Babymoon

Scott and I are very fortunate. We have each other, amazing family and friends, a lovable menagerie of pets and a baby on the way. We also managed to save enough money for a babymoon to Maui. We were engaged off the coast of Maui just over two years ago. That first Hawaiian trip was courtesy of Scott's parents, who booked the family cruise in celebration of their 40th wedding anniversary. To be honest, Scott and I never thought we would see Hawaii again, believing that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. With the inevitable expenses of parenthood fast approaching, we knew that taking a big trip might not be the most financially prudent choice. Still, more than one person (parents themselves) told us that we should take advantage of this last period of time as just a couple. The travel industry and numerous pregnancy-related articles tempted us with the babymoon concept. Once we discovered that it was, surprisingly, possible to visit Maui on a budget, our minds were made up.

For this trip we wanted to do activities that we hadn't done the last time -- and activities that were safe to do while pregnant. We took a tour of the road to Hana, with its more than 600 curves and 46 one-lane bridges. We enjoyed several stops along the way. The economy in Hawaii is suffering right now, and many residents make a living selling goods at roadside stands. I couldn't resist picking up some macadamia-nut brittle for my parents at one such stop. I also gathered a few pieces of coral. Visitors are not supposed to remove lava rock or sand from the islands, but coral is permitted.

Part of our tour to Hana included exploring inside a lava tube. One type of hardened lava resembled chocolate. It felt like being in a scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Hana is known for its black-sand beach, where we dipped our feet in the Pacific waters.

Beaches come in a variety of colours on Maui.

Hawaii is astonishingly verdant for a place that has very little dirt. Plants, both native and imported, manage to flourish growing on rock. We spotted several of these little ones sprouting right out of the sand.

Wind, wing and water are the vehicles by which plants originally arrived in Hawaii. The coconut trees you see on the rock in the distance were planted by a handful of armed-forces members who swam out on a lark many years ago.

Everywhere we looked we saw plants in countless shades of green, and blooms ranging from delicately tiny to lusciously huge.

Normally I would think that our loudly-patterned clothing was out of place in such a beautiful setting, but then again, Hawaii is the home of aloha shirts. And yes, Hawaiians -- not just tourists -- do wear aloha shirts. Our tour guide informed us that there is no such thing as formal wear in Hawaii. Scott and I caught footage of some sort of city or county council meeting on TV while we were there, and most of the politicians were in aloha shirts or T-shirts.

I don't know why, but my baby bump was showing a lot in Hawaii. Scott swears that it shrank once we returned home. Anyway, here it is upstaging a waterfall.

One of the most spectacular things that we saw on our trip was this type of tree, the rainbow eucalyptus.

There are many chickens running free in Hawaii. According to our tour guide, this is the result of chicken coops being broken open during a tsunami years ago. Since there are no snakes in the state, the chickens' only natural predator is the mongoose. Our tour guide made a special stop to call the birds ("Heeeeeeere chickie chickie chickie!") and give them a snack.

While on our tour to Hana we drove through Paia, a hippie town that is home to Willie Nelson. Apparently Willie sometimes plays waiter at his favourite local restaurant, Charleys, just to see the patrons' reactions. Speaking of hippies, we saw several of them on the side of the road trying to thumb a ride. Our tour guide claimed that many of them live in the jungle and have lice, so it's best not to stop for hitchhikers unless you have a pick-up truck. I took that with a grain of salt, although I noticed that he didn't stop to feed any hippies.

Not realizing quite how small Maui was, I had us staying in three different hotels during our one-week vacation so that we could explore different areas. Our first hotel was a modest place on the shore close to the Kahului airport.

On our way out of Kahului, we stopped at K-Mart to pick up a cheap back-pack, as we knew that there would not be sufficient space in our luggage for souvenirs. If Scott had any doubt that Hawaii was paradise, it disappeared the moment he discovered the liquor aisle.

I was less impressed with K-Mart when I discovered a bathmat that, sadly, closely resembles my Hawaii-inspired tattoo.

Following our sightseeing at K-Mart, we explored Kihei and Wailea. We shopped, strolled and swam in the ocean. Later we enjoyed dinner overlooking a sunset-lit beach.

Our next stop was Lahaina, where we stayed in a historic plantation-style inn right on the wharf.

