For many women, being pregnant is a honeymoon. But for some of us, it sucks.

I’m now at the end of my 17th week and for the first time, I feel more like my usual indomitable self. But the last 4 months have been miserable. And it didn’t help to think that I was perhaps the only pregnant woman in this fecund city to feel this way. Today’s post is dedicated to all those women who, like me, hate being pregnant. You think you’re whiny? Wait till you hear what I’ve got to say!

When I first found out I was pregnant (at approximately 6 weeks), I was shocked. Then thrilled. Oh my God, we were actually going to do this. I’m going to be a Mummy. Crazy! That week, business continued as usual. I’d been training for a half marathon and I decided (in the face of some serious opposition from my family) that I would continue to run as long as it felt good. I had done my research and I didn’t have any of the complications or risk factors that contraindicate running. Plus, it was our time together– just the baby and me. It was wonderful.

Week six was also filled with meetings. With maternity leave looming, I was forced to reassess my business goals and start thinking about finding a replacement, budgets and training. It was exciting. This was also the phase when the pregnancy was secret from everyone but really close family and friends. It boggled my mind that no one could guess my secret. I felt like I slipped up in a million little ways (always running off to pee, looking a little paunchy, calling birthing centres on my lunch break, etc).

Half way through week 7, everything changed. It was as if I hit a wall. At 100 kmph! I slept for 18 hours each day of that weekend. I developed a sudden, raging aversion to most foods. All I was able to get down were some Honey Dijon Kettle chips (and I seldom ate chips before I was pregnant!). Even fruit made me nauseous! I went from being able to do 10k long runs to needing a nap after walking the dog 5 blocks! And I was queasy ALL THE TIME. This whole morning sickness thing is a crock. It’s 24/7. In fact, the only time I felt remotely normal was the first 15 minutes when I woke up, after which it went downhill no matter what I ate or didn’t eat.

The nausea

I didn’t throw up much, thankfully, so I counted myself lucky at first. But the nausea was awful. I had to walk around at a shuffle, holding my still mostly flat belly in an effort to keep everything from sloshing about. I’ve never been seasick, but I imagine that’s what it feels like. It was as if the world had suddenly turned into a ship in gale force winds and it was all I could do to hold on to the rails.

The smells

It’s a bit like being a dog. Except without a dog’s appreciation of odour. I suddenly wanted to vomit when the neighbours held barbecues in the evening. I struggled not to push the dog away because I couldn’t stand how strong she smelled (and she doesn’t actually smell bad at all). I could tell you which cat had hopped into bed with my eyes closed simply from the smell of their anal glands. Oh yes, pregnancy (for me, at least) was one long case of olfactory TMI.

I forbade Pat to wear perfume. I stopped liking the smell of lavender (which I usually ADORE!). I went off my Earl Grey (and eventually grew to dislike the smell of all teas, herbal or otherwise). I tossed several bars of soap and poured shampoo down the toilet because I couldn’t bear the thought of having that smell on me (and I had to shower twice a day because I didn’t like the smell of my own body on the prenatal vitamins I was taking).

The cough

At about this time, I developed a deep, hacking chronic cough. It sounded like I was a 3-pack a day smoker and I was about to pay for my habit by hacking up a lung. You can just imagine how fun this was when combined with the nausea.

The coughing was exhausting. It consumed me (now I know why they called TB “consumption”). If you’re suffering from a similar dry, but deep, honking cough, I’m going to tell you something your doctor probably doesn’t know. It’s most likely not your lungs (it wasn’t mine). You’ve probably got one of two things (possibly both): A postnasal drip: This is apparently common in pregnancy and caused by your body producing extra mucous. This mucous drip-drip-drips down the back of your throat (even though you don’t feel it) and causes an irritation that makes you cough. Then the coughing fuels the irritation until it becomes chronic.

You probably also have undiagnosed acid reflux: I know what you’re thinking, “But I don’t have heartburn!” I know. I don’t either. Despite all the fatty, spicy food I craved, I had no heartburn at all. But the specialist at the Montreal Chest Institute assured me that 40% of reflux sufferers never get heartburn. In fact, it’s surprisingly common for pregnant women to develop a chronic cough because relaxin and estrogen loosen the esophagal sphincter and cause hydrochloric acid from the stomach to rise up the throat. If you happen to breathe in at the time, you can aspirate some of that acid into your windpipe and lungs and boy, nothing will cause a deep wracking cough like that will!

How to tell if you, like me, suffer from reflux-induced coughing?

