just the Internet. But it is with great hesitation. I don’t want to appear as if I moan and complain all the time; just some will do.
It started Friday. The pain in my derriere. No, not my tantruming toddler (who has been surprisingly delightful lately), but real, veritable pain. By the end of the night, this pain escalated to excruciating pain that kept me up all night long. This is not an exaggeration. I could not sleep due to said pain. In the rear. How humiliating.

By morning, I was exhausted and barely functional as I explained my condition to my husband. “Sounds like you have [insert dreaded kissin' cousins H-word]. I hear it’s really common in pregnancy.” What? Me? Not possible. Isn’t it enough I’ve had every other crummy condition lately…couldn’t at least part of me be spared?

Hunky Hubby prescribed Preparation H after explaining its physical properties in great detail. He never ceases to amaze me with this endless knowledge of every supplement and drug on the market. “My friend used it on his midsection before his bodybuilding competitions. Supposedly it has an ingredient that removes water from under the skin.” So THAT’S how they get their 6-pack abs. To think I’ve wasted years on those stupid sit-ups.

I spent the weekend curled up in whatever tolerable condition I could find. I even missed our block party I’d been looking forward to all month. I suppose I could’ve loped over there like a saddle-sore cowboy but I just didn’t want to discuss my condition. No worries, Dear Internet, because Hunky Hubby did.

“Not with everyone,” he defended himself. “Just with XX and XX” (one of whom is the neighborhood gossip). Nice to know my kissin’ cousins will be numbered among the guy who’s growing weed in his basement and the other one who’s a philanderer. Wisteria Lane doesn’t have nothin’ on us….

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

Call it my Beluga Whale rebellion but I’ve had a wild streak lately. It started last week when I lied to a cop. YES, a law enforcement officer who was only trying to protect the safety of his public. In my defense, I was flowing along with the line of traffic in that construction zone and why should I be the one who was pulled over? And that lie about wearing my seatbelt (when I wear it 99% of the time, I SWEAR) was so not premeditated. In fact, I was shocked when it popped out. I am just grateful Hadley was looking particularly fetching that day and I must have been looking particularly bloated because he let me off without so much of a warning. Good thing, too because spouting tears would’ve been my next Beluga strategy.

This week, my rebellion involved “accidentally” walking out of the doctor’s office with one of their magazines. In my defence, it was a very good magazine about being a better mom, which will subsequently make Hadley a more productive member of society. One who hopefully does not lie to law-enforcement officers. As if I don’t have enough hindering my sleep these days, like I need THAT on my conscience. So yes, I will return the magazine as a part of my repentance process.

But it is my final confessional that I’m not very proud of. If you have a weak or queasy stomach or are in denial that you perform bodily functions on a daily basis, then stop reading now. I, however, am in touch with my belching/snotty/gaseous self. And this is dealing with something I do AT A MINIMUM 100 times a day: blowing my nose. This is not an exaggeration. I have a Kleenex box in every room and have had two corrective surgeries on my narrow nasal passages (which obviously have not worked). Side note: much to my amusement, my sister-in-law (http://spaces.msn.com/hannon26/) just posted an entry yesterday regarding “The Family Nose.”

Anyhew, I was driving and welp, I just had to pick. Problem was I didn’t have a tissue nearby and needing to dispose of It, the obvious place was out the window. Unfortunately at the exact moment I flicked, a police car drove by, which mortified me. I have, however, tried to console myself that this was merely an act of civil disobedience but not an outright crime.

How do I know this? My roommate from my junior year at BYU told me so. She was up late studying with a friend at the library during Final’s Week when the guy at the adjacent table started picking hs nose…and flicking it. Repeatedly. Now, these weren’t just any boogers but projectile boogers. My roommate was so grossed out that she reported it to the librarian. Who in turn reported it to security. Who in turn reported it to The Higher Powers That Be.

And the official report? It was not a crime to flick boogers; in fact, this guy had every right. The only way they could stop him was if he started wiping them on the books and destroying private property.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered.

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

So, today was yet another doctor’s appointment and I always enjoy scoping out the waiting area. In the past, I checked out other blossoming bellies, kids in the room or where to find the best magazines.

Today, however, there was a paradigm shift as I scoped out chairs. More specifically, which chairs I could or could not fit in. And which chairs I could or could not easily get out of. The list was limited. I have gained a new empathy for heavy people everywhere and the nightmare of itsy bitsy armchairs. Now I see why they don’t let pregnant women fly in their last trimester. Forget potential harm for the baby–there’s no way they would fit! And those narrow aisles? It’s a skinny person’s world.

