When I was pregnant with the Captain, there were very few places to buy maternity clothes. There weren’t any Baby Gaps or Old Navys in Ottawa yet, nor even a WalMart, and my local Bay and Zellers didn’t carry maternity clothes at the time. Basically the only place for me to shop was the Thyme Maternity, an upscale mall-based boutique where t-shirts cost $30 and prices go up from there. I did my best to buy stuff on sale, but I still wound up paying too much for what is a very basic maternity wardrobe.

Despite the fact that the Thyme stuff was really expensive, it also SUCKED ASS, and by my 8th month, everything had shrunk to the point where the shirts would no longer cover the stretch panel in the front of my pants. I got really fed up, and I had a lot of time on my hands because I wasn’t working, so I decided to go to the fabric store and stock up and make myself some Big Ass Maternity Clothes (oh! new marketing idea!), which would be sure to cover up everything.

The Captain was a winter baby so I mostly made long-sleeved blazer-type items that could be worn over the too-short Thyme shirts to create an acceptable outfit. But I had some leftover fabric, so I made myself exactly one (1) t-shirt. This t-shirt — the Shirt Of Last Resort — is gigantic. Scarlett O’Hara could throw it around her waist and fiddle-dee-dee herself off to the Spring Ball. But it was highly suitable for my last month of Captain pregnancy, in that I felt modestly covered up, if not exactly fashionable.

(Interestingly, I don’t remember wearing the shirt with Gal Smiley…but I am learning that my whole second pregnancy is something of a blur.)

So this past weekend, I noticed that even my most reliable Old Navy staples were getting a little short, and I remembered the Shirt Of Last Resort. I pulled it out and I was sure it would just be huge, huge, huge, but…it fit. Quite nicely.

What does this mean? TIME TO COME OUT, BABY.

We had a bit of a scare on Wednesday evening when I had a few scattered contractions, but nothing came of it, and so far, the baby is still holding out for Monday. Monday is supposed to be 30 degrees and humid, with thunderstorms, so that’s good birthing weather, I’d have to say!

Tonight Sir Monkeypants is going to try to paint the baby’s room (or maybe tomorrow morning)…and then, we’re all ready to go.

In the meantime: still tired, still very cranky.

In the building where my obstetrician works, there’s a walk-in clinic. It opens at 9 am. For the last few weeks, I’ve had an OB appointment shortly after 9, so I’ve arrived at the building just in time for the walk-in clinic to open. Every time I get there — this is always on a Tuesday morning — there are at least 50 people waiting outside the clinic for entry.

This morning I had an earlier-than-usual appointment at 8:15am, and there were already three people waiting in line.

Isn’t that crazy? Every day I thank God (and FameThrowa) that we have an actual, regular, family doctor, and that she kicks all kinds of ass and we love her. But a couple of years ago, when our family doctor left town rather suddenly and we were scrambling to find someone, anyone, it was really scary. There just aren’t any doctors that are taking on new patients in like, all of Ottawa. I’m sure we wouldn’t have gotten in with our fabulous new doctor except for the fact that we had two little kids, and she’s a big softie and took pity on our babies and so took on the whole family.

I have to say, if I had to live my life over again, I would definitely be a doctor. I would love to be able to help out with the shortage that exists in the medical world. Every week when I see those 50 people shuffling into the clinic, probably facing a multi-hour wait to see a doctor who has never seen them before and possibly won’t see them again…I feel so badly for them. Our country prides itself on how “everyone” can get medical care, but when people can’t even get the basic services of a GP, what is that about?

I wish I knew better what I could do about it, short of going back to med school. Sigh.

Now that we’re in the home stretch, so to speak, I thought I’d just share the news that there’s no baby yet. No signs of the baby yet, either. My due date is July 9th, and for both the Captain and Gal Smiley I went into labour right on my due date. (Then they were born after midnight, so both of their birthdays are actually the day after my due dates, but still, pretty accurate). So, we are expecting labour next Monday, and birth next Tuesday.

In the meantime: still hot, still gigantic, still cranky.

I’ve figured out that I have a real problem accepting free help when it comes to my kids. Twice this week, our next-door-neighbour has dropped by with her two adorable sons, ages 4 and 5. YoungerBro gets along with the Captain famously and they are really good friends. OlderBro is very quiet and never any trouble, and he and Gal Smiley play together really well. So having them over is absolutely no problem, and both times they dropped by, my kids were overjoyed to see them, and I sent my neighbour home for an hour’s peace and quiet while all four kids played over at my place.

