So, my weekend was spent taking umpteen baths. To let you know how significant this is, I hate baths. Particularly now when it’s just one more thing for which I need a crane to get out of. And despite my bravado regarding bodily functions last week, I am not one of those tactless people who shares my pains with the world. Well, just the Internet. But it is with great hesitation. I don’t want to appear as if I moan and complain all the time; just some will do.
It started Friday. The pain in my derriere. No, not my tantruming toddler (who has been surprisingly delightful lately), but real, veritable pain. By the end of the night, this pain escalated to excruciating pain that kept me up all night long. This is not an exaggeration. I could not sleep due to said pain. In the rear. How humiliating.

By morning, I was exhausted and barely functional as I explained my condition to my husband. “Sounds like you have [insert dreaded kissin' cousins H-word]. I hear it’s really common in pregnancy.” What? Me? Not possible. Isn’t it enough I’ve had every other crummy condition lately…couldn’t at least part of me be spared?

Hunky Hubby prescribed Preparation H after explaining its physical properties in great detail. He never ceases to amaze me with this endless knowledge of every supplement and drug on the market. “My friend used it on his midsection before his bodybuilding competitions. Supposedly it has an ingredient that removes water from under the skin.” So THAT’S how they get their 6-pack abs. To think I’ve wasted years on those stupid sit-ups.

I spent the weekend curled up in whatever tolerable condition I could find. I even missed our block party I’d been looking forward to all month. I suppose I could’ve loped over there like a saddle-sore cowboy but I just didn’t want to discuss my condition. No worries, Dear Internet, because Hunky Hubby did.

“Not with everyone,” he defended himself. “Just with XX and XX” (one of whom is the neighborhood gossip). Nice to know my kissin’ cousins will be numbered among the guy who’s growing weed in his basement and the other one who’s a philanderer. Wisteria Lane doesn’t have nothin’ on us….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Call it my Beluga Whale rebellion but I’ve had a wild streak lately. It started last week when I lied to a cop. YES, a law enforcement officer who was only trying to protect the safety of his public. In my defense, I was flowing along with the line of traffic in that construction zone and why should I be the one who was pulled over? And that lie about wearing my seatbelt (when I wear it 99% of the time, I SWEAR) was so not premeditated. In fact, I was shocked when it popped out. I am just grateful Hadley was looking particularly fetching that day and I must have been looking particularly bloated because he let me off without so much of a warning. Good thing, too because spouting tears would’ve been my next Beluga strategy.

This week, my rebellion involved “accidentally” walking out of the doctor’s office with one of their magazines. In my defence, it was a very good magazine about being a better mom, which will subsequently make Hadley a more productive member of society. One who hopefully does not lie to law-enforcement officers. As if I don’t have enough hindering my sleep these days, like I need THAT on my conscience. So yes, I will return the magazine as a part of my repentance process.

But it is my final confessional that I’m not very proud of. If you have a weak or queasy stomach or are in denial that you perform bodily functions on a daily basis, then stop reading now. I, however, am in touch with my belching/snotty/gaseous self. And this is dealing with something I do AT A MINIMUM 100 times a day: blowing my nose. This is not an exaggeration. I have a Kleenex box in every room and have had two corrective surgeries on my narrow nasal passages (which obviously have not worked). Side note: much to my amusement, my sister-in-law (http://spaces.msn.com/hannon26/) just posted an entry yesterday regarding “The Family Nose.”

Anyhew, I was driving and welp, I just had to pick. Problem was I didn’t have a tissue nearby and needing to dispose of It, the obvious place was out the window. Unfortunately at the exact moment I flicked, a police car drove by, which mortified me. I have, however, tried to console myself that this was merely an act of civil disobedience but not an outright crime.

How do I know this? My roommate from my junior year at BYU told me so. She was up late studying with a friend at the library during Final’s Week when the guy at the adjacent table started picking hs nose…and flicking it. Repeatedly. Now, these weren’t just any boogers but projectile boogers. My roommate was so grossed out that she reported it to the librarian. Who in turn reported it to security. Who in turn reported it to The Higher Powers That Be.

And the official report? It was not a crime to flick boogers; in fact, this guy had every right. The only way they could stop him was if he started wiping them on the books and destroying private property.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

So, today was yet another doctor’s appointment and I always enjoy scoping out the waiting area. In the past, I checked out other blossoming bellies, kids in the room or where to find the best magazines.

Today, however, there was a paradigm shift as I scoped out chairs. More specifically, which chairs I could or could not fit in. And which chairs I could or could not easily get out of. The list was limited. I have gained a new empathy for heavy people everywhere and the nightmare of itsy bitsy armchairs. Now I see why they don’t let pregnant women fly in their last trimester. Forget potential harm for the baby–there’s no way they would fit! And those narrow aisles? It’s a skinny person’s world.

Sitting across from me was a new mom with a six-week-old baby. This woman looked haggard, hormonal and about ready to fall over from exhaustion, a condition I remember all too well. She was perched next to the water fountain and several staff members engaged in small talk as they approached. “Oh, cute baby! How are you doing?!” To which she would wearily reply, “Oh, I’m OK.” Not exactly your ecstatic answer for someone with a new bundle of joy but these people were clueless.

Another June Cleaver approached and started raving about the glories of being a new mom and how time just “flies by, doesn’t it?” Yet, another weak response, “Yes, it does.”

When Mrs. Cleaver left, empathetically, I leaned over to this poor woman and said, “I don’t know about you but those first weeks were rough and DRAGGED ON.” I figured it best to not divulge that those first “weeks” were actually “months.” But I had to give her some hope.

Finally, a light came on in her, “I soooo hear you. My days and nights are all melded into one. I feel like I haven’t slept since she was born!” Finally, someone understood! And it felt good to be the anti-June Cleaver bestowing the harsh realities of life.

When it was finally my turn to pee in a cup and get my blood sucked, I met with a new doctor. Instead of lecturing me that I’m getting too fat and how I gained my allotted amount of weight during the first three weeks of being pregnant, this woman was much more diplomatic:

“You know, I think you need to exercise more.”
“Believe me, Doc. Getting in exercise is NOT my problem. I workout every day.”
“It is your diet, then?”
[Chortling] “If you could call it that!”

It’s not that I’m not trying.

Example #1: Last night, I took Hadley to Playland at McDonald’s. Instead of loading up on a Happy Meal, we shared a yogurt parfait. [Side note: We then went home and ate a nice, fat bowl of ice cream.]

Example #2: Duly motivated, I went to Whole Foods after my appointment with the intention of loading up on some nice, healthy whole-grain foods. And load up I did, [particularly on all the succulent dessert samples in the bakery area.]

Oh well. At least my heart was in the right place. It’s my stomach that’s another matter….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Every Monday night at our house is “Family Home Evening,” a time that is dedicated to playing games, making treats, teaching, whatever. Basically, the main point is just to be together as a family.

For our latest FHE, we decided to compile a 72-hour kit. Due to the latest rash of natural disasters in the world, we have been strongly advised by our church to have one. I deem this to be a great idea, particularly after watching the poor survivors of Hurricane Katrina who never could have fathomed the scope of the disaster.

Being avid backpackers and campers, we already have many of the basics (tent, water storage, propane stove, etc.) but needed some food to add to our supplies. Sound like an easy task? Guess again. I forget what a finicky eater I am until I go shopping with someone else. Particularly when I am forced to eat prepackaged or non-perishables such as MREs or Ramen Noodles, which I despise. With everything Jamie put in the cart, I responded with an opposing whine.

“It’s all about survival, Amber.”
“It’s all about edible, Jamie.”

Back and forth we went. As aforementioned, I know I’m picky. But there must be some non-perishables out there that make me not want to perish at the thought of eating them. Finally, Jamie threw up his hands, frustrated.

“Amber, do you really think it’ll matter that you have to eat Top Ramen if half the continent is taken out by a huge earthquake?”

“Exactly my point, Jamie. We’ll be depressed enough. Why make it more depressing by having to eat Ramen Noodles?”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Many of you have asked for pictures on my “progress” and guess what: you’re not getting ‘em. Pictures are for times I care to commemorate. And Third Trimester Beluga Whaledom is a stage I’d care to forget, kind of a difficult thing when you’re in the throes of it.

My Own Private Luau
So, here are some updates. Overall, I’m still alive and well, though I’m sleeping like crap these days, which is leaving me beyond exhausted. Friday night, I tossed and turned (OK, more like slowly rotated like a roasted pig on a spicket) but could not get comfortable. I finally fell asleep at 2:30 a.m., only to wake-up at least every couple of hours to pee.

My Own Private Pyromaniac
Monitoring my temperature is tough, too. With three fans blasting me from every direction, you’d think I’d find a temperate zone (juxtapose that against poor Hunky Hubby who sleeps in his flannels and wakes up with frostbite.) He has been very empathetic towards me thus far but I know he just doesn’t get it. How can he? During a conversation the other day, I was suddenly overcome with a hot flash that almost knocked me off the couch. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why is your face all red?” he demanded. Weakly, I replied, “I think Junior just lit a match.”

My Own Private Confirmation that Men (No Matter how Well Intentioned) Have NO CLUE About Being Pregnant
I receive weekly email updates on the baby’s growth from Babycenter.com, which are generally helpful in knowing what is going on with the baby and subsequently my body. But Saturday’s update for Week 30 included the following: “Some old friends–heartburn and constipation–may take center stage again.”

Now, I don’t know about you but who needs enemies when you’ve got friends like “heartburn and constipation?” They then threw in the appearance of a “new buddy,” hemorrhoids (equivalent unto kissin’ cousins?)

Seriously, who writes those things? It must be a man because a woman would surely know better. A few weeks ago, they had some tips on getting a good night’s sleep and provided the following advice:

“EMPTY YOUR BLADDER completely when you go to the bathroom. This will help reduce the risk of urinary tract infections (UTIs), which are common during pregnancy.”
Oh really? Gee. I thought I’d stash a few ounces of reserved pee to enjoy during my next bathroom break in 15 minutes….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog