Remember a few months back, when I was all freaked out about the Bisphenol-A that leaches from plastics? And my sister calmed me down to a point where I could at least pretend to function around the kitchen like a normal person?

Recently I read that the self-same chemical leaches from white plastic piping, the kind that cheap-o builders use these days in mass-market housing instead of quality copper piping, to save a few bucks. And guess who’s house is chock full of white plastic piping? Yup. Ours.

Apparently the leaching is worse when hot water is run through the pipes. Like say, when you are giving your kids a bath. Or getting some hot water to wash the dishes you will later use to prepare food for your family. Sometimes I feel like that mom in Erin Brockovich, the one who learned that it was their drinking water giving their kids cancer, then freaked out and ran outside to stop her young daughters from frolicking in their swimming pool.

Then some friends of ours told us that the amount of fluoride in our drinking water is too much for small children, and it basically amounts to an overdose situation for kids under 4. And know what? It’s apparently true.

And about a week ago, I heard a story on the CBC about phthalates, which are some crazy chemical that is often found in perfumes and scents, only you don’t know about them because manufacturers of soaps and shampoos are only required to list “parfum” on the label, not the actual chemical makeup of said scent. Apparently, this chemical acts like estrogen in the body, and when they tested babies who had been bathed with baby soaps, they had an elevated level in their bloodstream. As in, absorbed through their skin. Know how many baby-marketed soaps you can buy at our drugstore that do not contain “parfum”? Zero.

You know what? That’s it. I think I have hit my limit of worry.

There’s only so much of this kind of stuff I can take. I already have enough to worry about. I have to fret about whether or not they are eating enough or sleeping enough. I have to make sure they grow up to be nice people and get read to enough and feel loved and safe in their own home. I have to worry about kidnappings and other people being mean to them and not having enough money to pay for them all to go to university. I have to worry about drunk drivers and sledding accidents and whether everyone has had a poop today.

I don’t have any worry parts left over to feel scared to give my kids a glass of water, or to give them a bath. It’s too much!

I’m not saying that I’m going to just stick my head in the sand and ignore anything that may be a health threat. I’m sure these concerns are very real and the public has a right and a need to know. But I can’t keep living in constant fear of everything in our house. I can’t overthink my decisions to brush their teeth or let them have their juice in their favourite Buzz Lightyear plastic cup. I’ll never make it through the day. I just have to accept that there are weird chemicals around us and we don’t know what kind of risks are there and then just live with that. Otherwise my head will explode.

We live in a country where we have access to almost-unlimited clean, fresh water, with more than enough food of all varieties at the grocery store. We don’t have people shooting in the streets or planting car bombs outside schools, we have good health care and good schooling and public transit and malls. I think it’s a shame that we can live in one of the safest, nicest places in the world and still have to fear like bad things for us and our children lie in every nook and cranny. I have a need now to focus on the positive, good things for a little while and let these other worries go.

Maybe someday they’ll figure everything out and this Bisphenol-A and phthalates and whatever will turn out to be as bad an idea as lead in gasoline and asbestos siding. Maybe it’ll turn out to be nothing. Until we know for sure, I just have to stop overreacting to every single news story. I have to stop worrying about these things for my own sanity.

If there’s something concrete I can do, let me know. Sure, I’ll stop putting plastic dishes in the microwave. I’ll supervise teeth brushing and limit the amount of toothpaste. Beyond that, please stop with the fear-mongering and just let me get by with the usual amount of fretting.

(Although I am thinking about getting a quote to have our plumbing replaced. Just in case.)

I was in quite the bitchy mood yesterday.

Captain Jelly Belly came to wake me up at six-oh-oh. He’s always been an early riser, but since the time change he hasn’t arrived in our room until at least 6:30, so right away I was grumpy at the wakeup call. I could tell it was going to be that kind of day.

I stomped around the kitchen all morning, until finally said, “Hey, what’s up with you?” And I said, “NOTHING DO YOU WANT TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT????” And he said, “Um, nooooo…” and took the kids to a safe area of the house.

