With the birth of George III coming up any day now, we’ve been spending a lot of time looking at old baby pictures of Gal Smiley and Captain Jelly Belly. Naturally our little ones have changed a lot, what with the growing up and getting new wardrobes and learning how to artfully push each other around without attracting enough attention to actually warrant a time-out.

But what is really surprising is how much Sir Monkeypants and I have aged. It’s only been four years since the Captain was born, but man, do we ever look young in those pictures. Naturally we have the starry-eyed look of first-time parents, who still have years of sleep accumulated from sleeping in on Saturday mornings to fall back on, keeping us perky and optimistic even when we’ve been up three times in the night to a screaming baby. But even accounting for the increased work, stress, and sleeplessness of parenthood, it’s scary how different we look.

The biggest change, actually, is our hair. Sir Monkeypants has less, probably due to the fact that our kids yank it out while he is letting them use his body as a jungle gym/merry-go-round. For me, I have way, way more grey hair, even since Gal Smiley was born just 2 1/2 years ago. It’s really a little alarming.

I used to pull out my grey hairs, but then they would just grow back in shorter than the rest of my hair, and since they are very curly, they’d stick out all over my head like a little corona of old age. So about a year or so ago, I swore to cut it out and let them all grow in. Now I would say my whole head is perhaps 20% grey, a huge change in just a short time. Seeing my old brown hair in Gal Smiley’s birth pictures has led to a sudden reversion to grey hair pulling, I’m sad to say. In the past month I’ve probably pulled out 100 greys, and I’m sure they’ll be growing back in any day now, creating the familiar fuzzy white buzz around my whole head. I really should just give it up and start dyeing, but the real reason I don’t get around to that is that I am very, very lazy, and going to the salon for a roots touch-up, or touching up at home, every six weeks, is way too much of a commitment for me. Maybe when my kids are in college and I have scads of free time on my hands, I’ll start dyeing my hair and getting pedicures.

And in a totally unrelated topic…have you heard that I am very tired? Because I may not have mentioned it before, and it’s important, breaking news. Lately I am so tired that when I finally crawl up to bed at night, I just flop down and end up sleeping with whatever happens to be in the bed. Our bed is a bit of a crap collector, so on any given night this may mean that I am sleeping with any number of kids’ toys, any amount of dirty clothes that people have changed out of to put on PJs, and any number of dirty socks that have been kicked off in the night by myself and Sir Monkeypants.

The other day I bought some new rechargeable batteries for our baby monitor and brought them upstairs, then forgot about them. And sure enough, the next morning I woke up with the impression of a pack of rechargeable batteries imprinted on the side of my face.

So that morning, I opened the package of four batteries and reloaded the monitor, which only takes three batteries.

And the very next morning? When I rolled over to say good morning to Sir Monkeypants? There was a single rechargeable battery lying in the bed between us.

Now I’m a tired, cranky, grey-haired, and senile old lady. It’s official!

My latest copy of Today’s Parent magazine has a bunch of articles on Going Green, including one about this couple, who live in Toronto and who have tried to go garbage-free for the past two years. In my current quest to reduce the amount of garbage that we produce, I was pretty excited to hear about them and to read their tips. They managed to go completely garbage free in February of this year, but since then, they have found that being completely garbage free sometimes causes them to use up more energy in other areas. In the interest of using the smallest amount of energy possible, they have decided to allow themselves some garbage, but even so, they only produce one small bag every three weeks.

So inspirational!

So although my last post was all about the whining, I wanted to mention that Sir Monkeypants and I did have quite the A+ weekend. The weather was beautiful — clear and sunny and warm, but not too hot, and we managed to work in just the right mix of getting stuff done around the house, resting, and having playtime with the kids.

Saturday I gave both kids a haircut and then a full bath with hairwashing. Then we hit the Home Depot and used a wide variety of coupons from the government to save money on lots of energy-saving items, like low-wattage lightbulbs and outdoor solar lights. Then we came home and installed the new ceiling fan we had bought (with coupon) for our upstairs landing, which will help keep the house mercifully cool, so one of my avenues of whining will be cut off. In the afternoon I took the Captain for a bike ride around the block and then we played with the boys next door in their backyard, while Sir Monkeypants took Gal Smiley to meet and greet the little girls who live across the street. Oh, and I forgot to mention that somewhere in there we met the couple who has purchased the house that is being built next door, and it turns out they are friends-of-friends who we have actually met before, and furthermore, they are expecting a baby in August. How perfect is that?

