I’ve been sitting on a couple gift cards to Amazon that I received over Christmas from some very generous ladies (so ashamed that I’ve waited so long, but in my defense, reading was far from my mind for the past few months.

I finally took some time and perused the great stuff that Amazon.com has but found that I wasn’t able to order because I’m in Canada (like a Moby Wrap, I’m CRUSHED that I couldn’t get that. The moss colour is FAB! I’m so disappointed!) – all I’m allowed to get is books and electronics.

So, this is where you come in my dear bloggy friends: I am in need of suggestions. What books do you think I should consider for reading while I’m on my Maternity Leave?

I am a lover of all genres – I really can’t pick just one.

At the moment I’m reading My Sister’s Keeper and I can’t put it down!

Now is your chance! You suggest, I’ll buy a couple with these gift cards and the rest I’ll be borrowing from the library throughout my time off. M’Kay?!

There’s this dooce person who has a book coming out soon and her book is out tomorrow! They’re on my list too since, well I’m a snoopy blog stalker and couldn’t pass them up.

I’m not sure if it was the post about vomit or the fact that I was a mistake, an accident, a surprise but everyone seems to have upped and ran for the hills. Did I say something wrong? I hope lil’ ol’ me didn’t go offending people. Maybe I need more posts about the train wreck that is my marriage, will that bring you back?

Once upon a time I shared a 100 things post. It was lame and I ended up burying it in the archives somewhere so I figured now would be a good a time as any to refresh them and take another stab at it: but this time I’ll break it up into themes of ten so it’s not so daunting (and maybe you’ll leave a damn comment! Not you though, you always comment, and you, and you, and minus my stalker of course, she always leaves a comment! *wink*)

One Hundred: Part One – 10 Things That Scare Me

1. Bees / wasps / hornets. M first memory of a bee sting was when I was about five years old playing in my tiny backyard with my brother. We were sitting on the concrete slab that was our patio, eating Popsicles when an enormous bee landed on my knee and stung me.  My knee swelled like crazy and all I can remember was the pain! Just a week ago, my brother and I were reminiscing about the gigantic size of that bee.

Then, grade four, I was playing Four Square with some friends and had left my pop can on the side of the court. At a break I went to take a swig of my pop: little did I know there was a wasp who had entered the can and proceeded to sting me on my top lip. Again, I swelled up like crazy and have been terrified of stings since. My heart begins to race and I feel compelled to run around screaming like I’m on fire.

2. Snakes. I can’t put my finger on just what is so scary about them: I think I fear that all snakes are venomous even though I know better. Living on a farm (part time – since I saw my dad only two weekends a month) we came across many animals, insects, rodents and reptiles.  I would scream and cry each and every time I came across a garter snake in the long grass.

I’m alright with any kind of snake, as long as it’s encased in a glass container or held by someone else far enough away from me – I only fear them when they’re wild.

Mike had two snakes while growing up: Boa Constrictors. He’s mentioned, much to my dismay, getting another one some day. I just can’t fathom having a snake in my house (on purpose). What if it got OUT!?

3. Humiliation is one of my greatest fears, though I’m sure it plagues many at one time or another, it’s held me back from trying and learning new things for fear I will set myself up for failure and embarrass the crap out of myself in front of people.

4. Public Speaking plays hand-in-hand with humiliation. I will avoid it at almost any cost.  Performing, speaking, presentations, any of them will bring on nausea, red face, sweating, and down right panic attacks. As much as I may enjoy being the centre of attention *cough*, I really can’t handle speaking in front of people. I’ve even passed on courses offered at work to better our public speaking abilities.

5. Being alone stems from my adolescence I think. Until the age of eighteen – when I moved out – I was never left for a weekend alone. My mom was quite overbearing and always feared that my brother or I would throw a party should she leave us even one night alone. Never ONCE did she or my step-dad go away for a weekend or one night away while we were at home. Should something come up and they had to go somewhere resulting in staying for the night she would ship us to my father’s house.

To this day I have slight fears of being alone. I check the doors and windows and always have a light on somewhere when Mike’s out-of-town overnight. I’ve gotten better over the years, but there is still the lingering fear that someone is leering outside my windows.

6. Someone outside my window ties into number five. My childhood house was a bungalow, my room was at the front of the house, adjacent to the front door. I always thought that someone would be leering into my room from the front of my house: I would turn off the light, run to the window and close the blind immediately, then jump into bed and hide under the covers.

I still have feelings of someone being in my backyard or the side yard and peering into my house from time to time. I think I have an overactive imagination.