Our outdoor space would have been far more enjoyable had it not been for the fact that most of the occupants of the non-smoking rooms on our floor were happily puffing away on their own balconies. Even Scott picked up a Hula Girl cigar to enjoy in the formerly fresh air.

Our room overlooked the famous old banyan tree, which occupies an entire park.

On the weekend artisans set up tables in the park to sell their creations.

On our second day in Lahaina, we took the short drive to Ma'alaea Harbor to visit the Maui Ocean Center. (As a Canadian, it was a struggle to type that last sentence with the American spellings of "harbour" and "centre.") The aquarium was a treat.

We moved on to Ka'anapali for the duration of our trip. Since we had a few hours before it was time to check in to our third and final hotel, we decided to drive up the coast and check out the sights on the north end of the island. The next eight photos provide a glimpse of the beauty that we observed.

Thanks to a friend with connections, we had a great rate at our last hotel, which was actually a resort and spa featuring fully equipped villas.

We bought some kabobs at one of the resort's markets and Scott put his BBQing skills to work.

On our last night in Maui, I surprised Scott with reservations for "date night" at a fondue restaurant. The ambiance was as romantic as expected and the service was impeccable. When I had originally phoned for reservations, a staff member had asked me what we were celebrating. I had told her that we were expecting. At the end of our meal, the waiter dropped off a congratulatory card signed by the staff. Nice touch!

After dinner I was almost too full to move, so I lay in our room like a beached whale while Scott roamed the resort to take a few final photos. He spied this little fellow in the grass below our room.

When I was mobile again, I waddled out to the balcony and called down to Scott. He took a photo of me and immediately dropped the camera, so this is the end of our vacation album.

The end.

I've just about given up...

...on my lawn, which the dogs have taken from this to this:

...but I'm not quite ready to look into "air raiding."

Save yourself -- avoid me.

If it's dangerous to be nicknamed Calamity, it's equally dangerous to be in close proximity to someone who is nicknamed Calamity. My poor little fetus became a real "bouncing" baby boy last week when I took a tumble and landed flat on my stomach. (Is it possible to land flat on something round?) I had been strolling down the street when my foot slipped off the curb and I couldn't catch myself. The sidewalk caught me instead. Here, have a look at my knee one week later:

Pay no mind to my Happy Bunny pajamas.

Normally I'm inclined to blame my accidents on my own clumsiness, but I think I'll blame this one on
a) my new haircut,
b) my new centre of gravity,
c) the sidewalk being narrower than I remembered.

The last two are self-explanatory, but you might be curious about the first one. See, I had a foot chopped off again, which means that my normally long, flat, heavy hair now has some body to it and is so short that it often flops in my face and impairs my peripheral vision. You know, the vision that would have warned me that I was too close to the curb. Evidently I would make a lousy sheepdog.

Thankfully, a few days ago I felt the baby move for the first time, so he must be okay. Scott figures that the little guy is kicking me because he's mad at me for falling. If the kid has a temper like that already, we're in big trouble. At any rate, it feels more like rolling than kicking. I think we've got a couple more months before we see the outline of feet sticking out of my belly or I feel toes jammed up into my ribcage.

So, the baby is fine, but not everyone is. I've got yet another infection lodged firmly in my tonsils, Scott is recovering from surgery and both dogs have been suffering from skin issues over the past few weeks. Here's Montana after gnawing at what was either a hot spot or a dog bite:

And here we have Ferris, who was busy developing hot spots while I was preoccupied looking after Scott post-surgery:

What's that? You hadn't known about Scott's surgery? He had his stones removed. His pair of kidney stones, that is. I'd go into detail, but it was pretty much the same experience as last time, except that on this occasion I didn't feed Scott hot water, nor did I rip off quite as much of his skin. Interestingly, both his current and past surgeries took place at about the same time as we were paying over $600 for Ferris' health issues. At least Scott's medical treatment is fully covered by universal health care.

My son. My son. My son.

It sounds so strange to say it.

According to the latest ultrasound, Scott and I are going to have a baby boy. That's what the vast majority of people had been predicting. After we received the results, Scott said he had figured that the baby was male because "he looks like a boy." That's better than when he thought the baby resembled a duck.

