Read this!

I'm completely hormonal so everything makes me cry (or get really, really angry) these days.

But this article Her Body, My Baby really whacked me around emotionally (please don't let that stop you from reading it). It offers tremendous perspective on pregnancy and what it means to have a baby.

We did not need that information

About a year ago, my husband and I were in Philadelphia, PA visiting a few friends who live in the city and slightly beyond. One of them is a pediatrician, who was earning a PhD in public health at a prestigious US university.

Smart guy.

Out at dinner one night, over octopus at a local Chinese restaurant, four of us - the doctor, my husband, myself and one of my closest friends- got into a bit of an argument largely spurred by my ignorance of various topics.

One of them was breast self exams and how this at-home test for cancer was causing more harm than personal and public good by forcing doctors to perform expensive, invasive, anxiety-inducing testing over every tiny lump a would-be patient comes across after only a few seconds of feeling around.

My hotheaded position: all information is good, the more the better. And if excessive testing can find that tiny risk factor, or possibly save a life, then it's all for the best - even if 99 per cent of the time the testing is useless and proves nothing was wrong in the first place. 

The doctor's astute position: forget all the testing. 99 per cent of the time it only amounts to patient stress, not useful information.

Now, one year and one frightening ordeal later, I see his point.

When my husband and I walked out of our second ultrasound we were handed a report as per hospital protocol. We were expected to deliver it to my Ob/Gyn to save the administrative hassle, I believe, for the hospital. If something was wrong, a doctor would have stopped us on our way home that day to talk to us about it. Nobody did.

But while doctors weren't concerned by what the report contained, my husband and I became terribly upset by what we read.

We are two panicky parents-to-be with little understanding of medical concepts (despite being well educated and having lots of doctors in the immediate family), but that tiny piece of information, like finding a lump under my arm, was enough to make us absolutely nuts for several days.

We scoured the Internet for information. Sought countless professional opinions. Agonized over what we later found out was truly nothing. And still we worry. A lot.

We didn't need to know what was on that sheet. That information lead us down an awful, needless path.

So why was did the hospital give it to us??

I'll take a cranberry soda. Argh.

It looked fun, I was still awake. So we figured "why not?"

Since I got pregnant I've slowed down my extra curricular activities (to a crawl). But earlier this week, after dinner my husband and I decided to join friends for a drink at a busy downtown bar.

There were women dancing on tables (I swear this was a trendy Wellington St. W, vodka bar, not a skleazy strip joint), men in stuffy suits swinging their tushies. And everyone seemed drunk.

Except me.

"Give me five, no, seven months," I told my friend, "And I'll be up there on that table."

(For some reason, at that moment, it seemed like the right thing to say).

The waitress sidled up to where we were sitting. Everyone else ordered and then she trained her eyes on me.

"I'll have a cranberry soda," I said.. The waitress narrowed her eyes and her lips curled into a disappointed frown  - it was as if she could sense the amount of her tip dwindling with those five words. She quickly turned away.

Despite numerous and various warnings to the contrary (not to mention the judging eyes of friends and family), lots of people have the odd slurp, or even glass of wine or pint of beer when they're expecting.

But I just can't bring myself to do it.

I've never been one to scare easily, but the warnings do make me really nervous. And it's also the thought of a poor drunk fetus squirming around in my tummy.

When I eat Timbits, or some other sugar laden fatty food, the Lentil goes mental - kicking, twisting.

I couldn't imagine what it would do if I got it drunk (if it's anything like it's mother, it might twist an ankle in high heels, drunken dial, or start making out with the placenta - not a good scene).

Not to mention the guilt I would feel afterwards. There are so many challenges it will face in this world, that I want to make sure it is born with all its faculties in tact.

So, even though I felt the waitress started a sneer campaign against me and my cranberry soda that night, I held my drink high as I sipped it! And stuck out my stomach, so she could tell I was passing on the alcohol for a good reason!

No gadgets!

My husband and I were perusing online baby shopping sites a little while ago and we came across this crazy TV monitor that essentially allows parents to spy on their bundles of joy - instead of just listening in on them.

"We have to have that," my husband said. "I want that."

"To care for the baby?" I asked, "Or just because you're a man?" (let's be real here, the desire for electronic gadgets is a trait probably exclusively found on the Y chromosome).

At any rate, I refuse to give in. A) I feel like it's a strange privacy violation (even though the poor child will have no idea we're watching) and B) "are you nuts???" I asked. The last thing I want is to obsessively watch the kid, looking for any more paranoia-inducing signs that something is wrong.

I couldn't live like that (we're still discussing the issue)!

But that brings me to another source of paranoia. My father, a physician, has a pretty old fetal heart beat stethoscope at his house. And my husband wants to try to use it.

What if he can't find the heartbeat?? I'll die.

All these gadgets are supposed to make life easier - but, uhm, I just feel more stressed.

Olive oil to smooth out the skin. Who knew?

A few weeks ago I was covering a story about a teenager who'd been stabbed in the stomach in the cafeteria of his high school (he has since made a full recovery). While reporting on this story I found myself in a hospital room with all five of his sisters.

All of them were pretty, thin, tall and a few were pregnant.

One woman, who was seven months along and said she was having twins, spontaneously lifted up her shirt when there was a moment's calm in the room. She grabbed a bottle from her purse, squeezed a stream of translucent liquid into her hand and rubbed it all over her belly.

"Olive oil," she said, responding to the quizzical look on my face.

"Like extra virgin olive oil?" I asked. "Like the kind I put on my salad?"

"Yup," she said.

"Why are you doing that?" I had to know.

"Do I have stretch marks?" she asked me.

"No!" I said.

"There you go," she answered.

Who knew? I've always knew about vinegar and its many uses. Same with the smell fighting  power of baking soda, which is also used to make cake (I am not a baker, can you tell?)  

But, olive oil to prevent stretch marks?? That's definitely a new one.

I can't say I've raided my kitchen cabinet just yet..... but I'm thinking about it!

Pregnancy: the ultimate excuse

There are some perks to being pregnant.

For one, it's the ultimate excuse.

I locked myself out of my office at work three times this week: hormones. Snapped at the head of the Toronto police communications department: hormones.

Turned on the oven with the wooden cutting boards still stowed inside: hormones.

Instead of getting mad, people have now begun cocking their heads to one said and saying: "Oh, are you feeling okay? Poor thing" (in the case of the head of police corp comm. he told me to stop swearing and we politely moved on...)

And if an editor tells me to go somewhere, get some information really fast, they'll laugh when I saw I'll do it in 10 minutes because I have to pee/eat.

And I find that being pregnant is a great ice breaker - for, like everyone - because people have either been pregnant, were once in a womb, had a relative who once gave birth or at least had sex and know something about the process.

For someone who spends a lot of time talking to people for work, such as myself, just joking about the hormones or that it looks as though the baby has taken up residence in my butt, really puts people at ease. Or it makes them think I'm crazy.

But whatever! I'm pregnant!

I'm losing my mind

My name is Michele Henry. I'm 32 years-old. And I'm losing my mind.

It's only a bit funny.

This week alone I've locked myself out of my house twice. It's not even Wednesday. Like someone 82 years my senior I forget where I put things, such as the phone, my lunch, my frickin' keys, even if I touched them, like, a second ago.

Words escape me. Names - forget about it. I have no idea who anyone is anymore. I just say "hey, you, cutie," when I'm staring at someone (such as my husband) and can't remember what to call him.

The most frightening part is that "they" say this is normal. Apparently, pregnant women become absent minded, forgetful, doofus-like.

What the hell kind of evolutionary edge could that possible give us?? I can't see how not remembering where I have to be when, or who I spoke to on the phone for an hour yesterday, could benefit my life or the life of the baby currently slurping up my amniotic fluid.

Wouldn't it be better (for everyone) if pregnant women got super brain? We're expected to work during the day - without lettin' 'em see us sweat - and still be awake to converse socially with people in the evening time.

So, why does nature make us, well, less competent? dumber?

I have not yet found a suitable answer. I'm still looking. I'll let you know when I figure it out. If, that is, I still remember the question.   

late night snack, anyone?

It's dark. It's quiet. My husband is snoring.

So why the @!$#@ am I awake?!

This is a question I've been asking myself a lot lately. It ping ponged around my head just last night when I had no choice but to drag myself from bed at 3 a.m. and finish dinner's leftover ravioli.

This night (or morning, rather), I've been forced into a peanut butter sandwich.

If the baby was out of my tummy, I would hold it up to the window, I think, and show it what nighttime looks like. Then I might explain that people sleep during this dark period (which seems to last about 18 hours a night between October and January) and they cha cha cha during the day.

People laugh when I tell them about the latest news in my sleep/wake cycle.

"Ha!" a work colleague said a few days ago. "Get ready. When the baby's born you'll never sleep again!"

What's the word for people who delight in other's pain?

Schadenfreude.

This awake at night thing isn't all bad though. Appears this baby likes to kick me at odd times of the day. Or, I can feel the tiny flutters in my abdomen more powerfully when the world's asleep and relatively noiseless. I'm probably also calmer and more in tune with the tiny creature when there's less stimulation from the outside world.

And I guess that's worth it. It's nice to finally feel some communication from inside there, besides the usual nausea.

Okay, tiny baby - keep me awake. You win. 

Skinny pregnant women are invading my space

I know I'm obsessing - but I just can't get off this pregnancy clothing issue. In my opinion, the whole thing is a sham.

Yes, there are some brands of pants that have the stretchy waist and are made of elasticized material. Okay, some shirts are longer in the front and gather at the sides. Fine, tights have a tummy window that are soft on the belly.

But, the rest of the clothes - loose fitting sweater dresses, expensive turtle necks from stores like Belly, on Mount Pleasant, and Kick , on Eglinton Ave., are just regular brands with a heftier price tag.

And, I was told at Belly just this weekend that it's impossible to get my size in almost anything because fall merchandise came in a while ago and now its all gone.

This makes no sense. You can't shop early as a pregnant woman - you have no idea how you'll look, how your butt will balloon or whether all the fat will migrate to your arms or thighs.

And, stores like that attract skinny women, who don't look pregnant.

When I was at Belly this Sunday, a tall (about eight feet), toothpick of a woman who looked one month pregnant (or less) was cooing at herself in the mirror and checking out her butt in a pair of, what else - skinny pregnancy jeans (a ridiculous contradiction in terms, if you ask me).

"Look," my mom said. "She looks so cute in those jeans."

"Of course she does," I yelled. "She's not pregnant."

"I am," the woman answered with a scowl.

"Oh please," I snorted in return.

My mother, embarrassed, apologized for my outburst with her eyes. And then said "she's not taking well to this gaining weight thing," to the salesperson, in reference to my crustiness.

Well, I just don't think barely pregnant women who weigh less than the fetus they're carrying should be allowed to shop next to rotund turkey-like women, such as myself.

Admittedly, I've had a long day at work and I'm tired and hormonal. But come on - I thought pregnancy was a time to embrace bigness?? But how can I do that when even pregnancy stores aren't a safe zone??

Time for bed.

I refuse to name the kid after a football player

Last night my husband and I sat in bed with the laptop at our knees, determined to choose a name for this baby, who hasn't even kicked me yet.

This seems like an impossible task. I know nothing about this tiny creature, now about the size of a knish (a fattening Jewish pastry), aside from the fact it's squishing my small intestine up into my chest as it takes over the rest of my body.

It hasn't made the slightest peep yet - aside from what I think might be a twist or a turn, now and again, but I'm not totally convinced those movements I feel roll across my stomach aren't just gas.

How can we give it a name when we don't know its personality?

Rarely, have I met an adult whose name didn't mesh with how they project on the world - so I suppose the baby will grow into whatever title we give it.... but I still feel like I have to meet this little thing before we decide.

And before we brand it for life with something silly like "acacia" or "d'brickshaw" - I refuse to name my kid after a football player....

The process continues...