My due date came & went so I put on some makeup, went outside, and met an astronaut

It was pretty much a foregone conclusion that I wasn’t going to deliver on my November 21st due date.

After all, only 5% of women actually do.

But it still stings.

overdue

As a pregnant woman, your due date is your North Star. Your light at the end of a very long–and sometimes very disgusting–tunnel.

But it’s really only an estimate. And no amount of walking, exercise ball bouncing, spicy food eating, or red raspberry leaf tree drinking is going to make a baby come out before it’s ready.

And so we wait.

After feeling particularly hopeful last night for reasons I won’t get into because they involve some of that disgusting stuff I mentioned earlier, today remains yet another baby bust, despite waddling walking around numerous commercial establishments for four consecutive hours.

I was, however, fortunate enough to be able to squeeze my fat ass through the doors of a local Costco and meet world-renowned Canadian astronaut–and the most strikingly handsome moustachioed man in all the land–Commander Chris Hadfield.

hadfield

He’s so dreamy. Bonus: he’s also a Toronto Maple Leafs fan!

I triumphantly toddled out of there shortly after 1pm with a pair of Christmas pyjamas (impulse buy) and Hadfield’s signed new book tucked under my arm.

His firm, yet tender handshake still tingling on my palm, I was able to forget for a brief moment that I was still a fat, disgusting pregnant woman.

Thanks, Commander.

The Push Present: because there’s no better way to say ‘thank you for pushing out this baby’ than a $10,000 designer bag

There’s a lot of things about this whole pregnancy business I’m still trying to wrap my head around.

my-vagoo-stretches-how-many-centimetres-9fc76

Terrifying and gross physiological processes aside, one of the most fascinating elements for me so far has to be a recently discovered custom that is somehow inexplicably tied to giving birth: the Push Present.

A practice that I can only assume has been made popular in recent years by the implicitly materialistic Hollywood celebrity scene, my understanding (or lack thereof) of the Push Present is as follows:

bitstrip

All right, listen. I’m not a total beatnik.

I consume things too, albeit at a slightly slower rate than your average Hollywood baby mama. I love my iPhone and my Macbook. I don’t own an iPad, but would welcome the opportunity to. I tried Apple TV once, but ultimately rejected everything it stood for.

But has it really come to this?

Have a baby, get an elaborate gift?

Doesn’t it seem like another desperate attempt to equate love and pride with consumerism and consumption?

love

Up until very recently, I had no idea the Push Present was even a thing.

And I wasn’t the only one.

This is the father of my unborn child’s reaction the exact moment I asked him if he knew what a Push Present was:

confused dad

Note the genuine look of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.

If we were celebrities (LOL), we’d be in the minority. A quick–and frankly, infuriating–Google search placed me at the doorstep of a compilation of Push Presents bestowed upon celebrity mothers upon the delivery of the next generation of spoiled, entitled debutantes. Here is a small sample:

  • Beyoncé Knowles: a gargantuan, $35,000 Tanzanite ring the size of a kidney stone, probably
  • Jessica Simpson: a $30,000 collection of platinum bracelets and matching necklace with a “huge” amethyst
  • Mariah Carey: a $12,000 diamond-encrusted nameplate featuring her childrens’ names
  • Kristin Cavallari: a $10,000 Hermès bag

I know I sound preachy and judgmental. I guess I’ve just been struggling to understand the Push Present’s raison d’être. 

But here’s the thing–and it’s an important distinction in trying to understand this phenomenon.

I am not Beyoncé Knowles.

b

And mercifully, I am not part of her world.

I am just your run-of-the-mill pregnant girl, sitting in front a computer, asking for nothing in return other than some good drugs and maybe a cold, refreshing beer in the postpartum.

I don’t expect–nor ever have–a Tiffany & Co. box on the eve of my delivery. I don’t need an amethyst (mostly because I don’t even know what the hell that is). And don’t hand me a Hermès bag unless you’re 100% clear on how to pronounce it.

All I want is a healthy baby.

That’s the Push Present I want.

And a beer.

Oh god, and an ice cold beer.

beer

I’ll see you soon, my sweet.

Happy first day of maternity leave, now get your fat ass to the hospital

I’ve been looking forward to being a lady of leisure for a while.

fuck-this-shit-im-going-on-maternity-leave-b6e42

Smell ya later, wage slavery

Since the tender age of 15, I’ve been employed in some capacity. Whether it was napping in the corner in the kid’s section putting away books for the public library, hungover customer service at Canadian Tire, or pushing paper for one of Canada’s fine post-secondary institutions–I’ve been a complacent little worker bee, especially these last few years–mindlessly plugging away at paying off those pesky student loans.

Even when I was laid off, I was never unemployed for much longer than a few weeks. So you can imagine my excitement when I realized that this blessed country of mine allows for a full year of paid maternity leave.

matern

Canada rocks. You suck, America.

Today is my first official day of maternity leave, and I can’t express enough how good it felt rolling out of bed this morning at a cool 9:30am.

What felt even better was, in chronological order:

  • taking a long, hot shower without worrying about the time
  • pulling on a pair of sexy sweat pants instead of tight, uncomfortable work clothes
  • leisurely blowdrying my hair, gleefully skipping makeup time
  • snuggling my cats, mostly against their will
  • eating a large, carbohydrate-laden breakfast complete with a healthy dose of Nutella

But what really topped it all off was getting a spot at the spa for a relaxing prenatal massage later this afternoon.

everythings_coming_up_milhouse-52415

Things were off to a great start.

And then my obstetrician told me to get my fat, disgusting pregnant body to the hospital.

At my routine appointment this morning, the baby’s heartbeat was high, and staying high. As a precaution, my OB ordered something called a nonstress test, which essentially means I sit hooked up to a monitor in labour and delivery for an hour or so to make sure that the womb party isn’t getting too out of hand.

Not my favourite way to spend an afternoon

Not an ideal way to spend an afternoon

After a quick jaunt to a ward I hope to not see/think about again for another three weeks, I’m happy to report that little dude’s ticker is just fine, and we’re both home now awaiting our massage, and making our way through 170 pieces of discounted Halloween candy.

IT'S FOR THE BABY

It’s for the baby, get off my case.