Last Christmas…
Here I am, sitting in Mum and Dad’s living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and half-opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? A baby. Wouldn’t it be good to have a baby in time for next Christmas?’
I glance furtively at Simon, trying in vain to read his mind. Nothing. And then I shelve the thought, filing it in the box in my mind marked ‘for when I’m grown up’. Babies - or rather, having babies - is something that is a good idea only in theory, something to be put off until such a time as I feel ready. I think of all those sleepless nights and dirty nappies and shudder.
Last January…
I am in Bangkok, sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, looking out over the murky waters of the Chao Phraya. I’m here to finish my novel, to write a travel feature and to get away from work. An unopened book lies on my lap. I am thinking of absolutely nothing: no worries about what people think of this strange farang sitting on her own; no deadlines; no need to think of the next thing to do, or think of all the things I should be doing. Sparrows hop about above my head, occasionally darting to the ground to peck at the ants marching purposefully around my feet. I stay perfectly, blissfully, still. For the first time in my life, I am happy just to be.
Last Valentine’s…
Simon and I go out for a romantic meal, drink too much and, when he suggests we have a baby, we both giggle. In the cold light of the following day, even with a monstrous hangover, it still seems like a good idea.
This Christmas…
There’s a glass of champagne by my side, the dog has a Christmas squeaky toy in his mouth, I’ve just polished off the remainder of the After Eights and Simon is wrestling with a nut roast in the kitchen. Christmas dinner is not going well. Simon has just popped his head round the door to tell me that a) the parsnips have cooked but the carrots haven’t, b) the roast potatoes have degenerated into a fluffy mush and c) the nut roast would probably be OK but for the fact that he can’t get it in the oven due to said root vegetables clogging up all available space. To counteract the likelihood that dinner will be ‘the worst meal you’ve ever eaten’, Simon is knocking back port, red wine and champagne. I’m not sure how this helps me.
And then Simon walks over to where you are lying in my lap. ‘Ah, who cares about Christmas dinner?’ he says. ‘Look at him. He’s an absolute angel.’
Simon totters off; you give me a milky gurgle and promptly puke all down your festive dungarees.
So here I am, sitting in my own living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? Nothing. Nothing at all.’
PS. For the record, Simon’s Christmas dinner was lovely…
Milo
Is that a smile I see before me?
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Last night an iPod saved my life
Talk to midwives, GPs, new parents, grandparents, people who’ve never had kids and random strangers on the street and they’ll all tell you the same thing: the first three months are the worst. The focus is on sleepless nights, nasty nappies, post-partum recovery (or lack thereof), the terrifying lack of freedom, cracked nipples, a sex life that you remember wistfully and a sense of responsibility so heavy that it would flummox Atlas.
I’d steeled myself for all this. But what the naysayers neglected to tell me was how great my baby boy would be. Mum and me sat on the sofa last week, crying with laughter as you pulled a succession of comedy faces. You’re currently lying spread-eagled on your dad’s chest, arms splayed and face squished against the collar of his t-shirt, dribbling. There’s a damp patch where you tried sucking, hoping against hope that Daddy’s t-shirt would elicit some milk.
You are impossibly cute. You like Count Basie (you quit crying and went all still and wide-eyed when Simon played it to you). And although you don’t do much, you change every day: a new sound, a never-heard-before gurgle, attempting to roll over, responding to my voice.
Plus Mum and me bought up Baby Gap last week and I’ve been enjoying (very much) dressing you in tiny boy clothes – proper socks, teensy trousers and miniscule parodies of grown-up polo shirts. You’re like a gurgling, puking, living doll.
Of course, I’d be lying if I said it was all plain sailing. Sleep – I’ve never been one to go without a good eight hours. There have been a fair few nights where I’ve found myself slumped against a bank of pillows, willing you to finish feeding and weeping silently as you show no sign of coming up for air. At 3am there’s nothing so lonely as breastfeeding: Simon is snoring, the dog is snoring, you appear to be sucking and snoring and I feel like I’m the only poor soul in the entire universe who’s wide awake (well, me and the drunken revellers reeling down our street at chucking-out time, but they don’t count because they have a life and I, patently, do not).
And that’s when my iPod came to the rescue. Like a digital knight in shining armour, it’s enabled me to while away the wee small hours listening to podcasts. Those endless night feeds have suddenly become bearable (‘Growth spurts,’ said the midwife, when I asked her if this was normal behaviour. ‘Torture,’ said I, after 4am came and went and you hadn’t taken a boob break FOR FIVE HOURS).
