No, really officer, he did it to himself!!

Dawson just got over his first real illness, helpfully diagnosed as a viral infection** of unknown origin. He woke up one morning with a 102 fever, which went up to over 104 within 24 hours. And that was the axillary temp so add whatever particular figure you been told to, and you've got one sick little lad. It was so sad. The first day he spent the entire day sitting on my lap, which wasn't that bad.

The next day the rash started.

Not too bad at first, just some flat splotches mostly on this forehead. Then they spread over his face and into his hairline.

Then got more red, and closer together.

Then behind the ears, all over the scalp, then neck, down, down, down.... In 36 hours it looked like he had the measles.

*insert pic of mottled child here when beloved mother emails them to me, as she promised  3 days ago*

At one point he was so weak that he just laid in my arms, staring into middle distance. His eyes were bright and glassy, but unfocued. His lips were so red, but chapped and dry. When I'd call his name he'd give me the briefest of glances, then let his eyes fall away again. He was beyond exhausted, but would sob hysterically if I tried to put him in bed. (This was the worst part. He wouldn't sleep anywhere but in my arms! In 3 days I got 11 hours, total. The cramp in my arm was excruciating the next day, like I'd smashed my funny bone to smithereens.) The only thing that let me know he was still in there was that he snapped to attention whenever he heard the theme song to his most very favourite show in the whole wide world, Waybuloo.

BTW, I will be eternally grateful to my wonderful fellow-commonwealther Beck who learned of Dawson's obsession with the British TV show, and sent, from Australia, a DVD unavailable on this side of the pond. It saved our life! My next child shall be named Cattermole, regardless of gender. Actually, that's kinda bad-ass. But I digress.

Ooh, funny story: I called Telehealth at one point in this adventure, and was only half-listening as the nurse asked me the standard questions: is he having any trouble breathing; do his lips or nails have a bluish tinge, etc. Then when we got to the specifics of the rash, the questioning took a turn that snapped me back to attention:

Telehealth Nurse Lady- Are the spots raised or flat?
Me-  Some flat, but mostly raised.
TNL- Are they fluid-filled?
Me- Not really, but there are a couple that look like they're going in that direction.
TNL- Would you say they look like blisters or pimples?
Me- Most of them look pimples, but the worst ones, I'd say like blisters.
TNL- *pause, typey typey type* 
TNL - Are any of the blisters purple? (Sproing! Purple blisters? Quoi?)
Me- No...definitely more red.
TNL - *typey typey type!!*
TNL- The red blisters, would you say they're blood coloured? (OMG! Seriously??)
Me- No! Just red, like acne.
TNL-Ok! *type type*
Me- Wait, were you asking about the PLAGUE??
TNL- *pause, no typing*
TNL- ...Perhaaaps...

Can you imagine?? THE PLAGUE! I think the only disease that would possibly have freaked me out as much would be Ebola,. 

So, after 4 days, 3 tentative diagnoses and 2 trips to the doctor, we ended up getting through all that. The fever cooled, the rash cleared. Yesterday we were finally able to venture out without people gasping and pulling their children close. Huzzah!

Today he fell and smashed his face into the arm of the couch.

Black eye.

Teeth right through the lip.

Blood everywhere.

Sigh.

One day, we'll reach a point where I can go a week without having to wonder if a trip to the ER is in order. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Considering we still rarely make it that long without Jamie putting himself in mortal peril, maybe I'm just fooling myself.





**"A viral infection?" said my mother, "that's nothing to worry about at all, then! Stop complaining. The common cold is a viral infection!"
"Yes, mother," I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose in a gesture of exasperation as old as time, "so's AIDS."

AUGH!

I don't know what y'all do with your kids when you need to use the facilities, but as a rule I plunk Dawson in front of the TV with a sippy and some puffs and void as quickly as I can, praying for minimum damage when I return. He can climb out of his crib, playpen, and high chair so there really is no 'safe'  place for him. But alas, mamma has to pee. Today we reached a new level of 'OMG, is this really what the rest of my life is going to be like??'

He seemed happy enough with his snack, watching Caillou. But when I came back from the washroom (15 feet away for maybe 30 seconds) he wasn't there. I listened for his typical rustlings- nothing. I called to him- no reply. Just as my heart was beginning to beat a little quicker, I glanced at the front door.

