Tag Archives: puppy

Relationship Misadventures Part II: Hormone Hell

Posted on October 22, 2012 | 6 Comments

J and I spent the majority of this weekend fighting. I will say 2 things about this straight off:

  1. Yes, I can feel that I am insane and that I overreact to everything right now. Hello, I’m pregnant.
  2. J fails at understanding how to deal with pregnant women… ok, maybe that’s too harsh. I’d say that 50% of the time he’s alright at it (although a few more moments of praise and massages without the occasional slap or tickle would be nice…), but when he forgets to zip it all hell breaks loose.

Basically, it’s a bad combo. As this pregnancy is winding down, and by winding down I mean kicking into full gear, the situation could risk getting explosive. I’d love to say that I can keep things in perspective, but I really can’t. The sight of my feet is enough to bring me to tears. My new stretch marks make me want to scream. I haven’t slept properly in at least 2 months, which I’m sure also plays a factor. Those books that claim to be tell-all guides to pregnancy are so full of crap, because let me tell you, I could write at least 200 pages discussing little documented pregnancy facts that would make any woman declare her lady bits a sperm free zone. But I won’t do that… or maybe I will. Maybe that’s the solution to our population problem… hmmm. It will just never get published because it will be full of profanity and will discuss parts of the body that most people are uncomfortable with. 

Closed for business

So, given my discomfort, try to understand this one:

J and I were fighting about the dog who, in her puppiest of puppy moments, decided to chew a two foot long hole in the hot tub cover last weekend. Yes, that sucks, but it does not make her the devil. She hasn’t chewed one thing in the house and is really very angelic for the most part. Besides, the thing still works. The tub hasn’t dropped a single degree, and its been patched with duct tape, the cure for all ills.

Good thing there’s duct tape!

As always these days, I burst into tears and just couldn’t contain myself. I was crying like there was no tomorrow. I couldn’t breathe I was crying so hard. J, in his ever so gentle manner, decided this would be a great time to tell me that my hormones were putting him through hell and that we wouldn’t be having any more kids because he couldn’t handle going through it again.

Ever melodramatic, I took this very seriously (and although it was said seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment and most pregnant couples have a few of these moments I have learned) and imagined my poor lone child playing alone in his room, talking to himself well past the age where that’s normal, and somehow developing a multiple personality disorder. I’m a highly sensitive person at the best of times, which I used to think made me crazy. Just imagine how being pregnant has amplified this.

In a more lucid moment I might have shouted out “AMEN”! If he thinks dealing with my hormones is hell, he has no idea how hot the fires of hell really burn. I’d love to see how he’d handle pregnancy and all it has to offer. I have to deal with those same hormones and feeling out of control a lot of the time. Add that to the slew of unmentionable physical ailments I will write about in my tell-all pregnancy book (being rejected soon at a publisher near you!), how could I not agree? Why would anyone ever want to have more than one kid? I’ll give you the answer to that one in a few weeks when I’m holding my baby boy in my arms and wondering how its possible to love anything so much.

Besides, so long as J manages to stick by me through the labour (without fainting) we’ll all be so high on oxytocin by the end of it that we’ll forget all about the pain and my looney toons moments. Ah science.

Despite all my whining, being pregnant is amazing. There’s nothing like growing a life inside of you. And sometimes you manage to make it look graceful. Sometimes. Photo credit: Cassie Gibb, 2012

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Posted in Daily Life, Pregnancy, Relationships

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The War of 2012

Posted on September 7, 2012 | 4 Comments

Two hundred years after the War of 1812 another equally important war was declared. The War of 2012 is a little known war that recently took place in small town sort-of-Southern-feels-like-uninhabited-wilderness-compared-to-the-great-city-of-Toronto-and-surrounding-area Ontario.

Closest neighbour

A woman and a man unwittingly conceived a giant fetus of the male variety in February. In preparation for his arrival the woman (with permission from the man, although he denies it to this day) acquired a giant puppy dog from a farm. She figured the pup would keep her company during the long days when the man was at work, and teach her to deal with all of the pleasant things that come with child-rearing, such as potty accidents, projectile vomiting, constant whining and separation anxiety.

How?… just… HOW!?

Of course, something else that happens to new parents (and all parents I’m sure) is that they develop a whole new set of child-related worries. This pair worried about very different things. She worried about things like car accidents and second and third-hand smoke. He worried that the puppy was going to eat the baby.

The woman liked it when the puppy slept at the foot of their bed. It gave her a sense of comfort. Mostly the comfort that she would not awaken to a kennel full of dog poop or vomit. Since she wasn’t sleeping much in those days, due to being mauled from the inside by the giant fetus, she could hear if the puppy was getting ill in the night and everyone knows that it’s much easier to deal with as it’s happening, not hours after the fact. The man was convinced that if the the dog were allowed to sleep in their room, she would pounce on the baby in the night and eat him.

As much as the woman liked to make fun of this, she acknowledged that it is probably better not to have the dog sleep in the same room as the baby, because even though she is more like a fluffy bunny than a mountain lion, you do never know. She wouldn’t eat the baby, but she may jump up on the bed randomly some night (although she doesn’t do this now) and accidentally maul one or all of the family members in her quest for love and nighttime cuddles.

In reality, he’s probably actually worried about the dog depositing drool in his gaping snore trap

This brings the tale to the present. The last two nights the woman has conceded (basically, she lost the war… le sigh) and allowed the man to lock the dog in her kennel for the night. The first night was uneventful, although the woman caved and let the dog out of the kennel at 4am so that she could have company in her insomniatic (<- apparently this is not a word) state. Last night she did plead with him to allow the fur monster to once more share their room, but he remained cold and unmoved. She cried, tore at her hair, tore at his hair and beat her hands relentlessly on his chest. Actually, she just tried to put on her best sad eyes and pouty lips, but it didn’t work. The man asked, “What if the giant fetus is allergic to dogs?”, and pointed out that the woman had already violated the one rule they’d made about keeping the dog out of the soon-to-be baby’s room. How the hizzle did he know that the dog had been helping her set up the crib by attempting to eat their unborn son’s first teddy bear (it bears repeating here that although the dog did grab the teddy by the face, she has never ever ever bitten a human being)?

The dog does not eat babies. She does, however, eat the man’s socks and leaves a trail of them wherever she goes.

Knowing that she could not win, the woman let the man lock the dog in her kennel again. They fell asleep entangled in a lover’s embrace. BAHAHAH. That did not happen. He fell asleep and she then pried the remote out of his hands. He rolled over and began to snore as she watched the excitement that is the Jeopardy Teen Tournament and felt proud of herself for knowing more than 75% of the answers. Next thing she knew it was 2am and the puppy was whining… at the foot of their bed. The woman felt very spooked because she had watched the man lock the kennel. Had she sleepwalked and released her? Had someone broken into the house, stole nothing and released the dog? Was there a puppy freeing ghost lurking in the shadows? Had the dog grown opposable thumbs? Or maybe opposable thumbs are just overrated and the dog is a genius…

Opposable thumbs? Hacker Dog doesn’t need opposable thumbs. Fools.

The woman blearily stumbled down the stairs, dog in tow, and locked her back in the kennel. She then returned to bed and lay awake feeling spooked for about an hour, wondering if the ghost of some crazed anti-kennel training PETA activist was plotting to attack once she’d fallen asleep once more.

The War of 2012 will go down in the history books as being won by the man. The woman will likely have this rubbed in her face from now until death parts them. The baby will likely be told the tale ad nauseam by his father. The woman, however, will always remember the night that the dog escaped her confines and will know that the real winner of this war was the dog, opposable thumbs be damned.

-FIN-

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Disastertown

Posted on August 13, 2012 | 17 Comments

I now have an overwhelming urge to watch Office Space

Well, it’s Monday, and if that didn’t suck enough to begin with, my Sunday was a Sunday to rival all Mondays… and then some.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I’m a sensitive soul to begin with, and pregnancy is seriously doing a number on my brain. Saturday night began amazingly, with J coming home from work (yup, emergency job on a Saturday. Le poop.), hands full of groceries and surprising me by telling me he was making me dinner. He also brought home a bag full of peaches because I had mentioned that this was my most recent craving. He also restocked the freezer with ice cream. Basically, he was wonderful. We then cuddled up in bed and watched a very unromantic movie, which for some reason put me in the mood. Well, it had nothing to do with the movie. It was simply the fact that pregnancy has had one of two effects on me:

  1. Sex has never been a more repulsive thought. If you try to touch me, I will be forced to kill you, or at least deliver a very serious blow below the belt in order to stave off further advances. Both of those actions are frowned upon, so I suggest you just don’t try.
  2. I want it. All the time. Wherever, whenever, however. I suspect that this is a combo of the hormones (carrying a boy pumps testosterone into your body, FYI ladies) and the fact that I need validation that I am, in fact, still sexy despite the 30lb weight gain and the massive soccer ball that insists on protruding from my middle and making some types of intimacy impossible.

This was a clear case of scenario 2 being in full force. J was already half asleep and once he’s gone he’s gone. Rationally, I know this. Irrationally, I took this as a slight and fell asleep crying. I woke up a kajillion times during the night due to horrible heartburn and pain in my back and sides every time I tried to roll over in my sleep; yet somehow, when Sunday morning rolled around, I got up bright eyed and bushy tailed. I then proceeded to make a huge breakfast (bacon, pancakes, strawberries… YUM!) which I triumphantly presented to J… who triumphantly ate the meal with much gratitude, but then immediately went back to bed. Curses. Scenario 2 was still playing out full force in my brain. I got really cranky and restless and basically ended up crying, packing the dog into my car, and leaving the house.

I cried the whole way to my mother’s place, where I deposited the dog, and then met a friend for lunch. As I was describing my actions to her, I became more and more aware of how crazy I sounded (it is now very obvious to me why Jenny McCarthy wrote a chapter entitled Psycho Chick (Hormonal Rage) in her book Belly Laughs and Vicky Iovine wrote about ‘pregnancy insanity’ in The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy). It became especially apparent when I told her that he’d brought me peaches, and I suddenly burst out with, “and I just left… without even eating any of those beautiful peaches”, tears pooling in my eyes. Wow. So yeah, J got a nice big apology phone call (which he took very well), and I picked up the dog and drove home.

Poor munchkin

At this point, I had a terrible headache, but at least I was happy because I realized my insanity was just temporary. We were then invited to J’s parents’ for dinner. Normally, we bring the dog, but as you may recall, she just had surgery and can’t be around other dogs/must be kept calm for the next two weeks. The vet had told me to keep her isolated in one room (since she was acting all nuts like nothing ever happened and he was afraid she would tear her stitches and put a damper on the healing process), so we figured it was no big deal to lock her in the bathroom. After all, she is kennel trained and used to being alone for up to four hours at a time. We took her outside to do her business first of course. Failure to do so would just be negligent! So, out she went, into the bathroom she went, and off we went for a home cooked meal.

And then we returned home to Disastertown.

Despite my best efforts, and despite the fact that this has NEVER EVER happened before, I returned home to a very wiggly puppy, and:

I almost lost my shit. Okay, horrible pun, but I did almost lose my dinner. I have never ever ever seen a mess like that in my life. First thing, I threw her in the bathtub. Would have been easy to deal with if she didn’t have stitches that can’t get wet, but instead I had to spot wash her… no easy task with a wiggly puppy who is just so excited to see you and wants to be up in your face at all times (ew ew ew dog… EW!). I then threw her outside (okay, didn’t throw, but I may have envisioned punting her out the back door à la Jack Black in Anchorman) and ran back upstairs before J could discover the mess. You see, he has a horribly weak stomach and then I would have been cleaning up after him too. I then scrubbed the floor with Mr. Clean, a Swiffer Wet Jet, and Clorox. I don’t think the bathroom has ever been so clean… but just so you get the picture, I also had to throw out everything in the tub (all my shampoos and soaps, loofa etc) as well as the shower curtains.

As if this weren’t bad enough, my head was pounding even more by the time I was done and I really really really needed a shower… Well, wouldn’t you know that I can’t run a hot washing machine and take a hot shower at the same time. Dammit. I hadn’t even considered this when I threw all the dirty wash cloths and towels into the washing machine and hit the ‘hot’ button. I never wash anything on hot, but I just had to in this case! Without the sterilizing properties of hot water, I considered scrubbing my skin with Clorox, but figured I probably wouldn’t function well for the rest of my life without skin. I opted for good ol’ Old Spice instead. I needed something powerful. Something that would smell clean so that I wouldn’t think about what I’d just been forced to touch. I then got out of the shower smelling like J when he gets out of the shower, which usually  makes me weak in the knees, but guess what!? Despite my two day obsession with scenario two, that was the last thing on my mind. I crawled into bed, J wrapped his arms around me, and I fell asleep as Baby H kicked away.

So Monday, whatever you have in store, I think I can handle it. Booyahkasha!

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The worst weekend ever! (okay, not the worst, but it was pretty bad)

Posted on August 8, 2012 | 8 Comments

I’m sorry I haven’t posted recently. I’ve been in a horrible mood and didn’t want to whine on the internet. I gave up on that and realized that if I want to unblock my writer’s block, I have to whine a little bit. (FYI: If you’re expecting this to be funny and don’t want to ruin your impression of me, stop reading and wait for the next one.)

This past weekend was the worst weekend ever. Never mind a painful adolescence. I’d take a weekend of that angst over what I went through. Besides, as a teenager if I were this upset I would have just gone to bed  and slept the duration. Basically, I spent my weekend looking like this:

When you’re pregnant and in a bad mood, everything seems absolutely tragic. Doesn’t help that I’m at a point where Baby H does not let me sleep at all.

It started when I woke up on Sunday and suddenly none of my clothes fit. Yes, I do realize I’m pregnant. What didn’t fit was every single item in my closet, including my maternity clothes! Oh my. This put me in a terrible mood, even though I know I should just feel very glad that baby is growing at a healthy pace. I pretty much stayed in my pyjamas all day. 

The next thing was that as I was walking the dog, who is getting so much better on the leash and who is completely innocent of wrong doing in this situation, my left ankle just gave out, and down I went. Nothing happened. The dog didn’t pull on me. I didn’t trip. My ankle just decided that it didn’t want to support my weight anymore. Is it a coincidence that this happened the same day that I discovered that my clothes don’t fit? As disconcerting as it was, yes, it was probably a coincidence. You see, I have a pre-existing injury that causes this type of thing to happen even when I’m at my fittest. Last year when I thought I could solve all life’s problems by becoming a ninja, I took up Muay Thai. I was trying to perform a push kick (see image below) and got a bit overzealous. The pavement loomed close.

Um, okay. Yes, I always did Muay Thai in my stilettos…? Google Image searches are fun. If I looked like this doing Muay Thai, I deserved to fall and have a bum ankle for life; however, despite my stiletto-less practice, I still managed to destroy my ankle in that fall. This time, in order to protect my belly from coming into contact with the ground, I twisted strange and somehow ended up pulling my groin. Now I’m wadding around like a penguin.

I’ve also been very stressed because the final draft of my thesis had to be done by Monday night, so I was doing an entirely different, less exciting kind of writing all weekend.

A bunch of other stuff happened as well, but I really don’t need to keep complaining here.

Lastly, I was stressed all weekend because my fur baby was scheduled to be spayed on Tuesday, and spayed she was. She now gets to sport a stylish headdress.

So yeah, sorry for my absence, and sorry for the lack of imagination today. I just wanted to say that I’m still alive and grateful that so many people are interested in what I have to say. I’ll be back to normal soon. Just don’t eat all my cookies, okay? I don’t think I could take it.

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About the Mutt

Posted on July 25, 2012 | Leave a comment

My last post received mixed feedback. Some expressed their joy at my happiness while others complained that it caused them to throw up in their mouths a little bit. To that last group I say, “You’re just jealous!” Let me enjoy my happiness while it lasts. As we all know, relationships have their cycles and the good times at least help to teach us respect that will hopefully carry us through the more difficult times.

Now, onward an upward. I’ve made you both swoon and vomit over my love for J and an About the Belly part 2 is in the works, so I figured I’d dedicate today’s post to my fur monster… uh, I obviously meant to say fur baby.

Punky Brewster (a.k.a. Punky, Punky B, The Punk, Punkster, Punk Star, Pukey Poopster, Brew, Brewster, Brouhaha, The Beast, Bee Sting, Noise and many more to come I’m sure) was born to an estranged set of parents on February 15th, 2012. She was the result of a randy visiting gentleman standard poodle from Québec, and a much obliging lady american bulldog/neopolitan mastiff cross (although her colouring suggests english mastiff). No doubt he seduced her with his accent. The chance encounter between those two brought 11 gorgeous little mutt puppies into the world. Her image was shot straight from the Internet (thanks to a random Kijiji search… I wasn’t even thinking about getting a dog) into my heart.

