Six weeks to go, and already it’s impossible to put socks on. I’m still wearing dirty slip-on summer shoes as Alberta is bracing itself for snow, and I don’t care. Perplexingly, donning my left sock is doable. But the right sock can forget it.
Pregnant women are supposed to sleep on their left side. Something to do with a risk of catastrophically crushing vital organs on the right otherwise. I always slept on my left anyway. But now that I have to do it, it’s unbearably uncomfortable after about five minutes. Cue the slow, awkward turn. Onset of worry – If I fall asleep my liver might explode. Cue another slow, awkward turn. And so it goes on repeat throughout the night, interrupted only by frequent and baffling loo trips. -- I haven’t drank anything since I last emptied my teeny squished-up bladder, so where is this coming from?
I sleep with six pillows. Strategically placed around my body. Only a portion of my face can be found peering out from among the cushioning, just enough to receive goodnight kisses from my accommodating husband, who fears that our King-size bed, which he built, may buckle at any second under this additional load – now that I weigh almost as much as he does.
Guillaume is as heroic in my increasingly surreal dreams as he is in reality. A re-occurring one of late has always been related to the absence of milk coinciding with the arrival of our baby... We were on the Isle of Wight, it was some time in the late 14th Century I’d estimate. Sail boats not dissimilar to those which fought the Spanish Armada were being tossed about by gigantic waves in a vicious storm under the night sky - a panorama we were able to view from our tiny stone-walled home atop a grassy hill.
...I was holding our hungry newborn, unable to squeeze so much as a drop of milk from either boob. “This storm has raged for days, there’s no milk on the island, and all the goats have blown away.”
The mainland was just about visible beyond the cartoon-like towering surf, and now giant sharks had appeared circling the few vessels daring to brave the turbulent sea. One of these toothy ship-sized sea-creatures pulled a man overboard, and gobbled him whole.
My tall, broad and hairy husband, who may as well have been wearing a Superman costume, declared; “I will go for milk.” And he kissed me goodbye, as the baby cried, and it was an emotional and worrisome moment. I watched him pull out a small dingy from the beach and set off on the water…
The next morning, I told Guillaume about this dream… His response: “Just so you know, in real life, I wouldn’t do that. I’m terrified of sharks.”
There have been multiple settings to these dreams. One was in the Labour Room of the hospital I’ll give birth in. We’ve been having prenatal classes, and a tour was included – so I know exactly what it all looks like. I’d just given birth to a baby who interchanged between being male and female throughout the dream. As a boy he had shoulder length thick blonde hair, and as a girl she was dark and almost bald.
Again I was attempting to breast feed. And joy of joys the baby latched on immediately, only shortly after to look up at me and say; “That’s colostrum.” Not at all surprised at my child’s ability to talk mere minutes after departing the womb, I said; “Don’t you want that?”
“No, I want milk.”
Guillaume was standing nearby and suggested I go speak to the nurse while he held baby. I went outside into the corridor, half naked but unabashed.
“Do you have formula?” I asked the nurse.
“No, you’re supposed to bring your own.” She was a bitch.
“But I haven’t even got my hospital bag ready yet!”
“Well, I suggest now would be a good time to do it.” A real bitch.
I returned to Guillaume to relay this information, and he said “I’ll go and buy some, and learn how to make it, and I’ll be right back.” And again, he kissed me goodbye and left me with the crying baby to once again save the day.
About those prenatal classes… Last week we did ‘postpartum’, and I left the hospital speechless and terrified. I’d rather not have known. So I’m going to bleed and leak all over the place for six weeks, never sleep, sweat like I’m running a marathon, my increasingly watermelonesque boobs will be sore and secreting of their own accord, I’ll be a hormonal nightmare, I’ll have lots of flabby droopy skin that I won’t know where to put, and if I have to have stitches I’ll need to carefully buttress the necessary parts prior to every sneeze, both to ease the inevitable sting and to prevent this needle-work from popping open - subsequently allowing even more blood, leakage and unidentifiable gunk to flop out and make a mess. Considering I usually sneeze about 100 times a day owed to nasal polyps, sinusitis and a general intolerance to air, the prospect of any stitching now horrifies me to the core.
As a side note, Guillaume was in excess of 9lbs when born. Doctors at the scene described his bone structure as ‘Neanderthal-like’, and to this day, Guillaume has to have hats specially made, to accommodate his unusually large head.
