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

It's always 1984 at French language schools

EMC Editorial - With a baby on the way, my mind has been filled lately with thoughts of how my husband Steve and I can raise our daughter so as to give her as many opportunities in life as possible.

One of the first things we decided was that we would like her to grow up bilingual in English and French, and attend French schools from Kindergarten. We hope this will give her a more cultured, well-rounded upbringing, allowing her to connect with her French Canadian background on her father's side and ultimately help her to land a good job as an adult.

Not to mention the fact that I'm probably the biggest Francophile you'll ever meet. I found heaven when I visited Paris for the first time as a teenager, and to this day few things delight me more than delicately designed plates full of colourful macaroons and cheesy artistic renderings of the Eiffel Tower. I'm hoping I might be able to master the language alongside our daughter, and that having her around will finally inspire Steve to speak only in French at a designated times of the day - say over dinner, for example - to help me and baby girl learn it.

But then I read articles like the one that recently appeared in the National Post about all non-French languages being banned during recess at Montreal schools, and it almost makes me want to give up all these aspirations on principle. If a child is heard speaking English - or Spanish, Japanese, etc. - during "free time" on the school yard or in the cafeteria, a designated monitor will come over and ask them to please switch to French.

But that's only in Quebec, right? Where everyone is crazy about language anyway? Wrong. When I showed the article to Steve, he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. He proceeded to tell me about his French elementary school in the Niagara region.

Every Friday, the school held a "Franco- fête", and only those who were not caught speaking English at recess or lunch by teachers or "god help us all" their own peers over the course of the week were invited. The kids were given bracelets at the start of each week that served as admittance to the fête, and it was the duty of students to police each other and confiscate bracelets if classmates dared to utter a syllable of English. Offenders spent the duration of the Franco- fête in a separate classroom writing lines about French grammar. A little extreme, no?

A quick scan through the comments at the bottom of the article about the Montreal schools reveals that most people seem to be against this sort of policy. A number of H-bombs (i.e. Hitler/Nazi comparisons) were dropped, which I find out of place for a situation like this - or most situations where these comparisons are made, for that matter, but that's another story.

Personally, I think these measures are more ridiculous and annoying than anything. I find such strict monitoring for something so trivial distasteful and a little disrespectful of these students' rights, but mostly I would like to see our teachers focus instead on making sure students receive the best possible education during regular school hours. In Canada, French is an important part of children's education, but let's allow them to relax a little and have fun during their free time.

Will stories like these cause me to change my opinion on sending baby girl to a French school? To be honest, I don't think so. That kind of attitude irks me, but in the end allowing her to have two first languages seems like too good an opportunity to pass up.

But rest assured the school will be made aware of my opinion if I ever catch wind of any playground language police.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

Arts Curtain Call?

EMC Editorial - I don't usually do too much ranting here, but I desperately need to get a few things off my chest.

I find the recent suspension of Queen's fine arts admissions deeply troubling, as I fear it spells the beginnings of a trend I have dreaded for a very long time now.

Throughout my entire life, I have listened to everyone from political leaders to my parents drone on about how math and science are the most important and useful subjects. Perhaps in an act of rebellion, I completed bachelor and master of arts degrees in English literature.

The kind of people who look down on the fine arts are equally scornful of my educational choices. I stopped caring what these people think of me a long time ago, but I must admit it does bother me when their philosophy starts to sneak its way into the practices of educational institutions.

Lately, even the humanities and social sciences have been getting a bad rap.

Earlier this month, Globe columnist Margaret Wente suggested that the Occupy protesters should blame their own poor choices of what to study in university for the fact that they are now unemployed or underemployed. She lambasted a young woman studying for a master of sociology for her own short-sightedness, claiming that such people need to concentrate less on making the world a better place and more on what employment opportunities are out there.

I guess Wente would prefer if everyone chose their major purely on the basis of in-demand employers, like the companies who run Alberta's tar sands. Let's try that out for a decade, shall we, and see where that lands us. Heaven forbid anyone ever dream of affecting positive change.

But just how much further will a degree in the sciences get you than one in the arts or humanities?