After dinner, Gal Smiley needed another bath from playing in the neighbour’s sandbox, during which she managed to stick a soap crayon up my nose. Impressively far, too. But I was in a pretty chipper mood so it played as funny instead of infuriating.

Sunday I cleaned the fish tank and baked some muffins while Sir Monkeypants got another thin coat of mud on the baby’s room (he’s repairing the drywall after installing some soundproofing between the bedrooms). Then we went shopping for a wading pool, and after several stops settled on one from the Superstore. We came home and filled it and got out the waterguns, and the boys from next door came over and had a big water fight with their mom and which was tons of fun. Sir Monkeypants installed our BBQ and cleaned it out and now we can actually probably eat off of it sometime this summer, which is awesome, and the whole while I sat around in a lounge chair reading a magazine.

Such a great weekend!

Well, I haven’t posted in what seems like ages, because nothing is going on with us these days except that I. AM. TIRED. I finally made it to my last month of pregnancy — which took freakin’ forever, and I honestly thought I would never get here. And back in months six and seven, when I thought I was tired? I was just kidding. Now, I am really, really tired. I used to lie down for a 45 minute nap in the afternoons when Gal Smiley went for her nap, and the Captain watched a video. Now I find I need a mid-morning nap, and then a lunchtime snooze, and then an afternoon siesta, and in between, I’m quite prone to falling asleep spontaneously while playing with the kids. Trust me, falling asleep while playing The Buzz Lightyear Show is frowned upon by the other participants.

And the ironic thing is, I totally can’t sleep at night, because I can’t get comfortable in our bed. It’s too hot and too flat and I have to get up to pee every hour, and I wake up totally cranky and annoyed, and looking forward to my morning nap.

When we were deciding whether or not to go for George III, my own personal fear was that I would not physically survive another pregnancy. Not that the first two were any trouble at all, and really, I have no reason to complain and am just being a totally whiny and ungrateful future Mommy, but I certainly was really tired with those two. The difference was that I had lots and lots of napping opportunities, and I took them. This time around, I’m still taking the naps, but now I feel really guilty about it. I mean, Lazytown is an educational show and all, but how many episodes can my kids watch in a day while I drool into a pillow on the couch, and still grow up to be Prime Minister and Governor General, respectively? I really feel like I gotta pull it together, and how.

So although I have written many posts in my head in the past couple of days, I’m in the stage now where five minutes of sleep, versus five minutes of posty goodness, wins out. If you don’t hear from me much this month, you can assume I am either asleep, or cranky and whining about sleep.

Remember just a few weeks ago, when I made a post about how many of the Mommies at the Captain’s nursery school hadn’t even realised I was pregnant? And were surprised to see a great big basketball tummy emerge from my spring jacket?

Apparently it is a very short leap from, “Wow, I had no idea you weren’t svelte like Kate Hudson!” to, “Man, are you EVER GIGANTIC.” I can’t count the number of people in the past week who have exclaimed at how HUGE I am, and who ask me if I’m due really soon, if not in labour RIGHT THIS SECOND. And I have to sigh and say that I still have almost five weeks left, and they give me this look like, “Holy crap lady, I don’t think they make maternity wear in any larger sizes than the tent you have on right now.”

And to make matters worse, at least three or four people have followed up their shock and awe by asking me if I am having TWINS. Seriously, people, my readers really don’t like it when I have to yell at them in ALL CAPS, so could you please stop treating me like a beached whale, and instead go back to telling me how glowing and gorgeous I am? Thank you!

The scene: Lucas’ mother, who is 8 months pregnant, is in the hospital. She’s been unconscious since Lucas told her that his father, Dan, is the one who shot and killed Keith, the father of the unborn baby and Dan’s own brother. (I know, I know…you’re wondering why the hell you aren’t watching One Tree Hill, aren’t you??) The doctors have previously told Lucas that his mother is suffering from preeclampsia, which is pregnant-lady-high-blood-pressure.

Doctor: We have to do an emergency C-section to deliver the baby.
Lucas: And then my mother will wake up?
Doctor: Then we’ll be able to increase her dosage of antibiotics, which will hopefully help.

Me: Wait wait wait! They don’t use antibiotics to treat preeclampsia! And even if she has something else keeping her comatose, antibiotics aren’t going to help with anything that would cause her to collapse due to a stressful event! She doesn’t even have a fever!
Sir Monkeypants: This isn’t House. They’re trying to kill the mother. Could you let them get on with it in peace, please?
Me: Yes. Thanks for the perspective check. Carry on, fake doctors!