‘How is she doing?’ asked my Dad (AKA Grandad) when Mum stayed with us for a blissful fortnight.
‘She’s very tired,’ said Mum (AKA Grandma)
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad, ‘is she very grumpy?’
‘Well, surprisingly, no, she’s not.’
I am renowned in my family for being incredibly bad tempered if I’m a) tired or b) woken up. But not only have I surprised my parents by not being an absolute cow to anyone who strays within bad-mouthing distance, but I’ve surprised myself. I’m not sure if it’s the iPod or the fact that I stopped fighting the night feeds, but the nights are OK. Not brilliant, but definitely do-able.
And the funny thing is, the minute I stopped being cross about being awake at 3am, you chilled out. OK, so you do sleep in bed with me, and I do quite often stopper your mouth with my boob (I like to think of them as mummy-sized dummies), but you’ve started sleeping for four, sometimes five, hours at a stretch. Compared to only sleeping for an hour at a time, it feels like heaven. I know it’s early days, but, little Milo, your Ma is a whole lot happier.
I’d steeled myself for all this. But what the naysayers neglected to tell me was how great my baby boy would be. Mum and me sat on the sofa last week, crying with laughter as you pulled a succession of comedy faces. You’re currently lying spread-eagled on your dad’s chest, arms splayed and face squished against the collar of his t-shirt, dribbling. There’s a damp patch where you tried sucking, hoping against hope that Daddy’s t-shirt would elicit some milk.
You are impossibly cute. You like Count Basie (you quit crying and went all still and wide-eyed when Simon played it to you). And although you don’t do much, you change every day: a new sound, a never-heard-before gurgle, attempting to roll over, responding to my voice.
Plus Mum and me bought up Baby Gap last week and I’ve been enjoying (very much) dressing you in tiny boy clothes – proper socks, teensy trousers and miniscule parodies of grown-up polo shirts. You’re like a gurgling, puking, living doll.
Of course, I’d be lying if I said it was all plain sailing. Sleep – I’ve never been one to go without a good eight hours. There have been a fair few nights where I’ve found myself slumped against a bank of pillows, willing you to finish feeding and weeping silently as you show no sign of coming up for air. At 3am there’s nothing so lonely as breastfeeding: Simon is snoring, the dog is snoring, you appear to be sucking and snoring and I feel like I’m the only poor soul in the entire universe who’s wide awake (well, me and the drunken revellers reeling down our street at chucking-out time, but they don’t count because they have a life and I, patently, do not).
And that’s when my iPod came to the rescue. Like a digital knight in shining armour, it’s enabled me to while away the wee small hours listening to podcasts. Those endless night feeds have suddenly become bearable (‘Growth spurts,’ said the midwife, when I asked her if this was normal behaviour. ‘Torture,’ said I, after 4am came and went and you hadn’t taken a boob break FOR FIVE HOURS).
‘How is she doing?’ asked my Dad (AKA Grandad) when Mum stayed with us for a blissful fortnight.
‘She’s very tired,’ said Mum (AKA Grandma)
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad, ‘is she very grumpy?’
‘Well, surprisingly, no, she’s not.’
I am renowned in my family for being incredibly bad tempered if I’m a) tired or b) woken up. But not only have I surprised my parents by not being an absolute cow to anyone who strays within bad-mouthing distance, but I’ve surprised myself. I’m not sure if it’s the iPod or the fact that I stopped fighting the night feeds, but the nights are OK. Not brilliant, but definitely do-able.
And the funny thing is, the minute I stopped being cross about being awake at 3am, you chilled out. OK, so you do sleep in bed with me, and I do quite often stopper your mouth with my boob (I like to think of them as mummy-sized dummies), but you’ve started sleeping for four, sometimes five, hours at a stretch. Compared to only sleeping for an hour at a time, it feels like heaven. I know it’s early days, but, little Milo, your Ma is a whole lot happier.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Remembering Sunday
I am a mother. Or rather, I am your mother. I know this is obvious to you; that you will only ever know me as 'mum' and that the idea of me having a life before you were born is unfathomable. For a great many years - and possibly for the whole of your life - you'll find it hard to consider me anything other than that slightly annoying woman who tells you off, washes your clothes and cooks your dinner.
Yes, Mum, I have done my homework. No, Mum, I didn't mean to kick that football into next door's garden. No, Mum, how was I supposed to know that if I fed the dog chicken it would puke it back up all over your new carpet?
