Carly: help! what’s the name of that greek pastry i like, with the pistachios? the name is on the tip of my tongue…

emcdougall: uuuuh…uummmm

Carly: well. you are SO helpful

emcdougall: gyro

Carly: dude

emcdougall: drawing a blank too…

Carly: baklava!

emcdougall: yes! balaclava!

Carly: don’t forget to find your contacts. there, i reminded you TWICE

emcdougall: ?

Carly: you asked me last night to remind you

emcdougall: you’re an idiot

Carly: (pounding floor above Eric’s head with her foot) that was me CRUSHING YOUR HEAD

emcdougall: I think you broke the house

Lucy, in her never-ending quest to make Eric a manic-depressive father with her “NO DADDY!”/peeing-pant love giggles because he just launched her up the stairs like a rocket attitude, has a new weapon.

A few weeks ago, we were practicing the I love you sign, while saying it out loud. Lucy would do the sign and say the words to me, but not her father. Because she’s a jerk like that.

I turned to her and said, “Honey, we love Daddy very much. He’s your one-and-only Daddy! Daddy’s very special.”

The exasperating/completely illogical part of her toddler brain zoned in on the last part of that sentence. Adding her own condescending tone in the exact right spot (completely un-taught, I swear), she repeated, “Daddy veehhhdddy special,” while nodding her head sadly at him.

I spat milk across the table. Eric gaped at her.

And so it began.

Now she says it to him ALL THE TIME. At the most appropriately hilarious times, too. If Eric drops something: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” If he stubs his toe: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” After goodbye kisses in the morning: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

Because Eric is The Adult, and because you can’t reason with a 2.5-year-old, and because he’s a boy and he’s Eric, my husband has started arguing with her.

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

And so it goes, on and on and on, neither of them willing to let the other win. It’s hilarious for the first 10 seconds, then I feel like I’m at a tennis match simultaneously refereeing a pair of 5-year-olds. This exchange often happens first thing in the morning when I’m still in bed and Eric’s changing Lucy’s diaper. They usually stop when I hoarsely yell, “Ohforgoodnesssake, enough already!”

They’re both very special. And stubborn. And best friends.

Last Wednesday I just got home from seeing Carl when the phone rang.

It was my doctor’s office. They were insistent to see me the next day. About my ultrasound, the receptionist said. But it wasn’t anything to worry about, the receptionist said. But yes, I had to come in, even though I was officially transferring to the doctor/obstetrician who will deliver this baby and had an appointment with her the very next day, the receptionist said.

That phone call broke me. I lost it. The stress of work, Eric’s continuing job search, other drama, pregnancy — all of it converged with that phone call. Eric was at his brother’s in Toronto, but came flying home (as fast as one can up the Don Valley Parking Lot Parkway during rush hour) when I called him practically incoherent and sobbing.

(I called my boss and negotiated a break for a few days. Mom’s night out that evening helped immensely. A four-day hiatus from the computer and various fun-ness with Eric and Lucy meant this morning I woke nearly normal and less stressed. Thankfully.)

The short version of Thursday’s appointment was this: My prenatal testing showed a higher-than-normal ratio for my age for Down syndrome; mine was for a woman 34, not 29. Although the overall results pointed conclusively to negative, my cautious doctor didn’t like the number — so this afternoon, we went to the Oshawa hospital for a Level 2 ultrasound to get confirmation that everything is, indeed, all good.

And it is.

And I was completely proven wrong and utterly shocked to learn that Lucy is going to have a little sister.

Our week goes like this:

• Monday-Wednesday, Lucy is at Julia’s (our home daycare provider) from 8-4:30-ish
• Thursday, Lucy is at my Mom and Dad’s
• Friday she is home with me (and, currently, Eric)

By the time mid-morning Thursday comes — especially since I’ve been out Wednesday night with the girls and only see Lucy for a few hours — I’m really missing my daughter. I’m aching for her to arrive home from her Nana’s, and for Friday morning to come so we can start our day.

Except Thursday nights are often…difficult. Lucy is almost always riled up, high on grandparent love and attention and treats, and also excited to be reunited with us. So she usually comes back to Chez McDougall-Foster blazing around like she’s got a fire cracker up her arse, running and yelling and squealing and laughing and not listening.

