Banking sucks

Well, the title says it all. I hate banks and their utterly inefficient procedures. While I was packing up B's room for her big move across the hall, I discovered her little piggy bank, stuffed with cashola. She had some coin rolls I had tossed her way ages ago, as well as a $50 bill. I figured it was time to deposit the cash in her RESP we set up when she was born. Knowing that I can't make the transaction online (like deposit it in my account and then transfer it over), I decided to make a trip to the bank myself.

I have been very fortunate to have to visit bank tellers very few times in my financial life. My mother-in-law was a bank manager until her retirement a year ago, and since we always operated under her branch (still do!), any paperwork we had to complete, MIL just brought home for us. Our financial advisors were her friends and coworkers, so it was easy to set up appointments and it never seemed like a chore to go to her office for a visit. I never stood in line and I never dealt with tellers. And, to be honest, I don't handle much of the financial junk myself (Hubby is an accountant and much more in tune to that sort of thing. I rely on his expertise. Sad, but true.) I was very spoiled. I got used to that, and I probably should not have.

Anyhoo, that all ended last year, but since our new financial representative is still one of MIL's good friends (whom Hubby has known since he was a child), we still don't have a problem getting our banking done. However, little things like making RESP deposits is something I either have to plan with our rep in advance or go into the bank myself to handle. I figured, I'm on mat leave--I got the time. Why not go in myself?

So, in I went yesterday. Kinda raced in, I must admit, to beat the woman who pulled into the spot next to me. I succeeded. (Fistpump! Yeah me!) I got in the line ahead of her and there were only three bluehairs in front of me. I could handle that.

Realized that the last time I stood in a bank line at this branch was probably shortly after our wedding when Hubby and I went in to deposit all those generous cheques our family and friends had gifted us with. That means it's been well over five years.

And standing in line when your sciatica is acting up is not that much fun--especially, when one of the tellers (and there were only two on hand, notch) yanks on her monitor and completely disconnects it from all the cables attached to the wall and computer. We all waited patiently as she tried--valiantly, I must admit--to reattach the various wires. Clearly, not a techno-saav, she called in her bank manager. Between the two of them and the old guy they were serving, they managed to get everything sorted out and I was finally called up to the next wicket.

I whipped my huge ziploc bag out of my purse (keep in mind, I had like $150 in coin rolls, people! Money's money, right?) and said that I would like to make a deposit into my daughter's RESP account. The teller took my client card, started tapping away and then said. "Pardon?"

I explained again what I wanted to do and she said. "Oh no! If it's for an RESP, you'll have to make an appointment with a banker. I can see if there is one available this afternoon."

I had plans that afternoon (which involved copious amounts of shopping and picking B up from daycare. No time for bankers.), but arranged for an appointment this morning. I was pretty annoyed. Why can't I just make a deposit right then and there? I never had to do that with MIL. We would just tell her how much to put in the RESP and she'd do it for us. I'm telling you, I was spoiled.

Anyways, had to cancel the appointment this morning as a result of a terrible sleep and a ginormous backache that did not allow for me to sit properly. Been playing phone tag with the banker all day in order to reschedule, but really just wondering if I should wait until my doctor appointments next week, when I will be in town of the old branch. Hubby will be home that day and we could arrange something with our advisor. Would be so much easier than having some new guy try selling me financial services I don't need when all I want to do is deposit some bleedin' coins. Geez.

What do you think, Hub?

Cleaning demons

So, it's my first day of maternity leave and instead of napping, shopping for new baby gear online or watching court tv reruns like a normal person who finds herself with some free time to fill, I've spent the morning scrubbing floors, washing windows, painting walls and doing laundry (and checking blood, of course. Always checking blood.). I guess I've started nesting.

What kind of cruel trick of nature is it that forces barrel-shaped preggos, who would otherwise do anything to avoid cleaning, to get down on all fours and scour the paint chips off of a hardwood floor with nothing more than a bristly scrub brush and their own fingernails? Or to waddle up stepladders to whack cobwebs from ceilings and wash dust from the walls. It's like I can smell dust and lint clumps with my super-amped up pregnancy nose, and it disgusts me. Clearly, sanity has once again taken a backseat to pregnancy.

Generally speaking, I'm a normal person--I dread cleaning and only do it when I really can't stand the sight of the mess anymore or am expecting company or my mother and feel forced into the activity. And yet, hormones rule. I grunted over a bucket full of hot water and Mr. Clean (lavender scent, of course) and got busy this morning. I tackled the floor, the windows, the furniture and anything else that got in my way. (A lot of stuff gets in my way at the moment. Gawd! I am tired of this huge, awkward belly.)

I am glad, however, to announce that B's room is almost complete. If Hubby hadn't got my sworn promise last night "to not do anything crazy like try to move her bed in here"all by myself, it would already be done. Ready to surprise her this afternoon when I go to pick her up from daycare. But alas--I'm not supposed to move beds. So, I wait. Impatiently.

"What's the rush?" My husband asks.

B needs to be fully moved out of her room in order to finally put #2's nursery in order. (That's right. Even in our house with its five bedrooms, we don't have a proper spot for the new kid to sleep yet!) But, as he sees it, #2 will likely sleep in our room for the first month of her life and we could tackle the project when he is on paternity leave and has more time at home during the day to paint/screw/hammer/install light fixtures, etc.

To me, however, it's important that B be fully familiarized with her new room, her new furniture, her new place in the universe BEFORE #2 arrives and she feels like her 'stuff'' has been taken over by her new baby sister. I'm trying to avoid too many changes at once, and I think that's reasonable. Hubby gets it, but he still doesn't understand my desire to get things done right this minute.

"What was admirable is now bordering on obsessive," he observed when he found out I painted her bedroom door over the weekend while he was helping out my brother-in-law put up new siding on my sister's house. He was busy, B was napping and I was eager to get another thing crossed off the list. (I'm a big believer in lists--especially crossing stuff off of them. Sometimes, I'll add stuff to the list that I've already done, just so I can cross something off. Sad, I know.)

Anyhoot--the room's nearly done and B should be able to sleep in tonight. It looks great, if I do say so myself. I'm tempted to tell her to go sleep with Daddy, and I'll stay in it tonight. It's that cute.

Anyways, might as well get back to my 'spring cleaning.' I only have a few hours before the munchkin returns from daycare and I still have some more toys and clothes of hers to bustle into her new room.

Last day--for 13 months

Sweeeeet. Just packing up my boxes, cleaning up e-mails and downloading photos at the office and I'm outta here. It's been a helluva ride these last few weeks with the endless doctor appointments (all out of town, of course!), my final publishing week (which, btw, went extraordinarly well all things considered) and training my replacement (which, not surprisingly, I did not receive until 10 days ago), but in a scant six hours, office life will all be over for me for 13 months.

I'll be able to put up my swollen ankles and rest my hiney on the couch where it belongs, while I wait for #2 to make her much-anticipated appearance. And, if my latest medical quirks are any indication, the arrival should be shortly. I have a feeling #2 is ready to join the world--and frankly, I'm just about ready to greet her.

Promise to post some steak and potatoes soon. I'll even add some virtual gravy to the meal, as I have some new pics that I can't wait to share! Keep the faith, readers.

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.

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 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!

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.