But I digress. I am your mother: you were born on Remembrance Sunday, 11 November 2007, at 8.50pm at Trafford General Hospital. You weighed a 'good' (according to the midwives) 6lb 7oz - 'good' because you were three weeks early. And I laughed when you were born. I was so delighted with it, with your appearance, that I actually laughed. It was incredible, to meet this tiny, perfect baby.
It felt like I'd known you all my life. You looked like you. You looked like my son, Milo: of course that's your snub nose, of course that's your shock of dark hair. Of course those are your murky blue eyes.
You just made sense.
It wasn't then, though, that I fell in love with you. Simon - your Dad - reckons he fell in love at your 12 week scan but I know the moment I fell in love. It was 24 hours later, in the dead of night. I looked down as I fed you, at your eyes tightly closed and your fist curled around my little finger and felt this big rush of love. Wham. My heart was yours.
You'll break it, of course, a thousand times over, but that's OK. I'll still love you.
And part of the rush of love is, I know, hormonal, the ebb and flow of the all-purpose hormone, Oxytocin. The one that brings on labour, that produces milk, that makes me love you like a mother. Clever stuff. Potent, too.
So welcome to the world, Milo James. I hope you like it.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Remember, remember, the fifth of November
Written just over two weeks ago:
The one thing I’ve learned during all this is that you never get what you want. You will be who you will be. You will come when you’re ready (with some chemical assistance if necessary). You won’t be anything like the little boy I entertain fantasties of. You will owe me nothing and you will be, I hope - I truly hope - your own person. And it’s times like this that I’m reminded of that and all I can do now is sit and wait, and hope.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Missing in action
Ah, baby, where do I begin? The reasons I haven’t updated this blog for a few weeks are:
The house fell down. I came home from a day of meetings to find Colin, the builder, standing several feet below where the living room floor had once been. Dust everywhere. The dog traumatised and in a complete huff upstairs.
To illustrate the point about the parlous state of the (crumbling) joists, Colin clambered out of the hole-that-was-my-front-room and jumped up and down on what remained of the floor. Everything wobbled. ‘Yup, that’s all got to come out,’ he said. I was just about to lie down in the hole and pull rubble over my head when your Dad pitched up. I left him with Colin, chewing the cud. Between them they worked out a way of making it all better.
Joists fixed, Colin then went AWOL. Again. This, so I believe, is common. You are a builder, ergo you are incapable of either commitment or communication (hmm, sounds like every relationship I ever had before I met your Dad...). After a period of increasingly hysterical phone messages, Colin turned up again this week and we’re back on track. He is the only person in the entire Manchester-sphere immune to your imminent arrival. Such is a builder’s blissfully unaware life.
Then I developed a kidney infection. If anyone had told me that I could drink three pints of water and not pee, I’d never have believed them. I mean, where does all that water go? I couldn’t sleep for, ooh, about three weeks due to chronic back pain and the hourly need to drink and/or visit our freshly decorated WC. ‘Well at least when the baby’s born I’ll be able to sleep again,’ I told Simon, thinking these were just the symptoms of pregnancy. He looked at me quizzically until the penny dropped that no, I will not be sleeping after you’re born, not for a long stretch. I started thinking it might be worth having a caesarean so that I could at least get a little shut-eye on the operating table.
Due to your mother’s total fear of being branded a malingerer by the NHS, I didn’t do anything about said infection for some time. It was only after I looked up ‘symptoms of kidney infection’ on t’interweb and scared myself silly that I decided I should do something about it. So that’s how I found myself in Trafford General at 9pm hooked up to a fetal monitor.
This late night trip to Trafford (the place you’ll be born, please note) had its upsides. I got to listen to your racing heartbeat for one (I never knew that babies have really fast heartbeats compared to adults – our heartbeats get slower and slower as we age, presumably until they just stop altogether, at which point we are packed in under the floorboards to prop up rotten joists). And I also got seen by a rather luscious Greek doctor, who sauntered into the room wearing ER-style scrubs and speaking in a husky, heavily-accented voice. While I drowned in his enormous brown eyes (look, it’s my hormones, OK? I’m not proud of regressing to the level of a simpering teenager), Simon remembered to ask all the right questions.
I recounted all this to Eliza the following weekend as we elbowed our way through mums-to-be at an NCT Nearly New Sale.
‘Was he single?’ she asked.
I shrugged.
‘Oh god, did I really just ask that?’