• It’s usually worse when you lie down.
• It flares up when you drink liquids or eat fruit or after a heavy meal.
• Chest X-rays are clear and your cough doesn’t produce much mucous.
• You have no fever or other signs of an infection.
• You don’t normally have respiratory allergies.

Talk to your doctor. Maybe ask for a referral to a specialist. I say this because neither my GP nor my obstetrician correctly diagnosed my cough, and if I hadn’t insisted on a referral to the Chest Institute, I might still be crying, wondering if I’d suddenly developed an allergy to my animals.

Dreading meal times

How ironic that the one time in your life you’re supposed to gain weight, you want nothing to do with food. I used to dread mealtimes. I actually stopped working, because I would spend my entire day (the bits when I wasn’t napping) obsessing about what to eat next. But not in a, “oh, I really want cheesecake” way. More like a, “do I want soup? YUCK! no. Cake? Oh eww. Salad. NO! I want to barf” etc etc. I’ve always enjoyed food and for the first time in my life, I found myself wishing I could take a pill to make me full.

Lower income, higher expenses

As someone who’s self employed and whose income depends on being an enthusiastic, high-energy, power networker, pregnancy was terrifying. I felt so awful and low-energy, the idea of going to an event made me cry. Literally. I bailed on presentations (I had to; until the cough was correctly diagnosed and I was using antacids, I could barely string two sentences together before collapsing in a fit of hacking). I turned away lucrative radio hosting gigs at the CBC. I cancelled client meetings and stopped accepting new clients and writing gigs. My income plummeted. My husband had to sit me down and point out that I rock at my job and that this was just a temporary setback. Obviously this prompted more crying. But it was nice to have someone believe in me.

At the same time, my restaurant bill skyrocketed because I had neither the energy nor the imagination to cook. Plus, my aversions were so strong  and so fickle that sometimes I’d have a glimmer that maybe I wanted to eat… say a piece of garlic bread, and by the time I got to the grocery store 15 minutes later, the idea of garlic bread would make me want to heave. So I ate out at whatever place caught my olfactory fancy when I was hungry. It was the only way I could bring myself to eat anything at all.

Please don’t ask me if I’m excited!

Perhaps the most challenging part was the public face of the pregnancy. I decided pretty early on to let the cat out of the bag. Mostly because I’d become a social recluse (so not like me!) and was turning away work and canceling gigs. People’s faces would light up, “Oh, you must be so excited!”

Yeah. Super. Have waited for exhaustion, a reflux-induced cough and 24/7 nausea my whole life. La vida loca. Hurray.

It made me feel like a shitty person. And I had moments of HUGE, gut wrenching despair. On more than a few occasions, I seriously considered getting an abortion. I wanted out. Now. I was also ashamed of all the times I’d secretly judged women who’d had complicated pregnancies, assuming it was something they had done (or not done). “It could never happen to me because I’m so healthy and take such good care of myself.” Yeah, SO not true. It’s a total fucking crapshoot. I know women who are unfit, overweight, and smokers who have gorgeous, glowing pregnancies that reaffirm their faith in life and love.

And then there’s women like me.

Because you’re out there, aren’t you? I’m not all alone, panicking about my ability after all this discomfort to attach to this child? It’s not just me who’s terrified that I can’t trust my body (the way I always did) to deliver this child without complications? To nurse and love this baby? Am I the only person who has had her faith in everything she’d assumed about herself as a mother wrenched from her grip and shattered on the floor?

If this is you, know that there’s at least one other pregnant lady who is having her world rewritten right now. And that there’s plenty of help and hope out there. 

I’ve outlined some of the things that helped me in my next post.

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I can’t say that I knew Jack personally, but we met on more than one occasion when I worked in TV for CBC. What struck me most about him was his amazing vitality. The man practically crackled with vigour! And I enjoyed our conversations about the environment and the steps needed to make Canada greener.

He struck me as a no bullshit, straight-up kinda guy. And all the stories that are flooding the internet today seem to underline this fact.

My favourite memory of Jack is from eight years ago. I had just moved to Canada and knew precious little about the state of affairs politically. I was watching Peter Mansbridge on The National and there was a piece about the NDP (possibly because Jack had just been elected its leader). The piece mentioned Jack’s commitment to the environment, and one of the cutaways they used featured him riding his bicycle to work. And I thought, “Now there’s a guy I’d vote for.”

Jack Layton was the first Canadian politician to cross my radar and it made me proud and grateful to be living in this gorgeous country.

The man had charisma, but he also had big ideas. And the energy and commitment to back them up.

