Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Stroller-free

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We sold our stroller this week and although we haven’t used it for many months – I can’t even recall when, exactly, we used it last – it feels strange that it is gone. For the first time in six years, I am stroller-less. At one point I actually had four strollers of varying child carrying capacities, weights, and wheel sizes in my garage. And now the fact that I have none feels like an era has officially ended.

I read this post about knowing when your family has maxed out on members, about knowing that there are no more babies coming down the pipe, so to speak. I knew I wanted two children, no more, no less, and I after I had my second healthy baby boy, I knew I wanted to stop. I recall clearly that when Mark was a baby, a small baby, maybe only a few months old, that I was already thinking ahead to the next baby. When Jake was a small baby, I knew, without a doubt, that he was the last.

I am starting to see that this viewpoint may not be typical.

More and more I speak with women who have pangs to have another baby, who perhaps wish to have another one and can’t for varying heart-breaking reasons, or who continue to add to their families with joy and happiness. Sometimes, and this is a confession, I wonder if there is something missing in my maternal being that I never, ever have pangs for another baby. I don’t even really enjoy holding other babies, and that is a difficult confession to make.

My grandmother, among others, would frequently advise me that I had better get pregnant, soon, with the infuriating advice that I should really try to have a girl. “Girls are different”, she would say, “Wouldn’t you like to have a girl?” And, my distaste at the thought of trying for a specific gender notwithstanding, I would reply mildly that girl or boy, I do not want any more babies.

A few years ago, when the boys were still very small, my period stopped for a few months. This was after we had taken permanent birth control steps, so pregnancy in this case, while not unheard-of, would be pretty much a medical curiosity. Still, I worried. I took test after test and they were all, of course, negative. But one day I was in the car with the two of them, driving and listening to them complain about dropped sippy cups and snacks, and I thought, what if the tests are wrong? What if I actually am pregnant? And the panic and anxiety that filled my being was such that I had to pull over so I could collapse in a sobbing puddle of tears.

Soon after that incident my period returned, and it was clear that our decision to have only two children was the correct one.

Meanwhile, each time Jake passed through a trying stage as a baby – a tiring one like teething, or a gross one like potty training – I would think well, I don’t have to go through that again. And now we are past, long past, the stroller stage and although that certainly wasn’t trying or difficult, it was a stage and now we are in a new one. I think about the hundreds of times I would tuck them into the stroller, with blankets and toys and snacks, and I think about those days with affection and also sadness, that the time has gone so quickly, so quickly I didn’t even notice.

Groundhog Day is the stupidest day of the year.

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I was about to launch my annual diatribe against Groundhog Day, and thought I would actually look up a bit of the history behind this dubious so-called holiday. It turns out that modern day North American Groundhog Day has roots in European weather lore, the pagan festival of Imbolc, and the medieval Catholic holiday of Candlemas, which is related to the end of the Epiphany and (in the Lutheran church in which I was brought up) the Presentation of Jesus. One thing I love is when I find out that something ridiculous like Groundhog Day, setting for one of the lamest movies ever, is actually related to something more global. It’s like realizing that in the dead of winter, cultures and religions all over the world recognize the need for a light-filled holiday, and bam! There you have Christmas, Hanukkah, Diwali, Winter Solstice, Midwinter Pagan Festivals. It makes me feel like a part of a global community, cue the We Are The World music. It almost softens my feelings for Groundhog Day.

But really, Groundhog Day. I hate it. Despite the above paragraph, it is surely the stupidest day on the calendar, if only because I live in a climate in which six weeks more of winter is an early spring. Hell, if you could guarantee that in ten weeks there would be no more snow and minus ten degree frosts, I would be ecstatic. My husband actually dug up a bed of my tulip bulbs, evidently tired of my face falling off with sadness year after year as I would eagerly watch my tulips emerge, then bud, then get covered with a foot of snow, freeze, and break off at the stems before flowering. Of course, he grew up in a significantly warmer climate that me, a place where tulips actually grow and flower unhindered by snow or frost.

As an aside, a certain family member of his who still lives in this lovely climate phoned me a few weeks ago, complaining about the glorious spring weather that they were experiencing. “I hate this,” she said, “Because you know, I just love winter.” I looked out at the minus 20 degree, snow covered backyard, then broke my own rule about speaking nicely and snapped nastily, “Then I guess you should move to Calgary!” What I was trying to accomplish with that comment, I do not know. For one thing, perhaps I too would enjoy winter if a frigid winter day meant the temperature hovering around the freezing mark and the season itself lasted less than three months. For another thing, what if she took that comment at face value? Then where would I be?

Anyway, I heard this morning that our resident groundhog, Balzac Billy, did not see his shadow, predicting an early spring, whatever that means. Here’s a picture of Balzac Billy:

Yes, Balzac Billy is a guy dressed up in a groundhog costume. Suck on that, PETA. You want to swap out a large rodent for a robot? Well, we are WAY ahead of you up here. Yes, we may have the rodeo, and the grizzly hunt, and my neighbour kept a deer carcass in his backyard all last winter, but DAMN. We have our mascot-like, six foot tall, red-t-shirt-wearing Balzac Billy.

Some Days

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Some days it feels like my life boils down to a basket of unfolded laundry, and a trip to the grocery store, and correcting behaviour. It seems my life revolves around food preparation and then cleaning up. Some days it seems like someone always, always, always needs something from me. The dog needs a walk, and a brush, and fresh water. Dinner needs to be made, and then cleaned up. The kids need me to read to them and to get out the craft supplies and to zip zippers and to pretend to be a triceratops – No! A Transformer! No! We’re playing dinosaurs! But I want to play Transformers! – then they need me to help them compromise on a game. They need me to tell them not to scream at each other, then they need hugs. They need to be near me chattering away every second and they need me to listen to them. Some days it feels like I’m too stretched, I can never, ever fill all their needs because their needs are expanding indefinitely. No matter what I do it’s not going to be enough. Everyone needs something and right now. Some days it feels like this is it, this is all, which is wrong and ridiculous and I know I have a great life and I know I have nothing to complain about, I know, but there it is, a sea of domestic drudgery and I’m drowning in it.

Then my husband senses what kind of day I’m having and takes the boys out and returns with three perfect Gerber daisies, my favourite, and I feel small and petty and I think, well, it’s a full moon, maybe, maybe I will feel better tomorrow. And I do. I do feel better tomorrow.

Share the Flame

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Yesterday the boys’ school held an Olympics assembly, and I don’t know if this is indicative of upcoming “ladies’ holidays” but I was completely verklempt the whole time, what with the children’s unabashedly enthusiastic singing of their school spirit song, the ribbon wielding “Opening Ceremonies” dancers, and the mock torch relay, with the ’88 theme music blasting in the background. Not to mention the song about friendship. Consider me weepy.

Weepy, and also amused at Mark’s kindergarten class and their somewhat tuneless performance of a song about courtesy and good manners, set to the tune of “I’m a Little Teapot”. Mark in particular sang like the Frankenstein monster, but with less emotion. “I was embarrassed to sing that song”, he informed me later. “I’m a Little Teapot is for babies.” The performance was in sharp contrast to the perky and sweet little emcee, who, at its conclusion, chirped “Fantastic singing! Thank you kindergarteners!”

I really enjoy the Olympic spirit, if not the events themselves. Other than some figure skating – click here to see me and David Pelletier! – I don’t watch any of the events. However, since I am married to someone who does follow every event, I generally know what is going on with them. It’s the same reason that I know a lot about the NFL. Immersion, people.

I have a feeling that my immersion level is just going to increase, as the boys are very interested in the Olympics. Currently, they are fascinated by the torch relay. This has led to some very active and loud games in which they brandish a rain stick and a cowbell, of all things, and run around the house in the manner of torch bearers. Unfortunately, depending on the time of day that they decide to run the torch relay, things can deteriorate quickly, as I’m sure you can well imagine given that the torches are a rain stick and a cow bell. Let’s just say that the Olympic spirit of friendship, solidarity, and fair play can be somewhat elusive in such a situation.

I think I just slept too well.

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I am aware that many of my readers are chronically sleep-deprived, so I don’t mean to brag about what I did Friday night. I slept – get this – ten and a half hours. I know! It’s remarkable, really. I woke up feeling groggy and my body was stiff from so much sleep.

Just writing that reminds me of a beautiful woman I used to know. She had porcelain skin, shiny thick hair, and gigantic blue eyes fringed with the most amazingly thick, long, black lashes. If you happened to remark on those eyelashes, she would reply “Ugh. You know, I can’t wear mascara if I’m going to be wearing my sunglasses. My lashes end up being just way too long, and they hit the lenses.” In other words, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful – my eyelashes are really just too luxurious. I just got too much sleep on Friday.

My last post generated several comments about the horror stories foisted upon pregnant women, and while those about miscarriage, stillborn babies, collapsed uteruses and other horrifying endings are certainly the most disturbing and terrifying, stories about lack of sleep are definitely the most common. Enjoy your sleep now, the story teller will say with an evil glint in their eye, because after the baby comes you will never sleep again! And while there is a kernel of truth in this – my best friend, I’m sure, has not had a solid night’s sleep in nearly seven years, due to her four children aged six and under – this particular information transfer is not productive in any way. I don’t think there is a woman alive who thinks that the addition of a child to the household, whether by birth or adoption, will not affect her sleep in a negative way.

I myself expected to be essentially in a coma after each baby was born. I expected the sleep deprivation to result in my morphing into a babbling, drooling, incoherent idiot. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself actually functioning. Not that I was particularly coherent or intelligent, but I was functioning! Although comments from somewhat well-meaning older female relatives about other, ostensibly superior, babies who were sleeping through the night at two weeks of age and how well their ostensibly superior mothers were functioning would inevitably arise and destroy that feeling of well-being. Isn’t that strange? First people tell you how exhausted you are going to be after the arrival of the baby, then they tell you about amazingly rested and refreshed women and their angelic sleeping babies.

But back to the present. I have only this strange observation following my sleep marathon on Friday: I actually did not feel rested or refreshed. I was in a weird daze all day, rubbing my stiff neck and back. I felt actually less rested than on a usual night, when I get fewer than eight hours of sleep and am woken up a couple of times, either by Jake’s weird dreams – “I saw a baby elephant! And it sprayed me with water!” – or Mark’s “Hi Mom! I’m just going to the bathroom!” announcements. So, at the risk of offending my poor sleep-deprived readers, I will venture to say that ten and a half hours of sleep is, perhaps, not all it’s cracked up to be.

PSA – What NOT to say to pregnant women

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I was talking with a friend who is currently eight months pregnant about the strangely insensitive things that people say to gestating women. Then I read this post and thought that today’s post would be a public service announcement: things not to say to pregnant women.

When I was pregnant with Mark, I was working on a natural gas trade floor, and the majority of my coworkers were male. It was the kind of workplace in which your colleagues would, on a daily basis, scream “What the f**k is the number? This f**king thing isn’t updating. Nicole! Your f**king model isn’t working! Can you just f**king fix it? F**K!” One colleague, in a fit of rage, smashed his phone receiver against his desk until it broke. It was that kind of environment.

In other words, if you wanted to work there with minimal emotional damage, you had better toughen up, buttercup, and do your crying in the ladies’ room.

But after I announced my pregnancy many of my coworkers reacted with extreme sensitivity and thoughtfulness. One colleague who became a father a few months before I was due – and his lovely wife has since become a friend of mine – was particularly solicitous, giving information and moral support, and bringing me snacks. Many snacks.

Those snacks undoubtedly contributed to my double-the-recommended weight gain, and that weight gain prompted another, younger, and single coworker to joke, “What happened to Nicole? Did you eat her?”

And so, dear reader, that brings me to the number one thing not to say to a pregnant woman. Never, never suggest that her weight gain is such that you suspect her of consuming an adult human. I laughed humourlessly at his joke, and then immediately considered whether poisoning or strangulation would be the better route to take.

Of course, I did look like this:


And I still had a full seven weeks to go before my due date, when that photo was taken. Can you tell I developed pre-eclampsia?

Upon consultation with other women, I have garnered a number of gems to avoid:

1) “Wow! You’re HUGE.” No woman wants to hear that, especially one whose hormones are running rampant.
2) “The pregnancy really has helped your complexion!” Actually, forget pregnant women. Don’t say that to anyone.
3) “Do you have twins in there?” And as an addendum, after a woman has assured you that no, there is only one fetus in the womb, do not follow up with “Are you SURE? You know, those ultrasounds can be mistaken.”
4) Do not assume you know the due date. Wait for the woman to tell you when she is due. Don’t say things like “It must be any day now!” This happened to me. When I was pregnant with Jake, a perfect stranger said, “I bet you’ll be happy to have that baby before the summer begins, with the heat and all.” It was early June. Jake was due at the end of September. AND, I was a mere shadow of the woman I was when I was pregnant with Mark; here I am with three months of growth to go.


Did I miss anything? Feel free to comment on what NOT to say to pregnant women, or to anyone for that matter.