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Okay, this post was meant to have the obligatory belly shot, but blogger is not cooperating and won't upload any pictures right now.Stupid blogger, the world-wide web-information-super-highway really needs to see my belly!
Aaaaaaaand, welcome back, blogger!
Anyway, tomorrow I go in to see my OB for another check of all things baby. Unfortunately, I'm not due for my next ultrasound for 4 weeks, so I won't know the gender yet.
But I thought I'd open it up to all my bloggy friends... what do YOU think we're having? I have a pretty strong feeling one way, but I'll keep quiet as to not sway the vote.
So... girl or boy?
On Monday I found out what sucks more than being pregnant and having morning sickness.
Being pregnant, having morning sickness, and getting food poisoning. Seriously, I have never felt more ill in my life than during the past few days. At one point it was so bad that if I even rolled over, I threw up. Any movement at all made me nauseous.
I stayed in bed all day Tuesday, thanks to my amazing husband who was not only also suffering from food poisoning, but wrangling a crazy 2 1/2 year old, AND working from home. Husband of the year? I think so.
Luckily, he didn't ingest as much of the tainted food, due to the fact that his wife is pregnant and greedily inhaled most of it before he could even take a bite. I think he got the better end of the deal, don't you?
We're doing better now, although I'm still pretty weak and get dizzy and nauseous if I stand up for longer than about 5 minutes. But at least I can stand up!
And in case your wondering, it was take-out from a restaurant that made us sick. NOT my cooking, thankyouverymuch!
My friend April tagged me a few days ago, so I thought I'd should get off my butt and play her game. Here are the rules:
1. Open your first photo folder on your computer.
2. Scroll to the 10th picture.
3. Post that picture and the story behind it.
We have this friend, Camron, who is like this technological wunderkind. He does these large-scale projection projects and was looking for a house to test some of his images on. We volunteered ours, and he came over and projected all sorts of cool stuff.
If you want to see the rest of the images, I posted about it here.I'm now supposed to tag 5 other people, but I say do it if you want to!
This is a re-post from St. Paddy's Day last year. It still makes me giggle and I have nothing better to say, so enjoy!Ahhh, St. Patrick's Day... when even if you're Asian, you're Irish. I will be celebrating my claim of roughly 1/16 ancestry from the Emerald Isle by donning a shirt with a quaint little shamrock on it.
Fred and I were in Target the other day when we overheard a rather funny lecture on something quintessentially Irish by someone who was most assuredly... not Irish. He was wearing an Ireland shirt and telling his three friends all about the Blarney Stone. It went a little something like this (he is in bold type, my response is in italics):
You guys have never heard of the Blarney Stone? It's this rock they have in Ireland that hangs off of the side of a cliff.
I stop walking and lean over to Fred and tell him in my best "I'm whispering, but I really want to be overheard voice":
No, no it's not. It's in a castle that is strangely enough, called Blarney Castle.
Yeah, and you're supposed to kiss it and the way you do that is by getting someone to hold your legs and lower you down.
Dear Lord, even if that were true, would you really trust someone to do that in a country where they have perfected the art of drinking?
When you kiss the Blarney Stone, it gives you good luck!
No no, that's when you capture the leprechaun and steal his Lucky Charms. The Blarney Stone give you the gift of eloquence.
I think one of two things happened; either this guy went to Ireland and some locals played a joke on him, or he's just really, really... not very smart.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
You may remember this post from last month in which I was lamenting about Fred's snoring. Well, after only 10 years of marriage did I finally convince him to go see a doctor about it. He was then referred to a sleep clinic.
The clinic took place last Saturday night. He got to sleep in a private room with cable TV and most importantly, uninterrupted sleep (that is, no middle of the night blood sugar checks). Jealous. I'd go sleep somewhere hooked up to wires and electrodes and other crazy things if you could guarantee me at least 4 hours on uninterrupted sleep.
Anyway, we got the call today from the clinic saying that Fred needs to go back for a follow-up. The reason? He stopped breathing over 120 times when they tested him. 120 times. 120. Times.
Seriously, that is crazy. I joked with him about all the brains cells that have been killed over the years due to oxygen deprivation. But it's not really a joke. Severe sleep apnea can lead to issues such as; heart disease, high blood pressure, compromised immune system, poor mental and emotional health, irritability, sexual dysfunction (apparently not-so-much on this one for Fred, or I wouldn't find myself in the position I'm in), and learning/memory problems. One in five people with severe sleep apnea also suffer from depression.
So he has a follow-up test this Saturday. I'm thinking about locking him in the closet at home and trying to pass myself off as a late-30s male with snoring issues. I'll do anything for a little sleep.
And some cable TV.
Warning: this rant is fueled by pregnancy hormones and one big, fat craving. It might sound over the top and full of hyperbole, but I assure you that every emotion is very real.