It was open.

My heart officially jumped into my throat.

I bolted out the door in my PJs, thanking God that my incredibly fashionable gay neighbours are in Boston. (Whether I can keep their plants alive while they're gone is a topic for another day.) My apartment is pretty much in the middle of the hall, and I can see down to one door to the stairwell. No baby. I ran to the other side of the hall (which is offset, and not visible from my place) and there he was, trying to open the door to the garbage chute. He succeeded just as I reached him, and man was he pissed when I took him back to our apartment. Despite looking like an angelic little elf, this kid has a mean temper on him!!

So, the front door now must stay locked at all times. This isn't the first time he's opened the door, but it's the first time he's gone on an adventure with his new-found freedom. He's not even 15 months yet. I don't even want to think about what the teen years have in store.

I declare today to be 'Make Out Like a Bandit' day!

Apparently I'm hiding horseshoes somewhere, because today has been rather fortuitous. First off, in the elevator today we met up  with a sweet family who gave Dawson a freezie! Yes it was 9am, and yes candy/strangers  blah blah blah,  but it's a scorcher out there and a freezies are Dawson's new favourite thing. So yay, and thank you Family from the 10th floor!

Then, I totally scored at Goodwill. I love me some Goodwill, and every so often you hit the jackpot! We have a wedding to go to this weekend, and since Jamie hasn't worn a suit since the day we were married, it was time to do some shopping. But while we don't really have the money to go buy a good suit right now, a cheap suit is often worse than no suit. Enter Goodwill! Last week I picked up a custom tailored jacket, Givenchy shirt and Tommy Hilfiger slacks for about $20. (Add dry cleaning for 10 bucks and you've got GQ for $30!) Today I went back for shoes and scored the most gorgeous Italian leather shoes for... wait for it... $7! My man looks like a million bucks, and it cost me $37. Woot woot.

Lastly, while I was leaving GW I got a text from my neighbour who is about to leave for 10 days. He was asking if I could  water his plants while he's gone, and in return he gave me EVERYTHING perishable in his fridge! Milk, hotdogs, oranges, cherries, peaches, pears, clementines, cucumbers, peppers, bananas and grapes.  I love friendships like this, where you feel comfortable enough to unload all your produce and the half bottle of wine you opened last night. I seriously wont have to grocery shop for a week. Thank you Mohammad! I promise to try to keep your plants alive!

Tomorrow's lottery  jackpot is $43M. The way today is going, I think I'm going to have to go buy a ticket!

Let's reserve the parking spot now...

Well, it happened. I knew it was coming, but had no idea of when, or how, or with what intensity.

Dawson's first trip to the E.R.

See that? That mussed up, broken, crushed looking thing? Yep, that's my soul. Please don't step on it. I'm not sure how much more it can take right now.

On Friday evening Dawson was being the spirited rapscallion (ahem) he always is, and was climbing on the dining room chairs. Just as I was crossing the room to get him down, it fell over backwards while he held on to the top rung. In the longest 3 seconds of my life I watched as all the weight of the chair, plus baby, came down onto the wood floor, crushing his little fingers and smashing his face into the floor. Blood spurted EVERYWHERE. The scream is permanently seared into my brain.

I'd like to say I was able to keep a level head and attend to the situation like the Klassymomma I am, but that's a lie. I absolutely broke down into hysterics as I scooped up my broken baby and barged in on Jamie in the shower. Huge amounts of blood followed us wherever we went. I didn't even know if all of his fingers were still attached. I couldn't look.

In a testament to why it take 2 people to make a baby, Jamie was completely cool and rational as he inspected the injuries, but the bleeding was too severe to really tell. I could see, though, that his fingertips were already turning black.

"What do we do?? Do we go to the hospital?? Can they even do anything for baby fingers?" I cried, wishing to God that I'd never bought such top-heavy and angular chairs and cursing the wrought iron accents. From now on, it will be folding chairs and patio furniture until my youngest is 40.

"Don't you have a mommy friend who was an X-ray tech?" asked my oh-so-calm husband.

Duh. So I called said x-ray tech friend, who was in Oklahoma. Bless her heart, she was able to calm me down and assure me I hadn't mangled his little hands for life. Evidently, kids don't really have joints as this point. Who knew? What they DO have is itty bitty little fingers that bleed like the dickens, so she suggested I go to the ER incase stitches were needed.