My neighbour, Lori, has offered to do the same for me many, many times — she’s always saying, “Just send the kids over after dinner for a half hour! It’s no trouble!” and I know from personal experience that it really is no trouble, because they get along great. But I just can’t seem to take her up on it — not because I am at all worried about my kids, but because it seems like such a huge imposition. Even though Lori assures me that it is actually better to have my kids over, because then her two boys don’t fight with each other at all, I just can’t seem to accept that it really isn’t a problem for her. I have this same issue when it comes to asking friends of ours, even FameThrowa, for babysitting services. This week, MyFriendJen offered to take the Captain to soccer practice with her own son, since I wasn’t feeling up to going out in the heat, but I just couldn’t say yes, because it seemed like such a big deal for her to have to care for the Captain for a couple of hours. I complain all the time about how other friends of ours get out frequently and have a social life, but unless I’m paying for a sitter (and as of yet, we haven’t found a local teenager that we like and trust), it just seems too weird to ask an adult friend to take our kids for an evening for free. I feel so badly imposing on them that I just can’t do it.

I was thinking about this a lot this week when Lori’s boys were over, and what my hang up is. I remember going to visit my older sister (and single mom) when her kids were small, and she was so, so, so happy to have the break that she basically would ignore her kids while we were over, relying on us to play with them/take care of them, and when we got bored or tired with that (we were still self-centred kidless university students), we got a little frustrated, but couldn’t seem to get away from the imposed free babysitting. So I think I’m really sensitive to this issue now, feeling like our own kids are our own responsibility, and no one else’s, and thus, I can’t ask people to give up time in their own busy lives just so I can catch a movie every now and again. Plus, sometimes caring for other people’s kids still seems like a big deal to me — I remember how panicked we were when we found out other parents would just be dropping off their kids, and not staying, at the Captain’s birthday party — so I feel like I can’t ask other people to take on that job for me.

I guess this isn’t really a problem, per se, except that and I really don’t get out very much at all, and getting out more would be a) fun and b) good for us, as a couple. I feel like I’m just waiting for the day when we find a good for-pay babysitter, or else get a regular “trade” in services going with Lori or one of our other friends with kids. So either I need to be more proactive about that, or get over some hang-ups, or something. With the new baby due any day now, I suppose we’ll be housebound for a few months anyway, so it’s no rush…just something that’s been on my mind.

For the past few weeks, my kids have been obsessed with a new kids’ show called LazyTown. It’s the story of a superhero, Sportacus, who teaches the kids in LazyTown how to be healthy by eating right, getting lots of sleep, and exercising. Sportacus is played by Magnus Scheving, who is Icelandic and has an adorable accent, and who is the competitive aerobics champion of Europe (I’m totally not making this up). He’s the show’s creator and producer. He directs every episode and writes the story outline for every episode. He designed the puppets (most of the townspeople are freaky brightly-coloured life-size puppets) and he even sings the theme song. It’s pretty safe to say it’s his show, not that much creative input is actually required. Every episode is basically the same: the bad guy, Robbie Rotten (Stefan Karl Stefansson, the “Jim Carrey of Iceland,” still totally not making this up), comes up with a nefarious plan to make the kids lazy and have Sportacus leave town forever, only to have Sportacus foil his plans through the power of sports and teeth brushing and a good nights’ sleep and the occasional disco-techno song about getting energy from “sports candy” (aka fruits and veggies).

At first I thought it was hilariously ironic that there was a TV show all about being active. Like, my kids could not be more comatose while they are watching TV — they just sit there, totally engrossed, without moving an inch. And the show itself, with the accents and the crazy colours and the puppets and the disco tunes was just weird. But then something strange started to happen — the kids actually absorbed the message. They started asking to drink water, because that’s what Sportacus drinks. They started asking for fruit and trying new vegetables, because they’d seen Sportacus eating them. Every so often, while playing, they will spontaneously drop and do a few push-ups (Magnus has a push-up routine he does on the show that is totally AMAZING, that dude has some serious core strength), and they love to run around the house and climb and jump while pretending to be Sportacus. During the show itself, they’ll dance along with the boppy tunes and try to do the exercise routines the kids are doing.

It’s like TV is actually educational! I’m considering having Magnus raise our kids.

My personal favourite part of the whole deal, though, is the Sportacus/Spartacus puns. These days when the kids are playing LazyTown, they sometimes fight over who gets to be Sportacus. Then they’ll yell at each other, “I. AM. SPORTACUS!” and the other will say, “NO! I. AM. SPORTACUS!”

And then I totally collapse into a fit of giggles, and then I have to spend an hour explaining to the kids just what, exactly, was SO FUNNY, MOMMY.

I love it when we are out in the car and Gal Smiley puts on her sunglasses, and declares with glee, “You can’t catch me, sun! You can’t catch me!”