7. Something happening to my knees has always made me feel sick to my stomach: a phobia more then I fear maybe. I’ve have vivid dreams of being in a car accident and damaging my knees, having surgery, etc. Biology class in high school was a nightmare for me when we began learning about joints. I nearly passed out and fell off my stool during a lesson about knee joints and muscles. For all I know, it could be that damn bee’s fault.

8. Needles. For that reason many friends find it shocking that I have a tongue piercing and a tattoo. Since getting pregnant with Carter my fear has diminished due to the number of blood samples and IV’s I’ve had.

9. A child of mine going missing or kidnapped. This, obviously, is a much more recent fear, which, I believe affects all parents. Not until I had a nightmare about Carter being stolen from his bed one night has the thought of my child going missing scared me so much. Is it strange that I don’t check on him before I head to bed at night?

10. Losing my job. I’ve been very lucky over the years to have been the one that has left a position at work. Only once, when I was sixteen, did I get asked to leave and it was one of the worst experiences ever. Now with children, bill payments and debt I think about it more though I know I have a secure position.

1993 I was twelve and obsessed with hockey. Though my love stemmed from a crush on a high school goalie for our town’s Junior C team, who was seven years my senior, I fell madly for the Toronto Maple Leafs goalie, Felix Potvin: number 29.

I would watch every televised game until I was summoned for bedtime. At that time, I would plug in my headphones, lie on my back and visualize the game as it played out in my ears. I rarely made it through to the end of the third period. I would awake the following morning, or later that evening, to a tangled mess of wire wrapper precariously around my face and neck, ear buds strewn across the bed, I would scramble to get them back in my ears to catch the end of the game or the score on the morning new cast.

I knew most of the stats about the major players and I followed the playoff rankings without abandon. I was a force to be reckon with amongst my class of hormonal know-it-all preteen boys. I think they may have believed it was my plight to be noticed, to be one of them – hence my newfound love for the game: that was not the case.

I was in love with the game of hockey.

I don’t think my dad was ever so proud of me as he was when we had hockey to share.

Over the years my love dwindled. Felix was traded. The Leafs changed, as did I.

I still enjoy the game, though it’s not like I remembered. There isn’t the thrill of the game as there was, but more so embarassment for so-called men that now play the game.

Four years ago the game changed.

Four years ago Todd Bertuzzi sucker punched Steve Moore from behind, breaking his neck, giving him a concussion and ending his professional hockey career.

This week Mr. Bertuzzi flied a lawsuit against his former coach.

In part his lawsuit states that the coach:

“failed to exercise control over and caution his players against physical aggression toward Moore when he knew or ought to have known that this was likely to result in injury to Moore.”

In short Bertuzzi is filing claim that his former coach should have had more control over his players and has gone so far as to claim that he was “contractually bound” to follow the alleged request of his former coach.

Tell me. At which point in one’s life does someone feel compelled to blame their physical actions upon someone else? There is no one in charge of making someone harm another human being, but oneself. How does someone feel they can justifiably claim that another person is responsible for their actions? How can Todd Bertuzzi claim – with a straight face – that his actions were because he was “contractually bound” to bring physical harm to another player?

While playing football in high school Mike was requested by his coach to spear one of his opponents. To bring harm to a fellow high school student with the intent of taking him out of the game.

Mike said no.

He risked his high school football career, the friendships he’s acquired over time, the admiration of fellow students and players… for what was right.

He knew what was right.

He knew to say no.

He took responsibility for his actions.

He stopped playing football after that game.

Bertuzzi refuses to take the consequences of his own actions but instead is trying to pin those actions on someone else.

How can he say he’s remorseful for what he did to Steve Moore, then turn around and sue someone else for what he’s done? Doesn’t sound very remorseful to me.

Is society so far gone that we longer have to accept responsibility for our own actions? So far gone that we can sue someone else for our actions?

Very early on in our relationship, talk of children ensued. I just turned 19 when we began dating, I was in college and children were the last thing on my mind. In fact, I think all I was worried about at that time was which bar we would be going to that night.

Mike has always been very keen on having children, as was I; but not yet. I wanted to finish school, get a job – which hopefully would become a career – and maybe settle down a little more. He didn’t pressure nor did he insist, but there would be hints and suggestions along the way making me realize that he was quite serious – surprisingly for someone who was just 4 years my senior and very much a partier too.

After 4 years of living together, the conversations came more frequently even though he never once made an official request to start trying for children, though, there was plenty of practice time occurring *nudge, nudge, hint, hint* I knew at that point things were only going to progress.

I suggested getting a dog.

Buy myself some time, you know.

And so our beloved pit bull, Briggs, entered the picture. She was just the companion Mike needed and the distraction I was looking for. Though, I love her to death, I digress. I had ulterior motives. She would be the “child” that Mike so craved and she would be my Savior from bearing children at that point in my life.

