Unconditional love means unconditional worry

Dear Summer,

EMC Lifestyle - In the song Fidelity, Regina Spektor sings “I never loved nobody fully/Always one foot on the ground”.

Daddy says that song always reminds him of me because at the beginning of our relationship I told him that I wouldn’t let myself love him as much as I wanted to since I didn’t want to be completely overcome by heartbreak if we eventually ended things. I have no recollection of saying this, but know I probably did because it sounds like something my dramatic, 20-year-old self would have come up with.

These days, I don’t have time to hyper-analyze every thought and feeling that lurks in my subconscious, but something happened to you last week that reminded me of how terrifying love can be.

Daddy and I were getting ready to take you and the dog for a walk, as we do every evening. We had been out and about earlier, so daddy had to take your car seat off the base of your stroller and attach the pram. Halfway through the transition, the dog decided it was time to start bounding around the neighbourhood, so daddy went to the edge of the driveway to call her back, leaving the pram on top of the stroller, not fully attached.

You can probably guess what happened next. I brought you outside, thought the pram was ready to go, and set you down. About a second later, you were face-down on the stone walkway, beneath the pram, (thankfully) wailing in shock and pain. In a daze, I scooped you up, walked across the street and thrust you into the arms of our neighbour, a nurse. She confirmed that you had a little scratch on your head but no concussion, and told us to keep an eye on you that night but not to worry because you seemed just fine.

It turned out I was really, really good at taking the first bit of advice, but terrible at the second. Even after you had settled down and even mustered a smile or two, I worried a deep, pit-of-the-stomach sort of worry that was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I worried even more when it came time for you to go to sleep. What if you had internal bleeding and the unthinkable happened while you slept?  What if we woke up to find the scratch on your forehead had turned into a throbbing, black-and-blue goose egg? What would we do then? Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Thankfully, everything seems to have turned out fine. If I believed in miracles, I suppose I could label this situation as such. Somehow, I don’t think you could possibly have fallen the whole two-feet from the pram to the pavement, as you were relatively uninjured. I’m guessing the pram must have slid down part way before flipping over. I’ll never know for sure, since the incident remains a total blur in my mind.

I did, however, learn three very sure things from this situation: never set the pram or car seat on the stroller without fastening them on properly; never put you in your pram or car seat without first making sure they are secure; and my love for you is not something I can protect myself from. I cannot run and hide from the overwhelming feeling of the worry that consumed me when the accident happened and the painful guilt that still does. Nor would I want to, given the choice, for the flip-side of a mother’s love is one of the most beautiful feelings in the world.

I cannot learn to love you fully, as I did with daddy; I just do, right from the start. Like diving into cold water on a 35-degree day, it’s shocking at first, but also exactly what I need.   

Nine months

I've always admired body confident women. Throughout my life, I've struggled with disordered eating and a general low self-esteem as a result of hating my body. In this light, pregnancy has been a journey - one that was altered considerably when I found out I was having a girl. You see, the last thing I want is to be a destructive example for my little girl. I want to bring her up so that she will value healthy eating and have a solid understanding of nutrition, but not obsess constantly about the size of her thighs, etc., as I wasted far too many years of my life doing.

Ironically, I think that the extreme changes my body has undergone during pregnancy have significantly helped to heal me of any lingering body issues. I'd be lying if I said they were gone entirely, but watching my body transform over the last nine months has been for me more awe-inspiring than traumatic, and that's nothing if not a step in the right direction.

I've shared some photos of myself throughout my pregnancy several times before, but thought it would be neat to line them all up beside one another. They range from week 14 up until today - almost 38. Technically I still have a little over two weeks to go, but I can't imagine getting much bigger than I am right now, or feeling up to another photoshoot, for that matter.

Apparently, I didn't have any photos taken from weeks 20-ish through 30-ish, hence the huge change between the second and third photos. The last one in particular is a little out of character for me to post, but I have anyway in honour of pushing my own boundaries. Here's to body confidence!

Pinning, performance and finding yourself in the age of social media

EMC Editorial - Out of all the social networking sites, Pinterest has got to be the most delightful waste of time.

