Monday, February 8, 2010
Lens is back!
Yeah!!! It's back. It's fixed, it's clean, it's slightly less stiff. It cost me $113....but, oh how the world is right again.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Gestational diabetes = swag
So, if you have been following the comments, you’d know that I have been diagnosed with borderline gestational diabetes—a condition that lasts only until the minute I give birth. Luckily, it does not transfer over to the child and is generally controllable through diet alone—or so I thought.
I met with a diabetic clinician and a dietician earlier this week, where I was told, in fact, that borderline diabetics are often those most likely to require insulin, as it may not be a diet issue, but rather a result of the placenta either not producing enough insulin or the body being resistant to the insulin it produces. I might have this all wrong—there was a lot of medical mumbo jumbo taking place during those two hours, but I think that’s the gist of it.
Anyways, before deciding my insulin-shot fate, the doctors have deemed it necessary to monitor my blood glucose levels daily and for me to continue keeping a log of what it is I eat each day. The journaling bit is easy enough to do since I had already started it back when I heard that diabetes could be a possibility. (The clinician and dietician were impressed by my pro-activeness. Gold star for me.)
When they looked at my diet, they determined that there really wasn’t anything wrong with it. I already stay away from concentrated sugars because:
a) I’m not a huge ‘sweets’ fan to begin with.
b) I had already cut out anything sugary from the diet, just to be on the safe side.
I eat regular meals, which are high in fibre and chock full of nutrients. I drink lots of milk. I eat protein with just about each meal and I've been careful about my carbs. Which leads the professionals to wonder if it my case is an insulin issue. In order to determine this, we need to keep track of my glucose levels, which is why they have given me a glucometre (or whatever it’s called).
Yes, folks. I get to stab myself seven times a day until the end of my pregnancy, just to ensure that I am in the right blood sugar range. Good times. Two days into it so far, and I’m as normal as can be. Hope it continues.
Next week, I meet with them again. My results will determine whether or not I need to add a daily insulin shot to the mix. Boy, do I love being pregnant. Sigh.
On the upside—apparently, when you develop gestational diabetes, you are awarded a consolation prize. Swag! Not only did I get my nifty little metre, my log bog and all my sample strips and needles, but I was given a handy, dandy diaper bag, complete with change pad and insulated bottle pockets! Inside was a big, thick paperback on naming your baby the Canuck way. Yeah! (Actually, it really is quite a nice bag, but what the hell? Seriously—a promotional diaper bag?)
I met with a diabetic clinician and a dietician earlier this week, where I was told, in fact, that borderline diabetics are often those most likely to require insulin, as it may not be a diet issue, but rather a result of the placenta either not producing enough insulin or the body being resistant to the insulin it produces. I might have this all wrong—there was a lot of medical mumbo jumbo taking place during those two hours, but I think that’s the gist of it.
Anyways, before deciding my insulin-shot fate, the doctors have deemed it necessary to monitor my blood glucose levels daily and for me to continue keeping a log of what it is I eat each day. The journaling bit is easy enough to do since I had already started it back when I heard that diabetes could be a possibility. (The clinician and dietician were impressed by my pro-activeness. Gold star for me.)
When they looked at my diet, they determined that there really wasn’t anything wrong with it. I already stay away from concentrated sugars because:
a) I’m not a huge ‘sweets’ fan to begin with.
b) I had already cut out anything sugary from the diet, just to be on the safe side.
I eat regular meals, which are high in fibre and chock full of nutrients. I drink lots of milk. I eat protein with just about each meal and I've been careful about my carbs. Which leads the professionals to wonder if it my case is an insulin issue. In order to determine this, we need to keep track of my glucose levels, which is why they have given me a glucometre (or whatever it’s called).
Yes, folks. I get to stab myself seven times a day until the end of my pregnancy, just to ensure that I am in the right blood sugar range. Good times. Two days into it so far, and I’m as normal as can be. Hope it continues.
Next week, I meet with them again. My results will determine whether or not I need to add a daily insulin shot to the mix. Boy, do I love being pregnant. Sigh.
