Casey and I had officially been living in our new apartment for a full twenty-four hours when we decided it was time to stock the empty fridge and shelves with food. Visions of all four food groups bursting from every cupboard had us abandoning the unpacked boxes, still strewn in every hallway and pocket of our little apartment, and heading out to the grocery store.

Previous trips to this foreign establishment had only been to re-stock diminishing party munchies like chips or pop. But this monumental trip required the use of a buggy. We dropped the quarter in the cart and pulled it out like seasoned professionals.

Casey and I developed a system immediately. We started on the right hand side of the store, and thoroughly scrutinize each item, debating its importance.

“Kiwis?” I asked, fingering the small green object in my hand. “Do we need Kiwis?”

Casey grabbed a bag and tossed a handful in. “Definitely. Kiwis are an essential to every new home.” In the buggy they went. By the time we got to the second aisle, we decided to be more selective with our purchases. The buggy was already half full.

“Look!” I motioned to a shiny blue juice pitcher.

Casey eyed it sceptically, trying to be objective. “We do have three already… but then again, we did buy seven different fruit juices. We’ll need containers for them all.” In the new pitcher went, right beside the automatic egg cracker and strawberry pincers.

When our shopping was finally completed, we pushed our overloaded grocery cart well past the nine-items-or-less station and started loading our purchases on the conveyer belt. The saleslady smiled as she eyed our haul.

“New apartment?” She asked.

We were stunned. “Yeah, we just moved in yesterday. How did you know?”

She smiled knowingly while ringing up two different colours of Tidy Bowl. “You know you can never have too much milk or bread.”

Milk? Bread? We knew we forgot something. Casey dashed back to the appropriate aisles while I sat watching the register adding up the items. $140.00 … $180.00 …

Oh boy. Living on our own was going to be expensive.

The final tally came up to $240.00, but we were secure with the knowledge we would be eating well for many a day to come.

That’s if we could ever get our food home. The grocery stores had implemented a new ‘boxing system’ where you put all your stuff in old boxes as opposed to the convenient plastic bags that I’d fondly remembered. Case and I chose two of the biggest boxes available and started stacking our load in them. After stuffing the last can in the crowded carton, we then attempted to lift them.

Wasn’t gonna happen.

Unfortunately the world had to witness Casey and I leaving the market inches away from being on all fours, dragging our purchases out of the store like a train with Casey at one end pushing the box and me wheezing at the other ending tugging strenuously, all the time holding our heads (and butts) up high.

Such a shame that our fridge went on the fritz several days later and we had to toss pretty much all the cold goods in the garbage. But the good news is I still have stuff from that shopping trip. You never know when you need a good pair or strawberry pincers. I haven’t yet, 20 years later, but I’m sure I will. Someday.

Spoiler alert …

Childbirth hurts. Period. Don’t let ‘em tell you different.

Now go on and enjoy the best damn thing that will ever happen in your life. Period.

By now you should start wrapping up all the loose ends of your previous life, and might be enjoying your last week at work before mat leave. I found this time to be very emotional (although I also find new haircuts, choosing the perfect picture on a Kleenex box and planting flowers emotional, so don’t go by me) and as overwhelming as it was anticlimactic. There was a surprise shower sprung on me complete with baby-themed cake, a big fluffy stuffed animal (in theory meant for baby but whom I claimed as my own and christened Pooky) and more presents. I hugged all my friends and kissed my hectic full-time working life that had been a part of my life for over 12 years, goodbye, hopped in my car and wondered what the hell was in store for me in this new phase of my life. I cried all the way home.

As excited as I was to take a well-deserved break (I’m Canadian baby, one full year of mat leave!) from the non-stop frantic pace of my 12-year career, I found it difficult acclimating to home life. Visions of my fuzzy slipper clad feet resting on a table laden with bonbons and pregnancy books gave way to utter boredom at about the second day. I thought I would relish every moment of my slower paced life, but I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself. Shopping and cleaning and pretty much any movement whatsoever was out due to my very-pregnant state so I sat around and watched a lot of reality TV and probably thought too much about the impending labour. You can only call your husband so many times and say, “Watcha doing?” before it becomes grating. My second pregnancy was even harder as I had Tyler to occupy as well as me. “I know you’ve been watching Treehouse for three hours now but mommy’s tired. Here’s some string, go make something.”

