From there, the universe has taken me a bit over here, a bit over there, inside, outside and back around. Now, truly living in the same postal code as my sister for the first time since I was 18 and she was 15, I find myself perpetually surprised by the fact that she’s a grown up, too. Grown up diploma, grown up job, grown up Blackberry and car and wardrobe. Yup, it’s all there.

Naturally, when she asked to bring a date to the birthday dinner I (somehow) threw together for my mother this month, I found myself again surprised in one of those “How did we get so old?” kinda’ ways. But that’s not the point of this story.

Said ‘Date’ was friendly, handsome, polite and came bearing gifts. Really – a 10 if ever there was one. To mark the occasion, I wore my best jeans (read: only jeans), prettiest top (read: only clean top) and even considered washing my hair (read: this ain’t no regular Tuesday!). What’s more I promised not to embarrass Al. What I should have done was focus on not embarassing myself.

Because just as the meal was coming to a close, and Said Friendly, Handsome, Polite, Gift-Bearing Date was preparing to leave, we somehow got on the topic of my life PK (read: Pre-Katie). As in what I did for a living. As in what my job was. As in – and this is where the wine really kicked in – me, formally announcing to Said Friendly, Handsome, Polite, Gift-Bearing Date “You know, I really did used to be somebody. I swear!”

Now the statement in and of itself would have been funny or silly or what have you. Except I decided to punctuate it but running upstairs to my desk, grabbing a stack of business cards (are you cringing yet?) and actually handing Said Friendly, Handsome, Polite, Gift-Bearing Date one and proclaiming “See? Business cards and everything!” (Go ahead, close your eyes and cringe, you know you want to).

Now the act in and of itself maybe could have been funny or silly or what have you. Except when Said You-Know-Who glanced down at the card in his hand to politely acknowledge receipt, then looked up and said “George? Your name is actually George?”

Which is when I realized I’d just handed him someone else’s business card. A travel agent friend. No one to do with me. I flipped violently through the stack in my hand like George Bailey on Christmas Eve when Uncle Billy’s lost the cash and he can’t believe it’s not there. Alas, no cards with my name on them. Just George The Travel Agent, and a few for Angelo – our mechanic.

Of course, this is the part of the post where I’m supposed to say that I’ll always be somebody – and somebody bloody important, too. I’m a mom. M. O. M. And that is a forever job that I don’t take lightly, and care about more than anyone could ever know.

But you know that shmultsy stuff already. So instead this is just going to be the part of the post where I vow:

1) Never to drink at a dinner party again (ha)

2) Never to introduce myself to any of Al’s dates again (double ha)

and perhaps most importantly

3) Never to replay this scene again, especially without checking my teeth for parsley bits before launching into my diatribe. Because yes – folks – things can always be worse. And they were.

Moral of the story? Clearly I don’t get out enough anymore. The End.

Okay, WHATEVER it was… and my poor little baby brain will never remember at this rate… they were right. There are certain inalienable things in life. And the truths of motherhood are among them. Namely:

• It is impossible to keep baby toys out of dogs mouths, and dog toys out of babies mouths. At this rate, I’m going to start keeping both in the same bin. Not really. Sort of.
• It is impossible to prevent one’s clothes from becoming permanently stained in the first four months of motherhood. I don’t even know what the stains are from, but I’m too tired to care.
• It is impossible to make meatloaf in any less than three hours, not including cooking time. But you will make it anyway. Because anything that can be cooked once and eaten for four days straight is like a gift from God. For sure there was meatloaf growing in the garden of Eden. One hundred percent, for sure.
• It is impossible to entertain a baby for 13 hours in a row. The dog helps. But that’s not saying much.
• And last, for today, but certainly not least, it is impossible to ever lose all of the 749 pounds you gained in 40 short weeks. Not exercising an hour  day (check), not eating your fruits and veggies (check), not hauling a 14-pound child up and down the stairs every time she needs a diaper change/toy/blankie/seuss/change of scenery (check), not the power of positive thinking (check), and certainly not if you ever intend to finish your shift with a cold one (check).

And in those other immortal words, that’s all I have to say about that.

When you get through the line and manage to feed the baby at the same time…

When you find a bench to catch your breath while the baby finishes brunch/lunch/lupper/linner…

When you suddenly realize you haven’t been to the washroom in six hours and need to go, like, now…

When the baby finishes just in time for you to run to the restroom…

When the family bathroom is both mysteriously empty and locked from the inside…

When you realize the only way to do this is to hold the baby in your arms while you, um, take care of business in a regular stall, leaving your $7,583.76 stroller idling alone in the corridor with $495 worth of accessories attached to it…

When the baby thinks this crazy set-up is the perfect time to throw up her entire meal on you, and in turn, your last clean shirt…

When you somehow make it to the car despite the fact that everyone thinks your baby is cute, but evidently not cute enough to warrant holding the door open for you…

When you know that now is a guaranteed, one-hundred-percent acceptable, totally appropriate time to ball your eyes out…

When you look in the rear view mirror and see your little maniac smiling at you… and decide to limit the tears to a quick jag instead of the full-blown cry fest you so desperately need, because someone else needs you more…

That’s when you know you’ve graduated from dabbling in motherhood to being some one’s mom. Holy shit, I’m tired.

