Guys, can we just take a moment to mourn this ridiculous belly? Jesus I miss carting that thing around.

This was me three days before having Olive. I still can’t believe it was her in there that whole time, I still can’t believe how HUGE I was, and I still have no idea where all of that skin went. 

Ladies, our bodies do some strange, strange things.

Just in case you needed any more proof that your parents were right and Life is, in fact, unfair: Adam has made a full recovery while I am still unable to breathe through my nose and/or use my brain for anything other than emitting low, guttural moans.

No no, I can wait for your screams of outrage to subside.

Take your time, this is upsetting news for all of us.

Stir Crazy


Last night as we were convalescing,  (see how classy I made that sound? WAY better than saying, “Last night as we lay immobile in a cesspool of empty soup bowls and snotty kleenexes…”) Adam turned to me and said, “Man I could really go for a cappuccino right now, do we have any decaf?”

Except, due to his cold it sounded more like “Mab, I coulb really go for a gappugino righ dow- do we hab any decab?” and the one-two punch of his adorable stuffy-nosed pronunciation and the hopeful look in his eyes as he turned to me broke down my defenses enough for a tiny smirk to cross my face for a mere MILLISECOND as I answered, “No,  no decaf. Sorry sweetie.”

Adam’s no fool.

Even through a thick haze of NyQuil and mucus he could see something was afoot. He examined my face for another telltale smirk before turning to his favorite method for extracting information, one that sits right below water-boarding on the torture scale. 

It’s a vicious technique that his entire family employs to great success, and involves a playful, gentle sort of tickling interspersed with surprising, unpredictable pinches to the most sensitive parts of your anatomy, like the tender flabby ethio-Oprah skin of your inner upper arms.

When done correctly, your method should elicit a sound from your victim something like this: “Ha ha ha ha ha ha OUCH! Ha ha OUCH! Ha ha *giggle* ha ha ha OUCH!! OK, that one seriously hurt!!”

At this point you must deliver the final blow: When your victim complains of actual pain you must affix them with a stern look and say in an affronted tone, “Oh come on, that didn’t hurt!”

His whole family does this.

I had no idea, until I saw his older sister deliver this technique in stealth mode, absent of tickling, just a sharp sneaky pinch to his arm and as Adam started laughing and rubbing his arm she cackled “Oh come on Adam! That didn’t HURT.“ 

I’m not ashamed to admit that I observed this go down with with dual sensations of horror and absolute fucking GLEE that he was on the receiving end.

Anyway, obviously given The Treatment, I cracked.

“I HAVE DECAF!” I cried between peals of laughter and squeals of pain, “I’VE BEEN HOLDING OUT. I have decaf! Stop! Stop. I have decaf.”

At this point I should say that our Tassimo addiction is out of control. Seriously, Mom I blame you- YOU DID THIS TO US.

My naturopath gave me a serious side-eye when I told her how many coffees I was drinking, and as I stammered excuses and half-hearted promises to cut down (“It’s just been so busy at work and I mean we JUST got it for Christmas so I was just trying it out and I mean I KNOW caffeine’s not great for me but I just thought that maybe one a day wouldn’t be too bad and I totally meant to stop last week but then I haven’t been sleeping well and I just….I know. I know. Okay yes…I’ll stop. I can stop.”)

(I couldn’t stop)

Internet, I kicked my lipbalm addiction, I haven’t eaten a jar of salsa con queso in MONTHS (okay A month. But still.),  I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life, and I rarely drink. Isn’t a girl allowed even ONE vice in this crazy messed up world?

I couldn’t stop, so I started buying decaf. But then we started drinking TWO coffees a day, one regular in the morning and one decaf at night. The pile of empty pods kept growing and growing and even though we’re recycling it felt wrong, it just felt totally wrong, I couldn’t handle it.

So I solved the problem. LIKE AN ADULT.

I started lying to my husband.

I told Adam that I stopped buying decaf, but really I just started hiding them in the cleaning cupboard, which I don’t even think he knows exists.

And even though The Treatment illicited a confession from me, I wasn’t going to give it up that easily. I made him search, if only to see it, a junkie looking for his fix, blowing his nose in between scouring the cabinets, the whole while laughing and repeating:

“Where’s the expresso Madeleine? Where did you hide the expresso?”

Guys, the fact that he was pronouncing the non-existent “x” in espresso only solidified my resolve even more. 

So if you had peeked in my kitchen window last night you would have seen two grown ass adults in various states of pajama-clad dress, shuffling around the kitchen deranged with laughter, one on his hands and knees rummaging through cabinets, the other rubbing her war wounds and gleefully cackling “You’ll never find them! I’ll never tell!”

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’ve gone mad. INTERNETS HELP US WE’VE GONE STARK RAVING MAD.

I’m still not feeling 100% but cold be damned, I’m going back to work today. I’m terrified to see what I’ll become if I stay in this house any longer.

Poor Little Bunny

Petri Dishes 7 by Artologica on Etsy

Yesterday I arrived at my naturopath’s office at 11am. After a short wait she ushered me in and we went over the food diary she had asked me to keep for a week.

Guys, let me tell you, keeping this thing was TOUGH. Not from the effort it takes to locate a pen and record your every bite after each meal, but from resisting the temptation to simply fabricate the entire thing.

I so wanted to be right, I wanted to have a “good” food diary, it was torture to not simply write down what I think she wanted to see: Why YES I did eat a breakfast of an egg white omelet and then have some almonds as a mid afternoon snack and then have a lunch of lean protein and vegetables! WINNING!”

BUT I didn’t. I was honest to a fault. Even writing down each of the 6 twizzlers I lazily ingested while lounging in Adam’s hotel room post-game one evening.

Despite all of this, I passed with flying colours. Well pretty much. She said my diet looks good, I’m eating the right foods in the right proportions, but that I could stand to eat more of everything.

I agree, in fact it’s one of the things I said in our initial visit, that if there was a problem with my diet it would probably be less about what I WAS eating and more about what I wasn’t.

After talking about my food intake, the moment I was waiting for arrived.

She cloaked me in a blanket and a heating pad, inserted the IV and brought me blackberry ginseng tea – it was like being at a spa! This was a far cry from the ER y’all, where I once spent an hour listening to (and smelling) an old woman having impacted feces removed two beds over.

But sitting here a day later I feel….nothing. I don’t know what I expected, maybe that halfway through the treatment I would leap up and exclaim “HALLELUJAH! I’M CURED!” but I don’t feel any differently. In fact about halfway through the IV I began to feel sleepy, really sleepy.

And once it was done, I left her office and went home and immediately collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. I woke up 45 minutes later drooling, with a crashing headache and the proud owner of unimaginable quantities of snot.

Adam called to see how the IV went and within seconds I heard the same sickness in his voice; the sore throat, the rivers of mucus, the musty, fusty, stuffy head.

I work at a wonderful job with benefits and sick days and caring coworkers, so I took the day off. Adam is self-employed, and therefore unable to do the same. To combat the gross unfairness of this situation, I decided that I would be the proverbial good wife and pamper him, lovingly nurse him back to good health.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. What’s that saying about good intentions?!

I picked him up from work and said we needed to make a quick stop at the grocery store so I could pick up a few items (for all of the pampering you see). I wanted him to stay in the car but he is incredibly disobedient so he came in anyway, saying that he wanted to get a few things too.

I should have known.

This is what I bought to restore health to two sick people:

  • Organic Vitamin C Booster Juice
  • Organic, low-sodium chicken noodle soup made from free-range chickens (for him) and
  • Organic No-Chicken Noodle Soup (for me)
  • Epsom Salts
  • Organic frozen fruit for smoothies tomorrow morning

This is what Adam bought, for what I can only assume was the exquisite pleasure of seeing my head explode:

  • A jumbo pack of popsicles
  • Potstickers
  • Processed cheese
  • Swiss cheese crackers
  • Nachos

Picture two disgusting, snot infested people having a fight in the cracker aisle. One hasn’t brushed her hair since she woke up from her nap, and is sneakily wearing her pyjama top under her coat. The other looks homeless with manky hair and a disheveled beard, stubbornly clutching a jumbo pack of popsicles.

We angrily sniped at each other, this fight instigated by a comment from yours truly where I had the audacity to suggest that perhaps refined sugar and processed foodstuffs weren’t what a healing body needed.


Adam then replied that what HE didn’t need was another mother and then one of us may have a made an offensive hand gesture and the other may have hissed that they weren’t afraid to make a scene if this is how it was going to be and then one of us may have screeched in exasperation while simultaneously trying to swat the popsicles out of the others hand:


This is my life.

We managed to get out of the grocery store without punching each other in the throat, (but probably only because we were both too tired to lift our arms that high) and went home where I drank my juice and ate my delicious no-chicken noodle soup and bit my tongue as Adam ate ALL of the popsicles he bought and then chased them down with a grilled cheese and a dozen or so deep-fried potstickers.

And then I gave up – guys, it’s just too hard to fight when you’re worn out from all the nose-blowing and coughing, not to mention the complaining.

I conceded defeat, we made a truce and crawled into a nest of duvets and kleenex, sniffed and hacked our way through three movies.

This morning finds me pretty much unchanged.

I’m a disgusting mucus-filled mouth breather.

My neti pot has never seen this much use.

My head has never felt so huge.

Internets, I’ve got a man cold.