After lunch I was tidying up some of the birthday-related treats and there was a whole box of Smarties and I ate them all. Much as I love chocolate, that’s pretty unusual for me. Later that afternoon, I made the Captain cry when I snapped at him to go away, when all he wanted was to show me the new Mario Kart remote controlled car he got from the Walmart (which he thinks is a present for his cousin, but is actually for him on behalf of his grandmother, and he’ll be getting it as a gift when we are in Toronto, surprise!).

Then, after dinner, I got hit with a massive headache, and I was all like, “What the hell?”

Then I had an epiphany. I HAVE PMS. The beast, she has returned. I am once again slave to my monthly cycle.

Really, the three new pimples I have on my cheek should have been a dead giveaway, but it’s been a while so my mind just wasn’t going there.

Once the kids were in bed I gave up any pretense of trying to fight the PMS and ate half a big bag of chips and some Oreo cookies, washed down with a big mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows. That allowed me to have a halfway respectable conversation with before bed.

This morning I’ve been trying to be better, now that I know the cause of the bitchiness, but I’ve already made Gal Smiley cry by snapping “NOT NOW” at her when she tried to ask for a cup of milk. Menopause really can’t come soon enough. Although, I suppose menopause means a whole year or two of this sort of craziness, so maybe it’s best if we put that off until the kids are old enough to move with their father to Australia. They can come back when I’m sane again.

It doesn’t help that I have extra stress today because my uncle, who I haven’t seen in about two years, is coming for dinner. I had this conversation with the kids about that:

Me: Some people are coming for dinner tonight. You’ve met them before, but you were really young so you probably don’t remember.

Captain: What are their names?

Me: There’s a man, you will call him Uncle Mark. His wife’s name is Mary.

Gal: Like the song! Mary Had A Little Lamb!

Me: Yes, that’s right. And they are bringing their boy with them, he is older than you, I think he is 12. His name is Wolfe.

Captain and Gal, excitedly in unison: Just like on American Gladiators!

I’m sure that this little factoid is what they are going to open with as soon as they meet Wolfe. Sigh. Time to self-medicate.

Where the hell are those chips?

Gal Smiley is trying to zip up her coat by herself.

Gal: I can’t do it.

Sirmonkeypants: You can do it if you try! The world is your oyster!

Captain Jelly Belly: What does “world is your oyster” mean?

Sirmonkeypants: It means you can have anything you want and do anything you want.

CJB [excitedly]: When can the world be my oyster?? Soon? When I’m six??

Sirmonkeypants: Um, maybe when you’re 18.

CJB: How about when I’m seven?

Sirmonkeypants: Maybe.

CJB: Or eleven?

Sirmonkeypants: Sure. The world will be your oyster when you’re eleven.*

Due to similar conversations in which forbidden things are negotiated for, the Captain expects to have a Coke on his twelfth birthday, to ride in the front seat of the car on his thirteenth birthday, and now, to have everything he wants on his eleventh birthday. And trust me, he’s keeping track.

Yesterday was the Captain’s fifth birthday, and we planned a big Day! Of! Fun! I think it’s safe to say it was the absolutely the most fun a five-year-old could possibly have in one day. We had had a party for him last year, the whole thing with the party games and the loot bags and the presents, oh lord, the presents, so we thought we’d skip it this year. But then, I realised that the time for traditional birthday parties is short — by eight years old, we figure, it’ll be so last year — so we better have fun in the sun while young. And all that.

So we went with the Day! Of! Fun! instead.

It started in the morning with a big pile of presents, including a new bike from us, a Senators hockey shirt, and a Hot Wheels race track. Also, there were some much-needed shorts and t-shirts from FameThrowa, and don’t think I didn’t notice that you turned the birthday card I sent you last month into a beautiful tag for the gift. I was so impressed. The padawan has become a jedi.

Then we played Hot Wheels over a leisurely breakfast, before the Captain got dressed up in his new Senators shirt.

After breakfast it was off to the KidsZone, one of those places with a huge climbing thing inside with mondo slides and giant balls and ladders and other fun stuff. There, we met several of his closest friends, along with all of their siblings, for a total of 11 kids including the Wee One. Everyone had a smashing good time running and screaming and sliding; there was also a little arcade at the back where you could play games using tokens, and win tickets to exchange for little toys or candy. Woo hoo!

Then we all came back to our house where we had hot dogs AND pizza AND cheesies AND token carrots and grapes for lunch. The Captain got to eat two slices of pizza, which he loves but never gets to eat due to his issues with milk/cheese, and so that was a major treat. Everyone was starving so there was almost complete silence for like, an hour, while all the kids had triple helpings of everything and enjoyed everything very much.

After lunch the kids decorated their own cupcakes with a variety of fun toppings like Smarties, marshmallows, and chocolate Teddy Grams. Vanilla cakes with vanilla icing — the Captain’s favourite, of course.

Then we opened presents and the Captain got some awesome books and videos and board games and about a MILLION cars, which if you are five years old, is just a barely adequate number of cars. Then the kids played cars and various board games for an hour, and then we had a Twister tournament, which confirmed that I am extremely old and decrepit.

Later the party guests went home and everyone loved their loot bags and we played with loot bag stuff for a while. Then we all curled up on the couch together while Daddy read us stories.

Then we had Swiss Chalet for dinner, the Captain’s all time favourite food. And more cupcakes.

And, I didn’t even mention that stayed home all day, which would have made this a totally awesome day for the Captain even if we didn’t do all that other totally awesome stuff, and that all day long, various members of our family called to wish him a happy birthday, including his cousins who are currently on vacation in Disneyworld, which was totally awesome.

Then we played Mario Party on the Nintendo.

And then, we went to bed, having completed the bestest, most A-plusest, most fabulous Day! Of! Fun! ever in the history of the world. Happy fifth birthday, dude!

Overheard yesterday while the kids were playing happily with each other:

Captain: Now let’s pretend we are going to work! Today we will work with computers.

[Captain and Gal sit in front of pillows and pretend to type.]

Captain: Oh no! Someone broke the code!

Gal: We HATE it when they break the code!

Captain: But…we can fix it!

Gal: Because we are powerful!

[Fake typing continues with renewed vigor.]

Five years ago today, I was sitting on the couch watching TV while Sir Monkeypants did a little work on his laptop at the kitchen table. It was my due date.

I’d had an OB appointment that morning, which showed no dilation or any action of any kind, so my doctor had booked us in for an ultrasound later that week. But it was my due date, dammit, and I was convinced I’d have the baby that day, no matter what.

My will, she is like iron.

6 pm — I feel something that seems like a contraction.

6:45 pm — There’s another one!

7:15 pm — Definitely a third. Time to alert Sir Monkeypants. Since it’s our first, he immediately drops everything and gets out paper, pen, and a stopwatch. Let the race begin!

7:30 pm — From this point on, I start having contractions about every five minutes, but they range in duration and strength. Thus begins the long decision making process of, “Should we go to the hospital? Because I don’t want to be that lady that gets sent home for coming in too early and bothering the nurses. But this does seem like labour. Doesn’t it? And also, ow.”

10 pm — Decision made; let’s hit the hospital and get checked out. Sir Monkeypants calls our moms to let them know that we are going in, but this probably isn’t it, and we’re probably going to get sent home, so don’t get too excited. Then they both pass out from excitement.

10:30 pm — I’m only 1-2 cm dilated, but contractions are strong and regular, and since my appointment of just that morning showed nothing at all, the nurse declares me to be in labour. They aren’t busy at all, so she gives me the option of going home to “labour in comfort” (ha ha!), or staying. I choose to stay and immediately ask for an epidural. Crappy news of the day #1 — you can’t have an epidural until you’re at least 3-4 cm dilated, or else labour might stop. Crap!

11 pm — The delivery rooms all have a whirlpool tub, so I get in so I can “relax.” Instead I just feel really self-concious being all huge and naked like a beached whale. Meanwhile, Sir Monkeypants is at my side, calling me “mayonnaise” a lot and quoting from all the Rocky movies. He thinks he’s funny. He’s lucky he’s still alive.

1 am — I beg the nurse to check me again and she does, and joy! I’m 3-4 cm. Crappy news of the day #2 — when you are ready for your epidural, it’s highly unlikely that the epidural guy is just sitting outside in the hallway right outside your door, ready to rush in and help a gal out. Especially at 1 in the morning. It’ll be a while before they can track him down and get him here. Crap!

1:30 am — I receive an epidural. I immediately propose to the epidural guy. He says he gets that a lot.

2 am — I get some sleep. Sir Monkeypants gets sleep too — sitting up in a chair with his head on a table. Who’s mayonnaise now, eh, eh?? Eventually the nurse takes pity on him and finds him a recliner to sleep in. Meanwhile, she checks my status many, many times.

5 am — I’ve been at 9.5 cm dilation for almost an hour now, but there is a “little lip” that stubbornly refuses to go away. The Captain’s heart rate begins to fluctuate and there is some concern for the baby. The doctor on call comes in and tells me that if things don’t progress quickly, they will have to use suction or forceps to get the baby out fast. I’m half-asleep and still having epidural joy, so I must say, I have very little appreciation for the possible seriousness of this situation.

8 am — My own OB, Dr. Farrell, comes on for his shift. He comes to see me right away and seems pretty pissed off that the baby isn’t out yet — apparently his heart rate is really not doing well. The nurse is all, “little lip, little lip” and he reaches in and pops it out and is all like, “You mean that little lip, that should have been popped out like, five hours ago??” I’m awake now and a little concerned.

8:20 am — Dr. Farrell breaks my water and it’s full of meconium. It’s time to get the baby out fast. Lucky for me, three pushes is all it takes. (Well, that and a little help from some forceps and an episiotomy. Ow.)

8:28 am, March 12, 2003 — The Captain is born. They take him to the nursery immediately because he inhaled meconium, and they need to clear his lungs. He spends the first few hours of his life in an incubator while they monitor his breathing and try to get him to pee.

noon — I finally get to hold the little guy and try to feed him…but then it’s back to the nursery, and he isn’t too happy about it. Luckily, by the next afternoon, I get to have him in my room. I’m a mom!

Happy fifth birthday, Captain. You made us into a family. It’s been five happy, happy years, and I’m overjoyed to know you. I love you, little guy.

I keep forgetting to mention that Canada Reads is now over, and the chosen book is King Leary by Paul Quarrington. It’s a great book — funny and sad and man, such amazing characters. Very Canadian, too. A good choice and a good read; I recommend it.

One of the best things about listening to Canada Reads, though, was that I discovered CBC podcasts. I know will totally laugh at me for this, but I always assumed that a “podcast” requred an iPod to play it, like it was in some sort of special format that only an iPod could read. Who knew it was just a fancy word for an MP3 file? I must say, being out of the high tech workforce for 6+ years has practically turned me into a luddite. Next thing you know I’ll be saying stuff like, “Have you heard of this thing called The Interweb? You can get a weather report any time you want one! You have to try it!”

Anyway, the CBC podcasts are great quality, utterly fascinating, commercial-free and completely free. I used to listen to the CBC all the time, mainly in the car, but now I’m a total pushover mom who caves in the minute the kids ask for High School Musical 2 (“Bet on it, bet on it, bet on it, bet on it!”). I’ve been missing my CBC, but the Canada Reads podcasts were so easy to use — up on the internet within an hour of the live discussion, downloaded within a minute, easy to play and crystal clear audio quality. And just about every show that is on CBC Radio One has a weekly, or even daily, podcast. You can listen to their programs whenever you want — pause them, rewind them, stop them and come back later. It’s like having a PVR for the radio, something I fantasize about all the time — I’m constantly trying to find the button on my radio that will jump back five seconds because I missed something someone said.

My only problem now is finding the time to explore all the great programs that are available. I think I could seriously listen to CBC podcasts for hours every evening and still find more interesting stuff on there. I once said that I’ve never turned on CBC Radio One without becoming quickly and completely engrossed in whatever it was they were talking about, and I stand by that statement, so you can see how having hours of podcasts available to me is possibly a very dangerous situation.

Damn those writers and their strike resolution! Don’t they know I have other hobbies to pursue?

We headed outside this morning to dig ourselves out.