I would say that my number one pet peeve in this world is able-bodied people who use the elevator at Bayshore, our local 3-story mall. There’s a huge sign posted right by the elevator that says that preference should be given to the handicapped, elderly, and people with strollers, and since there’s another big sign posted by the escalators saying that no strollers are allowed over there, parents with babies are forced to take the elevator as their only means of between floor transportation. But there’s been more than one occasion when we’ve had to wait for the next elevator ride, because the current elevator was full of stupid people who are too lazy to walk the extra 50 feet to get to a staircase or escalator, like, heaven forbid you have to walk when shopping, and why don’t they have a service where you can sit in a comfy couch while all the stores parade their wares right past you, like the big revolving stage they used to have at the end of Wheel Of Fortune?

The other day Sir Monkeypants and I were at the mall, and we were waiting at level 2 to ride up to level 3, along with three other stroller families. Getting four strollers into the small elevator is a challenge already, and just as the elevator arrived, along comes this 40-ish woman with a fake tan and huge sunglasses who dashes up and — unbelievably — pushes past the stroller families to get onto the elevator AND — I am not making this up — she actually wanted to go to the first floor, but decided to “come along for the ride” to the third. Because hey, us people with strollers and no other way to get to the third floor are MORE THAN HAPPY to make room for an able-bodied woman who will make it harder for us to get on and harder for us to get off at the next floor, seeing as how she will ever-so-kindly lean to one side while we try to navigate all our strollers around her to get out.

So once we were off at the third floor, Sir Monkeypants and I made it about 10 feet from the elevator before having this conversation:

Him: Could you BELIEVE that?
Me: No! Have you ever?
Him: Never! And did you see what…
Me: Totally! And the “coming along for the ride”?
Him: I KNOW!

And that went on for like, 10 minutes until we had it out of our system.

But actually, believe it or not, I only intended to mention this elevator incident in passing, because today’s post is actually about my number two pet peeve, which is people who bring their kids to the park, and then ignore them, leaving the parents who are actually engaged in watching their toddlers to provide discipline for the whole set. We just got back from the park and there were three other mommies there, with an assortment of six or seven other toddlers — definitely no kids older than 4 — and it was the worst park experience we’ve ever had.

We have one really big rule at the park, and that is NO THROWING SAND. Of course, all of the other kids at the park were throwing sand at each other, in each other’s faces and over their heads even, while their moms/caregivers chatted and paid no attention whatsoever. The throwing of sand really stressed out the Captain, because that is RULE BREAKING. Meanwhile, Gal Smiley did not understand why she could not throw sand while other kids were allowed, so she tried to get into the mix, and I tried to pull her out, and she wound up with a face full of sand and enough sand in her hair to start a new resort in Cancun. I think she has learned that the sand throwing is really, actually, not that great an idea, but in the meantime I totally wanted to shove some of those other obnoxious toddlers around a bit, then challenge their moms to a rumble in which I would totally TAKE THEM DOWN, possibly by throwing sand in their eyes, ha ha!

And although the other kids had plenty of their own sand toys, of course, they had to rush over and steal ours as soon as Gal Smiley put them down for one second. And usually I’m all about the sharing, and giving other people turns, but when one little boy says he NEEDS to use all three of our shovels and both of our pails at the same time, and refuses to let Gal Smiley do any digging, and PLUS, he has a giant smelly poopy diaper, all of which is mom/caregiver does not seem to give a damn about, it makes me feel like I’m the only parent out here who is actually TRYING. Like, people, pay attention! Make your kids share! Make your kids play nice! The park is for everyone, not just for you to have a little vacay while other parents DO YOUR JOB!

Grrrr.

So, we wound up doing a little sliding and then both my kids, who ADORE the park, actually asked to go home. Which is sad. So we had to take our sand toys back from the mini-hooligans (very satisfying for me, I only wish they had cried a little more about it when I took it out of their evil little hands) and head home, so we could all have a snack and some juice and hopefully cool off a bit. Personally I’m really looking forward to the day when I can slip a little gin in my juice cup!

Lots of people have asked us if we know whether or not we are having a boy or a girl. I don’t consider this question to be particularly invasive, as I’ve asked it myself like, a million times. It’s kind of the only thing I can think of to say after, “How are you feeling?” and “When is your due date?” So I totally get it. Anyway, for the record, we do know, but we have decided to keep it a secret from the world. Well, Sir Monkeypants has decided to keep it a secret; I have decided to keep it a “secret,” which means that I tell people I am not going to tell them and then I go on to let it slip by using the correct pronoun when referring to the baby, and everyone notices. Luckily for me most of my friends are nice enough not to pounce all over my faux pas, but I’m sure once the baby is born, its sex will not be a surprise to most.