I went back in to the bedroom where Jamie had managed to calm Dawson a little, but the scene was still gutting. My beautiful son, covered head to toe in streaks of blood; my husband, looking more worried than I'd ever seen. We tried to inspect the wound again but every time it was uncovered the blood would just overwhelm the tip and we couldn't accurately assess the damage. We decided the ER was definitely in order, but Jamie couldn't come with us. It was his first shift in a new department and only his own loss of limb would have been an acceptable absense. We Cornelii really have a fantastic flair for timing. In the end, my wonderful grandma drove us to the hospital so I could sit in the back with my unbelievable trooper of a son. He'd calmed down completely by the time we got to the ER. We can't say the same about the mama.

In the end, it took 3 stitches to reaffix his semi-detached fingertip. 3 fingers are severely bruised and it looks like the nails might fall off.  X rays were taken, but nothing appeared to be broken. The stitches should dissolve in about a week, and then all that will be left is his very first scar.

As long as you don't count the one on my heart.

Anyone want to buy some chairs?

Really? Really??

So, since my weight loss was going so well, of course something has come along to derail it. Around week 13 I saw my family doc, who was beyond thrilled with my loss at that point. He's the one who referred me to Dr Poon in the first place, and he confessed he never expected me to have such success. High fives all around.

Until he opened my file to look at my recent test results.

No more Poon for Sonia.

So, for a few years I've know about some kidney issues, namely that Righty was shrunken and misshapen. As of now, he's AWOL. No, really. I had an ultrasound that lasted longer than an hour and she could not find it at all. I asked if my girthiness was adding to the problems, and with a glare she showed me how quickly she could find Lefty, my bladder, gallbladder and uterus. Chub was not a factor, and in her professional opinion Righty was not there. Lefty, however, was giant. My personal theory is that Lefty sensed Righty's inherent weakness and ate him, but I'll leave it to the doctors to decide.

Additionally, my liver isn't looking all that happy. And it has a nodule. Doesn't seem to be a big deal, but definitely needs further investigation.

So, since Pooning is taxing on both of the aforementioned organs, I've been put in time out. I've switched over to Weight Watchers which now seems like a smorgasbord. Really? I can have a sandwich AND some fruit for lunch? AND a salad? Bliss! (And can we talk for a minute about how great fruit is? Cause it's GREAT!!) Even with WW I'm supposed to take it slowly, and my doc would prefer it if I just maintained until this gets sorted out.

However, after 25 years of being on diets and finally finding success, I'm having a hard time with being told to stop. It was so amazing to watch that scale go down so quickly. I'm gloriously thankful for what I did lose (43 lbs, bringing total loss to 66 lbs) and for what I gained. I gained my self respect back, and my ability to go through life with my head held high. I should have had it all along, but I truly didn't. I'd lost my ability to live an authentic life, and now I can again. I'll make it the rest of the way,  slowly, but I'll do it.

And if Lefty did in fact stage a coup on Righty, he better be willing to do the extra work. We don't take kindly to slackers around these parts.

So, I just read over a few old entries and saw something that made my shriek in happiness. When I started Pooning, I had hoped to lost 40lbs in 6 months. I'm just now about 12 weeks into it, and those 40lbs are gone! I not only reached my goal, I reached it in half the time.

I need to wrap my head around that for a minute.

I still have a looong way to go, so I'm not going to pat myself on the back too much quite yet. But it feels so good. It felt good 10 minutes ago, but it feels even better now that I know I've accomplished a challenge I set for myself. That definitely gives me the willpower to get off my butt and go buy some groceries so I can make a real dinner.

10 weeks of Poon...

37 pounds gone! Dropped, erased, obliterated, bid adieu, shed, defeated.

For once the challenge is being defeated, and not me. I LOVE that.

I had a bad bweek*, to be honest. But even as it was, I still lost 2 lbs. I didn't stay the same. I didn't gain. I'm another 2 lbs lighter than I was at the last weigh in. The scale is still going down! Clothes are getting far too big! I came across another pair of jeans that now fit, as well as some capris I've been trying to get into for months. I finally can!!