I nodded and carried on looking for babygros…
And there’s more, but I’m running out of space and time: I’m still learning to drive (so far, I’ve managed not to kill anyone, though I do frequently spark road rage incidents thanks to my talent at stalling at traffic lights); your Dad is still deep into DIY and thus close to losing the will to live; your grandparents came last weekend and helped out on the house; we finally finished your bedroom thanks to help from our friend Vic; I interviewed Rose Tremain, the new issue of Transmission came out, I had a few features published in new places and went to an event with Martin Amis, Will Self and bezzie mate John Banville. And I’ve been over in Liverpool beginning research for a book I’ll be writing next year.
But, mostly, I’ve been reading about babies and childbirth and alternating between terror and excitement. Which is nothing new: I’ve been feeling that way for the past 34 weeks. So, not long now; the childbirth clock has begun its countdown.
The house fell down. I came home from a day of meetings to find Colin, the builder, standing several feet below where the living room floor had once been. Dust everywhere. The dog traumatised and in a complete huff upstairs.
To illustrate the point about the parlous state of the (crumbling) joists, Colin clambered out of the hole-that-was-my-front-room and jumped up and down on what remained of the floor. Everything wobbled. ‘Yup, that’s all got to come out,’ he said. I was just about to lie down in the hole and pull rubble over my head when your Dad pitched up. I left him with Colin, chewing the cud. Between them they worked out a way of making it all better.
Joists fixed, Colin then went AWOL. Again. This, so I believe, is common. You are a builder, ergo you are incapable of either commitment or communication (hmm, sounds like every relationship I ever had before I met your Dad...). After a period of increasingly hysterical phone messages, Colin turned up again this week and we’re back on track. He is the only person in the entire Manchester-sphere immune to your imminent arrival. Such is a builder’s blissfully unaware life.
Then I developed a kidney infection. If anyone had told me that I could drink three pints of water and not pee, I’d never have believed them. I mean, where does all that water go? I couldn’t sleep for, ooh, about three weeks due to chronic back pain and the hourly need to drink and/or visit our freshly decorated WC. ‘Well at least when the baby’s born I’ll be able to sleep again,’ I told Simon, thinking these were just the symptoms of pregnancy. He looked at me quizzically until the penny dropped that no, I will not be sleeping after you’re born, not for a long stretch. I started thinking it might be worth having a caesarean so that I could at least get a little shut-eye on the operating table.
Due to your mother’s total fear of being branded a malingerer by the NHS, I didn’t do anything about said infection for some time. It was only after I looked up ‘symptoms of kidney infection’ on t’interweb and scared myself silly that I decided I should do something about it. So that’s how I found myself in Trafford General at 9pm hooked up to a fetal monitor.
This late night trip to Trafford (the place you’ll be born, please note) had its upsides. I got to listen to your racing heartbeat for one (I never knew that babies have really fast heartbeats compared to adults – our heartbeats get slower and slower as we age, presumably until they just stop altogether, at which point we are packed in under the floorboards to prop up rotten joists). And I also got seen by a rather luscious Greek doctor, who sauntered into the room wearing ER-style scrubs and speaking in a husky, heavily-accented voice. While I drowned in his enormous brown eyes (look, it’s my hormones, OK? I’m not proud of regressing to the level of a simpering teenager), Simon remembered to ask all the right questions.
I recounted all this to Eliza the following weekend as we elbowed our way through mums-to-be at an NCT Nearly New Sale.
‘Was he single?’ she asked.
I shrugged.
‘Oh god, did I really just ask that?’
I nodded and carried on looking for babygros…
And there’s more, but I’m running out of space and time: I’m still learning to drive (so far, I’ve managed not to kill anyone, though I do frequently spark road rage incidents thanks to my talent at stalling at traffic lights); your Dad is still deep into DIY and thus close to losing the will to live; your grandparents came last weekend and helped out on the house; we finally finished your bedroom thanks to help from our friend Vic; I interviewed Rose Tremain, the new issue of Transmission came out, I had a few features published in new places and went to an event with Martin Amis, Will Self and bezzie mate John Banville. And I’ve been over in Liverpool beginning research for a book I’ll be writing next year.
But, mostly, I’ve been reading about babies and childbirth and alternating between terror and excitement. Which is nothing new: I’ve been feeling that way for the past 34 weeks. So, not long now; the childbirth clock has begun its countdown.
Monday, September 24, 2007
TV killed the radio star
I’ve been trying to imagine what your life will be like when you grow up. When I was 10, my brother got his first computer, and we thought Pac-Man was the height of technological sophistication. We’d put cassettes into our BBC computer and listen to the ‘eeeee-aaawww’ as the games slowly, laboriously loaded. And then we’d play, for hours, the same game over and over again.
This first taste of technology converted Tim (Uncle Tim to you), and he got so bitten by the technology bug that he now earns gazillions as a computer wunderkind down in Cambridge. As for me, I threw computers over for books and poetry and mournful music. I was more interested in hanging out in parks with unsuitable boys, bunking off school and reading Bukowski.
(Now, don’t be getting any ideas: if I even catch you thinking about bunking off school, I’ll march you to the gates and back and every day. Wearing my most embarrassing outfit and giving you big wet kisses in front of your friends.)
Anyway, although I learned binary code at school, it never really did anything for me. I didn’t go near a computer again until university. The internet was so slow I’d take a book with me when surfing the web; it took me so long to type out my dissertation that I got a crick in my neck; and I didn’t get a mobile phone until I was 24. And in my first job, we debated whether DVDs would ever take off.
I was thinking about all this (mainly about how you’re not going to be allowed a TV or PC in your bedroom, as it happens), when I came across this interview with Ian Brown:
‘My kids laugh at me when I tell them about life when I was 14. They say "Go on dad, tell us again". There was no Walkmans, videos, Nintendo or Xboxes, no internet, no mobiles. No computers. No DVDs. There were only three TV channels. They cry laughing.’
‘But it made us hungry and thoughtful. And we had great things like the Sex Pistols. We're breeding a generation who won't invent anything. They've got everything. They're stimulated all day and they're never bored. I think there should be an hour of total boredom every day for all kids.’
Or, to put it another way: necessity is the mother of all invention. Prepare to be bored, baby…
This first taste of technology converted Tim (Uncle Tim to you), and he got so bitten by the technology bug that he now earns gazillions as a computer wunderkind down in Cambridge. As for me, I threw computers over for books and poetry and mournful music. I was more interested in hanging out in parks with unsuitable boys, bunking off school and reading Bukowski.
(Now, don’t be getting any ideas: if I even catch you thinking about bunking off school, I’ll march you to the gates and back and every day. Wearing my most embarrassing outfit and giving you big wet kisses in front of your friends.)
Anyway, although I learned binary code at school, it never really did anything for me. I didn’t go near a computer again until university. The internet was so slow I’d take a book with me when surfing the web; it took me so long to type out my dissertation that I got a crick in my neck; and I didn’t get a mobile phone until I was 24. And in my first job, we debated whether DVDs would ever take off.
I was thinking about all this (mainly about how you’re not going to be allowed a TV or PC in your bedroom, as it happens), when I came across this interview with Ian Brown:
‘My kids laugh at me when I tell them about life when I was 14. They say "Go on dad, tell us again". There was no Walkmans, videos, Nintendo or Xboxes, no internet, no mobiles. No computers. No DVDs. There were only three TV channels. They cry laughing.’
‘But it made us hungry and thoughtful. And we had great things like the Sex Pistols. We're breeding a generation who won't invent anything. They've got everything. They're stimulated all day and they're never bored. I think there should be an hour of total boredom every day for all kids.’
Or, to put it another way: necessity is the mother of all invention. Prepare to be bored, baby…
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Dad rocks
I’ve lost sight of my feet and my belly button’s not far behind. Any day now said button will pop out, most probably when you wave your arse in the amniotic air, giving it no place else to go.
And these days my stomach moves all by itself, depending on whether you’re doing star jumps, line dancing or just plain old run-of-the-mill kicking. Despite what any mother earth type might tell you, this is not all altogether pleasant experience. It’s like something out of Alien. I keep telling you as you press your face up against my skin: there’s only one way out, son, and it ain’t through my belly button…
Despite my increasing rotundity (how did my thighs get so big??), I’ve decided to get myself to The Aftershow later. It’s a new club night that launches at Sankeys this very evening. That hippy hairy band are playing (The Magic Numbnuts or somesuch) as well as The Ting Tings and about a thousand other bands. Clearly, the youth will poke me with a big stick for a) being old b) being preggaz and c) being there, but I don't care! I can still pretend I'm with the kids, even when I’m, er, with kid.
Last night, Simon (AKA ‘Dad’) was reading about this year’s Mercury Award winners.
‘I’ve no idea what the Klaxons sound like, I’ve not a clue who Bat For Lashes are and only the vaguest idea about Amy Winehouse, and that’s only because she’s always in your magazines.’
He looked up, shrugged and said, ‘Dad rock rules!’
I think we may as well embrace our parental status now. I mean, we need to get in some serious practice if we’re to humiliate you with our crap dancing, misuse of slang and attempts to wear skinny jeans/leggings/braces/jodhpurs/clown hats or whatever else is in fashion come your teenage years. Now hang on while I dance round the living room to the latest sounds from the Hit Parade…
And these days my stomach moves all by itself, depending on whether you’re doing star jumps, line dancing or just plain old run-of-the-mill kicking. Despite what any mother earth type might tell you, this is not all altogether pleasant experience. It’s like something out of Alien. I keep telling you as you press your face up against my skin: there’s only one way out, son, and it ain’t through my belly button…
Despite my increasing rotundity (how did my thighs get so big??), I’ve decided to get myself to The Aftershow later. It’s a new club night that launches at Sankeys this very evening. That hippy hairy band are playing (The Magic Numbnuts or somesuch) as well as The Ting Tings and about a thousand other bands. Clearly, the youth will poke me with a big stick for a) being old b) being preggaz and c) being there, but I don't care! I can still pretend I'm with the kids, even when I’m, er, with kid.
Last night, Simon (AKA ‘Dad’) was reading about this year’s Mercury Award winners.
‘I’ve no idea what the Klaxons sound like, I’ve not a clue who Bat For Lashes are and only the vaguest idea about Amy Winehouse, and that’s only because she’s always in your magazines.’
He looked up, shrugged and said, ‘Dad rock rules!’
I think we may as well embrace our parental status now. I mean, we need to get in some serious practice if we’re to humiliate you with our crap dancing, misuse of slang and attempts to wear skinny jeans/leggings/braces/jodhpurs/clown hats or whatever else is in fashion come your teenage years. Now hang on while I dance round the living room to the latest sounds from the Hit Parade…
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Bad mum strikes again
Yet more bad news about being pregnant. New research reveals that 90% of mums-to-be are so whacked out by stress that it could be having an adverse effect on the little one.
The thing is, show me one woman who doesn’t worry during pregnancy and I’ll show you a woman who’s not up the duff. The second you manage to wrestle fears of miscarriage, nasty midwives and bad scans into submission, Panorama broadcasts a shock-horror-special on the crisis on our maternity wards. It's no bloody wonder we’re stressed.
For the record, honey, I’m scared witless. So far, my list of fears includes: childbirth; being a bad mother; becoming a fat mama; you not liking/loving me; being sidelined at work; never getting back the energy you seem to have sapped; backache; post-natal depression; pre-natal depression; oh-god-just-all-the-time depression; short-term memory loss; being skint; eating the wrong things; you being poorly, ill or even dying; and the fact that, once your Dad sees you emerging from the ‘business end’, things between us will never be the same again.
Watching the very realistic childbirth scene in Knocked Up last night didn’t help. I also noted that a) there was a higher than usual proportion of preggaz ladies at the cinema and b) most of us left the auditorium ashen-faced. Mind you, you seemed to like it, if the rigorous wriggling and belly kicking was anything to go by. I suspect this might have something to do with the cinema’s booming surround-sound system than a love of US romcoms, but who knows…
The thing is, show me one woman who doesn’t worry during pregnancy and I’ll show you a woman who’s not up the duff. The second you manage to wrestle fears of miscarriage, nasty midwives and bad scans into submission, Panorama broadcasts a shock-horror-special on the crisis on our maternity wards. It's no bloody wonder we’re stressed.
For the record, honey, I’m scared witless. So far, my list of fears includes: childbirth; being a bad mother; becoming a fat mama; you not liking/loving me; being sidelined at work; never getting back the energy you seem to have sapped; backache; post-natal depression; pre-natal depression; oh-god-just-all-the-time depression; short-term memory loss; being skint; eating the wrong things; you being poorly, ill or even dying; and the fact that, once your Dad sees you emerging from the ‘business end’, things between us will never be the same again.
Watching the very realistic childbirth scene in Knocked Up last night didn’t help. I also noted that a) there was a higher than usual proportion of preggaz ladies at the cinema and b) most of us left the auditorium ashen-faced. Mind you, you seemed to like it, if the rigorous wriggling and belly kicking was anything to go by. I suspect this might have something to do with the cinema’s booming surround-sound system than a love of US romcoms, but who knows…
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Dog behaving badly
This weekend I wandered lonely as a cloud through the Lake District. Actually, that’s not strictly true: you, me, Simon and friends holed up in a cottage for the weekend and spent a few days yomping companionably through Wordsworthian countryside, eating communal curries and generally enjoying a bit of fresh-air fun.
Not that you can remember anything about it. You were unusually quiet, rocked to sleep by the swish-swish-swish of amniotic fluid as I stomped-stomped-stomped over hill and dale. Highlights of the weekend included playing with the kids (Louis and Finn, aged two and three) and wondering if you’d be as lovely as them; looking at the looming Langdale hills, which encircled us as we tried (in vain) to find a pub that served food after 2pm; your Dad finding a ‘frog’ in the outside toilet, rushing in to get the camera and then realising that said frog was one of Finn’s toys (to be fair, it gave me a bit of a fright as I sat on the bog at 2am); green custard with a carved broccoli frog bobbing on top (made in honour of Simon’s froggy faux pas); singing the Rocky theme tune to Pete as we celebrated his success in last week’s Iron Man; and finding a series of pools and waterfalls about an hour’s walk from the cottage, perfect for swimming.
I didn’t go in. Claire reckoned the cold might bring on labour. I lounged, whale-like, on the shoreline, eating egg sandwiches and taking pictures of the boys as they launched themselves into the icy depths.
The dog, too, was quite keen on the pools. He ran around in frenetic circles, leaping in and out of the water, wiping his muddy paws all over the towels, shaking on the sandwiches and barking at dogs, rocks, sticks, people, children, sheep, rubbish, Iron Men, the camera, you, me, your Dad… and when he wasn’t barking he was whining, quivering or getting under people’s feet. He went deaf, too, seemingly unable to hear the pleas of ‘sit DOWN’ from me and ‘calm DOWN’ from Simon.
In the end we had to take him off, out of sight of water, to calm down. I wouldn’t mind but he’s thirteen – this is not behaviour that befits a geriatric canine.
And then I started to worry. That dog has always had a mind of his own. I’ve tried everything: obedience classes, denial, praise, special leads, special toys, pockets full of doggy treats, cheese, pieces of chopped liver, water pistols, whistles, a sly kick to the backside… nothing has ever worked. But at least, I thought, the bugger had mellowed with age.
He’s currently lying in his basket, dribbling. Don’t be fooled by this cute demeanour. He is a Devil Dog.
So my fear is this: if my (beloved) mutt runs rings around me after thirteen years of ‘training’, what hope do I have as a mum? Am I doomed to be a bad mother? Will you be a vile child? Ah, sweetheart, how are we going to work out this crazy thing called parenthood? Clearly, I haven’t a clue.
Not that you can remember anything about it. You were unusually quiet, rocked to sleep by the swish-swish-swish of amniotic fluid as I stomped-stomped-stomped over hill and dale. Highlights of the weekend included playing with the kids (Louis and Finn, aged two and three) and wondering if you’d be as lovely as them; looking at the looming Langdale hills, which encircled us as we tried (in vain) to find a pub that served food after 2pm; your Dad finding a ‘frog’ in the outside toilet, rushing in to get the camera and then realising that said frog was one of Finn’s toys (to be fair, it gave me a bit of a fright as I sat on the bog at 2am); green custard with a carved broccoli frog bobbing on top (made in honour of Simon’s froggy faux pas); singing the Rocky theme tune to Pete as we celebrated his success in last week’s Iron Man; and finding a series of pools and waterfalls about an hour’s walk from the cottage, perfect for swimming.
I didn’t go in. Claire reckoned the cold might bring on labour. I lounged, whale-like, on the shoreline, eating egg sandwiches and taking pictures of the boys as they launched themselves into the icy depths.
The dog, too, was quite keen on the pools. He ran around in frenetic circles, leaping in and out of the water, wiping his muddy paws all over the towels, shaking on the sandwiches and barking at dogs, rocks, sticks, people, children, sheep, rubbish, Iron Men, the camera, you, me, your Dad… and when he wasn’t barking he was whining, quivering or getting under people’s feet. He went deaf, too, seemingly unable to hear the pleas of ‘sit DOWN’ from me and ‘calm DOWN’ from Simon.
In the end we had to take him off, out of sight of water, to calm down. I wouldn’t mind but he’s thirteen – this is not behaviour that befits a geriatric canine.