Facebook is wonderful for keeping in touch with old friends. Or, more accurately, being passively informed of what old friends are up to by stalking their photos and status updates. Twitter is a magical space where followers will accept your shameless self-promotion without being put off, and marvel at your ability to communicate witty observations in 140 characters or fewer.

Pinterest is the new kid on the block, and I must admit that even after poking around on it for four months, its purpose is still a bit of a mystery to me. That doesn't mean, however, that I haven't been completely swept up by its difficult-to-define virtues. As a writer and tireless defender of the English language, I've never believed that a picture is worth 1,000 words. But what about 50 pictures that collectively represent your ideal wardrobe, or hint at what your dream kitchen would resemble?

I'm guessing that in the vast majority of cases, people don't actually go out and buy the outfits and dining room tables they excitedly pin to their style and home decorating boards, or bother to make the delicious-looking recipes pictured on their food boards. Yet there is something extremely satisfying about having a way of compiling and organizing your dreams and personal style in one virtual space - and, of course, giving others the opportunity to admire your impeccable tastes.

Perhaps the appeal also lies in the possibility of self-discovery. The other day, I pinned an astute print to my "words, words, words" board that read "getting dressed in the morning would be a lot easier if my Pinterest closet were real." It made me think about the outfits, hairstyles and makeup looks I pin on onto "my style", and how different they are from what I actually look like on a daily basis. Usually, I can be found wearing jeans or casual dress pants with some sort of sweater and little makeup other than mascara, eyeliner and light foundation, my hair half-blow-dried and parted down the centre.

Pinterest has reminded me that my ideal style is actually quite girly. I love flowing dresses, fun prints and cute hairstyles involving braids and whimsical, flyaway waves. True, I have yet to buy or try out any specific outfit or style I've pinned, but it was an examination of "my style" that inspired me to embark on a quest to find a pretty maternity dress to wear to my baby shower. Sure, it may have been a hopelessly impractical purchase, but I felt really good wearing it for half a day.

Unsurprisingly, men don't seem to understand Pinterest.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked me last week as I was scanning through pages of nail designs.

"Pinning."

"What's that?"

"There's this website where you can, like, pin stuff. Pictures you like, things like that."

"But why?"

"I don't know - it's kind of like scrapbooking, but online."

"Oh," he said, wrinkling his nose.

Then I found a recipe for sweet potato fries that looked a lot like the ones we both love from Harper's Burger, and Steve appeared at least temporarily won over.

"That's the secret? Coating them in cornstarch first? I can do that!" he exclaimed.

So far, it's the only recipe I've pinned that we actually went on to try, and it was really good. Not Harper's Burger good, but I'm guessing that's at least partly because these were baked as opposed to fried. Or it could be that the secret isn't cornstarch after all. Either way, the fries are sure to become a staple in our house.

So perhaps it's about inspiration, self-discovery and smugly showing off your excellent sense of style all rolled up into one. To be honest, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to nail down the exact appeal of Pinterest. All I know is, I'm hooked.

Nine years of love

Steve and I have been together since we were 19, lived together as a couple since 21, and been married since 23. Most people from our generation say we're crazy to have committed our lives to domesticity so young. We say we would have been crazy not to because...well...when you know, you know.

Over the years, we have had many, many, many good times. We travelled to France, Italy, Louisiana, San Francisco, New York and Jamaica. We lived in Ottawa, Toronto, Kingston, and Toronto again before settling back in Kingston for what we hope will be for good.

I've been feeling a little nostalgic and weepy lately (okay, a lot nostalgic and weepy) thinking about how having a baby will inevitably change our relationship. We've grown so accustomed to life as a twosome it's hard to imagine what it will be like with a third Campbell thrown into the mix.

Here's a look at some of my favourite photos of the two of us over the years...from 2003 all the way up to 2011.