Granted there are a lot of other things that I should be doing or need to be doing or also want to be doing during that time frame. So no, I don’t indulge to that degree.

But seriously – I feel myself clinging with devoted interest to each sensuous moment. I’m right there as Property Virgins take the plunge and sign on the dotted line. I’m all about Flipping That House and I always need to know what Holmes has, exactly, on Homes.

Some people have soap operas. Some people have Sports Net (Kenny and Katie included). And I have HGTV. Which is why as far as I’m concerned, it could rain all day today. In fact, let it pout!

I’ll be the first to admit that I am an idiot. An idiot who figures hosting 10 people for dinner on a Monday evening with a three-month-old baby in a house that’s half full of boxes from travelling back and forth and back and forth would be no big deal. So the idiot bit – as you will no doubt agree – is clearly valid.

But I don’t mind being that kind of idiot because it makes me happy to have people in my home being happy. The only thing is at the end of the night, I didn’t seem to know what had gone on.

I didn’t really get to chat. I didn’t really absorb the scene or the togetherness. I just panicked and in the panic, I missed things. The next thing I knew it was 10 p.m. and I’m looking at my husband saying “Was it nice? I don’t remember.”

So here’s to not missing things. Shit, at this rate, the list of things I have to remember to do is getting so long, I need to post it on the fridge door. But then I’d probably forget where I put the list until I miraculously remembered to eat lunch one day next week. I rest my case.

On the upside, at least I have good intentions for personal growth. I’m just lacking the time to accomplish it ; )

The doctor on call will repeat the complaint but with an inflection at the end of it. Sort of like he’s framing it as a question, in case he heard wrong, misunderstood, or has some kind of hearing deficiency issue.

The doctor on call will nod sympathetically when you explain that Telehealth Ontario actually suggestedyou stop in at the emergency room in the first place. To Telehealth’s credit, I did tell them our baby bumped her head on the base of a toilet earlier in the day (don’t ask).

In response to said doctor on call, you and your husband will likely collapse into some kind of sleep deprived laughing fit, which will prompt the doctor on call to raise his eyebrows and discharge you with a flourish.

And last, but not least, your baby will fall immediately into a deep, contented sleep despite the bright fluorescent lighting, sirens wailing, stretchers flying by and announcements booming out over the speaker system.

Rookie mistakes *author shakes head*. Rookie mistakes.

I have spent the last three decades studying, researching, trying, testing, attempting, failing, succeeding, failing, succeeding and working. I have never really doubted my ability to do anything because as far as I was told, anything is possible if you keep working at it. Except, maybe, making it onto the high school basketball team, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t practice all summer and go out to tryouts. Enough said.

The funny thing is, when you spend your whole life trying to do everything, the sudden and stark absence of everything is quite startling.

My baby has become my everything. But even she takes naps (God willing). And where does that leave me?

I don’t seem to have any hobbies. Who has time for hobbies when you’re studying and researching and trying and attempting and failing and succeeding and working? With the day stretching out before me and the only real things on my to do list being “eat lunch” and “wash bottles”, it’s a bit hard to understand exactly what I’m supposed to be doing with myself. Even the baby is starting to look at me as she peers out from one of the 14 different activity centres we now own, as if to say “Don’t you do anything? Sheesh, even I like to bat these little monkeys around and I’m only 11 weeks old”.

It’s as though I’m actually conditioned to feel busy – and busy enough to feel stressed. If I’m not busy, I’m not sure what I’m doing, or where I’m heading. A year ago, the idea of sitting on my gorgeous couch, my favourite jazz tunes singing out of my speakers, the rain pitter-pattering away as my beautiful baby girl sleeps upstairs would have sounded like a dream come true. Now I’m left wondering – what the hell am I supposed to do next?

I can’t sit still. Most of my friends can’t either. That’s why one of my girlfriends went for three separate walks yesterday. Two during thunderstorms. I rest my case.

What’s more, in the world of billable hours I have emerged from, there’s not much value to sitting still. So how do I put a value on my day when I can’t send in a summary report, shout a status update into a conference call line, or fire off a few final thoughts from my Blackberry while simultaneously running for the train, buying groceries, planning a wedding shower for a nearest-and-dearest, and cooking a five star (okay, okay, 0.5 star) dinner?

And that, my friends, is about where I stand now. Somewhere in between, knowing instinctively that what I’m doing is valuable and that’s it’s what I want to do. But somehow simultaneously wondering how I will survive it. That’s the funny thing about life, I guess. It’s always greener or brighter or better somewhere else. But at the end of the day, being present where you are is probably the only real way to derive any happiness from this game at all. Here’s to being present. One quiet moment at a time.

I get a lot of things now that I never would have gotten before. I get why people call this the hardest job in the world – because it is. I get why some of my girlfriends had a stunned look on their face for months after The Birth – because this whole thing is quite stunning. I get why red wine was invented – not that I’m ever really awake enough to sit down and enjoy any, but hey – a girl can dream.

There is a lot of fun to my day. There are moments and hours of amazement and wonder. There are times when I can’t believe anything else really mattered before now. There are afternoons of contented naps when she sleeps and I just lie there whispering wow, and thank you, aloud.

All that aside, though, the little book is right:  This whole deal ain’t for sissies. This is work; hard work at that. Which is why I’m putting it all on the line right now and giving myself permission to do something more people should do: I admit right here, right now, I’m not perfect.

I don’t always know what my baby wants. But I promise to try and figure it out.

I (embarassingly) can’t identify her cry in a crowd of babies yet (despite the fact that squirrels can probably do this, I know). But I am always listening just in case.

I don’t beat myself up if the day goes completely amok. But I get up an try again tomorrow.

I hate that my husband can somehow fall deeply asleep after we feed her in the night, while I toss and turn. But I try not to mention that to him (most of the time).

I only know what day it is if I check the calendar in our room. But I manage to get most of the places I am supposed to be.

I may, as one friend said this week, sometimes find myself half an hour before a party, chopping veggies in my nightgown with unbrushed hair, unbrushed teeth and no hope in hell of being ready on time. But I refuse to care about any of that.

Instead, I hold myself to the highest standard of effort. I ain’t taking home a trophy for mother of the year, that much I know already. Mabe a pretty ribbon for participation and most improved player, though. I think that would be nice. Better still, a nice message to pass on to my daughter, too.

All I can do is my best. The rest I make up for in loud (very loud) singing, potty mouth type jokes, lots of laughter and occasional trips to the Dairy Queen (for me, not her). So far, that’s about all I got. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough, and I hereby give myself permission to just relax and enjoy the ride.

Then came Katie. At two months old today, and probably about a dozen pounds, she has taken the last two months and transformed my life completely. I am now capable of doing  just about anything with one hand (and I do mean anything!) as well as eating any meal (steak included) in less than three minutes flat. But more than that, I am a mom. A real mom. And that’s something that no other two month period will ever compare to ever again.

My baby is strong. Much stronger than me, and much stronger than anyone else I know. She’s already done and overcome things I never imagined for her. My baby is a smiler. She is happiest in the morning, and her smile reveals all. My baby can belch like a truck driver. Even now, she’s old enough to know I find this hilarious, and that the dog does, too.

More than anything else, though, my baby is mine. Every day of the last 60, I’ve looked at her and marvelled that she came from me. She came from us. She came from a wish and a dream and she’s here and she’s mine to keep. It’s incredible, really, that the universe brought her to me. And I plan to spend the rest of my life giving thanks for her. Because gifts like this only come along once in a lifetime.

Gone was the excuse to indulge in just about anything that struck my fancy. Gone was the time-honoured tradition of everything you see consumed in the movies by pregnant women on raving hunger rampages. Gone was the ability to soothe a craving – be it for ice cream, pancakes, or anything else remotely fun.

Of course, being a rule follower, and already knowing the baby inside me is more important than anything (yes, including my need for daily chocolate), I have observed the gestational diabetes diet religiously. I measure my carbohydrates. I don’t drink juice. Desert has become a time of day when I sob alone, in the bathroom, waiting for my friends to be done and clear the dishes. So on. So forth.

As we close in on April, though, it’s time to make some serious plans for sugar consumption. I’m declaring the month of May my missing trimester. And the list of things I will eat in those weeks is growing by the day.

The top treats I’m planning on are below in no particular order. Feel free to suggest a few of your own. I don’t want to leave any sugary food unturned. And if anyone has comments about indigestion, weight loss, or the need to eat healthy over the long term – you need not reply ; )

• Ice cream, probably in Blizzard form, from Dairy Queen
• Chocolate chip pancakes from Angelique’s down the street
• Cupcakes from Cinnabon (they invented these while  I was off sugar, can you believe the irony?)
• Cheetos. By the bagful.
• Oreo cheesecake courtesy of Jordan. The promise of this has kept me going the past few weeks.
• Maple syrup. No need to pour it on anything. The syrup alone will do.
• Chocolate chunk cookies from Felix and Norton or Mrs.Fields (whatever happens to be closer at hand)
• Birthday cake (Kenny, expect something exceptional this year, and expect it to be the flavour of my choice. Sorry!)