All I want is a fudgesicle, and have for about the last week or so. It's really been the only craving I've had thus far in my pregnancy. When I was pregnant with Elise, my OB gave me some very good advice; when you have a craving, wait for about an hour, and if it's still there, then go for it. Is it just me, or does that sound like the pregnancy version of, "if you love something, set it free..."?
Anyway, sometimes I'll decide that a chocolate milkshake sounds good, but I've already forgotten about it 5 minutes later because I've become distracted by something bright and shiny. Or a ball of yarn. Because pregnancy has not only made me a little bit dumb, but also a cat.
My husband, being the good man that he is, went out one night after I had been chased to bed early by one of my nightly bouts with extreme nausea, and bought me some fudgesicles. He left a note that I found the next morning that said to look in the freezer for my treat. I eagerly opened the door and pulled out the box, only to read those three very suspect words No Sugar Added.
Fred's thinking was (and I don't blame him on this), is that this product was better, because it had No Sugar Added. But I understand how the minds of these people work. They are tricksy little hobbitses.
No Sugar Added actually means Sugar Free, which actually means We've-Added-Some-Nasty-Ass-Chemical-That-Was-Concocted-In-A-Lab-To-This-Food. Namely, Aspartame. UGH!
I don't do fake sugars. Any of them. Which may really surprise you coming from the mother of a Type 1 Diabetic. I have my reasons, but that's another post for another blog, for another day. Oh wait, you can read it right here.
So on our next trip to the grocery store, we returned the offending box of fudgesicles, and I set off to the "frozen novelty" section (a name which has always made me laugh, by the way) to find some honest-to-goodness frozen chocolate on a stick.
Only, they doesn't exist. They don't make them anymore. I know, because I have now searched in 3 different grocery stores, and I cannot find any fudgesicles without fake sugar. Why? Why can't a pregnant lady have herself some REAL SUGAR?
I'm sure these companies think they're doing us a favour, taking away our choice to choose real over fake,
but I'd like to think I'm competent enough to make that decision for myself. And how long until other products start appearing with the only choice being No Sugar Added label?I'm telling you, it's enough to make a grown woman weep. If I wasn't so tired and nauseous. Bah, I think I'll just go to bed.
It seems I have reached it.
That in-between stage.
Where my normal pants no longer really fit, so I have to make the decision to live the next month or so in sweat pants and a sign around my neck that says "no, I have NOT given up, I am pregnant and my real pants no longer FIT me."
Or do I make the transition to maternity pants, knowing full well that they will not fit and I run the risk of some jerkward coming up to me and singing "pants on the ground"?
My third option is to go the elastic band route (because I'm way too cheap to pay money for whatever those things are called), but that particular choice was cut off when a certain mischievous two year old absconded with the one and only elastic band in our house (the one I took off the celery in our fridge), and will not tell me where she put it.I think I shall proudly opt for the sweat pants.
I am, without a doubt, a winter Olympics kind of girl. Could be because of where I grew up. Could be because skiing, skating and hockey were the types of sports I was exposed to as a little girl. Whatever the reason, the summer games don't even hold a candle to the winter ones in my book.
Let's just take a look at the athletes involved in each, shall we? In the winter games, the athletes slap two planks on their feet and proceed to race down a steep and foreboding mountain, complete with crazy turns and jumps; doing nothing to slow themselves down.
In the summer games, they run in a straight line for 100 meters.
In the winter games, athletes lay themselves on a sled, headfirst, and hurl themselves down an icy track. Reaching speeds upwards of 140 km/h, wearing nothing for protection but a helmet (or as Seinfeld likes to put it, the helmet is wearing THEM as protection), and maybe a cup for the guys.
In the summer games, they jump in the pool and swim a few laps.
Don't get me wrong, I think athletes in both games are phenomenal. To have the ability, passion and drive to do what they do, is admirable. It's just the winter guys have a little something extra. I love their fearlessness. And that wee bit o' crazy you see dancing in their eyes.
This was the first time I have ever watched an opening ceremony, and I was astounded by the wonderful artistry of it all. Some of the images left me breathless and wondering, "how did they do that?" (the whales? Anyone remember the whales?)
From there I was hooked, watching proudly as Canada won its first gold medal on home soil (Alexandre Bilodeau - men's mogul skiing), and then went on to set the record for most gold medals won by a country in a winter Olympics. I was inspired by the courage of Joannie Rochette; winning a bronze medal in the wake of her personal tragedy.
And of course, I watched every gut-wrenching, heart-attack inducing moment of the Canada/U.S.A. gold medal hockey game; leaping from my sofa and screaming as Sid the Kid deposited the winning goal for the gold into the net. Does it get any better than that?
I know there were many critics of the games, but I am proud of how my home city was put on display for everyone to see. It's about time that the world found out how truly amazing Vancouver is.
But now that the games are over, I'm going through quite a withdrawal. I turn on my TV and there is no snow. No mountains. No crazy athletes.
What am I going to do for four years?
