All that I raburabu

1. For an insane wildfire and a whole city given short notice for evacuation, minimal fatalities (as I know so far...the fire is still ongoing).

My friends and coworkers and acquaintances, they’re all alive.

Shaken up and displaced and left some pretty important things behind (project vehicles, original illustrations for a children’s book she was creating, glass figurines given every year by a doting and now very old grandmother, a custom fire-pit engraved with all the sweet nerd things they both liked together) BUT...alive. And I am so so so so glad.

2. We live in Edmonton.

Our home is safe. The babies are in their beds. The daycare is still standing. The splashpark is still functioning. The grocery store with that peanut butter Jude likes is fully stocked and down the street. Status quo.

3. We have the time now to prepare a plan for in case the status quo very quickly and very terribly changes.

Andrew and I talked about what I would have grabbed from the house had we still been in Fort Mac (seeing as how I’m on maternity leave and he probably would have been on site... he would have had to evacuate north, probably and wouldn’t have been allowed back south to help me).

“Uh... The computer? All the food. ... The box holding the babies’ hospital bracelets from their births... Phone chargers.”

From this conversation, I learned that we actually have a backup harddrive that is way easier to bring than the computer tower and where the important documents are stored (I thought in the bank safety deposit box...I was wrong). Very thankful we had this conversation.

4. We have money in the bank, minimal debts, and no mortgage. So much uncertainty but we’ve hopefully got the flexibility to be ok with whatever happens.

It’s embarrassing how I’m going about this.

It’s all furtive checks on my phone. It’s contemplating clearing my search history. It’s closing the window immediately after the 5, 10, 45 minutes of scrolling through picture after picture and gif set after gif set with a mix of surprise (that much time has passed) and ...disgust? annoyance? self-loathing? disappointment? (because I’m specifically media consuming a real person and it seems... Not Nice. Invasive.) and laughter (because it’s all so ridiculous!).

It’s google searches of just his first name because auto-fill knows what I want.

It’s slowly descending into the black hole of tumblr imagines (THIS IS A THING and part of me wishes this was a thing back when I first got into fandoms like...imagine imagines for GUNDAM WING! BAHAHAHAHAHA! Arashi?! Like ohemgee man. Ohemgee.).

Anyway...That’s a thing. I can’t believe it’s a thing and that I spent the hours of 3am to 5am reading through it as I nursed and held the baby.

I’m going to check out his new drama which is a mark of how deep into this I’ve gotten because my preferences for media follows the key words of  “victorian” “penny dreadful” “bbc documentary” “food” “nobunaga’s future chef” “adorable babies” and none of these at all describe The Night Manager.

Thanks, Canada, for this full year off.

I plan on being very productive. Very. Productive.

I plan on:

- watching all of Vin Diesel’s movies (starting with Last Witch Hunter because of course)

- watching all of Keanu Reeves movies (I STARTED WITH JOHN WICK AND IT WAS AMAZING...I may just watch John Wick over and over and over again)

- watching all of Jackie Chan’s movies (especially his HK classics)

- watching all of the Rock’s movies (so the entire fast and the furious franchise and definitely the Scorpion King AHAHAHAHA)

- revisiting Arnold’s movies (Conan the Barbarian has a special place in my heart)

- watching choice movies from Nicholas Cage (e.g. Gone in 60 seconds)

- classic Bruce Willis (the 90s, man...)

I’ve been watching Jude and Elliot hangout.

“Hangout” is a strong word for describing Jude bouncing up to Elliot, shouting “BEBE”, gently patting him on the head, then trying to move him out of my arms so we can play. Elliot sleeps.

Elliot’s eyes are blue-grey (like Jude’s before he got a little older) and ringed with red (Jude’s were not ringed with red). I’ve been told by nurses and doctors that this is due to burst capillaries during labor and delivery. That the marks should go away eventually and not to be worried.

I am not worried. Or... I am not worried for the reasons they think I am worried.

I am going with the explanation that the marks are a manifestation of Elliot’s chaotic dark powers that he will spend a lifetime harnessing for his various causes.

What will his causes be?

Will he be like his older brother and demand a diet of various baked goods all the time? Will he levitate himself to the top of the fridge where we keep all the scones? Will he set the broccoli on fire when we try to serve it to him? Will he control his parents at the grocery store such that, to our continuous horror and confusion, we end up with only endless boxes of lucky charms when we get home?

Will Jude, since balance is pretty sweet for story-telling, then be the Light Side to Elliot’s Dark Side? Will Jude be the Thor to Elliot’s Loki (OH MY GOD YESSSSS AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)? Will I have to mediate epic battles of awesome magiks because they refuse to share the red toy car that sings the ABCs when the wheels turn? (Jude wants it to sing along to the ABCs while Elliot wants it because withholding something from Jude makes him happy.)

OR!

Is this an outdated cliche of a story? Maybe Elliot’s red eye marks are instead signs of elemental magiks (note: I “lol” each time I write that word) and, therefore, neither Good nor Bad. We just have to teach him to be careful when sneezing because we live in a rental and it’d suck to have to explain to the landlord why the roof blew off.

As I type this, Elliot sleeps in my pouch-shirt-thing.

I’ll be waddling through a grocery store and some nice, old lady will coo “Ooo...How far along are you?” and I’ll have to seriously answer “Oh. I’m 336 months. A bit past the due date but the heartbeat is strong and my blood pressure is ok so we’re just waiting.”

I’ll have to keep visiting the doctor every week. Every week the same 5 minute conversation on the level of protein in my urine and how the “baby” is moving (hurhur not moving out hurhur will get old by year 11). I’ll have maternity wear for all the seasons and encompassing all the trends (regardless of whatever is hip at the time, pregnant trend is stripes...always stripes). I’ll have to play university chemistry lectures through speakers I place on my distended torso. I’ll be on prenatals until I die.

All our family photos will show the strain. The strain on my marriage as Andrew, for the 28th year in a row, puts on my shoes because I can’t bend over comfortably. The strain on my parents as they keep calling and rescheduling their flights to make sure they’re here for when the “baby” arrives. The strain on Jude because eww his mom has been pregnant for 28 years and jeeeez that’s an awkward conversation with people he wants to seriously date...”So my mom and younger brother are medical anomalies. You cool with that because otherwise this dim sum brunch is going to be really terrible if you just keep staring...”

I get that this is not the case and I’ll be induced in like 13 days or something if the baby does not come out before then.

I am 37 weeks pregnant. My doctor is making me carry around my prenatal medical information “Just in case…”

It is Christmas Eve (when I wrote this) and I am alone.

Based on the looks people have given me and the sudden deluge of social invitations, I think this is a Strange Thing to be Doing. The Right Thing to be Doing is Andrew and Jude staying in town with me and us Christmas-ing together.

The automatic response is to cast judgment on my husband for abandoning me. Especially in my state.

Which, first, it’s not like he made the decision all by himself without checking and re-checking with me.

And second...I am 37 weeks pregnant with a TODDLER. A toddler who has no concept of how difficult it is for Mama to bend over. Jude’s favorite game recently has been Laser Fights. I LOVE playing Laser Fights but it only works if, when you get legitimately shot by a laser, you fall on the floor dramatically because you’ve been hit. As round and unwieldy as I am, if I fall on the floor, I’m there for a while. Jude’s response is to stand over my fallen body and keep shooting me in the face which, you know, rude but understandable. Make sure the enemy is down and all that. Proud of him.

Eventually though, since he is a toddler, and I am a large object on the floor, he tries to climb me.

I’m sure the next baby will be born with a very unfortunate footprint indent on his face. Then we’d have to call him Foot Face instead of the perfectly nice name of “Elliot” we had picked out.

ANYWAY.

My level of self-care has been steadily dropping over the months. A combination of evolutionary drivers in my pregnant brain pushing me to Fix All The Things Right Now because NEW BABY NEEDS GOOD NEST (moves furniture around because original layout was SUB-OPTIMAL while also doing laundry and sweeping), a week of terrible colds for my family, and me having to pee every 30 minutes…especially at night.

But now, from December 24th to January 1st, I am forced to focus on only myself.

Make sure I have enough sleep. Make sure I’ve taken my prenatal vitamins. Make sure my steam account is set up for all the maternity leave gaming.

It’s nice.

It’s quite possibly the best present Andrew could have gotten for me. Second best would have been a dozen cheddar biscuits from Red Lobster (which he also got). Third best would have been my own jar of Nutella (which he also got).

Not to say that he’s gone off in self-exile. He has his own reasons for wanting to go back to New Brunswick and this time worked best.

So it’s December 24 (when I wrote this). I am going to pick up some Chinese take out (it was glorious). I am going to eat it while watching a movie with Nicholas Cage in it (couldn’t find one so watched the Shrek Christmas special instead). There’s going to be a massive pot of decaffeinated tea (that didn’t happen...I instead fell immediately into a food coma once Shrek finished and I moved on to a BBC documentary about Mona Lisa). I’m going to wear pants only long enough to go to Christmas Eve mass and then afterwards I’m in a onesie until I have to go back to work (I AM WEARING IT RIGHT NOW AND IT IS MAGNIFICENT).

I’m going to sprawl all over the bed and whisper stories to Foot Face as he rolls around in my insides.

It’s going to be pretty glorious.

And finally got it back today.

I was phone-less from Sunday evening through to Thursday afternoon.

I’m trying to figure that one out.

From my limited reading and video game playing, I think it means I have to mysteriously/tragically die within the next 7 years (as a maximum).

So within that time-frame, I have to set my sons up for success. So many different options and routes! It’s crippling to think about sometime.

Like should I forge a mystic sword and entrust it to someone to give it to Jude when he turns of age (read: 12)? What happens if he doesn’t like two handed weapons? Should Andrew be the mentor-figure who teaches them the difference between True Good and True Evil and the Grey Ways? Or is he going to be more the NPC who has three lines before our village (read: Northern Albertan city) burns to the ground after being pillaged by an Evil Force (read: Americans who decide to invade us for our sweet fresh water resources)?

Screw Hockey. I’ve already bookmarked the various toddler programs on offer that would be of any use. Toddler Karate (adorable called Little Dragons). Toddler Swimming. Toddler Gymnastics. It’s apparently a Montessori thing to give toddlers locks and keys for “Quiet Playtime” so it’s just a simple step from that to lock-picking. I’m on the lookout for Toddler’s Who Code classes. I’ve already ordered over the internet Baby-Safe knives.

Full disclosure: the baby-safe knives are more because the sooner he can cook then the sooner I can get breakfast in bed. But cooking is a skill important for any YA Hero I think. I’d prefer if the boys grow up to be a well-rounded sort of competent.

I told Andrew about this YA plan and how I’d tragically have to die relatively soon. He got mad. Said something along the lines of “THEN I WILL BE THE VILLAIN THEY DEFEAT” or “I WILL RAISE THEM TO BE VILLAINS!” or something to that effect.