Lost

Things have been really tough lately.  And it all started around the time of my last post.  While I was expecting the nausea and vomiting of the cursed morning sickness, I did not expect it to last from the time I woke up until the time I went to sleep.  I wasn't vomiting at first, just felt like I was on the verge of it. ALL.  DAY.  LONG.  I wasn't so excited by it.

Ramblin' Woman

You know, I've realized that it might seem that I'm less than enthusiastic about my pregnancy.  And there might be a grain of truth in that.  But, I ask that you not be too judge-y and let me explain.

For the last three years my husband and I have not used any form of birth control.  Nothing. Zip. Nada.  And there was no pregnancy.  So I'm sure you'll understand why we thought we couldn't have children.  It was something that we discussed - the alternatives, the treatments, what we really wanted... And we decided that we were okay if we didn't have kids - that there were enough children in our lives that we could shower love upon.  When we planned our future, it was a childless one - and it was a future that I had come to terms with.

By nature I'm not an overly excitable person.  I'm not the type of person that starts the countdown for their birthday two weeks in advance.  In fact, the only person I celebrate my birthday with is my husband - and occassionally my family.  I'm in fact embarassed when people buy me gifts, not because I don't feel that I don't deserve them, but because I know how hard money is to come by and I don't want them to spend it needlessly on me.  I refused to have a wedding shower.  And I was uncomfortable with my girlfriends (whom I've known for at least a decade) spending money on me at the bar and at dinner.  We won't even go into the anxiety meltdown I had when confronted with the "surprise" bachelorette party.  I almost refused to go.  At the heart of it, I just don't like being the centre of attention.

Then there's the nagging feeling that I'm going to be an absolute failure as a mother.  Sure, when the kid becomes a teenager I'll have full confidence in my abilities (I've worked with hundreds of teenagers over the years) it's just getting to that point.... I mean... what if I absolutely suck?  What if I totally fuck my kid up?  What if I don't buy them the right playmat, or stroller or get them into a good school? 

And lastly, I'm worried about losing the baby.  I'm worried that if I get too attached and I miscarry that I'll fall down a hole that I won't be able to get out of.  If I start shouting from the rooftops that I'm pregnant and then I lose it... I can't even bear thinking about it. 

Because this is the gift that I didn't know I wanted until I had it.  This is the overwhelming gift that lasts a lifetime and I feel absolutely unprepared.  I have so many worries, so many fears and I think of all the women who are desperate for a baby and I'm still not sure I'm doing the right thing.  But at the same time, I know I must be because otherwise this post wouldn't be written.  There would be no post to write.  So, somewhere inside me I already know the answer to my unasked question.  I just need some time to get used to it.

Ooooooohhhhhhh... So that's why.....

So... I've been quite tired lately.  Like really tired.  I thought maybe my B12 was low, so I took loads of it.  Didn't help.  I went to be a little earlier every night.  Didn't help.  Thought that my student was just so emotionally exhausting that I couldn't do much else.  No cure for that, unfortunately.

Then I remembered that it was weird that I hadn't gotten my period yet.  It isn't unusual for me to be late.  But I had the cramps and the tender breasts (too much information?) and nothing had come of it.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

Because I freak myself out all the time when my period is late, I keep a pregnancy test in the linen closet just in case.

And 9 days ago I used it.

And those two little lines just popped right up.

Needless to say I was shocked.

And Stu wasn't too excited when I shoved the pee-stick in his face while he was half-asleep and said, "We're fucking pregnant."

After talking about our options we went to the drug store and got another pregnancy test.  Just to make sure.  And I bought the fancy one.  The ClearBlue Digital.  Spells out if you're pregnant or not.  And tells you how far along you are.

That one didn't hesitate either. 

Pregnant.  3+.  Apparently 3+ means that you're at least 5 weeks pregnant.

So... I don't feel so bad for needing naps now.

And I don't have to change the cat litter for like a year, which is the real bonus.  I think I might be more excited about that than anything else. 

Just kidding.  I'm excited.  And scared.  And nervous.  But definitely excited, because I have something the size of a piece of rice growing in my uterus.

I Touch Myself

Sometimes when I think no one is looking, I slowly move my paw down my belly and.... well, you know, touch myself.

So, I figured since I showed off Pedro's moobs, I should share my other cat's dirty little secret.   This is  the real Maya.  I'll let you in on a secret though, if I was caught touching myself, I wouldn't let myself be photographed.  And then let it be posted.  Maya the Cat is a hussy.  Some would say that she takes after me.  Now that I'm happily married, you'd all be wrong.

It's Beer O'Clock Somewhere

During my lunchbreak I sent my friend a message asking her if it was wine o'clock, beer o'clock or hard liquor o'clock.  I really wasn't fussy which o'clock it was, I just felt the need for a drink. 

We all have those days - where work is kicking our ass, family obligations are overwhelming, or the beastly children that live in the apartment above you haven't stopped screaming for the last two hours.  I had one of those days today.

In the real world I work one-to-one with students in school.  These students have behavioural problems, developmental delays or mental health issues - or a combination of any of these things.  I work with the same student for the entire year, helping them to nagivate their classes, de-escalating problem behaviours, communicating instructions to them, etc.  It's a rewarding job, it's more often than not a hard job, and it's an underpaid job.  Seriously underpaid.  *ahem* School board. *ahem*

Throughout most of my career I have been lucky to escape injury, although a troubling trend started this July when I received a concussion from a client in a residential program.  And my new student has chosen  hitting me as an appropriate expression of her displeasure at following the rules.  I can't say that I'm so excited by it.  We're really working on using words to express ourselves.

My new student is also a "bolter", and by bolter I don't mean someone who bolts sheet metal to the wall.  Do you even bolt sheet metal to the wall?  Thank god that isn't my job.  I'd be fired the first day.  Anyway.  She's a runner.  Which is swell.  I mean, I was going to try and start up an excercise regimen, but there's no need when I spend half the day blocking her escape from the school and the other half trying to tire her out by walking the indoor track.  It's good to look at the positives.

So, yeah.  Today was an ass-kicker.  And all I want is a beer.  And someone to make me dinner.  Someone to clean my house would be nice too.  And maybe to win the lottery.

But I'll settle for a beer.

And hope that tomorrow is better. 

Apparently the Cold Meds Work a Little Too Well...

This is a conversation that I had with Shannon (who's responsible for me writing this post) recently... Apparently I need to stay off the cold meds - or stop talking to Shannon.  Probably the cold meds - I ♥ Shannon too much.  As to why I had the cold... well, read this.  It's all Stu's fault by the way.  It always is.

S: You're not the spawn of Satan, are you?
Me: Not to my knowledge, but my parents aren't always forthcoming with pertinent information.
S: LMAO
Me: I'm glad that my potential satanic parentage has you rolling around laughing, Shannon... this could be serious! Maybe that's what's wrong with me...
S: srsly ROFLMAO
Me: Although, it could also be a handy excuse. "Sorry, I'm the spawn of Satan, if you make me angry, I will send you to Hell."
S: my office wants to know why i am LMAO and snorting
Me: "My dad is going to be really mad if you don't give me a raise... I mean reaaaalllyyy mad..."
S: *snort*
Me: I'm glad that my newfound lineage has given you such joy today. Just wait 'til Stu finds out that his FIL is Satan! Although, I suspect that most men always think that it's their MIL that's the devil
S: I bet he won't give you colds anymore.
Me: I should hope not - a few hundred years roasting in the flames of Hell should put a stop to that
S: LMAO oh, you are killing me spawn of satan
Me: I hope you mean that in a figurative sense - I wouldn't want my dear ole dad to get any ideas about claiming your soul so that I can have friends around when I visit him.
Me: I think the cold has infected my brain.

If you would like to see a picture of my dad click here.

Sharing is Caring

On Saturday Stu and I were supposed to go out with my best friend and her husband - two people that we both love.  Which is unsurprising, because my friends are awesome.  His, however... well, he may like his friends, usually I do not. 

Anyway.  That day, Stu woke up and told me that he wasn't feeling well.  I encouraged him to lie down and rest, hoping that he would feel up to going out by the time we had to leave.  But no.  Instead of resting, he decided to go and can tomatoes with my mother-in-law.  Firstly, he had plans with me.  Secondly, I didn't want his germs in my tomatoes.  Like the typical male he is, he ignored me and went up to his mother's.  Then he decided that he was too ill to go out.  (Which cause a domino effect of my best friend's husband then cancelling.)

Needless to say, I was not impressed.