Pain and acceptance

EMC Editorial - I'm almost there, my friends. Almost to the end of the long and arduous journey that is pregnancy. It feels like a lifetime ago that I wrote a column expressing how overwhelmed I was by the endless, often alarming bits of "advice" offered by certain celebrated pregnancy guides and the well-intentioned people of the internet.

Tearing myself away from those sources and relying instead on the much more comforting advice of my midwife has largely cured me of my former hysteria.

Yet as long ago as that unpleasant stretch feels, it's been longer still since I first found out I was pregnant. It was the middle of summer and we couldn't tell anyone. Being the kind of person who needs to talk or write about things in order to make sense of them, trying to come to terms with this monumental development without having the opportunity to vent and complain about it to anyone other than my poor husband was nothing short of torturous.

At this point, pregnancy seems almost old hat. I can barely even remember what wine tastes like, and am no longer all that bitter about being every gathering's teetotaller. I've grown accustomed to being asked "how are you feeling?" about 10 times a day. I've even learned to roll with the many different aches, pains and other mysterious bodily discomforts I experience on a daily basis.

It figures that as soon as I begin to get used to this way of life, a new and arguably even more daunting challenge complete with its own set of anxiety-inducing realities, looms ahead. I'm not talking about the soon-to-arrive new addition to our family. That part I'm actually quite excited about. No, it's the whole business of how this baby girl will make her way out of my uterus and into the world that scares me.

I understand basically what to expect - namely pain. Overwhelming, all-encompassing, previously unimaginable degrees of pain. Over the last seven-and-a-half months - and even more so over the last few weeks - I have spent a great deal of time coming to terms with the fact that I will soon be experiencing this, most painful of pains ever known to humanity.

Most people I have conversed with on the subject have an easy, in many ways no-brainer solution to this unpleasant reality: the epidural. Personally, I've gone back and forth on the subject. Part of me sees it as a useful tool of modern medicine that exists to make life a little easier for labouring women.

On the other hand, the pain of childbirth was endured for a million or so years without the epidural. Perhaps the reason most women today feel such a need for it is because of a preconceived cultural notion that it is all but impossible to get by without one. This doesn't strike me as a particularly healthy attitude. The physical effects of the medication (most notably numbness) are unsettling enough, but what about the psychological implications?

After weeks of contemplation I've come to the conclusion that for me, walking into this under the assumption that I will definitely be needing an epidural will only increase my fear of childbirth. Being in midwifery care has allowed me to develop a different, and to my mind much more rational attitude toward birth from anything I had previously considered: essentially, this is a normal, natural process. Women in labour are not "sick", and while it may not be 100 per cent enjoyable, delivering a baby is nothing to be scared of.

Thus I have once again ceased listening to the many stories circulating online and amongst my own acquaintances, this time dealing with problems that arose during their births and why the epidural is absolutely necessary. Judge me if you will, but barring any major complications I plan on bringing this baby into the world completely naturally, and with as little fear as humanly possible.

Oh and whatever else happens, please spare me the morphine. (Apparently, it's routinely given out to labouring women at KGH.) I didn't give up my beloved wine for nine long months only to be injected with a close relative of the heroine family on the last day, thank you very much.

Oh, the television

EMC Editorial - Lately I've noted with interest the number of people around my own age who are choosing to give up their televisions - or at least their cable or satellite, which now that everything's digital basically means that the TV itself can be used only for the purpose of Netflix or DVD viewing. I'm not sure if it's simply a coincidence that a sizable number of my friends and acquaintances are making this decision, or if it's more of a wide-spread generational trend that I personally can't get behind.

It's not that I don't spend a great deal of my spare time enjoying non-television-related activities like reading, listening to music, exercising and visiting with family and friends. It's just that sometimes all I feel like doing is veging in front of an episode of Storage Wars, Toddlers and Tiaras or whatever happens to be on the Food Network. And I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't watch The Daily Show and Colbert every night in bed before drifting off to sleep.