It's exciting to see the little guy moving about, yawning and stretching on the screen when I have an ultrasound. At halfway through the pregnancy I still don't feel any movement, but I'm poking at my belly daily just in case. With the nausea behind me and nothing but an expanding tummy to remind me that I'm expecting, I've been eager for something to make this seem more "real." Somehow the piles of second-hand maternity clothing and baby items in my house haven't convinced me that there truly is a baby on the way. You'd think that the occasional emotional outburst or near anxiety attack would be clues. Apparently I'll have to find myself at home, alone, with a wailing infant in my arms before I get the full sense of forever (also known as What in tarnation have I got myself into?!).

Speaking of alive and not (yet) kicking...

...in my last post I mentioned that changes to my job have robbed me of almost all of my creativity, but to be honest, I'm creating on a daily basis. Why, I recently made ears. And genitals, too, although I don't know what kind. That's right, dear readers, as scary as it may seem, Scott and I are becoming parents. At 16 weeks along, it's too early for me to feel any fetal movement, but we did hear the heartbeat recently and we have seen the little cutie via ultrasound. My clothes are getting tight, I've been puking for weeks and I can't take much medication for the wretched cold that I'm suffering, but I'm told that it's all worth it. Oh, I'm a bit moody, too. When I was just two months pregnant Scott remarked that I was "showing" already. I nearly killed my child's father.

Since I work in the child welfare industry (although not with children), I read and hear about dreadful parenting every day. When I listen to friends talk about their kids, I realize that there are also plenty of supermoms out there. As unsure of myself as I am, I can only expect to be somewhere in between. Let's hope that I'm up to this task, because I'm told that it's the hardest job I'll ever have.

Scott thinks s/he resembles Howard the Duck

Alive, if not kicking

It's been a while. Again. A long while. Has Facebook killed the blog? Rather, has Facebook killed my blog? Now that I have befriended (excuse me, "friended") many of my loyal blog readers on Facebook, my attention to blogs in general has waned. It could be due to the fact that I now can see how most of my favourite bloggers are doing just by reading their Facebook status updates. Or perhaps it is because Scott and I, sadly, have both become hooked on playing Mafia Wars and we are constantly wrestling over negotiating computer time. It might also be the winter blues that have been plaguing me over the past few months. Or it could be that recent changes to my job description have turned me from a writer into a redacting robot, robbing me of almost all creativity and inspiration. I plan to correct my errant blogging ways, I'm just not sure when. Stay tuned, if you're so inclined.

Damages: The cost of unconditional love

Oooooo, sounds ominous, doesn't it? Fear not; I'm merely talking about damage to inanimate objects, and the unconditional love that some of us have for our pets.

Puppies chew things. Cats scratch things. Every pet owner knows this. As long as one has lots of appropriate toys and scratching posts around, there shouldn't be a problem, right? If you enthusiastically replied, "Right!" well, I hate to say it, but you're awfully naive.

When Ferris was just a pup, he chose some odd things to sink his teeth into, such as our floor,

our baseboard,

our newel post,

and even our wall.

Ferris' claws have been almost as destructive as his teeth. He sleeps on the second-floor landing at night, and this is what the baseboard looks like where he rests his feet.

Montana hasn't been completely innocent, either. He races around and skids across the floor, which has wreaked havoc on the finish.

Speaking of the floor, both dogs have a habit of leaving their water dish with their mouths half-full and dribbling, drenching the floor as they walk away. No matter how large a plastic mat we place on the floor to catch the spillage, the hardwood gets soaked and has begun to rot.

And then we have the cats. We suspect that it is Trooper who has been sharpening his claws on the corner of a plaster wall.

Trooper also took a liking to the wooden stringer on our old basement stairs.

Now that our basement renovations are almost complete, we aren't sure how we're going to keep Trooper away from our fresh new wood staircase. Scott and I find declawing cats to be cruel, so we might just have to amputate Trooper's feet. While we're at it, we might chop off Cayman's feet, too, since he has learned from Trooper that the posts on our four-poster bed are just as good as any scratching post.

I give the cats very loud heck if I ever catch them in the act, and they respond by dashing under the bed to hide. If I ever had any illusions that they were crouching there in shame, thinking about the naughty thing they just did, those illusions were dispelled the first time I looked under the bed and discovered what they had done to the bottom of our boxspring.

All this damage, not a lick of remorse (even from the dogs!)... and yet we love these guys anyway. It makes me wonder what is wrong with us.