I haven't conducted any formal studies on the topic, but I have watched with interest the career paths of friends and acquaintances my own age who majored in a variety of subjects. Few who graduated in the past decade have jobs "in their field" that are also full-time, permanent and decently gainful. (With the notable exceptions of doctors, nurses and tradespeople.)

A dear friend of mine has a very prestigious, practical degree in environmental sciences. She has worked contracts for the Ministry of Natural Resources for the past five years in well-paying, career-building jobs, but has yet to be given a permanent position.

I know others who have completed engineering degrees and are in similar situations. I hear that many companies require engineer applicants to submit transcripts, and filter candidates out based on university exam writing capabilities. More often than not, a degree is simply not enough to land a good engineering job.

Alas, even the bachelor of education is no longer the ticket it used to be. I can't count the number of new teachers I know who have either sat on supply lists for the better part of a decade waiting to get hired full time or given up on the profession entirely. (Side note: I love running into the many people who quipped "so, you're going to teach" when they found out I was studying English, then rolled their eyes when I answered "no, I'm going to write.")

That's not to say that there aren't just as many underemployed people with arts degrees. It's just that nothing I have witnessed suggests that a bachelor degree in biology, chemistry or even accounting or marketing is truly any more practical than one in art, English or history when it comes to achieving the ultimate goal for most of us: a comfortable, secure life supported by a somewhat interesting or enjoyable job.

I don't claim to have the answer to the economic problems that are clearly the root cause of these issues. But I do believe people should have the right to pursue their interests without judgement and unnecessary roadblocks. How far they go in life will still depend upon who they know, timing and how badly they wish to work in a particular field.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

New look

I'm totally in love with these new Warby Parker glasses that arrived on our doorstep yesterday. I must admit I was a little nervous about ordering prescription glasses online, but the idea appealed to me all the same because I'm so sick of being ripped off at local frame/lens stores. Even with Steve's plan, we usually still end up paying close to $200. At $95 for great quality frames AND lenses, these WPs sounded almost too good to be true, and I pondered for a bit whether I wanted to go through with it.

The last straw was the rude treatment I received from the receptionist at the optometrist's office, who seemed personally offended that I wasn't getting new glasses from the store next to the doctor. She took it to the point of almost not giving me the full information I needed for my own prescription. I left fuming, determined that there was no way I was going to continue supporting such an operation, and placed my order for these "Huxley in Tennessee Whiskey" glasses as soon as I got home. They told me it would take ten business days for them to arrive. It took two. Hooray!

Steve says they make me look like an intellectual from the 1950s. I say great, I can certainly live with that.

Hoarder of the printed word

EMC Editorial - Last week, I had the pleasure of visiting the Kingston Frontenac Public Library's Central Branch for a story on the fantastic local charity Friends of the Library, and it got me thinking about books. That in itself is not too much of a stretch, I suppose, as I seem to be thinking about books most of the time anyway. Specifically, however, my visit to the library made me realize just how rarely I step foot in that fine institution considering my love of reading.

Make no mistake, I am passionate about what the library stands for and the services it provides. If I were still living in Toronto, I would most certainly be among those fighting tooth and nail to make sure the public libraries do not fall victim to the city's looming budget cuts.

The problem is that I have some pretty serious book hoarding issues, and the idea of having to finish and return books in such a limited amount of time does not fit with my reading habits.

What I prefer - and believe me, I'm not proud of this - is wandering around Chapters or Indigo, feasting my eyes on all the beautiful, pristine novels just itching to be cracked open and read for the first time. Usually, I'll leave with at least one new purchase. I'll get the book home and it will sit in a pile with the others, either beside the bed or on the edge of a bookshelf. When I'm feeling blue, I may take it out and lovingly smell and stroke it, running my fingers delicately over the orderly sentences and paragraphs on the back cover.

The advent of e-readers has given me a whole new way to hoard books. While the shopping experience is nowhere near as aesthetically pleasing as spending time in an actual book store, the idea that you purchase the novels online makes attaining them far too easy for the comfort of my husband, who often comments on the devastating consequences my book buying habit inflicts on our credit card balances. Sure, e-books are cheaper, but they're also much more apt to be purchased impulsively. Thus I am left with two additional, albeit virtual, piles of books to read - one on the Kobo and the other on the iPad.

Eventually I do read all these books, although never in the order in which they were purchased. The trouble is that e-readers are still very new to me, and I can't bring myself to make jump completely. Thus, after years and years of continuous book buying, I am left with more paperbacks and hard covers that I know what to do with. They all won't fit on our bookshelves and god knows nobody wants them.

The point I'm trying to make with all this is that I have been searching for something to do with the many boxes and bags of books that have been making our basement look like crap for the last three years. At last, I believe I have found an outlet that will allow me to rid our house of the excess literature, and feel great about it at the same time: Friends of the Library. They are always looking for people to donate books for their daily sales at the Isabel Turner and Central branches, as well as their major annual sale coming up later this month.

The best part is that all proceeds go toward maintaining excellent local library services and programming - all we need to do is look at the situation in Toronto for an example of why public support for libraries is absolutely critical.

I suppose a large part of my motivation comes from the desire to turn my soon-to-arrive daughter into a library person. I'll be thrilled if she shares my passion for reading, but would like to encourage her to borrow books instead of buying them. With any luck, maybe I can break some of my own bad habits along the way.

Little Pink Shoes

Yesterday, Steve and I found out we are having a baby girl. To be honest I was completely shocked, as previously whenever I pictured our baby all I could see was a little boy with blue eyes and dimples. And yet, I couldn't be more happy. I love the idea of having a little girl around who will (probably, fingers crossed) share my love of books, shoes and pretty things. Hopefully, she will someday become a friend too - once she is through her teenage years and has ceased to resent me.

To celebrate, I couldn't resist picking up these adorable pink shoes. I know she won't be able to wear them for a while yet, but just looking at them makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It's a real bump!

I've totally popped over the last few days and wanted to share. My breasts also seem to have reached National Geographic proportions. They have been growing throughout my pregnancy and were quite sexy for a while but now I just feel enormous. Oh well, I guess that's all part of the fun of growing a baby. Tomorrow we will *probably* be able to find out whether it's a little boy or girl in there and I'm super excited.

Surviving the dos and mostly don'ts of expectant motherhood

EMC Editorial - When it comes to your health, is it possible to be too well-informed?

If you had asked me that question five months ago, my answer would have been a swift and definite "no". Then I got pregnant.

Over the summer, I embarked on a quest for knowledge on how to have the healthiest possible pregnancy with the help of What to Expect When You're Expecting and a plethora of websites dedicated to the education of women who are with child.

The list of dos and don'ts is long and daunting. There are the obvious ones: don't drink alcohol, eat right, try not to fall down the stairs, etc.

Then there are the not-so-obvious. Did you know, for instance, that a woman is supposed to take folic acid tablets daily AT LEAST three months before conception? If you don't, the baby is at a risk of developing neural tube defects. Gee, that's a really helpful piece of information to be told after you're already pregnant. My little embryo hadn't even developed limbs, and already I was feeling like a terrible mother.

Avoiding unpasteurized soft cheeses is another big one. I eat a largely plant-based diet, so this rule is not difficult for me to follow. However, when I do eat cheese it's usually at a restaurant, and almost always of the goat variety. On several occasions, I've had to inquire as to whether the cheese was pasteurized.

Surprisingly, this doesn't seem to be a question regularly posed at restaurants. Responses ranged from pure bewilderment to clearly offended cross-examinations. My personal favourite: "Why would we serve unpasteurized cheese when it's illegal in Ontario?" (For the record, it's not.) Either way, not exactly the best way to kick off a relaxing evening out.

Lately, the advice at the forefront of my mind has been "don't sleep on your back after the first trimester or you'll cut off the oxygen supply to the baby." Admittedly, my first reaction to this rule was "how on earth could the human race survive millennia of evolution if a woman accidentally rolling onto her back in her sleep could kill or severely damage the baby?"