She was adorable… for about 2 seconds. No, I’m just kidding. She’s still the apple of my eye and I’m a little bit worried about jealousy issues once le bébé arrives. After all, she currently thinks she’s my baby. Why wouldn’t she? I only tell her she is about 50 times per day. No, it’s just that she’s more than tripled in size since the day we brought her home, and she’s gone from being an obedient little mouse to displaying some decidedly teenaged habits. She was out late the other night doing God knows what. This is how I found her in the morning:

All signs point to some sort of substance abuse problem… le sigh.

I don’t know what I, a pregnant lady, was thinking getting a giant puppy that could very well grow to be in the vicinity of 100 lbs according to her vet. Whoops. Oh well. She’s here to stay, I love her to bits, and we start puppy training this Friday. If it’s entertaining enough I’ll post an update. As it is, I’m too tired to even finish this post. But it was worth it just to share the toilet photo with you.

Wish us luck!

Goodnight, sleep tight!

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Who decided it would be okay to let me have kids?

Posted on July 9, 2012 | 7 Comments

Oh no. I’m going to be one of those parents… the kind that panics at every little thing. I can feel it already (although I don’t want to be one of those parents, but seriously, even as a normal not-yet-a-parent person I don’t know how to relax so, earth to Crazy, how do I expect to be a relaxed parent!?). Just thinking about parenting is starting to freak me out (and is causing me to write massive run-on sentences between sets of brackets… if a sentence is so important that you can’t catch a breath writing it, shouldn’t it be part of the main affair? Silly brackets…). Most of the time I go about my day aware that I am pregnant and that I’m enjoying all the pregnancy milestones (ultrasounds, finding out that ‘it’ is a ‘he’, feeling those first kicks and the subsequent fight sequences that must be going on in there now -jab, cross, left hook, roundhouse KICK!), but not really realizing that one day in November I will be bringing home a tiny person that will rely so much on me and who I will love more than anyone in the world (let’s face it, he isn’t even born yet and he’s already up there) and will lose my mind if anything bad ever happens to him. It’s freaking me out. Seriously. Who decided it would be okay to let me have kids!?

What has brought on this fresh bout of freak out? My puppy. She’s limping. Badly. She had a big weekend socializing with her doggie cousins, but I didn’t notice anything was amiss until late last night when she suddenly and very exaggeratedly started limping and whimpering. After thoroughly examining her once and not finding a thing my mom finally spotted the culprit -a tiny little gash on her back right leg. Must have been a bite that bruised the muscle or damaged her tendon somehow. Anyways, we make quite the pair today, hobbling around (I’m hobbling because I cramped up in both legs during my sleep the other night and I can’t quite believe how tight my calves still are!). I can’t get over how worried about her I am. Each little sound she makes sends me running (okay, awkwardly stumbling) to her side, asking her if she’s okay (even though she’s a dog and can’t possibly answer!), kissing her and looking into her little puppy eyes for signs of pain. It doesn’t help that she keeps looking at me beseechingly.

Exhibit A: Why does it hurt mommy? :( This was right after I helped her struggling little self up onto the couch.

I just love her so much. How could I not?

We left her alone for the first time this weekend (other than leaving her crated for a couple of hours here and there) while we went out to dinner, and needless to say I worried about her the whole time. I was convinced she’d get up to no good. Turns out that day she was fine. It was the next day under the watchful eyes of at least 6 adults that she’d manage to hurt herself! This leaves me to wonder what I’m going to be like as a mom to a real live human baby and not just fur and feather babies. If I worry this much about a pet, oh my goodness, how am I ever going to leave my little man alone with anyone!? Gosh… I think my parenting style is going to look somewhat like this: 

Okay, obviously I’m kidding. I’m not going to lock my kids in a crate… but I’d be tempted to. Not as punishment or for a break from their antics (as the picture suggests), but to protect them from the world. J’s style, on the other hand, will look something like this I imagine:

Good balance? I’m so going to be the less-fun parent… le sigh.

And so, little baby H, all I can do is love you and promise not to lock you in the dog’s crate. As for the rest, we’ll have to wait and see.

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