I’ve dubbed this time Thursday Night Toddler Terror.

Did I mention this is almost always around 7-ish? The time that we’re normally getting her ready for bed? Hahahaaaaa, *sob*

I don’t for a milisecond blame my parents, nor would I ever want to change the Thursday arrangement. All three of them adore their day together, look forward to it all week, and are quite literally squirming in anticipation by Wednesday evening. (Me, too, ’cause Thursday is my not-working-at-the-paying-job day where I work on the site, get caught up on email, do housewifey things and garden and shop and sometimes meet friends for lunch.)

Plus, it’s Grandparent Right #1 to be able to hype up a child, then leave. After the trials and tribulations of raising your own children and setting them free on the planet to explore and grow and love and breed, damn right you should get to spoil your grandchildren and not have to suffer any of the resulting meltdowns (see TNTT, above).

Do you hear the snorts and cackling? Those are our parents, being smug.

So Thursday comes, and I’m so excited to see my Goose, and we manically laugh and giggle and kiss and nuzzle, and then after 10 minutes of her rampage through the house, I count down the seconds and nighttime tasks until I can literally throw her in her crib and collapse on the couch, gasping for air.

And then Friday morning comes and she is sane once more, divulged of the grandparent-induced high, and we have a fabulous day.

Outside: Three hot young worker men, glistening in the rain.

Inside: One bulging pregnant woman with a ridiculously full bladder, with teeny baby stomping on said bladder.

Not only am I un-glanceable and de-sexed from the breasts down, but the being responsible for my condition is having a merry time reminding me.

Thanks, you little Parasite(2).

Of course, hot guys are digging around in a sewer. And one of them has long hair. Aaaand the other just scratched his arse with a bulky gloved hand that was just holding a drain hose.

Fantasy so over.

Eric’s Mom took this photo when we were visiting her in early May. Eric and I were both so startled when we saw it, because we can totally glimpse what Lucy is going to look like grown up. Her face is turned up, so what little baby fat remaining at just over 2 years is pulled away, and just her natural features remain.

It’s eerie to see. And beautiful, too, in our rose-coloured parental glasses. It also makes me a little sad — I’m so not ready for grown up, not-as-dependent Lucy. As much as I’ve been waiting for these talking, walking years of exploration and interaction, let’s just sloowwww down a bit, hmmm?

Lucy is engaging in love-hate relationship with her father.

It started a few months ago, and I keep thinking it’s a phase and waiting for her to grow out of it. But she hasn’t, and it’s starting to drive us nuts.

(And while I absolutely love 2, the following scenarios are eye-rolling, head-banging, annoyingly, exasperatingly maddening enough for me to wish for the newborn days when at least we could stuff her in a blanket and she’d shut-up be quiet for 20 minutes.)

This evening was a series of examples that are repeated in various forms every. single. day.:

• I pick Lucy up from daycare. While she’s excited that Daddy’s in the car, she will not give him a hug. He cannot put her in the car seat. “Mummy’s turn!” she cries, turning and clinging to me. She actually sheds tears, as if her father’s touch will burn or cause her eyeballs to melt.
• Lucy and I were sitting on the couch, and I asked Eric to please pass me a kleenex. Lucy jumps off the couch, crying, yelling, because she has to get the damn tissue. Eric couldn’t even hand it to her — oh no, she had to take it out of the box and bring it over to me.
• After dinner, we decide to take Spencer for a walk. Eric, who usually does the evening stroll with the dog, likes to push the stroller when we head out as a break from the joy that is dog poop picker-upper. But Eric took one step towards the stroller, and Lucy was howling: “Mummy push the tollar! Mummy do! Mummy’s turn!”

And no, none of this happens when I’m not around, such as Wednesday evenings when I’m out with the ladies.

My theory is this: When Eric comes came home from work in the evenings, Lucy is interpreting this as him intruding on her and I’s time together. Instead of undivided Mummy attention, I’m now split between her and Eric. (This whole issue stems around this, too.) So, Lucy punishes Eric.

This makes sense on weekday evenings, but Lucy is starting to carry it over to the weekends, too. This past weekend, while away at Eric’s Mom’s, it was almost always either “Mummy’s turn” or even more frequently, “Gramie’s turn.”