I’m reluctant to believe all this horror is inevitable. I mean, did Kate Middleton experience all these postpartum woes? My Facebook news feed is filled daily with brand new humans greeting the planet for the first time. Parents post adorable photos of their beautiful beings. They proudly announce their arrival to the world and for weeks afterwards provide regular updates on how wonderful and rosy it all is. Some of them are out and about by day three, strolling along with smiles and ease. They post pictures of the whole family, lined up and fashionably dressed. Fresh as daisy’s. They don’t have black rings under their eyes. There’s no sign of crimsony urine puddles under the mother. It all looks pretty fabulous and euphoric actually. So why is this instructor predicting a period of hell-like suffering? She laughs when telling us how to prepare for this torture too. The whole class laughs in fact. Is it nerves, or is it all hilarious?
“Get a friend to bring over a lasagne” they suggest.
“Only invite people to visit who will clean” the instructor says.
“Don’t let other people hold the baby until they have done a chore for you, like putting on your laundry.”
… Who are these magical people to whom she refers? Being so many miles from friends and family, and having not lived in Edmonton long, we have not yet formed relationships with locals that would willingly adhere to such requests. I’d be too embarrassed to ask, frankly. While we continue awaiting my Canadian Permanent Residency and deal with the ongoing stress of all things immigration (more of an update later in this blog), our loved ones remain either a five hour flight, or nine hour flight away, in Quebec City or England. It’s a long way to send laundry.
It would be safe to say that fear and excitement are increasing daily, in equal measures. Particularly now we are equipped with several hundred nappies (diapers), which ought to last a few days at least? At last, the contents of our house does indicate we are imminently expecting. We’ve got bottles, and clothes and a changing mat, a bassinette, a car seat, baby-wipes in their thousands, blankets and those cute towels that look like animals, we’ve got a bouncy seat, a play mat, a couple of rattley toys and some cuddly ones, and of course an array of colourful baby books to make our first born appear instantly studious.
The majority of all that has been courtesy of baby’s very excited grandparents, to whom we are infinitely grateful. My 18 year old sister bought us a whale-shaped baby bath tub, and a bib that says “Spit Happens.” We are also now the optimistic owners of a cheap manual breast-pump, disposable nipple pads and soothing creams. Glam. Ready.
Truth is, we cannot wait to meet our little one. He’ll undoubtedly turn our worlds upside down but we already love him an unbelievable amount. I’ve never heard a woman say she regrets having children. They all talk about how it changed their lives for the better. They say you can’t imagine the happiness you feel, that it’s different to anything else they ever experienced. We are more than delighted that we’ll have an excuse to be extremely silly in public, and do things deemed socially unacceptable by thirty-something’s who don’t have children.
Christmas, Halloween, birthday parties, doing absolutely anything in the snow – it all becomes a million times more brilliant. Guillaume has perfected many a catchy original jingle over the past five years, which until now have been wasted (very wasted) on my ears alone. Soon his audience will grow, and he’ll be appreciated on a new, more appropriate, level.
It’ll also give us a new reason, the most powerful motivation, to do good things, to be good people, to set an example and work hard to ensure a happy, healthy future for the person (and maybe one day, people) that we are entirely responsible for. We’re bringing him into this world, and from the moment he is born until the day we die, we’ll be on his side, fighting his corner and doing everything we can for his benefit.
It’s one of those one-way things. That unconditional love of a parent. Of course I know it’s not quite that way for everyone. Mothers of serial-killers or people that “don’t get” Monty Python, really do have their work cut out. I’m just saying, we intend to do our best.
I’m already thinking about “World Food Night”… I mean, our kid needs to be three years old minimum for this to begin. But I know it should probably be a mid-week event. Every Wednesday. We write down all the countries in the world onto little bits of paper and mix them up in one of Daddy’s over-sized hats. Our eldest (and eventually they’ll alternate) will pull out a country, and the following Wednesday we will all eat a dish attributed to that place. Additionally, we’ll all be required to learn some basic facts about that country, and we’ll decorate the table with flags and such. And on a world-map we’ll utilise exclusively for this weekly occurrence, we’ll ensure our children know the location. “Aaand next week’s country is… VANUATU! Yaaay!” (Mummy and Daddy might have to do a lot of research.)
Some might suggest this implies we’ll be those types of obsessive, annoying parents who force educational activity into every-day necessities like eating, and will count the pounds of carrots per month our offspring devour to guarantee a substantial enough intake so that likelihood of optical issues arising decreases significantly. …But on the flip-side, I’ve also thought about “Crap Sandwich Sundays” – these will occur once every 4-6 weeks on average, and will be declared on any Sunday directly following a Saturday when Mummy and Daddy might have employed a babysitter in order to go out and get sloshed.
The children will cheer with glee upon hearing news of an upcoming Crap Sandwich Sunday, for it will mean Disney movie marathons, not having to wash, a pyjama day of epic proportions wherein the only sustenance served to keep them alive will be devoid of any nutritional value, and only high in carbohydrates. We’ll slap some chips between some bread, and they’ll be thrilled.
Guillaume’s already thinking about coaching the kids’ baseball team, much like his Dad did with him. He says they’re the happiest memories of his childhood – baseball with his Dad. Ice hockey too. Which his Dad was also really involved in. Guillaume was captain for a while, back when he had that trendy curtains hairstyle, and both ears pierced like Eminem. Guillaume’s Dad died one week before Guillaume’s 14th birthday. He had stomach cancer. That was nearly 18 years ago.
You never can be sure what life might present you with next, even the most predictable of things may not conclude as you hope or assume they will. Positivity is paramount.There’s so much to look forward to, in this rapidly approaching new chapter. We’ll really need to relish every moment of it all.
You might have guessed by its lack of mention until now, that I have not yet written my best-selling novel or Oscar-winning screenplay, or indeed come up with any gobsmackingly dumfounding documentary ideas, as it was enthusiastically implied I would, in my previous blog. I have, however, been watching some. Most notably, Cowspiracy.
You know a documentary has done a tremendous job when it succeeds in getting its audience to actually make dramatic changes in their life after hearing the messages relayed therein. I’m now a vegan. I’ve been vegetarian for 15 years, although not a very good one. I still ate fish. But pregnancy aversions quickly put a stop to that in the last seven and a half months.
Not eating meat has never been remotely difficult for me, as I always disliked it, even as a young child. I think beef and chicken smell exactly like poo, and (as I stated about 18 months ago in my Calgary to Vegas blog) it has always felt instinctively “wrong” to eat meat. (I wrote that in my Vegas blog because I was drawing a comparison to how I felt about Vegas. On the surface I could get drunk and dance my arse off and be wild and in awe of its magnitude, the lights, the noise, the pulse of the place – but that same deep down gut instinct of “wrongness” was present within me, and I think it was probably to do with greed, money and the use of it. I much preferred knocking back alco-beverages in Nashville.)
The greatest challenge and saddest part of becoming vegan for me, is no longer eating cheese or chocolate. I say ‘no longer’ like it’s been weeks, or months. It’s been days at this point. But I do love cheese. And I do love chocolate. I also love Leonardo DiCaprio, who was Executive Producer of Cowspiracy. I mean, really love him. If Guillaume and I were to divorce one day, it would only be because Leo had expressed an interest. We’d make revolutionary films together, and romantically feed one another ethical super-foods.
I had been thinking about doing the vegan thing for a long time. Being pregnant put me off. I feared it wouldn’t be a healthy choice for my growing fetus. Before I was assigned an OB, my doctor here in Edmonton said iron levels may be a concern – being a pregnant vegetarian, he said, would very likely mean I’d require an iron supplement. He was wrong. I've had zillions of blood tests while pregnant, and each time my iron levels have not only been good, but optimal. Without taking a supplement. (This might have something to do with my pickled beetroot craving in the first trimester.) There’s more iron in some whole grain breads than there is in a small steak. Iron is high in lentils, beans, nuts and all your leafy green vegetables. There’s no need to consume a cow.
So, vegetarianism while pregnant is easy. It doesn’t even warrant contesting. Vegetarian’s still drink milk. My OBGYN told me there would be enough milk on my cereal in the morning to give both baby and me all the protein I would need for the day, and the rest is a bonus. Not to mention that the reason meats are packed with protein in the first place is directly linked to the excessive amount of grain livestock is force-fed for fattening. The protein is in the grain. I think the guidelines on nutrition for pregnant women is really aimed at either those who eat nothing at all and are on the verge of death from anorexia, or those who eat only donuts and fast food washed down with some fizzy drink. The vast majority are getting just what they need and plenty more for their gestating one.
You’ll note it is advised to eat fruits and veggies in vast quantities daily, but never is it recommended to work your way through a farm animal list each week. Meat of any kind simply isn’t necessary.
Going vegan is a different ball game though. Restaurants (particularly in the likes of carnivorous, slightly-misogynistic (irrelevant to diet, but worth mentioning) Alberta, cowboy province) are only just getting on-board with the vegetarian thing. You might find one or two meatless options at your average eatery in this part of Canada, but for dairyless dining, you’ll need to seek out one of the new ‘whacky’ vegan cafes.
If you fancy purchasing a vegan cake from your local Superstore and ask the baker if they have such an item, he'll look at you as if you are the most ridiculous human being he's ever encountered, and the word "no" will barely be audible through his exhaling giggle.
Friends and relatives don’t know how to cater for vegans. It scares them. So they won’t invite you for dinner. They might think you’ll go all preachy if you see them enjoying an egg. They wonder if they should even hang out with you anymore because perhaps you’ve turned into a deluded hippie. (Exaggerating to make for a better-read, in truth, friends are friends – they might disagree with you, but it’s doubtful they’ll ditch you.) Nevertheless, it’s hard for people to understand. They don’t want to understand. They like chicken, they want a beef burger, they love a bit of sausage!
Guillaume is not about to turn vegan. He’s not even vegetarian, sadly. But he’s incredibly supportive of my decision to do it. He even spent time looking up recipes online and printing them out, and during the week he eats just the same as I do, as I cook him those meals. And he loves them. Especially the red lentil curry. (I nailed that one.)
It’s an enormous challenge for a girl in her third trimester of pregnancy, who, after partaking in a strenuous grocery shopping trip, really just wants to chomp on a kitkat by way of a reward. Cheesecake is one of my most favourite things ever. Maltesers with a movie is almost compulsory. I want to put mozzarella on my baked aubergine, I want feta with my olives, and cheddar on my cracker. But it’s all for the greater good. Already, just reminding myself why I have become vegan by visualising those cute little creatures with their bleeding raw udders, lined up by the dozen in tiny cages – suddenly the dairy isn’t so appealing anymore.
I can’t put into words how much I love booze. A cold beer on a sunny day. A home-made experimental cocktail on a Friday evening. A glass of wine while cooking. 12 Sailor Jerry’s on a night out. But I had my last drink in March, before discovering I was pregnant. It was a small red wine on our 14 hour Philippine Airways flight from Manila to Vancouver. Seven months ago. Seven months of sobriety. Not a single drop. And I’ve done it. Of course I’ve done it. Fetal alcohol syndrome is a real thing that no mother wants to risk hating herself for causing. I’ve sniffed Guillaume’s beer bottles a few times, gazed longingly at the wine aisle… But not a smidgen of the good stuff has so much as wet my lips.
My next drink probably won’t be until after I’ve stopped breastfeeding – unless I can pump enough out in advance, to treat myself to one or two at Christmas, or on my 30th birthday… but however long is necessary, I’ll do it. And that’s how I know I can be vegan. It’s for the greater good.
“We’ve been eating meat for thousands of years!” an old man with a west-country accent might sneerily say. In rural Papau New Guinea, less than 50 years ago, people there were still eating each other. Cannibalism was acceptable. The norm. Romans pinned gladiators against warriors with chariots, and tigers. For fun. People kept slaves. Rape and domestic abuse wasn’t even really frowned upon once upon a time. Mass genocide has been committed. We’ve been killing, torturing, and terrorising each other for thousands of years. Does that mean we ought to continue doing so now that we know better?
And we do know better. That deep down gut instinct usually tells the truth. Most of the time, even when we know something’s wrong, we do it anyway. We make an excuse. We argue it out. We dismiss it. Dissociate. Either because there’s some immediate pleasure coming our way, or because it’s easier. We all do it. Every day.
Guillaume traditionally eats a lobster every year on his birthday. Last year we were with family, renting a chalet in Baie St Paul, just north of Quebec City. There were six of us. But about 15 lobsters. My sister-in-law’s boyfriend had put the living creatures into a big pot, which was boiling and steaming. The lobsters seemed to start fighting to escape, and it was making quite a lot of noise. A stone was promptly placed on the lid of the pot, to stop the racket, and cease their desperate attempts to defy this painful death. Muffled sounds could still be heard from within. I actually wanted to cry, but daren’t let anyone know. “They’re just crustacean. Giant crustacean. They don’t have feelings. They don’t feel pain. They don’t love. They don’t think. They’re better off dead. It’ll be over soon. Don’t make a fuss.” All these things were running through my brain, everyone else oblivious to my inner turmoil.
And all of these automatic, unstoppable feelings I experienced long before learning the startling statistics and horrifying facts of agriculture, and the impact it has on our planet. Cowspiracy throws a lot of information at the audience. Accurate, highly researched but dangerously controversial information.
If you’re a person who recycles, worries about your carbon footprint when taking a plane, or fears the decreasing availability of water worldwide – evident even in the USA as California has been struggling for a few years now with shortages, or you feel some amount of guilt for the starving people living on the same planet as we who seek excess, and you believe in the threat of climate change, then it’s important you know some of the following… (all taken from Cowspiracy.com/facts where you can be further startled by numerous other truths)
- Animal agriculture is responsible for 18% of all greenhouse gas emissions, more than the combined exhaust from all transportation.
- Livestock is responsible for 65% of all human-related emissions of nitrous oxide – a greenhouse gas with 296 times the global warming potential of carbon dioxide, and which stays in the atmosphere for 150 years.
- Cows produce 150 billion gallons of methane per day.
- Reducing methane emissions would create tangible benefits almost immediately.
- Animal agriculture water consumption ranges from 34-76 trillion gallons annually.
- Agriculture is responsible for 80-90% of US water consumption.
- 2,500 gallons of water are needed to produce 1lb of beef.
- Almost 900 gallons of water are needed for 1lb of cheese.
- 1,000 gallons of water are required to produce 1 gallon of milk.
- Livestock or livestock feed occupies one third of the earth’s ice free land.
- 2-5 acres of land are used per cow.
- A farm with 2,500 dairy cows produces the same amount of waste as a city of 411,000 people.
- Scientists estimate as many as 65,000 whales, dolphins and seals are killed every year by fishing vessels.
- Animal agriculture is responsible for up to 91% of amazon destruction.
- 1,100 land activists have been killed in Brazil in the past 20 years.
- 70 billion farmed animals are reared annually worldwide. More than six million animals are killed for food every hour.
- We are currently growing enough food to feed 10 billion people.
- 82% of starving children live in countries where the food is fed to animals, and the animals are eaten by Western countries.
Each day, a person who eats a vegan diet saves 1,100 gallons of water, 45 pounds of grain, 30 sq ft of forested land, 20 lbs CO2 equivalent, and one animal’s life.
I recommend you watch Cowspiracy, if you haven’t already, and then you can make your own, informed, decision.
I’m enjoying learning more about food, finding tasty recipes and exploring new options. It’s important that I know about nutrition and how to make sure I am getting all the bits I need for the baby while pregnant, and beyond. It’s exercising my brain, and I feel really good already about this positive change. Never again do I want to cry about the food I am eating.
Will I bring my baby up a vegan? Well, I don’t know about that just yet. I’m going to start with myself first. It would certainly add to the challenges of World Food Night if it all also needs to be vegan, especially if a barbarian eastern European country is pulled out of the hat!
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Word among the Canadian immigration forums is that wait times for Outland spousal applications for Permanent Residency being processed through the London office, have increased – again. We submitted my application in May. Although it’s unlikely I would have worked through the latter part of my pregnancy, and certainly not with a newborn or young baby, living off one income with no financial aid, having had to start from scratch just half a year ago – buying plates and bowls, a cushion here, a $5 coffee table there, paying out bills and making it all work – it’s been a real test.
I won’t legally be allowed to work until I am an official resident, which could well be another year away, or more. I’m not sure the Canadian government, or any government for that matter, has it quite right on all this immigration business. But with all the terror forcing people to flee their homes in Syria and other war-torn, poverty-stricken, troubled countries stretching South and East from that part of the world, we’re quick to be very appreciative of our fortunate situation.
Maybe all that land we use, all that money we spend, all that water we waste, all that air we contaminate, all that “food” (animal carcass) we throw away – maybe instead of continuing this obviously foolish, unsustainable, greedy way of living simply to satisfy taste-buds that have become accustomed to such over the years, we could help to make the world a much, much, much better place for the sake of our future generations… Maybe…