(Side memo to self: Create “I survived the Big Dig Out of ’08” T-shirts, sell for $20 in the market, make millions.)

The Wee One was down for a nap and the older two were watching a movie, so I went out to lend a hand. The snow in the driveway was knee deep, at best; in other places it had blown up to thigh-deep on me. After several minutes of “shovelling” — but not actually making a dent in the snow — we just had to collapse into laughter, because it was so completely fruitless. Quickly we realised that there just weren’t any more places to put snow and we didn’t really know what to do. eventually caved in and did something he swore he would never do — walked down the street to borrow a snowblower from MyFriendJen. It did the majority of the work, allowing us to just do some touch ups and shovel the walk. Thank God.

Then the plow came by.

We just came inside from another couple of hours spent clearing the plow stuff from the end of the driveway; again, we had no where to put it, so we wound up putting it basically back out on the street, where it will no doubt end up back in our driveway later today. But at least we can get out to get some groceries now.

This all sounds very grim but actually, it’s kind of a party outside. Everyone is outside shovelling — dads, moms, kids, boyfriends, no-good louts that sleep on your couch because they won’t get a job and a place of their own. We’d shovel a little, then chat a little. How is the baby next door doing? How is the girl down the street enjoying school? Do you think we’ll break the snowfall record?

The snowbanks along everyone’s driveway are well over my head; I’d guess they are around 10 feet tall. The boys next door made a totally awesome sledding hill from the trench their dad was using to clear snow using his scoop. We spent a good hour with them sledding — fun for everyone! From the top of the hill I could almost see forever.

We took lots of pictures. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve never seen so much snow in my lifetime, and probably (I hope!) we’ll never see this much again. It’s really kind of cool. No pun intended.

Sir Monkeypants is outside shovelling. Again. It’s his third time today. He’s my hero.

In the meantime I am sitting on the couch enjoying some chocolate ice cream. I feel very spoiled.

I need a little time to recover, though, from the fact that the Wee One suddenly became A Crawler last night. She’s totally ambulatory, like a little commando on a drill where she has to scramble under some barbed wire through the mud. You just put something in front of her that’s really, really awesome — like my new glasses, or the remote control — and she’s focused and on the move. She’s surprisingly quick considering she still doesn’t quite get her belly off the floor. And that half the time she’s crawling through a little spit up. We’ve been going through a lot of outfits lately.

This is my first Crawler, actually. The Captain was a Bum Shuffler — too lazy to bother to get down on all fours. Gal Smiley did something we like to call the “three point crawl,” using two hands and one foot while her bum and the other leg dragged behind, but she only bothered with that for like, three weeks before she recognised the inherent inefficiency and started walking at 11 months old. Just when you figure that having two kids has prepared you for every possible child scenario you can imagine, making you the reigning Expert On Motherhood, along comes another one with yet another set of ideas and skills and personality traits. Crawling! That’s just crazy!

Now that the Wee One can go places with such direct focus, we’re all in for a bit of a shock, I think. Today was a busy day, spent clearing old Cheerios and pieces of fluff off the floor, keeping the remote control out of reach (except when we deliberately taunted her with it, just to make a video of her making a beeline for it — a little present to keep you busy in therapy when you’re 25, dear!), and wiping up the trail of spit-up that now snakes throughout the house. The older two kids are in for quite a surprise when they find their stuff in the Wee One’s clutches, or more likely, her mouth.

Unexpected messes on the floor…leftovers from dinner being slurped up under the table…everything getting chewed up…It’s kind of like having a new puppy.

I was going to make a silly post this morning about how the Wee One is at a stage in which she is not old enough for stand-up diaper changes, but too close to crawling to stand to stay still for lie-down diaper changes, which results in her squirming around the house with a bare bottom a lot of the time, while I chase after her with a diaper in hand.

But really, all I can think about is that friends of ours just found out that their 10-month-old son has liver and lung cancer. Kind of makes posts about troublesome diaper changes seem stupid.

I just want to hug my kids really tight and then thank the universe that we’ve been lucky enough to have three healthy children, so far, knock wood.

Frivolity will resume tomorrow.