Why no, I don't feel guilty at all. Why do you ask?

The newest Nooglet

A belated happy holidays to one and all. I'm not sure where my blogging muse went, but I'm sure that she apologizes for my absence.

If any of my long-time readers are still out there, you may remember me mentioning the Noogles once or twice or thrice. The team nickname is taken from the official name, No Glove, No Love. (The name makes great sense when the team plays softball, and no sense when we play floor hockey.)

Click to enlarge

No Glove, No Love is a misnomer, since seven of the players pictured above have become parents since the photo was taken over three years ago. The newest little Nooglet (baby Noogle) was born early this morning. Although his arrival was a few weeks earlier than expected, mommy and baby are doing well. Congratulations to Libby and Martin!

By the seat of my pants

By nature, I am not a risk taker. I am an overly cautious, neurotically prepared worrywart. That said, contrary to my usual character, I occasionally find myself flying by the increasingly large seat of my pants. It's not a conscious decision; somehow I simply forget my usual hypervigilance and wing it.

Take driving. I'm still a novice, or a n00b as the kids call it nowadays. Now that I've got the whole gas pedal versus brake pedal thing down pat, however, I've really relaxed. This is in spite of the fact that the extent of my practicing is a 30-minute drive to or from my parents' house once every couple of weeks. The same route, over and over again. I could do it in my sleep. Sometimes I nearly do. Yes, I've become that relaxed.

I remember my mother trying to get me to relax when I was a stressed-out high-school student. She would ask me what was the worst thing that could happen if I didn't finish cramming for a test, and she even suggested that I might try taking a test without studying at all just to see how I would do. It must have been hard for her to witness my anxiety attacks whenever I felt that the amount of studying I had to do far exceeded the amount of time in which I had to complete it. And yet, there was that one time in university when I quite enjoyed taking an exam for which I had not studied.

I once risked very public embarrassment by failing to prepare. I had a bit part in the play "Rebel Without A Cause" in high school. Even if you've seen the movie a few times, you are still unlikely to remember that the role of the planetarium lecturer ("There was a planetarium lecturer?" you're thinking) was played by a man of about 60. Uh-huh. I had tried out for Natalie Wood's role but instead I won the role originally portrayed by a man born in the late 1800s. At the time I had no idea what a terrible actor I was. Anyhow, I was also assigned the part of understudy to the main female character. I had never heard of an understudy for an amateur high-school production. Much later it dawned on me that the two drama club teachers were simply being kind to me. They both had cougar crushes on my brother, who was also in the drama club, and I suspect that they wanted to curry favour with him by pretending that his little sister hadn't completely sucked during the auditions.

Rachel Stroud. I believe that was the name of the girl who played Natalie Wood's role in our high-school play. Thank goodness she didn't lose her voice or break a bone or find herself otherwise unable to perform, because I never bothered to learn her lines. I have no idea why.

Me, in my planetarium lecturer finery, bottom right.

I'm going to live dangerously now and post this without proofreading it a third time.

A lack of interests

All my life I have suffered from a lack of interests (plural). Oh, I had a couple of passions for a while, namely volunteering and fostering animals. However, after I was hired by the organization for which I had volunteered, and after I adopted my foster pets, my passions became my day-to-day reality. That's nothing to complain about, of course, but I have been feeling the need to replace those passions and my lack of interests has made that next to impossible.

Many people have more interests than they can count. Some of those interests are simple, quiet hobbies, while others involve travel and adventure. None of these myriad pastimes appeals to me. I don't want to cook, knit, play chess or partake in physical exercise, grueling or otherwise. I do enjoy a good book, but reading is what I do on the bus to and from work every day; reading in the comfort of my own home just puts me to sleep. I feel as though I've surfed the entire world wide web twice over. I don't have the money for expensive courses or trips, and even if I did I'm not sure that I would have the desire to sign up. So little piques my interest.

So, dear readers, what shall I do with my two-week vacation, which begins tomorrow? Scott will still be working, so I'm on my own. I won't even have the pleasures of sleeping in and relaxing in front of the TV, as we have men arriving early each morning with jackhammers, a radio and tone-deaf singing voices. (We are undergoing the noisy, dusty process of waterproofing and underpinning the basement. Oh joy.) I welcome your suggestions. I'm just so bored of being bored.