Then there are all the high-profile events that are televised, like various sports playoffs/championships and, at this time of year, guilty pleasures like the Oscars and the Golden Globes. I am an unapologetic lover of Hollywood's awards season. Yes, I recognize that to many all it means is a bunch of over-inflated egos parading around in ridiculously expensive clothing congratulating one another for being passably good at something that doesn't really matter to the world anyway. But I personally can't get enough of all the dresses, gossip and cattiness. (Did you SEE the look on Elton's face when Madonna won the Globe for best song? And speaking of Madonna: her ARMS - yuck!)

Yet I wonder, in this age of rampant hipsterdom and the subsequent lameness of anything that has not been widely recognized as "indie", does my enjoyment of these things render me hopelessly out of touch and un-cool?

Lately, even my beloved awards shows have made me question my level of commitment to the trends of my generation. For instance, I had not even heard of any of the TV shows nominated in the drama category for this year's Golden Globes (American Horror Story, Boardwalk Empire, Boss, Game of Thrones, Homeland...anyone...?) Maybe you need to subscribe to Netflix to know what these things are.

The movie categories were a little better, but I had still seen only a very small percentage of them. And the one that cleaned up - and is supposed to once again do very well at the Oscars - The Artist, was completely unfamiliar to me. I realize that this probably has a lot to do with the fact that many movies are not released to theatres in Kingston. Furthermore, I live with a man who thinks it's a waste of time and money to go to any movie where the main character is a woman. Or anything that has below 80 per cent "fresh" ratings from the top critics on Rotten Tomatoes. Or anything that's playing at the Screening Room unless it's some depressing documentary about how there's an 85 per cent chance humanity won't survive the next two centuries.

Maybe I'm just getting old and have neither the time nor the inclination to try and keep up with the latest trends - especially if they involve getting rid of your TV. I suppose everyone has that moment where they wake up one day and realize it's time to stop apologizing for their personal preferences. Perhaps this is mine. So what if I enjoy an hour or two of semi-trashy TV every night, or if I no longer have the energy to argue with my husband about his refusal to give the vast majority of new movies a chance?

For the foreseeable future, I'll remain in my out-of-touch, decidedly non-hipster bubble of cooking shows and the same DVDs over and over for seven years and counting because they're the only ones Steve and I can agree on. And that's okay.

30 Weeks Pregnant

On becoming domestic

EMC Editorial - If you've followed my writings for some time, you're probably aware of my incompetence in the kitchen.

Other than select varieties of cookies, cakes and pies, I've historically shied away from having to prepare anything more complicated than green smoothies or bagels with peanut butter and jam. On the few occasions that I have made supper for my family, it's almost always been some sort of breakfast-for-dinner type meal like pancakes, French toast or tofu scramble.

The mere thought of preparing things like vegetables, rice and potatoes stresses me out. Why, you ask? I guess the short answer is that I've simply never figured out basic rules like how long I need to cook things for and at what temperature. A few missteps which yielded unappetizing results like soggy, over-steamed zucchini and pots ruined by grains of reeking, burnt rice stuck to the bottom left me with a discouraged opinion of my abilities.

Thankfully, this has never been a problem because my husband adores cooking, and is extremely amenable to my desire to eat a mostly plant-based diet. The best part is that he's actually quite a good cook, and although I may on occasion be overheard complaining about his habit of using every single pot and pan we own to prepare one meal, or the way he piles all the vegetable scraps and peelings in the sink instead of the compost bin, I am nothing if not grateful for his efforts because I know I am the healthier for them.

If there is anything I find more daunting than having to prepare a proper meal, however, it's the long stretch of maternity leave I have coming up, and it is that which has inspired me to at last make a concerted effort to learn how to cook. I have never in my life not had school or a job to occupy my time for more than a couple of months, and during those stretches I was always at least looking for work - which is a full-time job in itself, to say the least.

I'm not trying to say that being a stay-at-home mom is not a full-time job - because I know that it is - it's just that I worry I will not "be the right fit" for this job because domestic tasks have never been my forte. (I am ashamed to say that my cooking failures are only the tip of the iceberg in this department.)

Now that I finally have a job I actually enjoy, having to simply walk away from it for six months makes the whole situation even more difficult to bear than it ever would have been in the past. What will I do all day if I can't be out in the community interviewing the good people of Kingston and Frontenac County and writing stories about local happenings? I fear the headline will read "fails miserably on the domestic front".

What I'm attempting to get at, in a very round-about way, is that I have made it my personal goal to try and cook at least two dinners per week until April, when my leave will start, at which point I hope to bring it up to four or five. Last week, I managed to throw together a half-decent stir-fry, which was quite encouraging. All the same, I know that some failures will be inevitable, and want to be able to push on in spite of them.

I hope that this goal will not only allow me to develop some much-needed domestic skills, but also present me with a somewhat enjoyable challenge to master while on leave. (Well, other than that whole caring for a newborn baby by myself thing - which terrifies me too much to even think about just yet.)

I suppose I'm telling you all this because nothing motivates me like feeling monitored. So please feel free to ask/text/tweet/Facebook me about how the cooking's going. The prospect that someone might bring it up will hopefully be enough to get me dicing up a carrot or two on a regular basis.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

World's Worst Canadian

EMC Editorial - It's that time of year again. That unpleasant stretch between New Years and the first signs of spring where everything is cold, gray, dark and icy. Where you have to leave your house 15 minutes earlier than normal to scrape inches of snow, ice and frost off your windshield, and where going outside even to simply walk from the house to the car seems like a daunting task due to all the extra clothing that needs to be tracked down and put on.

The general Canadian opinion of the dead of winter is, as a rule, quite reactionary - almost to the degree of distasteful defensiveness. Anyone who dares to complain about the weather is nearly always met with some version of "suck it up, it's Canada" or "maybe if you dressed properly for the winter you wouldn't be so cold."

Even television commercials love to champion "winter proud," jingoist messages, like how no self-respecting Canadian decides to wait for a warmer day to accomplish an outdoor task. I, on the other hand, avoid doing pretty much anything outdoors from late-October until about mid-April.

Other commercials do their best to promote the aesthetic beauty of run-down old arenas at 5 a.m. hockey practices for eight-year-olds. I have never been to a hockey arena at 5 a.m., rundown or otherwise. All the same, I think I can say with a good deal of confidence that to me, there would be absolutely nothing magical or aesthetically pleasing about such a place at such an ungodly hour.

I suppose that makes me the world's worst Canadian.

It is true, though, that there are many out there who do manage to genuinely enjoy winter, and even I have to admit that they can make the season look quite beautiful. A number of my Facebook friends seem to be avid skiers and snowboarders, and regularly post photos of themselves and their friends dressed in colourful, cosy-looking gear, riding gondolas up mountains then posing at the summits, presumably just seconds before gracefully gliding back down to the chalet where some well-deserved hot chocolate and snacks await at the après-ski.

A part of me longs to join their ranks. Then I remember that where there are mountains and snow there are likely also to be biting wind chills and dry, bitterly freezing air that make my nose bleed and the skin on the back of my hands crack and peel. My body, it seems, simply cannot take it.

Ottawa's Rideau Canal also photographs beautifully in the winter (or any other season, for that matter). I lived in Ottawa for four years, and admittedly did enjoy a number of jaunts up and down the world's longest skating rink.

Then on my last two visits, I managed to fall squarely on my left kneecap and tailbone, respectively. The only thing more painful than the first tumble was the second, and I've shied away from the canal ever since like the terrible, wimpy little excuse for a Canadian I am.

Not to mention, there really is no cold like an Ottawa cold, and my notoriously dry skin did a lot of premature aging during the winters I spent there - doing nothing for this vain creature's opinion of the season.

At least I've never been one to pretend that I shouldn't have been born in California or the south of France instead of Ontario. Alas, this seems to be where I've ended up, and likely where I'll stay for the rest of my life. I'll just spend my winters curled up on the couch with a book, or in front of the TV watching the entire series of 30 Rock for nth time, or wistfully viewing your winter-happy photos on Facebook as I sit by my block heater with a big glass of red wine (or this year, a mug of pasteurized hot apple cider). Which has its own, odd sort of beauty, I suppose.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca