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

A recent wave of snow came as an answer to my overheated prayers but also left me scrambling with an activity to keep Hadley busy at the beginning of the week. My resolution was not a favorable one: to hit the mall and shop for maternity clothes. I’ve already expressed my disdain for everything that is not Super Target so imagine the angst an entire building full of shops must give me.

Coincidentally, my mall de choix had a Super Target. I realized what an addict I truly am when I pulled into this unfamiliar parking lot and immediately my 1-year-old Haddie squealed “Target!!!!” (which also translates into “FREE COOOOOOOKIE!!!”)

We hit the cookie counter and merry-go-round before I mustered up the nerve to enter Motherhood Maternity. I grabbed about five pairs of pants and shorts and crammed into the dressing room with Hadley. Now, I thought children were supposed to be innocent and non-judgmental. Not The Hurricane. When I grabbed an item, she’d scrutinize it, scrunch her nose at me and pronounce:

“Nooooo, BIG!”

This happened not once but every blasted time. Like I needed to be reminded. I was tempted to ask my little fashion consultant what was too big: was it the size of clothing that could drape a tent or my gargantuan stomach that spilled out over the waistline? But instead I patted her on the head and told her to enjoy this time now while her chubs and dimples were still cute; she’ll know the harsh realities soon enough.

WAIT. SCRATCH THAT LAST SENTENCE. THIS JUST IN FROM ABC NEWS: Controversial new testing to begin measuring the Body Mass Index (BMI) to determine if kids under 2 are obese? How do you like them apples?

Somehow, I think Jabba (as she was known in her younger years) would’ve been the poster child for it. Kinda takes the fun out of alllll those free cookies…..

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

I fully acknowledge the wonders of nursing. Those darn lactoferrins and lipases in “Mama’s Manna” far outweigh anything those manufactured formulas can offer.

But guess what? I hated nursing. Maybe if I had a baby who actually latched on and didn’t constantly leave my mammaries ready to explode like a ticking time bomb because she just didn’t like ’em. Or if I didn’t spend the first months of Hadley’s life hooked up to torturous devices that are intended to pump out every ounce of milk [and dignity] you have left. This, after spending hours in excruciating pain with your legs in stirrups with Your World on display as complete strangers shout “PUSH!” Yes, welcome to the Joys of Motherhood.

It’s not that I didn’t try to nurse for four of the longest months of my life before Hadley went on her booby strike forever. I met with numerous “lactation specialists” during that time and Haddie’s stubbornness far outweighed their expertise. Lactation specialists. I didn’t even know such a job existed. I think Jamie is ticked he didn’t know there was an occupation that specialized in mammaries otherwise he never would have pursued a career in the unfulfilling Internet.

Despite all the hardships I endured as a hormonal milker, I shall once again attempt to nurse Junior because of the overwhelming health benefits. And because there’s no way I can reclaim my “Mother of the Year” award if I don’t. I’d be willing to bet if you read the bios of past winners, they boast such statistics as “Breastfed Junior until his 4th birthday and he has never been sick a day in his life from all the antibodies received.”

Jamie has consoled me that “his boy” won’t give me any problems with nursing. “He’s a BOOB MAN, I’m SURE of it!” he has proudly proclaimed. That is, until the other day. Until he watched a rather enlightening program on the Discovery Health Channel.

J: “Yeah, they had a special on last night that focused on babies.”
A: “Cool! What did they say?”
J: “That studies show nursing actually reduces your libido.”
A: “Hmmm…interesting.”
J: [Jokingly] “Yes, and this is why I have decided I am now completely against it.”
A: “Oh, really?”
J: “I’m just looking out for your self-interest, Honey.”

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

One of my favorite foods in the world is seasonal fresh fruit salads. On a recent trip to Costco whereupon I stuffed our entire cart with a year-supply of fruit that would, in actuality, only last me a week, I turned to Hunky Hubby.

“Hey, Jamie. Would you eat this if I bought it? Do you like honeydew?”
“So long as it doesn’t have anything to do with a list.”

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

OK. So I was a bit out of the bloggin’ loop last week. Call it my pregnancy’s “nesting instinct” but my jaunt to Super Target started me on a shopping spree in hopes of getting the house ready for Baby. Jamie says “WHATEVER.” And that women don’t “nest” until mere days before their due date; months prior does NOT count.

Regardless, during my $120 static guard shopping spree, I picked up some cute plastic pastel plates that were on Easter clearance. In my mind, I knew Jamie would fuss because we’re in the midst of landscaping our backyard and don’t even have a real patio upon which to use them. But I call it women’s premonition for what happened next (or just her desire to acquire really cute dishes). I mean, I could be like my mother and have a dish set for every occasion with four working china cabinets throughout the house. She made the avowal that she would not buy another set of dishes again. Unless they’re really cute, that is. Atta girl.

But back to my inspirational purchase. The next day at a garage sale in an upscale neighborhood, I found the perfect little patio set to go with my plates (kinda like purchasing the perfect belt and then buying an entire outfit to match). I called Hunky Hubby and suspiciously, coyly started our conversation:

“Hi Handsome, have I told you how much I LOOOOOOVE you today?”
“What is it? What have you done? What do you want to buy? How much is this going to cost me?”

He knows me so well. Somehow, I convinced him we could not live without it. I even talked the woman down to $40, a steal for a wrought-iron set.

My mother-in-law was with me during the purchase and fell in love with a designer oriental end table but reluctantly opted not to buy it because of the price. That night in bed, I devised a plan to go back and surprise her with it for Mother’s Day. Saturday morning, I loaded The Hurricane up and headed over. Now, in my long life of gift-giving expertise, here are a few tips to pulling off the ultimate surprise.

1) Make sure you do not pull up behind the surprisee at the site of purchase.
Yep, imagine my dismay when we pulled in and Haddie started squealing, “Grandma, Grandma!” Sure enough, she had arrived at the exact same moment.

2) Look coy, like you have no idea what they’re doing.
“Oh HI, Linda! Why are you here?”

3) Finally, do not let them know your master plan and jump in before they do.
I failed miserably on this one. Linda’s way too quick and by the time I unbuckled the Hurricane, tempered the tempest and made my way over there, the item was bought. And not by me. SUCH timing.

And this, my friends, is how NOT to surprise your mother-in-law on Mother’s Day. Oh well. At least I have super cute dishes and a new patio set. And to appease my husband, I hereby vow to not buy anything else to match. Unless it’s really cute, that is….

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

Don’t go into shock but I waxed domestic today. Well, kind of. Our kitchen chairs have been in dire need of a makeover so my gracious mother-in-law offered to “help” (which, in Amber-domestic-speak means “do”). She even dragged me into a fabric store last week and I didn’t kick and scream even once. Progress, my friends.

Really, the part that sucked the most was ripping out all the staples. Then, as soon as Linda reached for the staple gun to apply our new fabric, Hadley started freaking out. She’s not scared of too many things but that blessed little girl wailed every time the gun resounded. Linda suggested I remove her from the situation and go buy some Scotch Guard while she finished up the job. I eagerly agreed but not before I slipped Haddie $5 for her timely performance.

We then condescended to The Land of Temptation. Y’see, the Devil planted himself three blocks away from my house by way of a brand spankin’ new Super Target. I do not consider myself a shopper but it is physically impossible for me to enter that store without buying the place out. I’m still trying to figure out how to explain to Jamie that the can of Scotch Guard cost me $120.

One purchase I made is something I have been dreading. Something that no swollen pregnant lady should ever have to make: a house-sized tent. I think some people call them maternity bathing suits. I, of course, have no intention of being seen in public in this so-called tent but that did not lesson the painful experience. I don’t care who you are and if you have one of those disgustingly compact little bumps on your tummy while the rest of you remains skinny. The fact remains that NO PREGNANT WOMAN should ever wear a two-piece.

I opted for a simple black suit that only immediate family will ever witness in our backyard. Y’see, our recent 70-degree “heatwave” sent me straight to the store yesterday to buy a blow-up swimming pool wherein I can sit my bloated pregnant butt and wait out the summer. Hadley took one look at the busty, svelte model on the packaging and delightfully announced “Mommy!”

SOLD!

And I then slipped her another $5. At this rate, the kid will be a millionaire by her 3rd birthday.

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

People think I am exaggerating over my aversion to heat. Well, I’m not. My body has some serious objections to it and it commonly breaks into a heat rash at the first hint of summer. Factor in my pregnancy and my swollen body is like an inferno.

After a 75-degree day recently, I lamented to Jamie how swollen my feet were.

“Honeeeeeeeeeey, look at my poor feet. They look like hobbit’s feet.” Sniff. Sniff.
“No, don’t be silly!”
“Jamie, be honest.”
“OK, they look more like troll’s feet.”

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