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july 3, 2003.

This trip I have vowed, vowed, vowed to keep a record. So here we begin.

Dirk spent Tuesday night at our house, listening to our new crazy neighbour crash in & out of the house and curse at the dog he's "just looking after for a friend." (He also appeared to be beating it.) This guy seems to have been on a bender since the moment he moved in and he makes the landlord's daughter look like Thich Nhat Hanh. Anyway, after he shouted abuse up the stairs and the Boy shot down to remonstrate with him, we had a relatively quiet (albeit hot) night). Woke up way too early and got the car loaded & locked.

We were late for my ultrasound, but as they seemed to be a full hour behind, it didn't matter. I was alone with nothing to do but wait (stupid SARS, denying husbands access to hospitals!), so I struck up a conversation with a woman who was looking at her pictures. She wasn't as far along as myself, but her doctor had told her to come in for screening. When I asked why, she didn't know. I silently thanked heaven for my midwives, who always tell me what's going on & never let a teachable moment zip by.

I was a bit surprised by how hard the tech prodded my Belly with the wand. I guess I'm a little too used to being pampered & protected like a delicate flower. Hell, according to my grandparents, I'm not allowed to run (which is fine because I hardly ever feel like running anyway.) The Sprout spent most of the session hiding in my right hip, thus giving rise to all the prodding.

"The baby is stubborn," said the tech.
"Gee, I wonder where it gets that from," I sighed.

Unless they're hiding something really big from us, the Sprout seems to have the full & correct count of eyes, limbs, heads, etc. At the end, I got to watch the Sprout hang out with its arms over its head, ankles crossed primly, occasionally gulping amniotic fluid. It was so cool...

By the way, I didn't have a chance to snap on the gender question - the tech said that she couldn't tell if the Sprout was a GrrrlSprout or a BoiSprout and I just left it at that. Seeing the Sprout swallow was neat enough without knowing which gender I'm likely to bend come winter.

The afternoon's driving was pretty uneventful, except for Dirk & I laughing at the Boy for getting so involved in telling stories about Bob that he missed two successive exits. ("Talking about Bob" is our new euphemism for getting lost, missing turns, etc.) By the time we hit Montreal rush hour, I was driving. We were, of course, going to eat at the Main, and Dirk was sure that he'd be able to find it without a map. After we "talked about Bob" for an hour, I pulled over. My eyes were burning, my bladder was about to explode, the Boy had been nitpicking my driving for 2 hours, I was hungry as hell, and I wanted to buy a map (damn it!).

Now, there are ways to surrender the wheel of a car with grace and dignity. I did not employ any of those means; instead I stomped over to the passenger side, refused to speak to anyone & thought daggers at the boys. Sigh. Every time I think that I'm better than my parents, something like this happens. Luckily I kept it reasonably contained, for by the time we found the Main & I had filled myself with smoked meat, rye, fries, pickles & cherry Pepsi, I was ready to rejoin the vacation.

We decided, in our post-smoked meat glow, to book a hostel room in Quebec City & push on. Unfortunately, it was dark and pelting rain by the time we made it. One more city map later, we had successfully navigated Vieux Quebec & found our hippie hostel. It was in a big old dorm with winding, confusing hallways and very friendly staff. Even though we were in a room with three other people, we were so exhausted that we couldn't care less.