And as annoying as it is when everyone and their brother has warned, “Enjoy it now because it only gets crazy after this,” all I have to say is: Enjoy it now, because it only gets crazy after this.

Although I was consistently at awe with the miraculous things that Pregnancy Bod was achieving, I was now very, very tired. Growing a tiny naked human being in your gut is nothing to sneeze at, and I wished that I didn’t squirt a little bit of pee with each sneeze. Watching my belly expand exponentially, I remember trying to recall what my feet look like. I knew they were there, I was able to stand virtually wobble free for moments at a time – but when I glanced down, all I saw was my very round tummy covered with the feathery fingers of stretch marks. (“They look like racing stripes… cool!” Mike raved. Bless him.) I would reminisce of my Pre-Pregnancy Body that would always obediently obey the command to spontaneously cartwheel or dance a little jig when the whim hit me. But at this stage in the pregnancy, I couldn’t raise myself off my comfy chair without the “Whoo-hoo” or “Ugh’s” that accompanied every exertion. I’d even become lax in maintaining Pregnancy Body as my bedtime routine was suffering. Brushing my teeth and washing my face required leaning over the counter, and the girth that separated me from the sink became a chasm that I couldn’t bridge

And I loved the feeling of baby moving around, even when he forgot his preferred exit route and seemed determined to kick his way out through my navel. I enjoyed the challenge of coughing and seeing if I can assume the cross legged/Keagle position before I sprung a leak. And wearing the same pants every single day, as they were the only ones that I could squeeze into made getting dressed in the morning a breeze. My house also benefited from my pregnancy as my husband, such a Dear, responded to every request like never before. It could, possibly, have had to do with my mood swings and the fact that it’s easier for him install a humidifier than to have dealt with the sinister wrath of my hormones, but darn it, when I want the carpet ripped out and hardwood flooring installed in the office – I WANT IT DONE NOW!!!

But the end is in sight, Gentle Reader. Around now is the time that your doctor might be prompting you for a Birth Plan. A Birth Plan is a list of all of your preferences and wishes for your delivery that you share with your doctors, nurses and/or midwife. Such things as who you want supporting you during labour and what kind of comfort measures you want to try are documented ahead of time so you don’t have to communicate these wishes when you’re breathing heavier than an obscene phone caller . For example if you’re planning for a natural birth and don’t want any pain medication (Why? Why? WHY??) you’ll want to notify the doctor of this in advance because it’s rather likely you’ll be ready to trade in your husband, house and the family cat for the beautiful man with the needle once in the midst of hard labour.

Here’s some typical questions that a birth plan would cover:

· What do you want to be doing during labour? (Walking around, making use of the shower or whirlpool tub, setting up a game of craps)
· What kind of help are you looking for during labour? (Special music you want to listen to, breathing techniques, a shot of Jack Daniel’s)
· What would you like to have happen when your baby is born? (Try breastfeeding immediately, having partner cut the cord, swearing off sex forever)
· What are your wishes for your hospital stay after baby is born? (Do you want to give baby his first bath, do you want your partner to stay with you at night, do you want your mommy to bring you cookies and milk)

Birth Plans are a great idea when they work. With my first delivery everything went well according to plan. I laboured at home for most of it, probably around 14 hours. We went to the hospital, where I endured another three hours of hard labour, making use of the hot tub and waddling around with the nurse as best I could. As I never held any preconceived notions that I would attempt to soldier through the pain for a natural childbirth, I was thrilled when the anesthesiologist, the true love of my life, came in. Even though it was the scariest, biggest, longest needed I’d ever seen, and hurt like hell to get, the relief that came to me as soon as he left was downright religious. There was a moment when I seriously debated naming my baby Epidural after that experience. I drifted off to sleep, as did Mike, the nurses covering us both with warm blankets, then turning the TV down so David Letterman’s voice was a lulling murmur.
I was gently nudged awake three hours later when David Letterman had given way to the soft porn they play on TV at 2:30 in the morning, and my nurse advised me, “It’s time to push, Honey.” I stretched luxuriously, still pain-free, daintily pushed three times and out come my beautiful baby Tyler. It was a dream labour, an effortless delivery and truly the happiest day of my life thus far.

My second pregnancy was a smidge different, being that Dylan was ready to meet us with a zealousness that could not be matched by the frantic nurses in my room. I was labouring hard, waiting not-so-patiently for my epidural when suddenly I had the frantic urge to push NOW a mere minute after I had been admitted into the hospital. I stated this calmly to my caregivers but was drowned out by the guttural caterwauling of a crazy lady yelling in agony from another room. When I saw the look on Mike’s face I quickly came to the realization it was me who was the screaming crazy lady and during the next four minutes of chaos, I yanked out my IV from flailing around in pain, had to have two nurses pry my fingers off of the sidebars of the bed and unfold me not so gently from the fetal position screaming, “You’ve got to lay on your back, damn it. NOW!!!”, bit my lip so hard that it almost needed stitches to repair and … oh yeah, squeezed a baby out. Barely. So Birth Plans are great but sometimes the baby isn’t as respectful of your choices as he should be and just does whatever the hell he wants to screw up your perfectly planned sequence of events.

If you’re a documenter like me, you tend to want to stamp an impression of every stage of your life in some creative and artistic way for future prosperity. I take Polaroids and press them into my diary so a picture accentuates my words, I keep scrapbooks of my kids with little mementos adorning each page, all my Pearl Jam concert ticket stubs are kept in an album, lint from my cat’s toes are nestled in a box under my pillow (I kid, I kid), but you get the picture. So I wanted something other than the worn elastic from my underwear or a bronzed toilet seat cover to symbolize my pregnancies. I debated getting my pregnant tummy slathered in plaster to commemorate its impressive size, but didn’t think I could wait long enough for it to dry without having to pee. So what’s a documenter to do?

Hop on the reality show bandwagon, of course, and sign on to be a part of Birth Days, a TV show that chronicles the ups and downs of pregnancy and bringing a new baby home. Mike and I had previously been on The Decorating Challenge, where we swapped houses with my sister and re-decorated each other’s bedrooms. The show was an experience we both enjoyed thoroughly and I wanted something new and exciting to look forward to.
Nothing like a full production complete with camera crew, sound guy and producer invading your home to keep you on the top of your game.
Cleaning the house became a full-time job and I had the additional burden of actually putting a brush in my hair and throwing some lipstick on whenever they dropped by to film a segment in addition to impressing them with my usual wit and charm. (The cleaning regime changed by about the fourth week, when I was too tired from childbirth, breastfeeding and sitting upright to care. “Just step over the pile of clothes on the floor and give me a second to wipe the baby puke off my robe.”) But apart from my normally well-behaved four-year-old little angel morphing into a smidge of a four-year-old little devil in front of the camera’s watchful eye, I’m glad we did it. It’s nice to see that time in our lives, warts and all, forever captured on film.

Right about now I was beginning to have enough of this life changing experience.  The aches, pains, nausea and all the other accoutrements accompanying pregnancy were starting to take their toll on my body and mind.  My Facebook status updates, that had once started as a ‘Debbie is experiencing the wonder of life under her sweater’ had morphed into ‘Debbie is itchy, grumpy, sweaty and tired and wants this thing out NOW’. My girlfriends Casey and Lou became my lifeline in dealing with the pre-baby blues.  Mike was great, and tried to console, but somehow commiserating to my uterus-free husband about my body-betraying laments didn’t help.  Only my gals,  having been pregnant before, could see my lack of bladder control and raise me an acid reflux and uncontrollable flatulence.

A typical phone call would go like this: 

Ring Ring.

Lou:          “Hey.”  (It’s the days of call display.  Nobody says, “Hello?” anymore pretending we don’t know who is at the other end.)

Me:          (Exaggerated sigh)  “Hi.”

Lou:   “How are you feeling?”