A couple years passed, Briggs’ newness diminished and rearing children once again reared it ugly head.

Though, it wasn’t so ugly anymore.

At 25 I had a stable and comfortable position in the workforce, we had been together for 6 years and engaged for 5 of those.

And I’d already played The Dog card.

Fast forward nine – okay eleven if you include the months that were unsuccessful – months and Carter arrives.

I’ve always been comfortable with children and babies so I really didn’t think I had that much to learn. I could hold my own with diaper changes, dressing, handling, etc.

One thing that threw me off that no one explained?

The crying.

Mine. Not his.

I would cry at the drop of a hat. Literally.

Mike gaving me a hug.
Commercials.

Driving in the car.

Someone asking me how I was doing.

Mike leaving for work.

Carter sleeping in his bassinet.

The night time feedings.

The first projectile vomit.

My sore boobs.

Someone saying how cute my baby was.

Tears would weld in my eyes or, if I was home – alone, I would full on bawl my eyes out.

I’m a crier by nature. I cry when I’m happy, laughing, sad, mad – you name it I cry… but I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in my life expect when Milli Vanilli was found out to be fake as I did in those first few weeks of parenthood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a lot about motherhood you wish you’d known before becoming a mom. Write about it anytime between now and Sunday, then send a link to your post to PBN. It’s this week’s Blog Blast, sponsored by Discovery Health and their new series “Deliver Me”.

I was going to mindlessly post a meme today because I really can’t think of anything fun!, witty! or entertaining! to write about but photobucket is on the fritz and I am impatient. My mind has taken a vacation. The hamster has left the wheel.

If you’re twittering with me, you may have noticed my somewhat delirious rant at the end of yesterday (or my end of yesterday, which was about 3:30pm for everyone else that works and takes their jobs seriously *ahem*). I believe I said something along the lines of: I’m dizzy and feel sick to my stomach. I’m going home. Dear God I can’t take this anymore! This baby must be evicted soon or so help me I may need a padded room. So I may have exaggerated a little seeing as I can only twitter 140 characters.

Something came over me: I couldn’t look at my computer screen for one more second; I felt like the entire room was spinning and I had to get out of here, NOW! I sat in my car, let my hair down and closed my eyes for what felt like a half hour but was actually only like a minute, then drove to the daycare (which I don’t even know if you’d consider sitting in stop-and-go traffic at about a mile an hour driving) and got Carter. We went home, I put up the baby gate in the living room and slept on the couch as he wrecked havoc on my living room. I was in bed for the night at 7:30pm and I feel like I could have stayed there all day.

I called to see if I could bump up my prenatal visit to today, instead of tomorrow, but no go. She’s just too damn popular it seems.

IMing with a friend this morning, she mentioned how she felt bad that I was having such a difficult time with this pregnancy. And as much as I wallow in self pity and everyone has their own sense of what is bad and difficult – this isn’t bad. This is inconvenient, uncomfortable and just a pain in the ass. Difficult is bedrest, incompetent cervix, preeclampsia, infertility and difficulty carrying to term, among other things.

I just whine and bitch a lot because I am horrible at being sick. I hate sick. Sick has consumed my life since September. I have been struggling with intensifying bouts of depression accumulating with every cough that increases my incontinence, the congestion and the vomiting. Now also facing constipation from the increased iron supplements which leave me with cramping, bloating and pain!. And that pain! is even more intolerable with every cough.

Woe is me. Oh, woe is me.

But! this is not difficult.

I just have to keep telling myself that.

Soon there will be a precious little baby here (hopefully not before I finish the bedrooms and actually have a nursery set up because I’m totally freaking out about that) and there will be a whole new set of complaints: sore boobs, sore coochie, tired, crying but I mustn’t fret because along with that there will be new baby smell, cooing and a new life that I’ve helped bring into this world and need I mention an Entire! Year! Off! Work! *wOOt*

Soon there will be a baby here. OMG. Another baby.

/pep talk

Forget Blogher!! Okay, so you don’t have to forget BlogHer, but if you can’t make it to San Fran… there’s Blog Friends Fest in Niagara Falls that same weekend! I’ll be there showing off the post-baby bod – you know you wanna see it! You don’t have to be Canadian to join us so I better see you there!

***If you’re eating or have a weak stomach this may not be the post for you. Consider yourself warned!***

With all the chewed up food that’s been deposited in my open awaiting hand, the snotty noses, spit up, explosive diapers and uncontrolled vomiting, my stomach has been forced to toughen up. I’ve learned over the past few years that parents really have no choice but to develop an iron clad stomach or we will be eaten alive in this Child vs. Parent world.