My friend Cheryl shared a personal story on my Facebook wall this morning about when she met Jack in person:

He came out to support the creation of a 22km bike path in Vancouver by riding it with us in the pouring rain. That’s commitment: no public to see it, just a few wet public transit activists and Jack.

My heart breaks that we lost him so young. Especially when Canada needs people like him more than ever.

“My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.”
All my very best,
Jack Layton, 1950-2011

For those of you who are hearing about Jack for the first time, here’s his final letter to the country he loved so much.

Naming one’s baby is always a challenge. But being a mixed culture, mixed language couple in Quebec presents its own special complications.

Before we got pregnant, we thought we had it all figured out. We’d picked out two names, “Sasha” and “Charlie”. Both are unisex and we particularly loved the idea of naming a boy Sasha or a girl Charlie.

Of course, now that we are actually in a position to use those names, they suddenly ring false.

I’m at 13 weeks right now, so we don’t yet know the baby’s gender. But we hope to find out at 20 weeks (and I’ll be sharing it here on the blog). “But don’t you want it to be a surprise?” some might ask. Yes I do. It’s going to be a surprise in another 7 weeks. I mean, it’s not like I have any control over the outcome. Now or in nine months– what’s the big deal?

And believe me, I’m going to be plenty glad to see the sprog emerge from my birth canal regardless of whether or not I have knowledge of its gender. I respect those who choose not to find out, but I wanna know. And so does Pat.

Plus, we’ll need all the time we can get to figure out this name thing. Read on and you’ll see why…

First, a little background:

We live in Quebec. Which means that by law, we each keep the last name we were born with. Even though Pat and I are married, I’m not allowed to take his last name. Yeah, not allowed. I can’t even pay for the privilege.

So there isn’t, strictly speaking, a “family” name in Quebec. Most mothers give their kids their husband’s or partner’s last name. Or they hyphenate.

Which brings me to our quandry.

I’m pushing for the kid to take Pat’s last name i.e. Blain.

NOTE: This surprises me. Before we got pregnant, I felt a real pride to live in a province that assigns the mother’s last name as the child’s default surname. How very progressive! As a feminist, I loved the idea that the kids could carry the mother’s last name just as easily as the father’s. And why should the mother be the only member of the family to have a different last name?

Meanwhile, Pat’s pushing for the kid to take my last name i.e. Nadkarni.

Here’s why:

1. Pat is estranged from his family and doesn’t care to have the name passed on. He claims he feels closer to my family and therefore wants to propagate the Nadkarni name because, as he puts it, we Nadkarnis know how to create and maintain family.
2. Since I’m the oldest of three girls and the only one living in a culture that truly gives you a choice when it comes to picking your child’s surname, Pat feels that I’m in the best position to pass on the Nadkarni name.
3. It’s got rhythm. (Whatever).

We don’t want to do double-barreled because:

• No one from either culture will ever be able to spell/pronounce it correctly.
• What happens when they want to have kids of their own?

And that’s just the last name. Now we come to first names. 

You’ll notice that Charlie and, perhaps to a lesser extent, Sasha are Western names. Which means they sound silly when paired with “Nadkarni”. Well, Sasha Nadkarni sounds okay, I guess. But Charlie Blain. Now there’s a name with sex appeal. A stage name. I like it! Especially if Charlie’s a girl!

Here’s a further wrinkle: whatever name we pick has to work in both French and English because that’s the environment the child will be raised in.

For some reason, everybody seems to think I’m having a girl. This is total heresay. We really won’t know for another 7 weeks. But now we’ve added a third name to the list: “Nila”.

I was pushing for “Nina”, but Pat really loved “Nila” and I must admit, I think it’s a great name. Now I think “Nila Blain” sounds gorgeous. Half-Indian, half Quebecois. Just like the kid herself. But Pat won’t hear of it. He is still stubbornly pushing for Nadkarni.

Other names I really like that Pat has vetoed: “India” for a girl and “Max” for a boy. *sigh*

So what do you think? If you’ve got kids, and especially if you grappled with the whole double-barreled thing, how did you make your decision? Help!

Did the ultrasound technician just call me fat? (and other stupid stories that could only happen to me)

I went in for my 12 week ultrasound earlier this week. It was exciting, because I’d been following the baby’s progress on my new favourite iPhone app, “BabyBump Pregnancy Pro”. Apparently, the baby had doubled in size the previous week and was beginning to flex its limbs. As you already know, a lot of the joy of this pregnancy has been overshadowed by the 24/7 nausea and chronic cough I’ve been struggling with. So, I couldn’t wait to see the wee sprog that was causing all this havoc!