Me:    “Did your boobs itch?”  (No need for small talk.)

Lou:   “Yup.  I noticed that right towards the end.  Totally sucked.”

Me:    “Ugh.  And what’s with the leg cramps? I’ve get that Restless Leg Syndrome like crazy every night.  It’s like I have David Beckham’s legs on steroids trapped in Rosie O’Donnel’s body.  Drives me nuts.”

Lou:   “I didn’t get the RLS, I got charley horses that would wake my up in the middle of the night.  I’m still smarting from the episiotomy.  You should really consider perineum massage.”

Deb:          “Huh?”

Lou:   “You know, the perineum.  The spot down there between your (expletive delete) and your (expletive deleted).”

Deb:   “I know what the perineum is, I’m just wondering how to incorporate a massage in that particularly sensitive area?”

Lou:          “You’re suppose to rub it for ten minutes every night to stretch it out in preparation of a head the size of a watermelon plowing through it.”

Deb:   “Ugh.  Don’t so ‘plow’.  So what are the mechanics of this massage?  You just uh… take your finger and rub?”

Lou:   “Well you don’t get a Swedish broad to walk on it.”

… and so it goes.

So polish off your gal posse now and make full use of their expertise and support.  Enlist your mom, aunt, neighbour, any female of the species who you feel comfortable using the word ‘vagina’ in front of and pour out all your fears, anxieties and questions to and open and willing ear. I remember just talking through my discomfort and blue moods went a long way into making my pregnancies more bearable and even enjoyable.

Mike … went and probed an alien last night – just to see if THEY like it

April 28 – Had the florist meeting tonight, I brought along my trusty notebook so I could write poems during any downtime.  I finished my best friend’s parents’ poem, which was particularly challenging as her father always tends to grade my work.  “That piece in the paper last week was a little weak, I’d give it a C+,” or, “Not bad work on the last magazine article.  A-.”  Somewhere between the tulips and the roses I came up with:

“Knowing this poem would be critiqued,

I agonized over what to say,

What succession of profound words,

Could possibly prompt an A?”

I was relieved to have completed the poem but have no idea what I chose for the flowers.  I think they might be purple.

May 07 - My latest  motto is ‘less quality, more quantity’.  Whose idea was this, anyway?  I skipped the caterer’s tasting meeting – how badly can you screw up chicken?  Chicken … what rhymes with chicken?

May 15 – New rule: Because I can’t write a personalized poem to a stranger, I’m taking the easy way out.  Sorry in advance to all the people on Mike’s side of the family whom I’ve never met, but you now fall under the heading of ‘generic’.

“It’s a very special time for us,

As we become husband and wife.

We’re so glad you could be here to share,

This happy moment in our life.”

May 28 – I just received news that the Platt family called to say they wouldn’t be attending.  Forget about the seating arrangements and numbers that now have to be rearranged – I’m pissed because I had all four of their poems in the can!  From now on, nobody gets a poem until they’ve sent in their RSVP. 

June 06 – Each poem is written on fancy purple paper cut out with craft scissors (with the snazzy zigzag cut) with a sparkly pen in perfect penmanship.  They are then lovingly rolled into a tube and tied with purple ribbon, then the ribbon is scored so the ends curl in perfect symmetry.  This was fun the first ten times.  Now I wish we’d gone with the cookies.  Or eloped.

June 20 – One month and counting.  I’m not checking my e-mail because returning messages would require stringing words together, and I don’t want to write any more than I have to.  I finished Mike’s poem tonight:

“Michael Robert, you are the light,

That leads me through this life.

There is no moment I’ll cherish more,

Than when I become your wife.”

… and when I finish these damn poems.

July 05 – I can’t think.  The phone goes unanswered and I barely see What’s His Name.  He keeps mumbling something about picking out a cake.  Cake, shmake – I’ve got 12 more poems to write.

July 19 – It is the day - correction – night before the wedding and all the poems are finally complete!  I’ve never been so relieved in my life.  This undertaking is finally behind me.  I need sleep.  Apparently there’s some big do tomorrow that I’m going to.