While Eric is The Adult (and therefore can process and understand toddler ridiculousness), the actions of The Child can be quite hurtful. I mean, you can only be rejected so many times before it starts to sting, grown-up or not. Tonight, as Lucy trotted over to me with the kleenex clutched in her hand, Eric mock raised his fist in the air, waving it at her back.

Any sort of Mummy smugness over being the preferred parent has long worn off. Now it is reaching levels of exasperation, as I become The Only One Who Can Do Anything, Ever. For our household’s well being, Eric and I both need to know that the other can take care of our child(ren). Plus there are times when I just cannot do something for Lucy, and she has to learn that Mummy cannot always be there every single second.

So far, we do not force Lucy to accept Eric doing things she is insistent I do, as this just sends her spiraling out of control (unless I physically cannot do it, or am engaged in something I can’t immediately stop). We also do not want to build further animosity or resentment towards him. And we’ve carved out exclusive Lucy-Eric time — the half hour or so between the end of dinner and bedtime — for the two to bond and play together without me.

But I tell you, it’s still hard being the rational adult. I just wish Lucy would understand us when we say that Daddy can do everything Mummy can, that he loves Lucy as much as Mummy does. We’ve sparingly told her that it hurts Daddy’s feelings, too, to no impact.

Is anyone else going through this, or have you gone through it? Those with older kids, please tell me this is a phase and will end soon. Any thoughts on where this is coming from and what you’d do are welcomed, too.

We’re heading to Eric’s Mom’s tomorrow morning for a over-due visit, and a much-needed hiatus from home before we start Job Hunt Spring Edition 2008 on Monday.

Lucy is excited to go to Gramie’s house, where she promises to give her big hugs and kisses.

I’ve already called sleep-in rights for Sunday (Eric, over my shoulder: “No you’re not!”), something my husband can hardly refuse considering it’s Mother’s Day (“Oh. Right. Grrr.”).

Eric and Lucy came home from their forced house vacancy during Jen’s shower last weekend with a mysterious rectangular box stuffed inside a reusable shopping bag. I am intruiged. And Lucy came home from daycare Wednesday with a hand painted pot, which I absolutely adore. It’s so true that when you become a mom, the best gifts are those created by your children’s own hands.

If it’s true that Mother’s Day gets harder when you get married (especially when said mothers are in different cities, hours away), it becomes even harder still when you become a mother yourself — torn between wanting to spend time with and honour your own precious parent on this special day, and wanting to be pampered and loved by your own new family.

How do all of you handle this? Split the day between everyone? Take turns each year? I wonder how my own mother and mother-in-law handled this when they became parents?

I think next year, having a toddler and chubby parasite baby — providing the only two grandchildren for each mom, so far — will have earned me the right to my first sleep-in at home and breakfast in bed.

I hope you all have a great weekend and wonderful Mother’s Day with your families — no matter how or with whom you celebrate it!

You know it’s bad when your husband calls you from his cell phone on a Wednesday morning at 10:30.

Eric got laid off today.

There is a story, because isn’t there always? But his work, like mine, does not belong here for the most part. But it wasn’t performance related, and he’s leaving with references and a month’s salary and benefits.

I’ve told him I could hire him as an un-paid office assistant. This afternoon he got the cordless phone for me, and demanded “payment” in a form not fit for this family website. (For the record, I did a reverse dash-n-dine and made him leave without paying the bill).

At least we have not lost our sense of humours. At least not yet. We’ll see how tomorrow morning goes when the alarm goes off and there’s no place for him to go. And where we’re at in a month when his pay runs out and we start to dip into our savings diligently put aside to make up for my loss of income come October.

But we’re nowhere near there yet, and I am an optimist. Because everything in life happens for a reason, even when the reasons suck ass.

Enough people have emailed and written about this now that it must be true: Zellers is giving store credit if you return any Avent products because of the issues surrounding BPA. You don’t need a receipt or packaging or anything.

Rumour has it the store is only doing this until Friday.

Has anyone done this yet? And what are your thoughts on breast pumps? I have an Avent one, and really liked it for what small pumping I did (and plan to do after the Parasite2 arrives). I plan to just pump into a bottle, then transfer straight into freezer bags or BPA-free bottles for feeding. I don’t know if it’s worth it to find and adjust to a brand new one for the few minutes the milk will be in the bottle?