 Having said that, I'm still going to work much harder this block. I really fell off the bandwagon a few times last bweek and I wan't to rock it this time. The only thing that can stop me is me! I'm the meal planner, the grocery buyer and the chef.  Yesterday was payday so I need to go do a good shop and get the fridge full of poonerific food again. I'm nothing if not lazy, so if green beans and cucumbers are there, green beans and cucumbers are what I'll eat!

*Bweek:  New word! A period of 2 weeks.

Holy Crap! It's working!!

Who knew??

It's been 5 weeks, and I've lost...
wait for it....
OVER 25 POUNDS!!!

I know, right? Get down with my bad self!

I'm just as shocked as anyone. It's SO EASY, too. I've learned the diet backwards and forwards, so now I can break the rules to make it something I can actually live with. For example, there's a blanket 'no dairy' rule. Well, eff that. Low fat cheese is my best friend, and  allow myself 1-3oz a day. So plbbbt to them. I'm also not nearly as anal about my sodium consumption. Most people on this diet have high blood pressure and major edema and other things I'm lucky enought not to have. So while I've still switched to No Salt and use Mrs Dash for most seasoning, I'm not treating it like it's anthrax.

This 25lb loss pushed my total loss to 50lbs, which means alllll my baby weight is gone. Thank goodness!! I feel SO MUCH BETTER! For the first time in over a year, I can walk around with my head held high. My body isn't the same as it was before my belived child ruined me from the inside, but I can now look at my droopy lower tummy as a mommy war wound instead of the bane of my existance. Having said that, it's going on the chopping block the moment I give birth to my last child. I've officially started the post-baby plastic surgery fund. In the oh-so sensitive words of my husband 'Well, we knew when you got pregnant this body was going to be a write-off". Thanks, honey. Love you too.

So with all that back-patting aside,  I still have tons of weight to lose. But I feel like I've been given the secret formula, and I just have to follow it. While I would trule perform shameful acts for a baguette or some garlic bread, I'm able to keep my eyes on the goal. Every two weeks, on the day of my weigh in, I let myself have a 'Treat Day'. (Thank you Julie for introducing me to the term! It sounds so much better than Cheat Day!!) I basically starve myself before my noon appointment, but the rest of the day is free. The amazing thing is, my stomach has shrunk so much I can't even ruin my diet in only one day! Half of a personal pizza and I'm STUFFED! Hurrah!

So there you go. I'm off to have a green salad with grilled chicken.

Be! Excited! Be! Be! Excited!

You know what sucks? Eggs.

I hate eggs. I hate eggs in nearly every one of their mucousy little manifestations. As far as I'm concerned they're chicken feti and it should be taboo to consume them. Any yet there I was this morning, scrambling up a couple of those bad boys for breakfast. I think I managed 4 bites before passing them over to my kid.

I, Klassymomma, have started an intense, doctor supervised weight loss program, and have to learn to like eggs. As of today I am on a high protein, low fat, looooow carb diet. It sucks. I hate it. I want an apple. My kingdom for an apple!

Normally I hate the idea of radical diets. I personally feel that your weight loss program needs to be something you can stick with forever, or else the pounds are going to come back and they're bringing their friends. They're bitches like that. But after years of doing it on my own, going down 50 and up 80, down 40 and up 60, down 70 and up 100 I've decided that it's time for something drastic. It's no longer just about looking better or fitting into cute clothes (though I CAN'T WAIT to get my butt into some nice jeans!), but about being able to run around with my kid. He EXHAUSTS me! I was so impressed when he took his first step at 7 months. Now I look back and see it as the last calm day of my life. I love him so much, and he deserves a mom who lives life to the fullest instead of being trapped in a fat suit.

So for you, Dawson, I am changing my life. You damnwell better appreciate it when you're older!

It's 2pm on day 1 and I'm thus far successful. Scrambled eggs for breakfast, a salad with cucumber and bean sprouts for a snack (what can I say, I haven't really shopped for this adventure yet) and another salad with grilled chicken for lunch. Crystal Light lemonade with breakfast (my feeble attempt to replicate my beloved, verboten orange juice) and coke zero with lunch. I'm resigned to the fact I'll be living on chicken and asparatame for the next 6 months.

Yes, 6 months. I'm signing up for this for 6 months. It seems like a long time, but really, in the grand scheme of things it's not. I'm 27, that's 54 6-month periods I've lived through. I can spend one devoting my efforts to serious weight loss. In those 6 months, I'd love to lose at least 40lbs. I don't think that's impossible, or irrational. I know that I, and only I, have complete control over how successful this is.

I don't plan on staying on this diet long term. Like I said, I hate fad diets. Eventually I want to join weight watchers, which I'll proabably be sticking with for the rest of my life. Someone once told me that losing weight is easy, it's keeping it off that's hard. I believe it. But I can do it. I need to do it. I will do it.

I will do it.

I am doing it.





I really want an apple.

A love letter....

...to Anthony Wiggle.

Oh Anthony, the wiggle in blue. The leader. The Grand Poobah. The Leonardo to the rest of the Ninja Turtles. In your tight black jeans, rocking out on your red guitar. You trigger my gaydar, but in that 'gay or foreign' way, so I can still swoon. And I will. *Swoon!*

I love you, Anthony Wiggle. I'll Wiggle and Learn with you any day of the week.

Shame? What's that?

There's no dignity in mommyhood.

From your first prenatal ultrasound  (done with what looks suspiciously like a dildo covered in a horse condom), to the Strep B test (wait... you want to wipe my BUMHOLE with that giant Q-tip?? WTF???) your sense of modesty is slowly but surely chipped away. Then one day you find yourself comparing your chapped nipples with the woman who came to set up Little Darling's RESP, without a stich of embarassment.

Alternatively, there are those mommy moments where we sacrifice our dignity specifically for our child's welfare. Like jumping into a pool with no regard for hair and makeup or bolting out of a change room in your bra because Little Darling is no longer in your line of vision. Today it was my turn.

I was going to the washroom (I hate how many of my stories start that way), with the door open so Dawson didn't lose his mind. He didn't actually want to be with me, as he was playing in his room, he just wanted the option. (Isn't the needy phase fun??) Suddenly he started screaming. Full on, blood curdling screaming.

I chucked my Today's Parent into the bathtub and bolted, mid tinkle, down the hall with my pants around my ankles. Dawson had fallen against his door, trapping his little fingers in the jam. Because he was leaning on the door, he couldn't get his fingers out. Because his hand was trapped, he couldn't get himself back on his feet. Three itty bitty fingertips were poking through, shattering my heart.

Oh, and a trail of pee ran behind me. Klassy.

It took me a few seconds to figure out how to open the door without knocking him down, but eventually I was able to scoop him up and rock him back and forth, pee running down my legs and pooling on the floor. (Upside: I have a housekeeper now! Downside: she's not due for 4 days. Ew.)

At this point my husband walked through the door.(Ha! Welcome home, Honey!) He immediately offered to take the baby, but Dawson was still whimpering and I didn't want to pass him off yet. So for about 2 more minutes I stood in the hall, pantless and soggy, humming  and rocking and kissing his fingertips. Another crisis averted.

Motherhood is beautiful, rewarding, unlinke anything else. Just check your dignity at the delivery room door.

The secret lives of babies

I found something very strange when I changed Dawson this morning.  A feather. A little, broken, yellow feather. It popped out of his PJs as I undressed him.  Let me make it clear that I was the one who bathed him last night, who got him into his PJs, and the only one who interacted with him all night. Big Bird was not in the picture at all.

What the hell?

These are new PJs that Dawson had only worn once before (the night before last, in fact) and I had washed them before that. They were no feathers in the wash, and it wasn't there when he wore them the night before. But suddenly this morning, there it was, in all it's feathery glory.

I can only come up with one explanation: Dawson is moonlighting as a Vegas-style show girl.

I should have known, he's been dancing a lot more lately. Leave the music channel on the TV and he'll be grooving with the best of them. Beyonce and the Black Eyed Peas are his current favourites, but he'll rock out at any opportunity, even to Michael Buble. You haven't lived until you've seen the baby bop done to the dulcet tones of everyone's favourite Canadian crooner.

He has also been walking more than crawling these days, which is completely understandable what with the increased agility and stamina dancing gives.  It all adds up. I blame myself. I sing show tunes to him all the time. How could he not yearn for the bright lights of the stage?

What I want to know is where are the tips?? If he's bringing in an income, dude can help pay for his formula. If I find a stash of wrinkled fives in his diaper bag you can bet The House is taking 20% off the top.