Pat and I get to the waiting room where I abandon any pretense at grace and throw myself into the corner chair closest to the fan (Montreal’s been suffering a heatwave lately and as I write this, the humidex reads 43 Celcius and climbing!). Unfortunately, the way the oscillation was set meant that the fan turned coyly away just before I got anything but the barest whisper of breeze.

Am I giving you the impression that I’ve turned into a raging, unreasonable, overheated crankypants? Good. Because you have no idea!

Adding insult to injury was the couple sitting opposite us. She was gorgeous. Tall, blonde, pencil slim and perfectly made up. She wore high heels and a lovely  ruffled wrap-around dress with a belt that cinched just above the cutest little bump. If you weren’t looking, you might not even realize she was three months along. (Eavesdropping? Who me?)

Meanwhile, I felt approximately as together as a drunk juggler with Parkinson’s on stilts.

When it was our turn for the ultrasound, I lay down on the bed while the technician smeared cold jelly on my belly. Pat made himself comfy in a chair next to the monitor and we both squinted eagerly at it. Nothing. I’ve seen more meaningful images while lying in the grass in Parc Lafontaine and staring at clouds.

“Hmm,” said the technician, pressing down firmly on my uterus, causing me to be VERY glad I’d taken a pee break five minutes before.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pat.

“Well,” said the technician, practically skewering me with the ultrasound wand. “We’re not getting a clear image.”

“How come?” I asked.

“It must be your skin. Or something,” replied the technician, tapping furiously at keys on her console with one hand while pressing down harder still with the wand.

“Some people are just not echogenic. Usually it’s obese women. You know, because of the abdominal fat. But you’re the worst case I’ve ever had.”

Did the technician just call me fat?

“Am I really that fat?” I ask.

“No, no. In fact, when the patient walks in, I always have my fingers crossed that she’ll be slim. So when I saw you, I was really happy. But you’re a tough case.”

Okaaay?

If you’re a woman who’s had an ultrasound, you probably know what happened next. Yup. We had to do what’s called an “endo-vaginal” ultrasound. This is just clever doctor-speak for sticking a sizeable ultrasound wand up your wazoo and waving it about in an attempt to get a clearer shot of the fetus.

Let’s just say it’s not how Barry White would have played it.

Pat, meanwhile, thought it was totally hilarious.

I had to admit it was all pretty funny, but was terrified to laugh because the baby was lying on one side of my bladder and the wand was poking about on the other. I was one cough away from really giving the technician a story to tell on her lunch break.

After 45 minutes of prodding and jiggling (the baby kept moving about and not displaying the angle we needed) the technician managed to get a nice shot of the back of the baby’s neck (in order to measure the nuchal ligament, one of the key indicators of Down’s Syndrome). Everything appeared to be normal.

And at the very end, the baby graced us with a particularly clear image of him (or her) lying on his back sucking his thumb.

Aww.

And suddenly it was all worth it. Well, I still glared at Little Miss Perfect Bump on the way out, as I slapped by in my sensible flip flops, but I wasn’t nearly as cranky as I was before.

Being pregnant makes me like/do weird things. So I started making a list.  I’d love to hear your stories (or those you’ve witnessed with a partner, friend or relative). Pregnancy is funny, no? 

You know you’re pregnant when…

… you have  a semi-erotic dream about Daniel Craig where he’s topless and you’re having a beach picnic and you’re more interested in his lunch than his lunchbox.

… you’re allowed to eat extra and develop a gut and all of a sudden, you no longer like food.

… you have epic dreams where you set off on a quest to save the world and somehow they always lead you to a grocery store. (And then you wake up at 3 am and realize you’re starving).

… you start hating some of your favourite smells: barbecue, bacon, books….

… you’re able to tell your cats apart when they hop into bed with you without opening your eyes, simply by their scent. Like of their anal glands. Pregnancy is one long period of olfactory TMI.

… you have to have two showers a day because you can’t stand the smell of your own sweat mixed with the vitamins you’re taking.

… you threaten your spouse with grievous bodily harm if they touch your Perrier. (And you used to hate bubbly water!)

… not eating and eating both make you nauseous.

… you go on an independent film shoot where you’re doing a cameo involving eight short lines of script. They have to do 10 takes and finally shoot the scene in chunks of two lines each. Your brain is toast.

… you’re hosting a live radio program and you forget the name of your guest’s documentary film. You know, the one you invited him on the show to talk about…

… you spend the entire day obsessing about food, not because you’re hungry all the time, but because almost everything you used to like to eat makes you want to barf.

… you eat Dr Oetker’s frozen pizza for breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-between snacks for an entire week.