July 20 – It was absolutely, positively the happiest day of my life.  Everything happened so seamlessly.  Mike looked ravishing and got misty-eyed when I floated down the aisle.  I spent the day in a roomful of people I loved, who had the warmest wishes and most thoughtful words for us.  I drifted on a bubble of bliss all day long.

There was a lot of buzz about some silly poems that everyone really enjoyed, but I was far too dazzled with my wonderful day and my even more wonderful new husband to pay much attention.

“The planning is over, I’m finally here,

The day I’ve taken his name.

Any stress I had has disappeared,

In a cloud of love and champagne.”

January 20th – Six months to the big day and I still haven’t the foggiest idea of what to offer the guests as wedding favours.  Like any bride worth her salt, I have big aspirations for an extraordinary idea to amaze all of my 110 guests.  I considered creating personalized CDs, but Mike and I decided our preference for hard rock could conflict with some other people’s tastes. Could dear Aunt Barb really appreciate my beloved Pearl Jam?  Sadly, I think not.

Feb 01 – I had a brainstorm: filling mason jars with the dry ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, the recipe neatly tucked in the middle.  I would pin a clever note on each jar, something to the effect of “hope our marriage is just as sweet”.  But during our practice trial, we quickly dismissed the idea.  With flour and chocolate chips strewn from one end of our small kitchen to the other, Mike and I quickly concluded that 59 more attempts would put more strain on our relationship than necessary.

Feb 05 – I thought live fish swimming in a glass bowl on each table would be charming.  My cat thought so, too. The good news is I didn’t need to buy cat food tonight.  Strike three.

Feb 17 (morning) – I always work best under pressure.  With the wedding five months away, I finally came up with – dare I say it – a brilliant idea.  I am going to write a personalized poem for each guest!  Not only can I make use of my talents as a writer, but this idea satisfies all my conditions for The Perfect Favour: unique, sentimental and most important, cheap, cheap, cheap.

Feb 17 (afternoon) – I’m so excited with my idea that I’ve called the entire wedding party and half my family to share the news.  ”Inspired!” gushes my friend.  ”Unique!” offers my sister.  ”Whatever” mumbles my fiance. I am flushed with pride and excitement.  This is the best wedding favour ever!

I do some rough calculations on the guest count and time line.  My excitement diminishes only slightly when I realize I have just committed to writing 110 poem in five months, while still finding time for florists, caterers, dress fittings, packing for the new house, closing the sale of the condo and – oh yeah – my pesky full-time job.  My heart is now skipping every other beat and a dull ache has developed in my chest.  

Feb 26 – I’ve quickly concluded that only each couple will get a poem, thereby magically slashing the workload by half.  This wedding planning is a piece of cake, I should do it professionally.  The first verse of every poem will be the same, only the second verse will be different, thereby offering everyone a quality two-verse poem that is still personalized and poignant.  The first verse:

I was able to hash out seven poems and still make my first dress fitting by getting the easy poems out of the way first.  I thought my dad might appreciate a tribute to him footing the bill:

“My falling in love cost you 20 grand

Yet you didn’t even moan,

When all you have to show for it,

Is this lousy little poem.”

But I went a more traditional route:

“My day would have never come to be,

If not with the help of you.

Thank you Mom and thank you Dad,,

For making my dreams come true.”

March 20 – I’m starting to run out of things that rhyme with ‘forever’ ‘love’ and ‘dreams’.

April 05 – I’m learning that not every poem can be sentimental.  So the rules are changing, depending on my relationship with the guest.  In the cast of the guitarist in Mike’s band, who has crappy taste in music, I wrote:

“I can’t help but notice Dear Friend,

Your taste in music aint worth a damn.,

Be good to your ears and nourish your soul,

For God’s sakes, start listening to Pearl Jam!”

Not exactly moving, but relevant.  Then there’s our colourful friend who has a penchant for body art, piercings and leather:

“We’re glad you could make it out today,

So we could enjoy your humour and wit.,

You’re one of the nicest people we know,

Certainly the first with a pierced nipple and lip.”

April 20 – Time is ticking … can I make my deadline?