Indeed, when I asked my midwife about it she burst out laughing and advised me to "just sleep". Still, worrying about inhibiting the flow of oxygen to the foetus did lose me more hours of sleep than I'd like to admit.

For me, though, the number one piece of worry-inducing advice that is repeated literally everywhere is this: "pregnancy is a time of weight gain, but you have to be very, very careful not to gain too much otherwise your and the baby's health will be at risk."

Honestly people, are you TRYING to stir up the ghosts of my old disordered eating patterns at a time in my life when they would undoubtedly be more destructive than ever?

Apparently, pregnant women are supposed to eat about 300 extra calories per day, but for every half hour you exercise you add another 150 calories. Healthy eating is an extremely important part of my life, but I purposefully forgot what 300 calories looks like a long time ago and don't care to reacquaint myself.

Full disclosure: I hadn't weighed myself in almost a decade prior to my first prenatal appointment. The nurse took my blood pressure directly after and it was off the charts because I was so nervous.

I actually ended up losing weight in my first trimester due to some nasty, day-long "morning" sickness. Still, the idea of gaining any amount of weight - let alone more than the 30 lbs. you're supposed to - is a very scary thought for me.

Recently, I was talking to my grandma about my many pregnancy worries.

"I sure wouldn't want to be pregnant today," she said. "In my day we just went on with life normally and did our best to stay healthy."

Not bad advice from a woman who gave birth to six healthy children sans pre-pregnancy folic acid. Advice I should probably consider taking.

Hooked on horror

I realized I forgot to post my column from two weeks ago. Here it is...

EMC Editorial - A great man recently tweeted that sometimes all we need is a good scary movie.

I don't know about you, but I love being scared -assuming, that is, that there is no actual danger involved. And it seems there's no better time for vicarious adrenaline thumping than the month of October. To be honest, it's really the only part of the whole Halloween festive season I can get behind.

For years, I've been something of a Halloween scrooge - largely as a result of my dog dying unexpectedly on the night of Oct. 31 when I was 15, and a subsequent string of unpleasant experiences at various parties and ghastly gatherings throughout high school and university.

Put on a truly scary movie, though, and I'm hooked. The only problem is, there aren't that many of them out there. My best friend and I went through a phase as teenagers where we rented pretty much every movie imaginable that was supposed to be scary with discouraging results.

My problem is that while I do appreciate the ironic beauty of a good slasher movie, spewing blood and guts just don't do it for me in the scare department. There has to be something more psychological or paranormal at stake before it really has an effect on me.

For years, the only movie that scared me was The Shining. I saw it for the first time at about 17, and certain images - those two creepy girls, room 237, and the random furries in the bedroom to name a few - stayed with me for a long time. Finally, I bought the DVD, and now I've seen The Shining so many times that all I can really do anymore is appreciate it for the brilliant film it is.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit it because of what a campfest this movie is in actuality, but Signs also scared me the first few times I saw it. Seriously - it's downright terrifying when they're standing in the boarded-up house, waiting for the aliens to find their way in.

More recently, watching Paranormal Activity has kept me up at night on more than one occasion. It was one of those movies that I laughed off at first, but later when I was lying in bed my mind turned to invisible demons whenever the house made even the faintest creak.

It seems finding a genuinely scary movie has become a rare and wonderful treat. Happily, though, October thrills have recently begun to manifest in non-cinematic forms too. Most notably, Fort Fright. I went for the first time two years ago not really expecting much, and ended up feeling more terrified than I've been in years.

I was already pretty impressed with the whole thing, but then on the way out one of the undead British guards latched onto my arm and escorted me all the way to the car, whispering the whole time for me to come back and stay with him. As we drove away, he literally ran after the car - all the way to the bottom of the hill. The friends I was with thought it was hilarious, but I have to admit I was more than a little creeped out on a number of levels.

Then last year there were the clowns. Nothing is scarier than clowns. Period. Especially when they jump out at you from behind a Shining-style hedge maze.

This year, I hear the theme is snakes and crawly things, and personally, I can't wait. I guess when it comes right down to it, it doesn't really matter if the scares are in 2D or 3D - just so long as I know I've paid for them.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

A new life

Well my dears, our secret is officially out: Steve and I are going to be parents - which means I can finally start writing about a few of the million thoughts that have been spinning around in my brain for the past three months or so.

Writing is how I make sense of things, but I find I’m not at all motivated to write unless I have some sort of audience. (Case in point: every one of my 15 quarter-full molskine journals is filled with Steve’s grocery lists, the names of people I photograph and random notes from Loyalist Township Council.) So please bear with me here as I try to work this whole thing out.

I am currently about 15.5 weeks pregnant, due on – of all days – April 1. I know this isn't much of a bump photo, but I've just recently started to "show" and am pretty excited about it. Oh and I don't intend on posting any ultrasound photos, but you can kind of see the first one on the fridge in the background, if you're interested.

While this pregnancy wasn’t specifically avoided, it wasn’t exactly planned either. Some of the financial goals we had been hoping to achieve before having a baby have not been met, but we could be in a worse position. Sure, we don’t own our own home, but at least we both have jobs we like and are on a path to digging ourselves out of debt. Plus I think in a way we wanted to get pregnant now, hence our knowingly dubious use of the rhythm method of birth control. Thus, after some initial shock and disbelief, we decided that we’re really quite happy about this development.

The summer was kind of rough for me. For almost two months, I couldn’t look at or smell the vast majority of food. Then I became violently ill with a terrible virus and had to be hospitalized. Thankfully, it ended up being unrelated to the pregnancy and the baby came through just fine.

Lately, I have been feeling much, much better and my appetite is back with a vengeance. I have been craving smoothies, frozen banana pureed in the food processor, vegan double chocolate cookies from the Goat and sweet cherry tomatoes.

Yet there are still a number of fears that are accompanying this pregnancy. I’m not sure whether they’re the result of hormones, legitimate concerns or a combination of both. When I got married, several significant relationships in my life were severely damaged, and have never been fully repaired or replaced. A large part of me fears that this next major life step will have similar consequences.

It doesn’t help that I’m the sort of person who needs lots of people around in my life. So many of those I consider friends live far away, and it’s extremely hard to meet new people. Not that I don’t meet new people every day through my job – but you can’t just propose friendship to random acquaintances. Not to mention, everyone seems to have their own little clique already, and be perfectly content in the friend department.

I think the reason I’ve been so emotional about it all is because I would like our baby’s life to be full of friends and good times. I feel anxious about my own loserdom. How is this poor child going to turn out if his or her mother has no one in her life but her husband and parents? (That said, I am extremely grateful to have three people who care about me so much.)

Then yesterday, I was moved to tears by the number of kind wishes sent our way by friends and family members on Facebook, and have begun to feel a bit better about the whole thing. I’m so glad people are in on our secret now, and that we don’t have to feel so alone anymore.

I know how self-indulgent and disjointed this all sounds. Don’t worry - I have no intention of regularly posting these senseless emotional ramblings. There's just so much on my mind at the moment, and combined with pregnancy hormones it's causing me to be a bit of a wreck. Anyway, thanks for reading.

Thanksgiving pies

I baked some pies today for Thanksgiving. (And of course took a photo of them with my new phone, which I am obsessed with.)

It's a tradition I took over after my nan, the world's greatest pie maker, became too sick to make them several years ago. Mine are not nearly as good as hers and probably never will be, but I'm working on it.

On this day, I'd like to acknowledge that I really do have so much to be thankful for. Too often I am inclined to focus on what's missing in my life - things I want but can never have. Every day, I work on silencing these feelings because I know they do not serve me - they only suck up the energy I should be using on other, more constructive tasks which could actually lead to genuine happiness. I'm not sure why I'm sharing this with you - albeit in a very vague manner. But it feels good to get it off my chest.

A few shots with new phone

I recently got beautiful new Android phone, and am completely obsessed with it. The camera in particular is quite amazing. You can set it to take vintage-style photos, allowing your entire life to take on that artsy glow. Here are a few of my favourites so far...