Once upon a time I was one of those people that winced at gagging sounds, cringed at snot bubbles and wretched at the thought of cleaning up vomit. Friends and family would play upon my weak stomach as a form of entertainment. Me and my stomach would be at the mercy of their cruel, cruel games. But! Not anymore.

No longer do I run from the sounds of gurgling infant diapers. I do not shy away from allowing a child to spit their discarded food choices into my hand, and no more will I gag at the sight of vomit.

Because people.

Du-du-du-daaaa!

I am a mom.

Dude! She is Fierce!

But I have a cape. So I am Fiercer!

Alright. I digress.
Sure, I’m a mom – but sometimes I just cannot face the stinky diarrhea diaper.

Curdled milk in a sippy cup found in the toy box gets me every time.

Because dude! That shit’s just SICK!

I’ve mentioned time and time again that I am no fan of throw up. I have said in the past that I would rather have explosive diarrhea then pray to The Porcelain God. (Wordpress says that I have about 27+ posts about vomit/barf/throw up. There’s something seriously wrong with that.)

The winds of change are upon us people.

Just last night I made a spinach salad, to go along with my leftover Easter ham – I don’t think I’m ever going to be rid of that damned ham – and after finishing it, I was overcome with the urge to purge: barely making it to the washroom in time. As I sat there, sweating, I took a moment to reflect on the number of times that I’d been in this unlikely position over the past eight months when I realized that I was in fact sitting on the bathroom floor with my arm comfortably perched on the rim of the toilet propping up my head – unphased.

Then it dawned on me.

I was warned that this may happen. I scoffed at the idea thinking just how unlikely that it could ever be.

But I was wrong.

I am now immune to vomit.

* I don’t think it’s really growing on me. I don’t think vomiting is something that someone in their right mind would ever enjoy, but for the sake of a title for this post. Run with it.

I am the product of, what I believe to be, was a one night stand or very short dating stint between my parents. I believe that my parents married because they were both of Catholic faith (Ha!) and their parents would have cast Satanic spells and banished them to the Gates of Hell had they not married before my birth. That they did; about 35 days before I arrived.

Throughout my pre-teen years I was hateful and very vengeful towards my little brother, as most pre-teen girls are. We would fight and I would venomously utter The Words. The Words that just about every teen does to a sibling: I wish you were never born! or I would tell him: You were mistake! To which he would run to my mom and tattle that I had said such hurtful and harsh things to a very impressionable little boy.

One particular instance we were fighting in the car and I utter The Words. As we arrived to a stop light my mom slowly turned around and glared at me. “No Samantha, you were a mistake.”  to which my brother beamed ear to ear.
I was defeated.

The Words would never scar that boy again because now he had ammunition: The Truth.

I don’ t blame my mother for what she said, hell if the time comes I just may do the same to Carter as he torments his sibling one day (even though it’s entirely untrue. Both my children were planned and are angels in Satan’s The Good Lord’s  service.) I deserved that quip, I’m just surprised that she thought of it so quickly. My mom is not one for witty comebacks, that’s for sure. To this day, I actually find it kinda humourous.

During a visit with my mom a little while back we were talking about my choice of contraceptive – okay a while back seeing as I am now about the size of a house, only a bit smaller – (Because that’s what adult women do with their mothers. As apposed to teenagers who sneak over to The Clinic at lunch and load up on flavoured condoms and giggle as they return to school with them in their clutches feeling so sneaky and devious.) She was a little shocked when I told her that I had opted for the IUD.

“An IUD?” she announced to a FULL food court, looking around she lowered her tone as if to share a deep dark secret, “I had one of those when I got pregnant with your brother. It failed.”

A smile spread across my face.

“What?” she hissed.

“So he was a mistake too?”  I questioned.

“Oh Samantha, neither of you were a mistake.”

Typical parental response. Kinda like I don’t have a favourite I love you both equally.

Bullshit.

“Oh Mom.” I sighed, over the years I’ve put the pieces together. I got it all now.  “Remember how I used to tell my brother he was a mistake whenever I’d get mad at him and you would tell me that I was, in fact, the mistake. Always stealing my thunder, and the fact is we’re BOTH mistakes.” I laughed.

She stared at me. Daggers in her eyes. Not quite finding the humour.

Laughing to myself, I didn’t pursue it any further. Still haven’t to this day. I like my limbs intact, thanks.

And even though we’re far beyond the fighting and hurtful name calling we used to exhibit. I’m holding on to this one to drop in his lap sometime.

Though I don’t know that “Dude! We’re BOTH mistakes” is quite as effective.