And I love it when we are headed to the Canadian Tire, and Captain Jelly Belly asks if we can buy some Canadians while we are there. 🙂

Dear Captain Jelly Belly,

Last Friday you “graduated” from preschool, and I feel I should say something wise and lasting on this auspicious occasion. Not that you care too much — you’re more than happy to look forward to a whole summer of staying home with your dad. But I was surprised to find that it was kind of a big deal for me. I was just so incredibly proud of you, and of the big boy you’ve become. When school started back in September, you were shy and tentative; now you are bold and self-confident. During the graduation celebration, you were the best singer in your class, following along with all the words and motions and clearly enjoying yourself. And when you waved at us and saw the glowing pride in the faces of your Mommy and Daddy, and beamed with happiness, I must admit I got a little teary eyed.

Your teachers tell us that you have a great sense of humour, something we already knew…you tell most excellent “knock knock” jokes of your own invention, and you love it when you can make someone laugh. Your teachers also told us about how excellent your vocabulary is, and what a good counter you are, and how you know all your shapes and colours. You’re a great participant in class and you always get along well with your friends, and don’t tell the other kids, but I suspect you were their favourite. They’re pretty lucky that they will get to see you quite often next year as we go back to the same school to pick up Gal Smiley three times a week.

This past year that you’ve been in preschool, and since you’ve turned four years old, your Daddy and I have been amazed at how much you’ve grown up. You’re such a big help around the house now that you can dress yourself and brush your own teeth and go to the bathroom all on your own. You like to talk on the phone with your cousin ChitChat and, when we are having a playdate with one of your friends, you invite them to play and create new games with them. Just this past weekend we were at a birthday party, and they had a slip-and-slide water slide in the backyard, and you couldn’t wait to get your bathing suit on and give it a try. Only eight months ago, you would have been clinging to my leg and afraid to go near the thing; but now, you eagerly tried something new and had a fabulous time. You amaze me with your bravery and the joy you find in life.

You’re not afraid to tell someone when they are bothering you and you’re not a pushover on the playground. But at the same time, I’m happy to say that you are still my sensitive little guy. You can easily be moved to tears by a sad song and you have so much empathy that you always pick up on the cues in movies and TV shows that explain the characters’ feelings. When I’m feeling cranky and tired, you often come over and tell me you have a surprise for me…then give me a kiss, a hug, and an “I love you, Mommy.” Definitely the best medicine in the world.

Sometimes I worry that you get left out of the action around here a little bit, because you are so very good at playing by yourself, and you can easily get so deeply involved in a game or a toy that we don’t hear from you for an hour or more. Certainly in these past couple of months when I’ve been very tired, I know I’ve taken advantage of that. But I know you’re going to have a great time this summer with your Daddy and your friends, especially your very best friend in the world, Gal Smiley. Sometimes the two of you squabble but overall, you really do play very well together, and I think you know that she is the awesomest sister ever for you. The most boring part of your day is when she goes for her nap in the afternoon, and the very second she wakes up, you’re right there, asking her to play with you. Luckily she’s pretty easy going and is always willing to be Woody to your Buzz Lightyear, or Stephanie to your Sportacus, or the Green Goblin to your Spiderman.

Lately we’ve been looking at a lot of baby pictures of you, and although sometimes I feel a little nostalgic about that little boy, mostly I feel excited about how far you’ve come, and how much farther you are going every day. Soon you’ll be starting Junior Kindergarten, five mornings a week, and I know I’m going to miss you, but at the same time, I’m going to be so proud of you for navigating the bus and learning some French and putting on your own snowpants. And every day when you come home I’ll give you a kiss, a hug, and an “I love you, Captain.”

Love, Mommy

Last week we finally got around to hooking up our gas BBQ in the backyard. This is our third summer in this house, and sure, the lack of grass in the backyard for the first year was a factor, but really, the long delay only goes to reflect the fact that we really aren’t BBQ kind of people. I know! So very un-Canadian of us! But doing veggie burgers on the barby never really made a lot of difference, compared to our George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine, and the Grilling Machine is a lot easier to use and clean up, so I guess we just never really got into it.

But this past weekend, in honour of actually connecting the thing, Sir Monkeypants suggested we have BBQ for dinner on Father’s Day. We did veggie burgers for us and hot dogs for the kids, and we grilled baby potatoes and onions in foil. Sir Monkeypants even toasted the buns. And then after dinner, we used the fake coals to cook marshmallows and make smores (or, as Buzz Lightyear would say, “delicious hot schmoes”).

Overall, everything was so yummy, I could hardly believe it. The weather was perfect — not too hot in our shady backyard, with just a gentle breeze that kept all the bugs away. The kids were enthralled with eating outside and the grilled hot dogs were, by some miracle, SO much tastier than the boiled kind. Who knew? And all four of us are still talking about the smores, which were legendary in their deliciousness.

I think it’s safe to say we’ve been converted. Combine this with our recent attention given to the hockey playoffs, and all we have to do is buy a snowmobile to turn Sir Monkeypants into a bona fide white man!

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!