[Side note: I’m 8 months along now, and man, am I tired. This makes me prone to nonsensical prattling. I’m sure you did not notice.]

Anyway, although many have asked, I have yet to run into anyone who is sure that they know the sex of the baby, just by looking at my tummy. Most of our friends haven’t even registered a guess (probably because they already know due to my Loose Lips Which Sink Ships, duh). But this morning, I was at the grocery store with Gal Smiley, and when I got to the checkout, the clerk was a very nice lady who insisted on lifting all the heavy things for me and reloading my cart. And while we were chatting, she told me she could easily tell that I was having a [BOY/GIRL INFO DELETED HERE]. And she was totally right! I was really impressed. She said she can always tell just by looking at the belly.

Now that is a marketable skill, I would say. What she is doing wasting her talent at the Superstore, I’m sure I don’t know!

I just read this interesting post over at Mom101. It’s about extended breast feeding — that is, breast feeding after the age of 2. I think she captures my feelings on the subject perfectly. Although I know, intellectually, that it is a good thing and a natural thing and a very healthy thing to do for your child, it still kind of weirds me out, and I wish it didn’t, because one thing I’ve learned as a mother is that every family does what works for them, and our job as moms in this community is to be super supportive and non-judgmental of our choices.

But still.

I think I can handle the idea of an older toddler crawling into bed with Mommy for a morning or bedtime cuddle and snack. But what gives me the heebie jeebies is the idea of older kids interrupting playdates to dash over for a quick snack at Mom’s Juice Bar. And here, I should mention that breast feeding in general always seemed kind of weird and yes, gross, to me, which is totally on par with the North American culture. I remember the first time I ever saw someone breastfeed — my friend Chantal, about five years before Captain Jelly Belly was born. We were at a party and she had her newborn son with her, and he fussed, and she quite nonchalantly lifted her very discreet nursing top to pop him on, and there was this loud CRACK of my jaw hitting the ground, before I nervously started to stare at the ceiling while trying to continue my conversation with her as if nothing had happened.

I definitely get this attitude from my mother’s generation, who consider breast feeding tantamount to unsanitary, and there was a lot of pressure on me to wean my kids early from my own mom, who just did not get the breast feeding at all. In fact, although I weaned both my kids at around 11-12 months, she is convinced in her head that I nursed my babies for years and years, and they were practically ready for high school by the time I got around to saying no.

Anyway, as I was saying, I always thought the whole thing was very icky, and although I knew I would try to nurse my kids as it was the healthiest choice, I thought I’d have major problems getting over the mental hurdles. Once I was there, in the moment, it wasn’t bad at all, and it’s amazing how fast you get over any and all physical hangups after you’ve had half a hospital’s worth of doctors and nurses peering at your nether regions during childbirth. Soon, I was nursing with no hangups whatsoever in front of my husband, my friends, even in a quiet corner at the food court at the mall. It was just no big deal.

But the weirdest thing of all was that as soon as Gal Smiley was weaned…I reverted to my old attitudes incredibly fast. Within a month or two, seeing other nursing moms at the mall felt awkward and strange. And that’s for moms nursing young babies…I can’t imagine what an embarrassing and horrible reaction I would have to seeing a mom nursing a toddler in public. Even if it were a friend of mine, and I was totally behind her and supported her choice (which I would, no question)…I’m sure I would find myself staring at the ceiling again, trying to hide my discomfort.

I just find it interesting that someone who has been through the whole nursing thing can still be made uncomfortable by it. And that of all the different choices different moms can make, this one is the hardest for our culture to accept and support. I really hope that by the time my kids have kids, the general attitude towards breast feeding has grown even more positive, and that I can be completely open minded and supportive of the choices they make for my grandchildren.

Well, looks like we’re going to make it. And actually, it hasn’t been that bad. The kids have been pretty good and I have totally awesome friends who all offered to help out (many thanks to FameThrowa for playing with the kids over breakfast, and MyFriendJen for inviting us over this morning for some water gun fights).

We just have a few more hours left…unfortunately, Gal Smiley skipped her nap again this afternoon, so we have a cranky girl on our hands, and bathtimes and bedtimes to get through. But I think I can make it!

And then, we will use George Foreman III as our contribution to repopulating the Earth :).