Not only was he ditching me, but he potentially infected all the tomatoes with his germs.  Ick.

And then he gave them to me.  The germs that is.

When I told him I was sick on Monday with his germy cold, he told me that as my husband he was legally responsible to give half of what he owned to me. 

I glared at him.  He laughed.

Then I told him that I didn't forget things...ever.

He brought home dinner.  And made me tea.

And if I get sick because of infected tomatoes, I'm puking on his side of the bed.

My Chubby Pussy - Updated

I admit it.  I have a chubby pussy.  I have overfed it, and now it has boobs of its own.  It didn't used to be chubby.  It used to be quite svelte.  But over the last number of years, as the weight has gone on, and the excercise has become a forgotten memory, it has become chubby.  I worry about it. 

Presents From My Husband

Papasan Turns 72

Today my dad (whom I call Papasan - and yes, I realize it's a type of wicker chair like thing you get from Pier 1 - stop judging!) is 72 years old.  I know we're not supposed to have favourites, but he's mine.  My mother and I have always had a rocky relationship, and my father was the calm in the storm.  Not that he was around much when I was growing up - he worked 7 days a week to keep a roof over our heads,  food on the table and clothes on our back.  It was my mother who shuttled me (and my sister before me) to practices and lessons.

And yet, my father, the quiet man that he is, the enigma that he was, always had a presence in the house.  Even if he was just sleeping on the couch after getting home from a 15 hour day.  Over the years, our relationship grew and I pried at the layers of privacy that he wrapped around himself.  We would talk about politics, about my school work (I went back to school at 25 and stayed with my parents for two years), about family history, my mom's hormonal craziness, about how I'm the favourite daughter.  It's totally true, you know.  I am the favourite.

I saw my father smile more, and when I moved an hour away and would call (though not as often as I should) he stayed on the phone longer, telling me about his day, and what he'd seen in the newspaper that might interest me.  And I like being the type of daughter that doesn't just call when she needs something, or to complain about her own life.  I want to know more about my father, to create memories of him that I will be able to take out and look at and smile when he's no longer here.

My father is the man I measured all prospective partners to - not in the Daddy's Girl kind of way.   I wanted to find someone who was compassionate, worked hard, was knowlegeable and loved me.  My husband is not like my father in most ways - but he does have all of those traits.   One of these days I'll remember to thank him for showing me what I deserved in a partner.  Although, with his gruff nature, he'll probably just shoo me away, and tell me to stop being so foolish.  But I'll see the thank you in his eyes, and I'll know that he appreciates it.

So, to my Papasan... Happy Birthday to You!  May you have many more, and may I still continue to be your favourite daughter. ♥

My Sweetpea's Pretty New Blog

My favourite Texan Sweetpea, Missie, has had a blog make-over - and it's beautiful! Not that her other blog wasn't, but now it's all shiney and new. I find myself over at her blog checking out her book reviews for recs on some great finds. Although, I usually skip the review because I don't want the surprise of the story to be ruined and just check to see her rating. But then I always go back and see if our impressions are the same. And they generally are - but that's because great minds think alike, dontcha know.

Anyhooo... Missie's blog is called The Unread Reader - although I think she should change the name because she's read a whole heck of alota books! If you're looking for some great reads, head on over and tell her I sent ya!

P.S. She's also got a contest going on right now in celebration of her blog's makeover. The New Me Giveaway! Win a custom blog design from Blogging Bella Designs or a New Book release!

 

Bossy Boots

Today I was chatting with the lovely Shannon, whom I absolutely adore, and in the course of a couple of emails I mentioned that I wear bossy boots and as such I sometimes don’t get along with others. This is because I am a take charge kind of girl. I have learned to restrain my bossy side and let others play, but often that side of me comes out, especially when people are being ridiculous and need to be set straight.

Shannon asked my what my bossy boots looked like and I found the perfect picture to illustrate them. They're Fluevog's and they're divine. Although, I probably wouldn't be able to get me feet into them, let alone walk in them. But that doesn't matter because they are the epitome of Bossy Boots, and whenever I'm in that kickin' ass and takin' names frame of mind, that's what I'll picture on my feet...even if I'm wearing Birkenstocks.

The Slutty Superhero

So... it gets hot in Toronto. Hot and really humid. And we don’t have air conditioning, but even if we did, I would put it on as a last resort because we’re not rich, and the provincial gov’t decided it would be cool (get it?) if they hiked up hydro prices during the day - when everyone uses it. I have a whole other rant about that clusterfuck.

