Listen to Lena

Perfecting the Art of Conversuasion

random rant

I’m Dying to Know…

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… why Nicole Richie cut her hair. Well, truth be told, I hadn’t really given it much thought (read: couldn’t care less) until I saw the following headline on UsMagazine.com:

“Nicole Richie: Why I Chopped Off My Hair”

(Did you just click on the link above? Sorry, that’s 43 seconds of your life you won’t get back. I apologize.)

So, being that I had a few moments to spare (both boys were blissfully napping – gasp – at the same time) I decided to click on the link to uncover the critical reasoning behind her decision to go short.

Expecting to be motivated to do the same based on her rationale, I was surprised to see her response:

Really, Us Magazine? I just can’t blame Nicole for her weak answer – she wasn’t aware that you’d turn it into a lame-a** headline teasing folks into thinking she actually had an intellectual response to your momentous question. May I suggest an alternate headline – Nicole Richie: You’ll Never Know Why I Chopped Off My Hair.

But while we’re on the subject:

1) I don’t think she actually cut her hair; rather, she removed her hair extensions. Isn’t that what the Hollywood types do?
2) Ugh. (Shudders.) That is NOT a good photo. Zombielicious.
3) I still don’t know why she chopped off her hair! That headline is KILLING ME.

Sigh. Maybe some things are better left unsaid.

Fail, Fail, Fail

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This morning, I’ll be MIA. Instead of blogging away, playing with my little guy (who has developed an obsession for walking up and down the street holding his ball) and enjoying a nice hearty breakfast, I’ll be trapped in a lab taking a two-hour glucose test.

Why a two-hour glucose test? Well, it’s simple. I FAILED the first one.

To those in the know, at 26 weeks, all pregnoids are routinely screened for gestational diabetes. Since I had passed with flying colours while pregnant with Ryder, and have never bothered to monitor my sugar intake, I felt pretty confident I’d sneak by once again when I took the initial test two weeks ago. (The first glucose tolerance test consists of drinking an Orange Crush knock-off and then sitting quietly for 1 hour. When 60 minutes has elapsed, your blood is drawn and the quantity of sugar in your blood is measured.)

The upper limit for blood glucose after this test is 7.8 mmol/L.

My score? 8.0. You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!

So for a mere 0.2 of a mmol (whatever that is) I now have to repeat the test, only:

a) I have to fast for 12 hours before the beginning the test – at this very moment, my tummy is rumbling and I am in a VERY poor mood

b) I have to once again drink the sugary concoction, and then sit tight for TWO hours
c) During the test, I can’t leave the lab… yup, it’s just sitting and waiting the whole time

Do you know how long two hours will feel when you’re stuck in a clinical setting? I am sooo not looking forward to this test. Thankfully, I enlisted my mom to come sit with me and provide companionship (Mike came with me to the first test, but was promptly replaced after I found that 60 minutes of chatting alone with my husband actually scraped at my pregnant nerves).

Of course, if it comes back that I’m in the clear, it’ll be worth it. When my OB first told me that my sugar levels were slightly elevated, I went on a massive Googling session to learn all about gestational diabetes. And from what I can see, my single risk factor is that I have a family history of diabetes – my paternal grandmother was a diabetic and my father is routinely screened with mid-to-high levels. So this may just be hormones marrying with genetics – a doomed relationship!

The good news? Gestational diabetes is managed well through diet (bye bye mango smoothies) and exercise (as if keeping up with a psycho toddler isn’t enough). Surprisingly, seven months into my pregnancy, my weight gain to date has been only 15 pounds, so my OB can’t accuse me of eating my body weight as I did with Ryder :)

Okay, it’s 8:00am, and I am officially off to the clinic! Wish me luck! xoxo

Try, Try Again

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Here’s a random rant for a Monday afternoon. (I know ya’ll have missed my random rants – but trust me, I’m hormonal, jittery and popping Tums for my heartburn – I have lots of rants to come.)

My rant centers around the joyous news that we’re expecting another baby boy. When we first found out, I was ecstatic – mainly because I had been hoping for a little brother for Ryder. Now please don’t misunderstand – I have nothing against baby girls; in fact, had Ryder been born a girl, I would have been secretly wishing for a little sister instead. The reason? I’m all about practicality. I love that I can re-use Ryder’s clothes, the boys can sleep/bathe/play together, and since I’ve already mastered the art of taking care of pee pees, there’s no real change in mindset for me.

The best part? Since baby-to-be is due right around Ryder’s second birthday, I already have clothing in the correct sizes for each season. How awesome is that? A lot of people don’t realize the importance, but consider this: 0-3 month sized clothing for a male child born in May (shorts, tees, sunhats, etc) means nothing if your next male child is born in November. So we also consider ourselves pretty lucky in this respect.

But here’s my disclaimer: had our bun in the oven been on Team Pink, I would have gladly donated Ryder’s clothing and gone on a frilly, girly, pastel pink shopping spree. (Yahoo!) It would have been equally awesome to have one of each, and experience the elitism of a “Millionaire’s Family.” I think that daughters are wonderful creatures, and have a sensitive, enduring way about them that few boys can ever match. I will truly miss out on that special brand of relationship that mothers and daughters share.

But my point is – every baby is a blessing.

Now for the rant. Since we found out our baby’s gender, we are happy to inform friends, neighbours and inquiring strangers that we’re expecting a second baby boy. About half the time, we receive the (very appropriate) “Congratulations!” – and the other half, we’re asked in the same breath “So are you going to try again for a girl?”

Huh? (Let me have thisbaby already!)This automatic response from what I consider to be well-meaning but ignorant folk irks me to no end. So, are you really saying, “Wow, better luck next time” or “You need both genders for your family to be complete.” What exactly are you driving at?

I can’t fathom why people think this is an appropriate question. It’s like asking someone after they get married, “So, when do you think you’ll divorce your spouse and find a better one?” or inquiring about new job prospects after someone is promoted. The message: Your good news is not good enough.

I always cradle my hand protectively over my bump and think really hard, “You are LOVED, little baby. You are loved, wanted and accepted no matter if you are boy, girl or green with pointy horns.” And then I unleash my most flattering smile, and ask sweetly, “Now why would I want to try again?”

The respondent usually stumbles their way through the predicted “Oh, you know, so you can have one of each” – to which I respond very slowly, “Well, if we do try again, it will be because we want to expand our family, and will happily accept whatever God blesses us with.”

Now I know I’m opening up a can of worms because there may be family members, close friends and random acquaintances who are guilty of posing this question to me – to which I say, Tough noogies. Smarten up. I’m not going to make my little nudger feel bad about being a boy just because you have some petty notion of the “perfect” family. I come from a Millionaire’s Family, and let me tell you, I spent about 20 years wishing my older brother was an older sister (sorry dude, you know I love you but it’s true).

So here’s my two cents to all those who feel it’s appropriate to rain on the parade of expecting parents: You suck. Seriously. I’m not kidding.

In closing, let’s just all pray for healthy, beautiful bouncing babies – just as nature intended. As for trying again? Who knows. Maybe we will, and maybe we’ll have another boy. And perhaps they’ll form a band and make gazillions of dollars and have girls drooling over life-sized posters of them. Tragic, huh?