… you throw your pregnancy nutrition books in a corner in a rage because you never want to read the sentence, “this is a time when it’s vital to eat a balanced, healthy diet,” again.

… tiredness, when it hits you, is so complete that you sometimes feel like you might have to take a taxi from the corner of your street to your home.

… your flatulence could be considered biological warfare. Your spouse is terrified to turn over in bed lest he disturb the covers. Even the dog leaves the room.

… your internal spellcheck is broken. You start writing (and often speaking) like you’re a special needs ESL student.

… you start hearing “Only three months? Wow, you’re huge.” And you want to murder the bastards. (Why? Why does it make me so mad?)

… you, who have grown up in the tropics, suddenly can’t bear to have the sun touch your skin. Anything about 22 C is “too hot”.

… when you’re hungry and you finally manage to figure out exactly what you’re craving and then eat it, food has NEVER tasted so good!

… you eat a half litre container of spicy stuffed olives in one sitting. And you seriously contemplate going to the market to get more.

… you don’t fit into any of your clothes, despite the fact that the scales say you’ve been the same weight for the last two months! HOW?

… you get exhausted from walking 5 blocks, when, only days before, you were training for a half marathon and were able to run 30k a week.

… you know where the toilets are. Always.

… you have  a craving, and in the 15 minutes it takes you to walk to the grocery store, the very idea of that particular food makes you sick.

… nothing surprises you any more.

… you gleefully put on dresses that you’ve previously avoided because you had to suck in your gut.

… you are waddling down the street, feeling bloated and overheated and you get more wolf whistles than you’ve ever gotten in your life!

… you finally have awesome boobs, but they’re so sore  your spouse is not allowed to touch.

Pregnancy. Nine months of realizing you’re no longer in control (if you ever were). It’s been… humbling. Would love to hear other people’s lists. Just complete the sentence, “You know you’re pregnant when…” or “You know your wife/partner/friend/relative is pregnant when…” and leave it in the comments for all to enjoy!

I realize that bedtime stories are still a few years away, but I’ve got a plan. Things are going to be very different around the Bladkarni house when it’s sleepytime!

I’ve noticed that here in Canada (and in the Western world in general) there seems to be a sort of common bedtime ritual. The kid is tucked into his or her bed. Mommy or Daddy then reads them a story (or four) until the tiny tyrant falls asleep.

But this isn’t how storytime worked in my house when I was growing up. And I most certainly plan to continue the Nadkarni tradition when our own creature is old enough!

In the Nadkarni household, circa 1987, my Dad came up with a brilliant scheme. Instead of tucking his three daughters into their beds at the end of the day, we had to tuck Dad into his own bed. Then two of us would massage his feet while the third (usually the youngest and lightest) walked up and down his back. While we massaged, my Dad would tell us original serial stories. If the kneading stopped, the story stopped.

We had a series about Polugaevsky, a Russian spy (who was a good guy). Or sometimes a retold Biggles adventure, with wild bits of colour from various other sources added. Once in a while, Dad would tell us a “Peewee Dragon” story. Peewee dearly wanted to breathe fire, but unfortunately, all he could do was breathe farts. This was a special treat for my youngest sister, Sammy, who would laugh till she couldn’t breathe when my Dad did the farty sound effects.

Our favourite series of all time was about the Killer Monkeys, an army of psychotic, murderous simians who’d been bred to carry out the bidding of the evil Dr Rodney L’Esperance. How could you tell a killer monkey from a regular one? Why, the beady unblinking eyes of course. *Note: That summer must have been a long one for my poor mother because we sisters created all sorts of trouble by staring unblinkingly at each other (especially after dark) and freaking ourselves out.

Storytime would usually end when my Dad fell asleep. We would then cover up his feet (making sure to tuck the sheets under his heels the way he liked) and traipse off to our own room where we would lie in our bunk beds and dissect that day’s story arc. The final ingredient to the ritual was when, after hearing us gossiping for more than 15 minutes, my mother would storm into our bedroom and threaten to send us off to boarding school if we didn’t shut up and go to sleep.

As you have probably surmised, my Dad is a genius.

His system is brilliant on many levels:

1. Giving massages is almost as calming as getting them. So we had a predictable, soothing physical action to prepare us for bedtime. Plus, it gave us a great way to physically bond, which is always a little more awkward for fathers and daughters.

2. A fair exchange: I remember I once asked why we never got the foot rubs. Dad said, “I work hard to provide for you kids. Plus, I’m telling you a story. By massaging me, you’re showing me that you love me and you’re taking care of me.” This made me feel really proud.