Sitting across from me was a new mom with a six-week-old baby. This woman looked haggard, hormonal and about ready to fall over from exhaustion, a condition I remember all too well. She was perched next to the water fountain and several staff members engaged in small talk as they approached. “Oh, cute baby! How are you doing?!” To which she would wearily reply, “Oh, I’m OK.” Not exactly your ecstatic answer for someone with a new bundle of joy but these people were clueless.

Another June Cleaver approached and started raving about the glories of being a new mom and how time just “flies by, doesn’t it?” Yet, another weak response, “Yes, it does.”

When Mrs. Cleaver left, empathetically, I leaned over to this poor woman and said, “I don’t know about you but those first weeks were rough and DRAGGED ON.” I figured it best to not divulge that those first “weeks” were actually “months.” But I had to give her some hope.

Finally, a light came on in her, “I soooo hear you. My days and nights are all melded into one. I feel like I haven’t slept since she was born!” Finally, someone understood! And it felt good to be the anti-June Cleaver bestowing the harsh realities of life.

When it was finally my turn to pee in a cup and get my blood sucked, I met with a new doctor. Instead of lecturing me that I’m getting too fat and how I gained my allotted amount of weight during the first three weeks of being pregnant, this woman was much more diplomatic:

“You know, I think you need to exercise more.”
“Believe me, Doc. Getting in exercise is NOT my problem. I workout every day.”
“It is your diet, then?”
[Chortling] “If you could call it that!”

It’s not that I’m not trying.

Example #1: Last night, I took Hadley to Playland at McDonald’s. Instead of loading up on a Happy Meal, we shared a yogurt parfait. [Side note: We then went home and ate a nice, fat bowl of ice cream.]

Example #2: Duly motivated, I went to Whole Foods after my appointment with the intention of loading up on some nice, healthy whole-grain foods. And load up I did, [particularly on all the succulent dessert samples in the bakery area.]

Oh well. At least my heart was in the right place. It’s my stomach that’s another matter….

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

Every Monday night at our house is “Family Home Evening,” a time that is dedicated to playing games, making treats, teaching, whatever. Basically, the main point is just to be together as a family.

For our latest FHE, we decided to compile a 72-hour kit. Due to the latest rash of natural disasters in the world, we have been strongly advised by our church to have one. I deem this to be a great idea, particularly after watching the poor survivors of Hurricane Katrina who never could have fathomed the scope of the disaster.

Being avid backpackers and campers, we already have many of the basics (tent, water storage, propane stove, etc.) but needed some food to add to our supplies. Sound like an easy task? Guess again. I forget what a finicky eater I am until I go shopping with someone else. Particularly when I am forced to eat prepackaged or non-perishables such as MREs or Ramen Noodles, which I despise. With everything Jamie put in the cart, I responded with an opposing whine.

“It’s all about survival, Amber.”
“It’s all about edible, Jamie.”

Back and forth we went. As aforementioned, I know I’m picky. But there must be some non-perishables out there that make me not want to perish at the thought of eating them. Finally, Jamie threw up his hands, frustrated.

“Amber, do you really think it’ll matter that you have to eat Top Ramen if half the continent is taken out by a huge earthquake?”

“Exactly my point, Jamie. We’ll be depressed enough. Why make it more depressing by having to eat Ramen Noodles?”

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

Many of you have asked for pictures on my “progress” and guess what: you’re not getting ‘em. Pictures are for times I care to commemorate. And Third Trimester Beluga Whaledom is a stage I’d care to forget, kind of a difficult thing when you’re in the throes of it.

My Own Private Luau
So, here are some updates. Overall, I’m still alive and well, though I’m sleeping like crap these days, which is leaving me beyond exhausted. Friday night, I tossed and turned (OK, more like slowly rotated like a roasted pig on a spicket) but could not get comfortable. I finally fell asleep at 2:30 a.m., only to wake-up at least every couple of hours to pee.

My Own Private Pyromaniac
Monitoring my temperature is tough, too. With three fans blasting me from every direction, you’d think I’d find a temperate zone (juxtapose that against poor Hunky Hubby who sleeps in his flannels and wakes up with frostbite.) He has been very empathetic towards me thus far but I know he just doesn’t get it. How can he? During a conversation the other day, I was suddenly overcome with a hot flash that almost knocked me off the couch. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why is your face all red?” he demanded. Weakly, I replied, “I think Junior just lit a match.”

My Own Private Confirmation that Men (No Matter how Well Intentioned) Have NO CLUE About Being Pregnant
I receive weekly email updates on the baby’s growth from Babycenter.com, which are generally helpful in knowing what is going on with the baby and subsequently my body. But Saturday’s update for Week 30 included the following: “Some old friends–heartburn and constipation–may take center stage again.”

Now, I don’t know about you but who needs enemies when you’ve got friends like “heartburn and constipation?” They then threw in the appearance of a “new buddy,” hemorrhoids (equivalent unto kissin’ cousins?)

Seriously, who writes those things? It must be a man because a woman would surely know better. A few weeks ago, they had some tips on getting a good night’s sleep and provided the following advice:

“EMPTY YOUR BLADDER completely when you go to the bathroom. This will help reduce the risk of urinary tract infections (UTIs), which are common during pregnancy.”
Oh really? Gee. I thought I’d stash a few ounces of reserved pee to enjoy during my next bathroom break in 15 minutes….

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

A recent wave of snow came as an answer to my overheated prayers but also left me scrambling with an activity to keep Hadley busy at the beginning of the week. My resolution was not a favorable one: to hit the mall and shop for maternity clothes. I’ve already expressed my disdain for everything that is not Super Target so imagine the angst an entire building full of shops must give me.

Coincidentally, my mall de choix had a Super Target. I realized what an addict I truly am when I pulled into this unfamiliar parking lot and immediately my 1-year-old Haddie squealed “Target!!!!” (which also translates into “FREE COOOOOOOKIE!!!”)

We hit the cookie counter and merry-go-round before I mustered up the nerve to enter Motherhood Maternity. I grabbed about five pairs of pants and shorts and crammed into the dressing room with Hadley. Now, I thought children were supposed to be innocent and non-judgmental. Not The Hurricane. When I grabbed an item, she’d scrutinize it, scrunch her nose at me and pronounce:

“Nooooo, BIG!”

This happened not once but every blasted time. Like I needed to be reminded. I was tempted to ask my little fashion consultant what was too big: was it the size of clothing that could drape a tent or my gargantuan stomach that spilled out over the waistline? But instead I patted her on the head and told her to enjoy this time now while her chubs and dimples were still cute; she’ll know the harsh realities soon enough.

WAIT. SCRATCH THAT LAST SENTENCE. THIS JUST IN FROM ABC NEWS: Controversial new testing to begin measuring the Body Mass Index (BMI) to determine if kids under 2 are obese? How do you like them apples?

Somehow, I think Jabba (as she was known in her younger years) would’ve been the poster child for it. Kinda takes the fun out of alllll those free cookies…..

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

I fully acknowledge the wonders of nursing. Those darn lactoferrins and lipases in “Mama’s Manna” far outweigh anything those manufactured formulas can offer.

But guess what? I hated nursing. Maybe if I had a baby who actually latched on and didn’t constantly leave my mammaries ready to explode like a ticking time bomb because she just didn’t like ‘em. Or if I didn’t spend the first months of Hadley’s life hooked up to torturous devices that are intended to pump out every ounce of milk [and dignity] you have left. This, after spending hours in excruciating pain with your legs in stirrups with Your World on display as complete strangers shout “PUSH!” Yes, welcome to the Joys of Motherhood.

It’s not that I didn’t try to nurse for four of the longest months of my life before Hadley went on her booby strike forever. I met with numerous “lactation specialists” during that time and Haddie’s stubbornness far outweighed their expertise. Lactation specialists. I didn’t even know such a job existed. I think Jamie is ticked he didn’t know there was an occupation that specialized in mammaries otherwise he never would have pursued a career in the unfulfilling Internet.

Despite all the hardships I endured as a hormonal milker, I shall once again attempt to nurse Junior because of the overwhelming health benefits. And because there’s no way I can reclaim my “Mother of the Year” award if I don’t. I’d be willing to bet if you read the bios of past winners, they boast such statistics as “Breastfed Junior until his 4th birthday and he has never been sick a day in his life from all the antibodies received.”

Jamie has consoled me that “his boy” won’t give me any problems with nursing. “He’s a BOOB MAN, I’m SURE of it!” he has proudly proclaimed. That is, until the other day. Until he watched a rather enlightening program on the Discovery Health Channel.

J: “Yeah, they had a special on last night that focused on babies.”
A: “Cool! What did they say?”
J: “That studies show nursing actually reduces your libido.”
A: “Hmmm…interesting.”
J: [Jokingly] “Yes, and this is why I have decided I am now completely against it.”
A: “Oh, really?”
J: “I’m just looking out for your self-interest, Honey.”

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

One of my favorite foods in the world is seasonal fresh fruit salads. On a recent trip to Costco whereupon I stuffed our entire cart with a year-supply of fruit that would, in actuality, only last me a week, I turned to Hunky Hubby.

“Hey, Jamie. Would you eat this if I bought it? Do you like honeydew?”
“So long as it doesn’t have anything to do with a list.”

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