Newborns sleep 15-17 hours a day. So why can’t I find time to take a shower?

I have to admit my attention deficit disorder has been pretty bad since I had to give up my medication on account of being pregnant or breastfeeding. Now that I’m sleep deprived the ADD has become even more pronounced.

For instance, I made plans to visit my friend Bonnie sometime last week. I told her I would see her before the weeks’ end so when Friday came along I herded the stroller/diaper bag/wallet/cell phone/baby toward the door. When I called her office to tell her I was on my way they had a message saying they were closed.

Weird! I thought…Maybe they took Friday off since Monday was a national holiday?

Then I realized that it was not Friday at all, but Saturday already.

Coffee has become my drug of choice, or should I say, survival, so I made myself a pot, sat down and cried.

How many times has this happened, where Friday was really Saturday, and I totally missed the boat, not by five minutes but BY A WHOLE DAY! I know it’s popular to discount the validity of ADD as a real issue but I would love nothing more than to wish those antagonistic fuckers a day in my brain.

On a completely unrelated note, the neighbors have set up an air compressor in their backyard as I type this note. It just loudly professed it’s presence with a loud, vibrating sound that goes something like a backwards fart.

Normally I love power tools (especially the Sawzall), except when they wake up baby…

…

…

The air compressor and power saw seem to have lulled Leo off to a series of dreams in which he intermittently smiles and squeals. When I imagine what he dreams of I think it must be of breasts. Milky, warm, big happy breasts that would even make ol’ Hef get a boner if he could.

Five days past my due date now…ripe and heavily laden with the fruit of love.

Some people say pregnant women are gorgeous. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? AND HOW DO I TELL THEM TO FUCK OFF?

Poo poo to bullshit!

Every day is a new day. And today I want to start fresh…

Sometimes I think we get mired in our own bullshit, and it begins to stick to us. This collective turd stinks up our creativity, confidence and generally drags us down.

I guess I shouldn’t say ‘we’ because I don’t know for sure if it’s how you feel. But I’m sure if I feel this way, someone else does too.

So here’s a hearty ‘Poo poo to bullshit!’ Let's do something good!

Love,

Natasha

Dear Belly,

My Dad told me to say goodbye to my toes, that I wouldn’t see them for a while. It made me want to cry at the time, as if I was losing something very special.

I shouldn’t have been so upset, as I can see my toes just fine these days, when I turn my legs out to first position (that’s ballet talk for duck feet). Or if I lean forward, over you Belly, -aha!- I see my toes peeking back at me with bright pink nail polish. As for reaching them…well, I’ve pretty much given up picking anything up from the floor and I’m not good at painting my nails even at my most flexible, non-pregnant of times. This is why we have beauty parlors…Because we can’t always do it right, even when we try. Anyway, the kindly esthetitian who did my feet seemed completely unfazed by my unshaven legs and sausage toes.

That was nice of her…

Belly, we used to lay flat on my front and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that again! Just flipping over from side to side is a major chore now. I practically need a hoist to get up from horizontal these days.

It’s been a slice, but I have to say I’m ready to let the air out of this balloon. I’ve enjoyed the ride, but now that my navel looks like it is barely holding its seams together, I definitely need some relief. Seriously Belly…you just can’t grow indefinitely…I will either burst or go crazy and frankly I’ve already had the urge to hijack an operating room and force them to give me a cesarean. Hopefully nature will soon run its course and I won’t have to resort to such antics.

Yup…one way or another (and pretty soon, dear Belly) I get to trade you in for a baby and my period.

And I bet next time I stock up on Tampax I’ll suddenly get emotional and miss you.

Commit Me Baby, One More Time!

Well it's good to see Britney finally getting the help she so desperately needs. I'm not sure whether it's being shut-in by winter in Winnipeg or just my ADD that makes me click onto the gossip websites several times a day, but I am strangely fascinated by that circus and genuinely relieved Ms. Spears is finally receiving proper medical attention.

Mental illness is hard to understand – after all, everything looks more or less fine on the outside. As I tango with vast surges of pregnancy hormones I feel great sensitivity and compassion toward those who are also struggling with their own imbalances. We're not all leading as dramatic a life as Britney Spears – thankfully- but I believe a lot of people struggle with their head without realizing it.

A lot of people vilify Big Pharma for manufacturing illnesses where there are (supposedly) none, but I tend to believe we're all a little nuts.

What people forget is that therapy isn't just a pill. No, no – there are a lot of contributing factors that create our mental state, including (but not limited to) the state of your financial health, your environment, your job, the people you live with, party with, as well as your own personal habits.

I used to make excuses for everything – without even realizing I did - until my husband began pointing out how often I would do it. Now I've gotten pretty good at calling BULLSHIT when I slip into old habits. Try saying the word by drawing out the 'buuuuuuuuuuuulshit!'

It's kinda fun!!!

Honestly, it's a huge relief not to blame others for things I should own up to as my own fault. It has let me take control of things much better and THAT is good therapy!

Buddha Belly

At first I couldn’t see anything and then I started to look full, like I did on Thanksgiving.

Recently, my little turkey dinner began to take up more room. Of course, I encouraged the idea with several boxes of chocolates over Christmas. I can be glad that my pancreas are getting a decent workout as the rest of me finds putting on my socks a demanding athletic pursuit.

In the morning before I have any food or drink (and after I have been to the washroom twice during the night) my bump is relatively modest. Since the holidays however, even an empty stomach cannot conceal this playful paunch.

“I have Buddha Belly!” I said to my husband. ‘You mean, Buttah Belly’ he joked.

True, something about pregnancy has reawakened my appreciation for pastries. I find myself driving well out of my way to hit the closest donut shop. And God forbid anyone take a danish out of the variety-pack on my kitchen counter. It ignites in me a wild surge of resentment toward the culprit. Doesn’t everyone know these pastries belong to me?!?

Taking stock of my bump the other day my mother looked at herself and exclaimed ‘I look four months pregnant all the time!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I am five.

I like the term Buddha belly because it reminds me of the orange-robed monks of Tibet. Their peaceful focus on loving-kindness gives me so much more confidence than the pastel coloured pregnancy books I keep receiving from well-meaning friends and family.

Come to think of it, I can’t recall seeing any fat monks but if it’s alright with you I’ll just pretend.

Between You, Me and the Fencepost

Unhinged is the only word I can think of when people ask me how I feel lately. Of course, to spare them the discomfort of such a bizarre reply I normally offer a cheerful ‘Oh – feeling great!’ It allows me to quickly move on to other topics of conversation less likely to make me cry, like the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, for instance.

In addition to my being easily moved to tears by, say, too many choices of peanut butter at the supermarket, it seems as though my sense of humour has taken an extended vacation to south Florida. I pretend to laugh if it is socially appropriate to do so but this only makes me want to cry even more.

When I try to tell myself that I am simply ‘hormonal’, The Hormones, like a bad punk band, fly into an mind-splitting song with a chorus that goes something like "Oi!Oi!Oi! Boy? Girl? Boy?" As you can imagine, the space in my head fills with their noise and this is usually a good time to take a nap, (even if it is my second or third of the day).

I know, I know – I am supposed to be blissful and glowing and gorgeous as I wiggle into my new belly-friendly jeans (which, by the way, never quite fit no matter how much elastane they put in them). When I chose to start a family I knew I hadn’t signed up for a pleasure cruise, but between you, me and the fencepost pregnancy has me flailing down level 5 rapids.

The people who call this second trimester the ‘honeymoon’ period have obviously never been pregnant. I am so far from my normal self that I fear for the safe return of the ‘real’ me. Even Brian, my very patient husband, has taken to avoiding me and who could blame him, really? I don’t converse, I blubber - quite like the seniors to whom I fed applesauce the summer I worked at the Holy Family nursing home.

Lately, if I string together a coherent sentence it is usually a complaint (“I can’t breathe”) or an order (“Get me a glass of water”) or both – “I can’t breathe so GET ME SOME FRENCH FRIES!” During brief moments of clarity I think it would be quite humane of me to encourage Brian to find a mistress. Of course, that’s before I remember he had something to do with helping me into this whole situation.