3. Creating family culture: Because the stories we were told were totally original, my Dad and sisters and I have a whole bunch of cultural references that are uniquely our own. Memories we call up to this day (Sammy still delights in farty sound effects!). Sure we got into a few scraps over the whole beady eyes thing, but it created a level of intimacy that I’m not sure we’d otherwise have.

4. Creating storytellers: Listening to my Dad pull stories out of thin air really made me want to do it. And since I was a kid who didn’t know enough to fear failure, I did. I was my class storyteller. Every time a teacher was absent, my classmates would holler for me to head to the front of the class and tell them a tale. It’s a lot harder than rubbing feet, let me tell you!  I confess I have nowhere near the mental organization and memory that my Dad had, but I really enjoyed the process. And that joy and sense of possibility have never left me.

5. Umm, free massages? Yeah, I am SO looking forward to being a parent!

What is impending motherhood supposed to feel like? For me, it’s an airport feeling…

It’s the same feeling I get when it’s 4 am and my alarm goes off because I have to go catch a flight to somewhere exciting. The world is still asleep, oblivious to my mounting excitement.

There’s a definite push-pull happening inside me: A part of me just wants to turn over and go back to sleep, back to the warm comfort of before. This part of my psyche gibbers about plane crashes and exotic bugs and things left undone. “Why risk it?” the voice wants to know. “Your life is so perfect the way it is.”

Meanwhile, an equally strident part of me is packed and waiting. “Let’s go, let’s go.” Okay, that voice might actually belong to Pat, who, though not a morning person, manages to get fully dressed and ready to leave in the time it takes our stovetop espresso maker to brew his morning cuppa.

One of the things I’m most looking forward to about parenthood is the self discovery. A wise friend of mine (and mother of three) once said to me, “You’ll get a lot more out of being a mother if you listen more than you talk.” These are words I intend to live by. She told me story after story of how, when one of her boys asked, “Mama, why does this happen?” she’d resist the urge to give him the adult-approved logical answer and instead ask, “Well, why do you think this happens?”. The answers she got changed her way of looking at the world forever.

Isn’t that why we want to become parents? To experience that sense of being reborn? Of seeing the world with a renewed sense of quirkiness and wonder? I know it’s the part that I’m looking forward to the most.

All right, the cat’s out of the bag: I’m pregnant. And despite what a whole industry’s worth of books would have you believe, it’s hard to know what to expect when you’re expecting!

Being pregnant is a study in mixed emotions. The shock when I first found out (I was convinced my period was late because I was training for the half marathon and I’d upped my running by a good 15k a week). There was the moment where I felt like a proper idiot when I botched the first pregnancy test I took (peed on the stick too long apparently; result: “Void”).

There was that amazing period of heightened intimacy with Pat when we realized that we were on the adventure of a lifetime and only the two of us were in on the secret. (I think the dog suspected something, but a few biscuits bought her silence.)

There was the forehead slapping when we realized I’d signed up (and paid a non-refundable $75) to enter the Oasis half marathon in September. Although I fully intended to keep running, it was unlikely that I would be able to double my long runs to meet the 21K requirement while carrying the sprog.

There was incredulity when, seemingly overnight, I went from being able to run 30K a week to barely being able to walk the dog 5 blocks before needing a nap. I was nauseous ALL the time. I think the only time I wasn’t nauseous was the first 15 minutes in the morning when I woke up. Exactly the opposite of what all my pregnancy books said would happen! Just goes to show: Everyone’s different.

And God must be a man!

Here are my arguments:

1. Although I eat an extremely healthy diet usually (no sugar, few refined carbs, lots of organic meat and veggies), I seemed to be averse to most foods. All I managed to get down in the first few weeks were a handful of potato crisps (and they had to be the spicy Honey Dijon kind) and some toast and peanut butter. Greens made me want to puke. And when Pat offered me a piece of what must have been the sweetest watermelon of the season, I nearly ran to the bathroom! So, at a time when (according to all the aforementioned pregnancy books) a woman should eat an extremely healthy diet rich in folic acid (i.e. greens), my body absolutely refused to cooperate! And this, apparently, is normal.
2. Exercise, particularly running, had become my favourite form of stress release. It was when I thought and meditated about my problems, goals and plans. All of a sudden (and while I was eating mostly chips), I no longer had the ability to burn off my frustration.
3. Possibly the most frustrating symptom of all was the chronic cough that I developed. It’s a dry, wheezy hacking that makes me sound like I smoke a pack before breakfast (though I’ve never touched a cigarette in my life) and exacerbates the nausea. Diagnosis: a post nasal drip. Possibly gastric reflux. Cause: Pregnancy! How is this fair? I’m already exhausted and nauseous and can barely function. Do you really have to add a chronic cough that gets worse every time I lie down?

I presented my theological hypothesis to my doctor at the Montreal Chest Institute and I must admit, Dr Olivenstein had a compelling counter argument: “I don’t think God is a man. No man wants to see a woman this miserable. I think God is gender neutral.”

All right then. But he/she has a pretty twisted sense of humour!

*Note: You might have inferred from the title of this post that I’m religious or believe in intelligent design. I consider myself more spiritual than religious, and am a firm believer in evolution. Just so we’re clear. But I also love the way my parents reconciled the existence of god with Darwin’s views: Even if we evolved from unicellular beasties, God (or the universe or whatever) must have created whatever it all started from.

Plenty of room for wonder and skepticism to coexist.

But I digress. For all my bitching, I must confess that there have been many glorious gifts this pregnancy has already brought. And I’m not just referring to the awesome maternity jeans skirt my neighbour dropped off. Here’s a very, very incomplete list:

1. I feel more in love with Pat than perhaps at any other time in our relationship. There’s a sense of togetherness that I’m not sure we’ve had before. A sense of being a unit. I think the idea of having a baby to save a relationship is about as sound as Stephen Harper’s policy on arts funding, but if your relationship is already pretty good, things will likely escalate to awesome.
2. I’ve loosened up. About a lot of things. I still worry about world population and the environment (Pat and I debated long and hard about the ethics of bringing another child into an already overpopulated world, and we have decided that any subsequent kids will be adopted), but overall, I think I see more magic around me. I’m better able to appreciate how much joy a child can bring even to a passerby. I’m excited about seeing the world through a fresh pair of eyes. At a time when I thought I’d be more dogmatic than ever (I’m still sure we’re going to use cloth diapers) I find myself loosening up. Not sweating the small stuff any more. Does this mean I’m selling out? Or does it mean I’m growing up? I can’t tell.
3. I’ve had some incredible conversations with friends about values and society and the kind of world we want to live in. A couple of close girlfriends are pregnant too and the sense of sharing and support we’ve created for each other is incredibly precious to me.
4. The physical symptoms have made me a humbler, more compassionate person. I’ve had no choice. I have to recognize my limits have changed. I have developed an incredible radar for my fellow pregnant ladies and if I ever see an exhausted-looking woman with a small poochy belly on the metro, I immediately leap up and offer my seat. Nothing teaches you empathy like 24/7 nausea and fatigue. Good training for a future mama, no?
5. Because I have to stay relatively drug-free (and I’m paranoid about using even approved drugs), I’ve had to look for alternative ways of coping with my chronic cough. A week ago, I’d gotten to breaking point where, in tears, I pondered whether I should move to India for the next seven months to avoid the cats, pollen or whatever was causing the cough. Then Pat suggested meditation. And to my great surprise, it worked! 15 minutes of sitting still with my eyes open, paying attention to the present moment and quieting my breathing has worked better than any medicine I’ve taken for this cough. Those include the hard core cough suppressants I’d used before I got knocked up. Thanks Pat. And thanks baby, for teaching me something new. Even when I didn’t want to learn it.
6. I’ve also been moved by how certain family tensions that I worried would never be resolved were shelved once we announced our news. I am really grateful to the folks involved for being bigger people than I’ve been able to be, and for reaching out with offers of support and sympathy. I’m so very lucky to be surrounded by such an incredible cross-continental support network.

This is but the beginning of a wonderful adventure. And I’m all in!

1. I love animals in general and am a staunch supporter of animal rights- especially when it comes to animal testing. That said, if you had to put a gun to my head and make me choose a favourite species, it would be cats.

Elvis (left) and his late brother, Steenki sunbathe under Pat's desk lamp

2. I was vegetarian for 3.5 years but had to quit because my body decided it liked eating meat! It was devastating. I’m still not entirely at peace with the idea, but I had gained weight (20lbs!), lacked energy and was falling sick constantly despite eating a diet rich in plant-based protein, whole grains and with a miniscule amount of processed food. Eating meat, especially organic red meat, turned my health around so fast, my head is still spinning!

3. During the time I was a vegetarian, I fed our animals raw meat. My Jean Talon Market butcher, from whom I frequently purchased bison meat and organic chicken, thought I was totally loco. Steenki, Elvis, Lucie and I even got ourselves in the Montreal Gazette!

4. Speed walking is my favourite form of exercise.

5. That said, I also enjoy hiking, jogging, yoga and pilates.

6. Several months ago, following a weird incident on the Montreal metro system, Pat and I started taking krav maga classes. We decided that with our inability to walk past injustice, it would be best if we could defend ourselves (as well as those we purpoted to help). Sometimes you have to learn how to fight to be a good pacifist!

7. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Economics and a Graduate Diploma in Advertising and Marketing.

The ultimate gazingus pin! Teatime brooch by Etsy seller, Lupin

8. All the capitals in the above sentence annoy me too!

9. I have a weakness for (amongst other things) handmade felt brooches.

10. I have never had my IQ tested. And never want to. Because I’d hate to find out I’m not as smart as I think I am.

11. Although both Pat and I work in the media, we decided to cut our cable. It’s been three months now and although I don’t think we ever watched a ton of TV (certainly at least half  the North American average of 26 hours a week! Yikes!), we find that we now have TONS more time. To read, cook, cuddle, walk with the dog and knit!

The wonderful "Forest Canopy Shawl". Designed by Susan Lawrence, knitted by moi!

12. Yes, yes, I’m a knitaholic. Seldom does a day pass without me picking up my needles. Right now, I’m working on a shrug, a pair of sparkly pink socks and a third version of the lace shawl in the photo.

13. Although knitting takes tons of time (and isn’t always cheaper than buying a new factory-made garment), there are many things I love about the craft: For example, it is an intensely meditative and creative process. Even folks who’ve been knitting for 30 years speak of the thrill of looking at a finished object and thinking, “I made that! From nothing but sticks and string! Me! I made it!”

14. Contrary to the popular belief, I think that knitting doesn’t TAKE patience, it BUILDS it. I no longer fret when I just miss the metro. Now I have 6 minutes of knitting time! This is especially useful for restlessly creative types who hate the thought of wasted time. Plus, it’s a profound gift to see proof that small actions (one stitch at a time) can add up to big, complex, beautiful things. Just like life.

15. I also enjoy sewing–both by hand and by machine. And Pat won “The Best Husband of the Year 2008″ award by buying me my very own Kenmore sewing machine. I love him!

At the park with Lucie. Power walking is the one form of exercise that doesn't require endless amounts of psyching beforehand!

16. I am a morning person. I love mornings– especially the hushed early hours when the light is soft and the world seems more peaceful. I usually wake up cheerful and full of beans. I’ve been assigned all morning dog walks as punishment. (Don’t tell Pat, but I love it!)

17. If you don’t already hate me after reading the previous point, here’s something that’ll probably push you over the edge: I can fall asleep within 5 minutes of my head hitting the pillow. I can also sleep on planes, trains and in odd positions. Just a side benefit of growing up in the developing world.

18. I’m never offended when people ask me where I’m from. In fact, for the longest time I thought first, second and subsequent generation Canadians (of colour) were being overly sensitive when they bristled at the question. It was only when I became close with a Canadian-born friend of Indian descent that I realize how galling it must be when the answer, “From here”, is merely greeted with a second question: “No really, where are you from?”

19. The above question became the inspiration for an entire episode of Mashup, a radio show I hosted last summer on CBC Radio One. It’s being repeated this summer (2009) and you can also check it out online. No podcast, unfortunately–just streaming!

20. Where I grew up (Mumbai, India), winter used to be an overnight low of 18 degrees Celsius. In the afternoons, temperatures would often climb as high as 30 C. Yup. That was WINTER! So I had one sweater, and honestly, it was more cute than warm.

21. Last winter (my sixth in Montreal), I walked to work at least three times a week. One hour and fifteen minutes (about 6km). In the snow. Even when the temperatures hit -20 and below.  And it felt wonderful! A good down coat and warm boots made all the difference. It was the first time I didn’t care when spring came.

Throwing Lu's squeaky toy in the snow is the worst: you're standing still and freezing while she runs herself into a steaming froth. Satisfying and fun though!

22. Come on! For a girl from Mumbai, the above fact counts for at least 2 entries. I did what even some born and bred Quebecois are scared to do! I embraced winter. And it loved me back.

23. My first high profile job in TV was presenting the weather. That’s right: child of the tropics tells you how to dress when it’s -40 with the windchill. Irony, they say, is good for the blood.

24. Arundhati Roy’s “The God of Small Things” is one of my favourite books of all time.

25. As an Indian citizen (still), I practically need a visa to go to the toilet! Literally: I’ll be transiting through New York on my way to Peru and I actually have to go through a rigorous interview and application process (and spend some $145) on a US transit visa. Thank the powers that be that you’re Canadian!