On the upside—apparently, when you develop gestational diabetes, you are awarded a consolation prize. Swag! Not only did I get my nifty little metre, my log bog and all my sample strips and needles, but I was given a handy, dandy diaper bag, complete with change pad and insulated bottle pockets! Inside was a big, thick paperback on naming your baby the Canuck way. Yeah! (Actually, it really is quite a nice bag, but what the hell? Seriously—a promotional diaper bag?)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I wanna be sedated
I can't control my fingers,I can't control my toes
Oh no, oh, oh, oh, oh!
Bamp bamp, ba bamp, ba bamp bamp, ba bamp,
I wanna be sedated
Bamp bamp, ba bamp, ba bamp bamp, ba bamp, I wanna be sedated!
My kid is officially the coolest little girl. Just got back from taking her to daycare this morning (as I am working from home until my appointment with the dietician this afternoon--oh yes, people, borderline again! Gestational diabetes, here I come!) and this particular Ramones anthem was playing on the car radio on our way there. I can't help it. I'm a sucker for classic rock, so I turned it up.
B loved it! She bobbed her head to the music and started singing along: "Twenty, twenty, twenty...."
This, in turn, made me join in. Both of us belting out rock tunes at 7:30 a.m.
Gawd, I love that kid.
P.S. This ain't a recent pic--but it shows my B in her best rock diva form!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Bunnies aren't working!
Like many children, B is particularly attached to one toy--or rather, nine of them (I'll explain why so many in a minute.). Her grandparents gave her this little, pink bunny-headed blanket toy for Easter when she was about six months old and she has not let it out of her sight since then. This toy is her comfort object and she insists on having it with her if she is going somewhere unfamiliar or to accompany her to her nap and bedtime each night.
At first, she just liked to cuddle with it. When she was a little older, she rubbed its ears against her shut eyes or under her nose. For a few months after we removed the souce, she subsituted by sucking on the bunny's ears until she fell asleep. Nowadays, she simply rubs the bunny's ears between her fingers just as she is getting sleepy.
B was so infatuated with the toy, refusing all others, that I asked my mother-in-law where she got it. When B started chewing on the ears, I went to WalMart and picked up another pink bunny. If I hadn't had a back-up, I would never have been able to get the first one out of her grubby mitts and into the laundry hamper!
My sister sagely suggested that I have an extra one that I leave in the car--just in case, we forgot to pack Bunny while we were out and about. So, another trip to WalMart for the $8 bunny.
When B began daycare, I bought a few more. The original two were getting pretty ratty. The ears were worn, the colours had faded from pink to a drab grey and the nose threads had come loose. Anyways, one was left permanently at daycare, another at my sister's place, another at Grandmaman's. And, I bought one to keep in excellent, unusued condition so that B could have it when she grows up, as a sort of souvenir of her babyhood. Much like they do in real life, the original bunnies bred like there was no tomorrow. And, by the following Easter, our bunny family had morphed into a warren of nine rabbits. (Sadly, the fresh bunny was also pressed into service one evening after a particularly disconcerting household search, in which all three of us came up bunnyless.)
The Hubby and I have been pretty meticulous at keepomg the bunnies away from one another. Back-ups have always been hidden in a cupboard, dirty bunnies stowed beneath a pile of stinky socks. Over the years, we have only ever lost two bunnies--one at the check-out at the local grocery store, another while the grandparents took her out kitchen-tile shopping--both were recovered and restored to their rightful place in the cupboard. But, alas, about six months ago, B discovered a second bunny while helping me "do the laundry" (which B understands to mean taking my freshly folded clothes and tossing them back into her froggy hamper, then jumping inside and closing the lid, demanding that I 'find' her.). She now insists on having "my two bunnies" at all times. One sleeps on either side of her, both guarding her dreams.
Occasionally, depending on her mood, the bunnies get banished to the end of the bed for a 'timeout.' Sometimes B reads to them. (Every story begins the same way: "One day....") Sometimes she will push them around the house in her stroller. They have also been known to get 'bobos' and require medical treatment--everything from vaccinations to bandages. The bunnies often require kisses and hugs at bedtime. And, they always need to be tucked in with a blanket, just like B.
Last night, the bunnies weren't working. Or so, B said. Just before her bedtime story, she threw both bunnies down on the ground and looked at her father and I with a petulant pout. "Bunnies not working!" She said, crossing her arms. We laughed. What else could we do?
