All of you, for the most part, have at least one child. Some, I know, have more, or know they want more, or are pregnant with subsequent kids.

So I’m really curious to know — being pregnant with our second, and last, child — how will you, or did you, decide the age spacing of your children?

We always knew Lucy would be at least 2 before we’d want to be pregnant again. “At least” turned out to be “within days of her second birthday,” but I am loving how it turned out. At 27 months, Lucy is just adorable right now. She’s still controllable, she’s a cute chatterbox, she listens and plays make believe and generally is completely edible. Lately I’ve been saying if I wasn’t already pregnant, I’d want to be.

I’m also loving the seasons of this pregnancy: I went through the real crappy times when it was still cold out, and am now in the energized second trimester in late spring/early summer when I can still easily run after Lucy and garden and paint and travel in the nice weather. This *should* also play out well with transitioning Lucy into a big girl bed, and potty training her this summer.

I also needed to make sure that life could — and would — return to some semblance of normalcy, even if it is a “new normal.” You know, that our evenings would once again be free (Lucy now goes to bed around 7:30 p.m., and sleeps until 7 a.m.), that we could do stuff with and without her, that my sense of self wasn’t lost (just altered) and that the world really does continue to exist and function after kids.

Finally, from a completely selfish, body perspective, I got tired of being in limbo: Knowing that I’d be pregnant and breastfeeding again, that my body would change again, that my boobs would change again. I felt like I couldn’t invest in nice clothes or bras knowing that my body wasn’t done morphing. And working out, in some respects, began to feel a little pointless knowing what was (hopefully) right around the corner.

But I think even if you aren’t able to plan your pregnancies — either they’re surprises or take longer than expected — or you adopt or whatever, whatever the age spacing turns out to be is the right one for your family.

Discuss.

Being the short-term thinker I am, I have yet to fully comprehend that in less than six months there are going to be two children living in my house.

I’m firmly, obliviously entrenched in pregnancy survival mode. It’s sort of nice living in this state of denial.

But the odd time I do let my mind wander into the near future, these are the random things I worry about:

• learning to breastfeed again. My nipples cringe when I even look at nursing bras, remembering how utterly painful the first few weeks were
• sleep. Or better yet, lack thereof. We have been so blessed with Lucy and so comfortable in our freedom from 7:30 p.m. - 7 a.m. that I know this baby is going to kick our asses when s/he arrives. This turns into near panic when I read posts like Mary Lynn’s — then hear it again from Eric (he works with ML’s husband) in the form of Ed’s red, blurry eyes
• two children = four appendages each. Last I checked, despite wishes every night, I only have two hands *sigh*
• baby crap gear clogging up the house. It’s so nice now having Lucy’s toys tucked away beside the sofa out of sight. I think back to the early baby months of swing, bouncy chair, receiving blankets, small trippable toe-stubbing toys and say bye-bye living room
• oh, the screaming and crying around dinner time. Do you remember those?
• Spencer becoming a hermit when he realizes, “ohdeargod there’s another one.”
• Lucy’s reaction in general

But then this afternoon, at the grocery store? There was this frazzled-looking mom, hair in a sloppy pony tail, crusted spit-up down her back wearing mismatched socks, leaning into an infant seat and nibbling on the bare toes of her three-month-old to his gummy-mouthed delight, and I realized all the above doesn’t matter for moments like that one.

Have a great weekend.

Maybe we’ll run into you during the mad dash last-minute-Christmas-shopping mall run?

Yesterday I was out the door at 7 a.m. to catch a bus downtown Toronto for a work board meeting (I was out of the house! In dress pants! And fancy shoes!). I didn’t get home until after 4 p.m., which gave me just a few minutes to scoot home, put on my clunky winter boots, grab the grocery list, then grab Lucy.

After a long and rather frustrating shopping excursion (Deli counter teenager: “Tahiti? You mean like the country Tahiti? In a jar?” Me, incredulous: “No, I mean tahini, the paste you make hummus with.” And Tahiti isn’t a country, you twit, it’s an island in French Polynesia.) we make it home around 6.

A toddler, a ton of wet snow, and six heavy bags of groceries. Fun!

Eric is at his monthly model club meeting, so it’s just us girls and Spencer. I leave the non-perishable groceries strewn at the door along with our wet outdoor gear. We snarf down dinner. Lucy feeds various ornaments on the Christmas tree the plastic eggs from her new stove. We colour.

Just before 7, we head upstairs to get ready for bed. I open Lucy’s door to find four large, foul Spencer poops all over the carpet.

Apparently, the marshmallow snowman Lucy made on the weekend and Spencer ate on Sunday night (he got into a bag while we were out) made a repeat appearance.

This dog is going to be the death of me, if I don’t kill him first.

Lucy spent the night in her future room, what is currently a playroom. I spent the rest of the evening scrubbing up Poop Fest ‘07, putting away groceries and doing dishes.

If I haven’t said it enough here, I bow at the feet of work-out-home mothers. Last night was exacerbated by Spencer, but even aside from that, I was exhausted by the time dinner came. I have so much respect for all mums, no matter what your scenario is, but especially those who do it all while out of the house all day.

It was also a slap-in-the-face reminder of how much I should cherish the job I have. It might be a lot of work, and a lot of discipline and lonely at times, but I don’t know how I’d fare doing yesterday every day…

I made a horrifying discovery last week while shopping for winter boots.

My. Feet. Are. BIGGER.

An entire size. I’m now an 11. Do you know how sucky that is? It’s already hard enough to find size 10s. And really, doesn’t eleven sound gargantuan?

According to the ladies around the Durham Mom’s Night Out table last week, this happens to the best of us post-pregnancy. Almost every lady at the table had her feet either widen or elongate after carrying her little darling.

That made me feel better.

But still. ELEVEN. Gak!

Back in June, I surprised Eric with a date night: His dad came to watch Lucy, while we headed out for some fantabulous Indian food with Chapters and a movie in sight.

Instead, a blackout stretched through most of north Ajax, foiling our evening. We still had a great time, but were left with that lingering disapointment when things don’t go as planned or expected.

Last night we were on the couch watching Superbad. As the movie progressed, my body started to feel achy and tingly — not in a good way. By the end of the night, my throat was sore, my eyes puffy, and I knew by morning Lucy’s cold would have fully taken over.

So, I won’t have any raunchy stories for you Monday (not that I’d share them anyway, what with my parents on the porch this morning, while picking up Lucy, saying, “That was a bit too much information on the blog Thursday, but have fun!”). Instead I’ll be snotting up tissues in between stripping wallpaper, praying that I can taste the delicious Indian food from our favourite restaurant we haven’t had since that fateful day six months ago, and knocking myself out on cold meds so I can be maybe stoned enough to have a good night’s sleep.

And unless Eric takes advantage of a passed out, wheezy, boogery oh-so-sexy-me, there won’t be any open-door nookie at Chex McDougall-Foster tonight.

I think we may be cursed…

One fall evening in 2003, Eric and I were leisurely walking Spencer along the path behind our house in Ajax. I was grappling with this overwhelming urge to have a baby.

Society was whispering in my ear that it was the right time: We had a house in the suburbs, two cars and a dog. We’d been married just a few weeks. It Was Time, wasn’t it?

Luckily, Eric gently, logically and cleverly squashed that idea (too young, too poor, can’t we please have more sex first?). I’m so glad he did, because you really don’t have any idea how life changes with a baby, do you? No matter how much people warn you — and jeezus, didn’t I HATE people telling me this! — about the sleep deprivation, the constant need and supervision, the diapers and laundry and rocking rocking rocking and then chasing chasing chasing, you just have no idea.

And really, it’s not about the sleep loss and time, is it? Those are expected, infinite variables, ones you begrudgingly, painfully readjust your life around. After all, the sperm didn’t just appear at the egg’s door, knocking insistently, persistently, until she peeked outside with the chain across and Mr. Mighty-Swimmer busted inside. No, most of us threw open the door with a welcoming flourish and beckoned with tea and cookies.

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So, how d’yall navigate letting Other People look after your babies?

We’re very fortunate to live really close to my parents, and relatively close to Eric’s dad and brother. They’re great for booking in advance if we want to go out for a long period.

But we’re at the point where it’d be nice if a neighbourhood teen could watch Lucy just for a few hours so we could grab dinner, or sit in the house for the night so we could see a movie.

But I don’t know if I’m comfortable letting a non-relative look after her just yet. I’m sure this is just First Child Syndrome,  as I remember funding my social life by watching kids in my small town — mostly pairs of them, as if the parents had learned to just be thankful anyone would taken their ruffians for a while. I think it’s just that only family have looked after Lucy, so looking elsewhere would be new and scary.

Do you let non-family look after your kids? How old are they? Kids and babysitter, I mean. And what is the going hourly rate for babysitting nowadays?

This morning I weighed 161 lbs. That’s one pound more than the day I got pregnant.

I remember the last OB appointment before Lucy was born, on a shiny and cold Thursday afternoon in late February of 2006. I lumbered on the scale (we are quite like waddling elephants in those last few weeks, hmmm?) and politely asked not to be told the number. The nurse gave me a small smile — those were words she’d obviously heard before. The previous week I topped 200 lbs. I didn’t need any more numbers after that.

Like with many things moms don’t tell you about pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, no one warned me about the body post-partum. How the sight of maternity clothes made you want to barf, but that they’d be all you could wear for a good 8-10 weeks. How after that, your regular clothes were still a dream away. How nothing fit. Nothing.

I wasn’t prepared for the in-between time. I had to buy almost an entire wardrobe while my body slowly took its post-pregnancy shape. Each time a pre-pregnancy top or pair of pants fit again was a cause for celebration. I laugh at thinking of “going back to normal” because there is no going back now, there is no normal. There is only your body after child birth.

That wad of hanging belly flesh that once held life in a beautiful round bubble burst and lies flat. A constant reminder of Lucy — as if her hiccuping laugh and strewn toys and “Mum-Mum-Mum” are not enough. That belly and the ribbed lines that skate across the skin are the mark of motherhood.

I remember being so proud of my rotundness, of peering at my bellybutton each morning waiting for it to pop and letting family members pet Lucy’s foot or head. Do we lift our shirts and compare stretch marks now, our war wounds? Our overhangs that are laughingly dubbed muffin tops?

We should, shouldn’t we?

I weigh the same, but I am not the same. My stretch marks have faded in the last 20 months. They are gray and pink. They smile at me. My belly is soft, yet safe and sturdy. I call it my inner tube because that band of skin is what physically identifies me as a mother.

(It’s also waiting to inflate again. It calls to me. I pull the plug to silence it.)

Was it worth it? Of course.

Please go visit The Shape of a Mother. Be inspired. Take comfort. Love yourself.

That photo was taken not long before we left for the hospital on Feb. 26, 2006, hours before Lucy was born. I’m in labour. Until today, I was too embarrassed to show it.

I’m in the midst of production of the magazine right now, so the spot in my brain where blog ideas normally brew is currently taken up by “structural changes” “overruns” “ad roadmaps” and “godhelpus this doesn’t fit”.

So I will bring you morning nakedness a la Chez McDougall-Foster instead. Happy Thursday.

Each morning, Eric plucks Lucy from her crib, changes her diaper, and brings her back to me in bed where I am curled up around Spencer Dog praying there is a time shift so I can get 2.5 extra minutes of sleep. I’m not a morning person, and although having a baby forces you to get up early every. single. day. it doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.

In order to trick my body into thinking it’s still sleeping, I’ve let Lucy establish the book routine. After she joins me in bed, I play fetch make her run errands ask her to gather a selection of books to read (tell her a title, she’ll bring you the book. Amazing mini-librarian I have here, hmmm?), during which time I doze.

When we finally have six or so, she heaves herself back on the bed and we read. Remember I’m still a vision of half-sleep, all crusty-eyed, mouth guard in place, hair wild, so I’m slurring words and skipping pages with my eyes half open. All the while Lucy is intently following along with nods and smiles, as if to say, “I know you are half in la-la land and your breath stinks and you’re totally making shit up that’s quite clearly not on the page, but I love you anyways.”

As payback, every now and then she reaches down and pulls down the top of my sleeping bra. Jabbing her finger onto my boob, she gives Spencer and I an anatomy lesson: “Buhb-buhb-buhb” and will not stop until I acknowledge her: “Yes, honey, that’s Mummy’s boobie.” Snapping the fabric back in place, she returns to the story without skipping a beat.

Babes, books and boobs. Motherhood at its finest.