Anyway. It was hot and it was humid, and I had the curtains drawn to help keep the heat out. And I was wearing a cute pair of boy-short underwear with a tank top. It was hot, people. And no one could see me.

So... I was making dinner, because I’m nice like that and Stuart came home and the first thing out of his mouth was, “You look like a slutty superhero.” And then he laughed. Not in a mean way. More like he was laughing at his perceived cleverness.

I, however, was not amused.

“What do you mean I look like a slutty superhero? What exactly does that mean? That I fuck my way out of bad situations?”

He had the sense to realize that he was treading on very thin ice, choosing to mumble something that sounded vaguely like he needed a drink and went to change out of his work clothes. Well, Stuart... you can bet you won’t be experiencing any of my superpowers for the next week.

OMFG I Hate Rogers

Now, before you get all crazy and think that I'm being racist because I've just declared that I hate Rogers, I don't mean people named Roger. I mean Rogers Communications. In case you live somewhere that doesn't have Rogers screwing up your life, it's one of the big cable/phone/internet providers in Canada. They own half of our country. Okay, maybe not half. But they own a lot.

Now, I have had a love/hate relationship with them for quite some time. But, there's only two companies I can get my phone and internet from - the other being Bell Canada, and I hate them even more. I can rant about them another time. Today, it's all about R.C.

So, we got new neighbours and the Rogers technician came to hook them up with all their stuff on Saturday. I know, who cares, right? Well, the incompetent idiot who came to hook the stuff up left all these plastic and metal bits on our lawn in the backyard, trampled our veggie garden and then knocked out the sattelite wires to the television in the living room. (It's because of my loathing for all things Bell and mostly Rogers that we have a sattelite with another company, that unfortunately does not provide the other two services.)

After spending an hour with our sattelite provider, we put two and two together that the reject from Rogers was responsible for our lack of tv. For whatever reason, my husband hates calling companies and telling them that they suck, so he leaves it to me. I think it's because he'd rather me be on the phone for hours. Fairplay. If I thought of it first, I'd do it to him.

After hours (literally, like 2 hours) on the phone, being transferred to five different departments, I was informed that a complaint would be lodged and someone would look at it. Really? That's the best you can do, Rogers?

Apparently, it is. We've been without sattelite for 3 days now (not such a big deal, we only watch a few shows in the evening, but still!) and we're not sure if the technician from our company is going to show up or not tomorrow. We had to clean up the mess in the backyard. Not incompetent douchebag. And we got nothing.

This evening a representative from Rogers called to follow up with my complaint. I asked them if they were going to give me anything for my time that I wasted on the phone with them, the inconvenience of having to wait around for some other guy to fix my sattelite, and cleaning up after the loser that left stuff all over the lawn. Nope. They just wanted to let me know that they got the complaint.

Seriously? What. The. Fuck. I had totally been over this whole episode, but Rogers managed to make me angry all over again. And they wasted another 20 minutes of my time. If I had Rogers cable, then they could make an adjustment on my television bill, but because I only have their other two services, then I'm ineligible to receive any sort of compensation.

I totally hung up on the woman. I just couldn't talk to her anymore. I didn't want to hear her apologies, or her empathisizing. Because, really? She doesn't care. And all I want to know, is what happened to customer service? Is this really an acceptable way to treat customers? Is Jerry the messy douche really going to be reprimanded for his bad behaviour? I doubt it. And the thing of it is, is that I just have to suck it up.

Oh. And blog about it.

At the end of the day, these big corporations are all about the bottom line, and when there are only 2 major players, they really don't care about the individual. Because they know that no matter how bad they treat you, your options are limited.

If I wasn't so addicted to "Community", "Coronation Street", "How I Met Your Mother" and "Chuck" I'd totally go off the grid. Totally.

Hope in All Corners

With all of the negative stories that bombard us from all corners of the media - the time spent on telling us what's wrong with the world, it's hard to imagine that there's anything right with the world. It becomes difficult to believe that there is something beside the downfall of humanity lurking around every corner. Too easily, we can become caught up in the murders, the wars, the riots, the pain. And then, with little fanfare, and if we look hard enough, we can find hope.

I struggle every day to not become disillusioned with humanity when all I see is pain. But, I hold on to one moment, one tiny moment in time, that reminds me of the good in this world. Let me tell you a story.

It was September of 2001, shortly after the 9/11 attacks and I had been working in a tiny village in the north of Scotland. I had just left to go and visit some friends in Manchester before returning to collect my stuff and moving to Belfast. It was a beautiful day, I was reading and writing in St. Anne's Square, waiting for my friend to get off work, looking forward to catching up and drinking more than my fair share of pints.

And then my phone beeped, alerting me to an incoming text message. It was from my friend Beth* asking me if I had heard about my two bosses who were also part of my surrogate family. I thought she was joking around, so I sent a cheeky text back. The one I received in return said, "Call me."

My world came crashing down. Liam and Marcus had been in a car accident, and Liam was dead. It had been a head-on collision and the family in the other car was also dead. Marcus was in the hospital, they weren't sure of the extent of his injuries.

I don't remember the rest of our conversation.

I called my mother in Canada, desperate to hear her comforting words and asked if it was okay to come home- I just needed her to hug me, to make me feel safe. She offered to pay for the ticket, a one-way ticket. I thanked her, but I couldn't come home permanently yet. The next person I called was my flatmate - a sweet guy who alternately acted as my father and my brother as the situation called for. He was just coming down the mountain and had seen a wreck from where he'd been, but hadn't known anything. He asked me what he could do, and said that I could stay at the flat as long as I wanted even though he already had a new flatmate.

My visit was cut short, but I stayed the night and went to the train station the next day. I was barely keeping it together. The attendant waived the fees for switching my ticket early, but I think he just didn't want to get the counter wet from my tears.

I headed into the bathroom, hoping to make myself look a little more presentable, and to stem the rivers that were leaking from my eyes. Women gave me a range of looks from curiosity, to pity to disgust. But not one asked me what was wrong. I sat slumped against the wall beside my backpack, feeling utterly alone.

And then a girl not much younger than my 24 years crouched down beside me.

"Please tell me you're not crying over a bloke, because he's not worth it," she said, a kind smile upon her face.

"No," I managed to choke out. "My mate's just been killed in a car crash and I need to get back to Scotland."

She reached out and touched my arm, before going to get some tissue. She thrust them at me and I mopped up my face and smiled gratefully at her for the small kindness.

The girl studied me for a moment. "Do you mind if I hug you? I think you could use a hug."

I shook my head. Right then I desperately needed a hug, to feel connected to something real. She hugged me for what seemed an eternity and I felt myself calming down, breathing, and could pick up traces of unscrambled thoughts. I felt anchored. It felt like it lasted for hours, and I really don't know how long it did.

She pulled away, a look of regret on her face. "I'm so sorry I have to go, but my train is leaving in a couple of minutes. You'll be okay, I promise."

And she disappeared.

In that quiet moment between two strangers, there was love. Not love borne of knowing someone all your life, or familial, or romantic. Just the love that lives in your heart every day, that you put into the little things you do--the smiles you give out to the check-out girl, holding the door open for the person behind you, picking up something that the person in front of you dropped.

Little things that make us human.

And so, what have we learned? That there is hope in the corners. Whether it be a community of writers rallying support and money for one of their own who needs help paying for chemo and prescriptions at the SupportStacie Auctions, the thousands of people from around the world who were touched by a secret at PostSecret and urged someone not to jump, or whether it's a post about a red dress that inspires the people who read to not be afraid, to make their own moments.

It's the little things that count. It is the small moments that we remember. So when you find them, hold on to them.


*not real names.

Ah...the first post...

So, what does one write in their first post? Something witty? Something profound? Just something on the page to say that you've written your first post? How about I just dish out some info.. that seems safe.

What's Procrastinator By Design all about?

This blog will include random ramblings, book reviews, pimpage for the things I love and anything else I feel like putting in..but mostly random ramblings. Also, I'll probably be updating infrequently because I'm a procrastinator, or as I like to think of it, motivationally challenged.

I also think that I'm funnier at 2am. My husband does not agree. It might be because he's asleep at that time and misses out on all of my witty thoughts. Or it might be because he has no sense of humour. About being woken up at 2am. Or woken up at all. He's so hard to figure out.


And if you're reading this, then I'll love you forever. As long as forever is, like, a week or so. And I get to pick which week.

♥ mm