I asked her to explain to me why they weren't working. She just repeated her statement, feeling it unnecessary to detail the inner workings of Bunny's bedtime power. I rubbed the bunnies' ears to my nose in an attempt to convince her they were both as soft and gentle as the day they were brought home. Both seemed to be in good working order. Daddy even tried the nose thing, but B was adamant. They weren't working. She only acquiesced when Daddy said that if she wasn't going to sleep with the bunnies, he would because the bunnies were certainly helping him fall asleep!
Upset with one bunny in particular (and he was the older of the pair, so perhaps whatever magical property he contained has since been used up?!), she banished him to the other pillow.
This morning, she awoke, cheerful and smiling, with both bunnies clutched tightly to her chest. While I was doing her hair, I asked her about her bunnies and whether or not they had both been fixed during the night. Holding both of them in her arms, she pointed to the newer, pinker one:
"This one is working--" she said, and then shook the older, rattier one.
"--this one is not." She gave me a pointed look. She hadn't forgotten.
I guess I need to make another trip to WalMart.
At first, she just liked to cuddle with it. When she was a little older, she rubbed its ears against her shut eyes or under her nose. For a few months after we removed the souce, she subsituted by sucking on the bunny's ears until she fell asleep. Nowadays, she simply rubs the bunny's ears between her fingers just as she is getting sleepy.
B was so infatuated with the toy, refusing all others, that I asked my mother-in-law where she got it. When B started chewing on the ears, I went to WalMart and picked up another pink bunny. If I hadn't had a back-up, I would never have been able to get the first one out of her grubby mitts and into the laundry hamper!
My sister sagely suggested that I have an extra one that I leave in the car--just in case, we forgot to pack Bunny while we were out and about. So, another trip to WalMart for the $8 bunny.
When B began daycare, I bought a few more. The original two were getting pretty ratty. The ears were worn, the colours had faded from pink to a drab grey and the nose threads had come loose. Anyways, one was left permanently at daycare, another at my sister's place, another at Grandmaman's. And, I bought one to keep in excellent, unusued condition so that B could have it when she grows up, as a sort of souvenir of her babyhood. Much like they do in real life, the original bunnies bred like there was no tomorrow. And, by the following Easter, our bunny family had morphed into a warren of nine rabbits. (Sadly, the fresh bunny was also pressed into service one evening after a particularly disconcerting household search, in which all three of us came up bunnyless.)
The Hubby and I have been pretty meticulous at keepomg the bunnies away from one another. Back-ups have always been hidden in a cupboard, dirty bunnies stowed beneath a pile of stinky socks. Over the years, we have only ever lost two bunnies--one at the check-out at the local grocery store, another while the grandparents took her out kitchen-tile shopping--both were recovered and restored to their rightful place in the cupboard. But, alas, about six months ago, B discovered a second bunny while helping me "do the laundry" (which B understands to mean taking my freshly folded clothes and tossing them back into her froggy hamper, then jumping inside and closing the lid, demanding that I 'find' her.). She now insists on having "my two bunnies" at all times. One sleeps on either side of her, both guarding her dreams.
Occasionally, depending on her mood, the bunnies get banished to the end of the bed for a 'timeout.' Sometimes B reads to them. (Every story begins the same way: "One day....") Sometimes she will push them around the house in her stroller. They have also been known to get 'bobos' and require medical treatment--everything from vaccinations to bandages. The bunnies often require kisses and hugs at bedtime. And, they always need to be tucked in with a blanket, just like B.
Last night, the bunnies weren't working. Or so, B said. Just before her bedtime story, she threw both bunnies down on the ground and looked at her father and I with a petulant pout. "Bunnies not working!" She said, crossing her arms. We laughed. What else could we do?
I asked her to explain to me why they weren't working. She just repeated her statement, feeling it unnecessary to detail the inner workings of Bunny's bedtime power. I rubbed the bunnies' ears to my nose in an attempt to convince her they were both as soft and gentle as the day they were brought home. Both seemed to be in good working order. Daddy even tried the nose thing, but B was adamant. They weren't working. She only acquiesced when Daddy said that if she wasn't going to sleep with the bunnies, he would because the bunnies were certainly helping him fall asleep!
Upset with one bunny in particular (and he was the older of the pair, so perhaps whatever magical property he contained has since been used up?!), she banished him to the other pillow.
This morning, she awoke, cheerful and smiling, with both bunnies clutched tightly to her chest. While I was doing her hair, I asked her about her bunnies and whether or not they had both been fixed during the night. Holding both of them in her arms, she pointed to the newer, pinker one:
"This one is working--" she said, and then shook the older, rattier one.
"--this one is not." She gave me a pointed look. She hadn't forgotten.
I guess I need to make another trip to WalMart.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Photo angst
The whole point of this blog was to share some photos, and so far--zilch. (Okay, it wasn't the WHOLE point. It was mostly to chronicle my journey into Mommyhood for the second time, since my first-time-around journal appears to have gone missing in the clutter of our house....) I broke the plastic bits on my lens (which has been repaired and is on its way home from Nikon), so I really don't have any great pics to share from over the holidays. (And, I missed one helluva a great ice storm to photograph, too! All of those crystallized branches....ah, well.) And, alas, nothing since then, either. Not even a new pic of B and the sad, little hand!
And, now I have a whole new level of photo angst. I can't seem to find a maternity photographer that suits my needs! (Style: Contemporary, natural-light. Images: a CD or DVD with digital files and permissions to reprint. Not an easy combo to find.) I've visited a million websites, sent several queries, but keep coming up empty-handed! One of the photogs I contacted has moved to the Caribbean, while the other I was interested in is currently expecting his own little bundle of joy in April, so is not taking on any new clients. I have two more info requests pending, so we'll see how those pan out.
The photographer I used for my first pregnancy was great, but a little scatter-brained. (I actually had to harass him several times to pay him!) When I contacted him for some family photos when B turned one, he said sure, he'd love to take them. When I tried to finalize the plans, however, he never contacted me back. I've only got enough patience to e-mail you twice, after that, I take the hint. Now, I'm wondering if I'll need to contact him again.... sigh.
The frustration really stems from the fact that I love taking photos of others and know precisely what I want when it comes to my own photos, and I simply can't figure out the mechanics of taking my own photos! Urrrgh!!
That said, I am looking forward to taking some maternity photos of a first-time mommy this weekend. Should be fun! If she'll let me, I might even be able to post some shots up here. ;) And, if you are wondering how I will be taking photos without a lens--well, I'm renting one. Luckily, because the store isn't open on Sunday--picking up the lens on Friday afternoon and dropping it off on Monday morning qualifies as a single, daily rate. Photo angst. I'm telling you--it's everywhere.
And, now I have a whole new level of photo angst. I can't seem to find a maternity photographer that suits my needs! (Style: Contemporary, natural-light. Images: a CD or DVD with digital files and permissions to reprint. Not an easy combo to find.) I've visited a million websites, sent several queries, but keep coming up empty-handed! One of the photogs I contacted has moved to the Caribbean, while the other I was interested in is currently expecting his own little bundle of joy in April, so is not taking on any new clients. I have two more info requests pending, so we'll see how those pan out.
The photographer I used for my first pregnancy was great, but a little scatter-brained. (I actually had to harass him several times to pay him!) When I contacted him for some family photos when B turned one, he said sure, he'd love to take them. When I tried to finalize the plans, however, he never contacted me back. I've only got enough patience to e-mail you twice, after that, I take the hint. Now, I'm wondering if I'll need to contact him again.... sigh.
The frustration really stems from the fact that I love taking photos of others and know precisely what I want when it comes to my own photos, and I simply can't figure out the mechanics of taking my own photos! Urrrgh!!
That said, I am looking forward to taking some maternity photos of a first-time mommy this weekend. Should be fun! If she'll let me, I might even be able to post some shots up here. ;) And, if you are wondering how I will be taking photos without a lens--well, I'm renting one. Luckily, because the store isn't open on Sunday--picking up the lens on Friday afternoon and dropping it off on Monday morning qualifies as a single, daily rate. Photo angst. I'm telling you--it's everywhere.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Don't aggravate a hungry preggo
So, me gets a call from the receptionist at my doctor's office yesterday, telling me that the results from my gestational Diabetes test (which I took last week) are borderline (or 'equivocal' as the medical term seems to be), so I need to go back and retest ASAP. Goody. Nothing like spending another morning gulping down lukewarm, sugary orange syrup crap. (Which makes me wonder why the lab techs don't follow the instructions on the bottle, which clearly read "drink more palatable if chilled first." Sigh. Does no one read the fine print?!)
This time--the test would require complete fasting (to ensure that my blood is not full of post-Christmas chocolate and sugars. Yes, I indulged in one or two remaining candy canes when taking apart the dining room X-mas tree....) and a two-hour wait. Fun times.
So, I had myself a nice, nutritious dinner last night and stopped eating at 7:00 p.m. in anticipation of this morning's test. I got to the blood lab early, but there was already a line-up. No worries. I expected this. I patiently waited my turn. The lab tech did not hand me the orange goop immediately, and instead asked me to sit down. No worries. I've had her before and she's always brought it to me a few minutes later.
Fifteen minutes go by. Three or four other patients are served--another preggo, who was instantly handed her orange drink. Noticing this, I decided to stand up and go back to the front desk. Perhaps she had forgotten me in the slew of patients who traipsed in behind me? I politely asked her if she could give me the drink so I could get started. (For those who've never had the joy of experiencing this test, blood is drawn one hour after consuming the nasty, Orange-Crush-without-the-fizz-like-beverage. The hour only begins once the drink has been consumed--and the whole bottle must be gulped down within five minutes.)
She looks at me and laughs. "Oh no," she replies. "You had to fast, so you'll have to have blood drawn first--then drink it and wait the two hours. You'll get your blood drawn after one hour and then after two."
"Really? Geez, I'll be here forever. Okay, how long until you'll draw my blood the first time?" I ask, a little annoyed that she didn't explain the procedure right from the get-go.
"I don't know. We're going as fast as we can," she shrugged, gesturing to the pile of requisition forms beside her and then to the waiting room. "You'll just have to wait, that's why you're here--since you failed the first test!" She says rudely, overly loud and smirking.
I get the wait. There's a line-up. But all I was asking for was an estimate on the timeframe. Not that difficult a question to respond to, I think. And, for the chick to announce to the whole room that I 'failed' the first test, just seems unprofessional. I know not everyone in the medical field is known for their courtesy, but isn't there something about patient confidentiality in that Hypocratic Oath they take?!?
Plus, I'm not certain 'failed' is the right word. If she'd read her own friggin' results, she would have seen that that the results were 'equivocal.' It's the whole reason I was back here to do a second test!
Anyways, turned out, I had to wait an hour just to get my blood drawn the first time, therby allowing me to drink the gunk. Finally, after one rude technician, two more hours, three Kindle book samples, three vials of blood, and 17 hours of fasting, I was able to leave.
Now, not only was I incredibly starving (and anyone who knows me will agree that I'm a b*tch when I'm hungry!), but super annoyed. I had lost the whole morning at the bloody clinic, and I still had plenty of pre-publishing edits to take care of at work. So much for my plan of leaving early on a Friday afternoon!
Hubby, who insisted that I take the time to eat a proper meal, took me out for a real sit-down lunch. At least an hour at a restaurant with him, uninterrupted by B, made up for the bitchery I had had to deal with at the clinic all morning.
UPDATE: Wrote this spiel on Friday, but posting it now on Monday. I have not yet received the results of the test, so I'm going to go on the basis that no news is good news and hope that I do not have Gestational Diabetes. More will be revealed at my doctor's appointment tomorrow....
This time--the test would require complete fasting (to ensure that my blood is not full of post-Christmas chocolate and sugars. Yes, I indulged in one or two remaining candy canes when taking apart the dining room X-mas tree....) and a two-hour wait. Fun times.
So, I had myself a nice, nutritious dinner last night and stopped eating at 7:00 p.m. in anticipation of this morning's test. I got to the blood lab early, but there was already a line-up. No worries. I expected this. I patiently waited my turn. The lab tech did not hand me the orange goop immediately, and instead asked me to sit down. No worries. I've had her before and she's always brought it to me a few minutes later.
Fifteen minutes go by. Three or four other patients are served--another preggo, who was instantly handed her orange drink. Noticing this, I decided to stand up and go back to the front desk. Perhaps she had forgotten me in the slew of patients who traipsed in behind me? I politely asked her if she could give me the drink so I could get started. (For those who've never had the joy of experiencing this test, blood is drawn one hour after consuming the nasty, Orange-Crush-without-the-fizz-like-beverage. The hour only begins once the drink has been consumed--and the whole bottle must be gulped down within five minutes.)
She looks at me and laughs. "Oh no," she replies. "You had to fast, so you'll have to have blood drawn first--then drink it and wait the two hours. You'll get your blood drawn after one hour and then after two."
"Really? Geez, I'll be here forever. Okay, how long until you'll draw my blood the first time?" I ask, a little annoyed that she didn't explain the procedure right from the get-go.
"I don't know. We're going as fast as we can," she shrugged, gesturing to the pile of requisition forms beside her and then to the waiting room. "You'll just have to wait, that's why you're here--since you failed the first test!" She says rudely, overly loud and smirking.
I get the wait. There's a line-up. But all I was asking for was an estimate on the timeframe. Not that difficult a question to respond to, I think. And, for the chick to announce to the whole room that I 'failed' the first test, just seems unprofessional. I know not everyone in the medical field is known for their courtesy, but isn't there something about patient confidentiality in that Hypocratic Oath they take?!?
Plus, I'm not certain 'failed' is the right word. If she'd read her own friggin' results, she would have seen that that the results were 'equivocal.' It's the whole reason I was back here to do a second test!
Anyways, turned out, I had to wait an hour just to get my blood drawn the first time, therby allowing me to drink the gunk. Finally, after one rude technician, two more hours, three Kindle book samples, three vials of blood, and 17 hours of fasting, I was able to leave.
Now, not only was I incredibly starving (and anyone who knows me will agree that I'm a b*tch when I'm hungry!), but super annoyed. I had lost the whole morning at the bloody clinic, and I still had plenty of pre-publishing edits to take care of at work. So much for my plan of leaving early on a Friday afternoon!
Hubby, who insisted that I take the time to eat a proper meal, took me out for a real sit-down lunch. At least an hour at a restaurant with him, uninterrupted by B, made up for the bitchery I had had to deal with at the clinic all morning.
UPDATE: Wrote this spiel on Friday, but posting it now on Monday. I have not yet received the results of the test, so I'm going to go on the basis that no news is good news and hope that I do not have Gestational Diabetes. More will be revealed at my doctor's appointment tomorrow....
Monday, January 11, 2010
A weary return to reality
Whew! What a way to say goodbye to the old 365 and welcome in the New Year!
After only a little convincing by my husband, I was glad to finish work on December 22nd and start the holidays a little earlier than expected. I still had presents to wrap, goodies to bake and a house to clean before my family came over for a visit. And, being a good six and a half month's pregnant, with a tireless two-year-old underfoot, I needed the extra day to get somethings done. I had every intention of napping on the 23rd, but time simply did not allow for it!
I wasn't too worried. I was in great spirits and the important stuff had already been accomplished: Turkey bought? Check! Cider thawing out in fridge? Check! Christmas cards mailed out? Check! Ten trees up and decorated? Check, check, check x3! (Yeah, ya read me, right. I tend to go a little overboard, but I just really, really love Christmas, okay? And, no they aren't all six-footers--three of 'em are, three are three-footers and the rest are minis. Oops! Forgot the porch tree--okay, so that makes 11 trees total. Really, my obsessions are not all this bad....) So what if all the dog hair didn't get vacuumed up? People would understand. I am preggers, after all, and I do work full time!
So, on the 23rd, in another fit of cleaning, I decided to move around my photo equipment (and get it out of the dining room, which of course, is where I was planning on feeding all of our guests). I had already charged the batteries that morning to ensure I was ready for Christmas Day--but I must have not zipped my bag up properly. My NikonD80 came rolling out of the bag, landing on the lens and snapping the little, plastic flanges that attach the lens to the body. I freaked, thinking that I may have damaged the lens--or worse, the body! I was not impressed with myself. Sure, I had a crappy back-up, point-and-shoot for the holidays, but this is my fave--and a must-have for my family holiday.
The holidays went downhill from there. We enjoyed a lovely evening on Christmas Eve with my in-laws--B was so excited to see the nativity scene at mass that she kept shouting out at the top of her lungs "I want to see Baby Jesus!" while others around us were by turns, either praying, smiling indulgently at her, ignoring us or pointedly staring us with no-nonsense-control-your-child glares. Good times.--and were home in bed in time for Santa's arrival.
And the next morning was lovely. B is at that age where the magic and wonder of Christmas is enchanting. This was the first year that she got excited about Christmas lights, gingerbread cookies and visiting Santa at the store. She was simply delighted by the glowing reflection of the (main!) tree on the presents below. Her sheer happiness at the sight made my day. She dove right in, pushing presents (Santa really did spoil us, this year. Thank you for the Kindle, Mr. Kringle!) towards us and taking part in unwrapping each and every one.
To keep up with the homey holiday atmosphere, Hubby lit a fire, while I put the fake one on the kitchen tv. (For the music, people, for the music....) We were enjoying such a beautiful morning that it seemed unreal what happened after the gift opening. I was prepping the turkey in the kitchen, Hubby setting up some bed arrangements in the basement, B playing with her new Rose Petal Cottage house and all of her new toys--or so I thought.
I heard an ear-splitting wail and ran for it. In an attempt to reach the stockings that I had rehung on the mantle, she had put her hand on the fireplace window and burned it something fierce! She was crying uncontrollably "I touched fire! I touched fire! Fire's hot!", while we ran her hand under cold water and quickly debated how to go about getting her medical attention on Christmas Day.
More heartbreaking than anything was that she thought she was in trouble for touching the fire, even after we had told her never to go near it. After trying the ambulance station 10 mins from our house, and speaking to the nurses at TeleHealth, we opted to take her to CHEO. Hubby didn't want me to come to the hospital since I'm pregnant, so he went alone and I nearly burst into tears when B told me to "Get your coat, Mommy, get your coat, Mommy," because she wanted me to come with them.
Long story short, Hubby took B to the ER on Christmas Day and they sat there for four hours, while I basted the turkey at home, wringing my hands in worry (he didn't want to cancel our dinner since guests were due any minute and the craziness of B's four cousins would be a distraction from the pain in her hand).
I felt extremely guilty. What kind of mother was I to have hung the stockings back up? Why did we light a fire upstairs anyway? I should have been watching her more closely! Anyways, you can bet the stockings were moved an hour later and will never go up by the fire again and that a fire screen has been added to living room.
Not exactly the memorable Christmas I had hoped.
Still, we made the best of a bad situation (It's kinda Redmond tradition to have someone terribly ill or injured during the holidays) and had a great evening with my family. And my big brave girl didn't even complain much, the poor thing!
The next day was spent indoors while the rain slashed an ice storm across our region. In fact, there was so much ice damage that the power was affected and we went the night of the 26th without electricity. Thank God for that malevolent fireplace! The next day was also affected, with short power outages throughout the afternoon.
To make matters worse, however, while at the hospital on the 27th to redress B's wound, B picked up a virus and had the 12-hour gastro. Hubby and Cousin H then took turns at the toliet on the 28th. Finally, J and D contracted the nasty bug on the 29th. Miraculously, I never caught it.
All in all, B is recovering nicely. Her palm is already looking much, much better and she has been quite the trooper throughout the ordeal. There will be no permanent damage and likely no scarring. And, somehow, her injury has--although made her very wary of the fireplace--not tainted her love of Christmas.
After only a little convincing by my husband, I was glad to finish work on December 22nd and start the holidays a little earlier than expected. I still had presents to wrap, goodies to bake and a house to clean before my family came over for a visit. And, being a good six and a half month's pregnant, with a tireless two-year-old underfoot, I needed the extra day to get somethings done. I had every intention of napping on the 23rd, but time simply did not allow for it!
I wasn't too worried. I was in great spirits and the important stuff had already been accomplished: Turkey bought? Check! Cider thawing out in fridge? Check! Christmas cards mailed out? Check! Ten trees up and decorated? Check, check, check x3! (Yeah, ya read me, right. I tend to go a little overboard, but I just really, really love Christmas, okay? And, no they aren't all six-footers--three of 'em are, three are three-footers and the rest are minis. Oops! Forgot the porch tree--okay, so that makes 11 trees total. Really, my obsessions are not all this bad....) So what if all the dog hair didn't get vacuumed up? People would understand. I am preggers, after all, and I do work full time!
So, on the 23rd, in another fit of cleaning, I decided to move around my photo equipment (and get it out of the dining room, which of course, is where I was planning on feeding all of our guests). I had already charged the batteries that morning to ensure I was ready for Christmas Day--but I must have not zipped my bag up properly. My NikonD80 came rolling out of the bag, landing on the lens and snapping the little, plastic flanges that attach the lens to the body. I freaked, thinking that I may have damaged the lens--or worse, the body! I was not impressed with myself. Sure, I had a crappy back-up, point-and-shoot for the holidays, but this is my fave--and a must-have for my family holiday.
The holidays went downhill from there. We enjoyed a lovely evening on Christmas Eve with my in-laws--B was so excited to see the nativity scene at mass that she kept shouting out at the top of her lungs "I want to see Baby Jesus!" while others around us were by turns, either praying, smiling indulgently at her, ignoring us or pointedly staring us with no-nonsense-control-your-child glares. Good times.--and were home in bed in time for Santa's arrival.
And the next morning was lovely. B is at that age where the magic and wonder of Christmas is enchanting. This was the first year that she got excited about Christmas lights, gingerbread cookies and visiting Santa at the store. She was simply delighted by the glowing reflection of the (main!) tree on the presents below. Her sheer happiness at the sight made my day. She dove right in, pushing presents (Santa really did spoil us, this year. Thank you for the Kindle, Mr. Kringle!) towards us and taking part in unwrapping each and every one.
To keep up with the homey holiday atmosphere, Hubby lit a fire, while I put the fake one on the kitchen tv. (For the music, people, for the music....) We were enjoying such a beautiful morning that it seemed unreal what happened after the gift opening. I was prepping the turkey in the kitchen, Hubby setting up some bed arrangements in the basement, B playing with her new Rose Petal Cottage house and all of her new toys--or so I thought.
I heard an ear-splitting wail and ran for it. In an attempt to reach the stockings that I had rehung on the mantle, she had put her hand on the fireplace window and burned it something fierce! She was crying uncontrollably "I touched fire! I touched fire! Fire's hot!", while we ran her hand under cold water and quickly debated how to go about getting her medical attention on Christmas Day.
More heartbreaking than anything was that she thought she was in trouble for touching the fire, even after we had told her never to go near it. After trying the ambulance station 10 mins from our house, and speaking to the nurses at TeleHealth, we opted to take her to CHEO. Hubby didn't want me to come to the hospital since I'm pregnant, so he went alone and I nearly burst into tears when B told me to "Get your coat, Mommy, get your coat, Mommy," because she wanted me to come with them.
Long story short, Hubby took B to the ER on Christmas Day and they sat there for four hours, while I basted the turkey at home, wringing my hands in worry (he didn't want to cancel our dinner since guests were due any minute and the craziness of B's four cousins would be a distraction from the pain in her hand).
I felt extremely guilty. What kind of mother was I to have hung the stockings back up? Why did we light a fire upstairs anyway? I should have been watching her more closely! Anyways, you can bet the stockings were moved an hour later and will never go up by the fire again and that a fire screen has been added to living room.
Not exactly the memorable Christmas I had hoped.
Still, we made the best of a bad situation (It's kinda Redmond tradition to have someone terribly ill or injured during the holidays) and had a great evening with my family. And my big brave girl didn't even complain much, the poor thing!
The next day was spent indoors while the rain slashed an ice storm across our region. In fact, there was so much ice damage that the power was affected and we went the night of the 26th without electricity. Thank God for that malevolent fireplace! The next day was also affected, with short power outages throughout the afternoon.
To make matters worse, however, while at the hospital on the 27th to redress B's wound, B picked up a virus and had the 12-hour gastro. Hubby and Cousin H then took turns at the toliet on the 28th. Finally, J and D contracted the nasty bug on the 29th. Miraculously, I never caught it.
All in all, B is recovering nicely. Her palm is already looking much, much better and she has been quite the trooper throughout the ordeal. There will be no permanent damage and likely no scarring. And, somehow, her injury has--although made her very wary of the fireplace--not tainted her love of Christmas.
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