And then I started to worry. That dog has always had a mind of his own. I’ve tried everything: obedience classes, denial, praise, special leads, special toys, pockets full of doggy treats, cheese, pieces of chopped liver, water pistols, whistles, a sly kick to the backside… nothing has ever worked. But at least, I thought, the bugger had mellowed with age.
He’s currently lying in his basket, dribbling. Don’t be fooled by this cute demeanour. He is a Devil Dog.
So my fear is this: if my (beloved) mutt runs rings around me after thirteen years of ‘training’, what hope do I have as a mum? Am I doomed to be a bad mother? Will you be a vile child? Ah, sweetheart, how are we going to work out this crazy thing called parenthood? Clearly, I haven’t a clue.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Famous for 15 minutes
Hello, son. How’s it going? You’ve been drumming on my belly all morning so I’m assuming all is well in the womb department.
It’s been an exciting week for us. First was our monthly check-up with the midwife. She had a squeeze and a measure of my belly (all good), checked my wee (all good, too) and took my (normal) blood pressure. And then she got out a strange grey stick-with-wires-and-speaker thing, rubbed it across my tummy and listened to your heartbeat. Which was VERY LOUD. The midwife looked vaguely worried, I was terribly alarmed and the trainee midwife got the giggles. Luckily, you stopped using your umbilical cord as a skipping rope, your heartbeat returned to a less ear-splitting volume and we all breathed a sigh of relief. You and I were given a clean bill of health and told to come back in three weeks.
So that was that. The second development of the week was your name. As in, because we can’t decide on what to call you, your Dad took matters into his own hands. I know that by the time you read this you’ll be in possession of a fully-working ‘I’ve had it all my life’ moniker but I can’t tell you how difficult it is to come up with something suitable. I mean, it has to work at both ends of the spectrum: rock star or scientist. We can’t call you Moonboots if you turn out to be an accountant, can we?
Your Dad’s genius idea was to open it out to a public vote via Facebook, getting his virtual friends to send in their suggestions and then choosing something from that pile. (Look, so far your Dad is stuck on Isambard Kingdom Brunel and we currently refer to you as ‘Bagel’ thanks to the incredible amounts of bread products I’ve been scoffing while pregnant. Enlisting the aid of a social networking site can only be a good thing.)
I admit, I do quite like the idea. It’s very twenty-first century (though by the time you hit your teens we’ll have chips implanted in our heads, enabling us to surf the net by the power of thought alone and you’ll mock Facebook as terribly old-fashioned). And it’s kind of like getting your 15 minutes of fame before you’ve left the womb. Warhol would be impressed.
Talking of Warhol, I found a quote from the King of Pop (Art) himself, which I thought you’d enjoy:
“Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.”
Now, run down to the shops and fetch the shopping for Mummy. There’s a good chap.
It’s been an exciting week for us. First was our monthly check-up with the midwife. She had a squeeze and a measure of my belly (all good), checked my wee (all good, too) and took my (normal) blood pressure. And then she got out a strange grey stick-with-wires-and-speaker thing, rubbed it across my tummy and listened to your heartbeat. Which was VERY LOUD. The midwife looked vaguely worried, I was terribly alarmed and the trainee midwife got the giggles. Luckily, you stopped using your umbilical cord as a skipping rope, your heartbeat returned to a less ear-splitting volume and we all breathed a sigh of relief. You and I were given a clean bill of health and told to come back in three weeks.
So that was that. The second development of the week was your name. As in, because we can’t decide on what to call you, your Dad took matters into his own hands. I know that by the time you read this you’ll be in possession of a fully-working ‘I’ve had it all my life’ moniker but I can’t tell you how difficult it is to come up with something suitable. I mean, it has to work at both ends of the spectrum: rock star or scientist. We can’t call you Moonboots if you turn out to be an accountant, can we?
Your Dad’s genius idea was to open it out to a public vote via Facebook, getting his virtual friends to send in their suggestions and then choosing something from that pile. (Look, so far your Dad is stuck on Isambard Kingdom Brunel and we currently refer to you as ‘Bagel’ thanks to the incredible amounts of bread products I’ve been scoffing while pregnant. Enlisting the aid of a social networking site can only be a good thing.)
I admit, I do quite like the idea. It’s very twenty-first century (though by the time you hit your teens we’ll have chips implanted in our heads, enabling us to surf the net by the power of thought alone and you’ll mock Facebook as terribly old-fashioned). And it’s kind of like getting your 15 minutes of fame before you’ve left the womb. Warhol would be impressed.
Talking of Warhol, I found a quote from the King of Pop (Art) himself, which I thought you’d enjoy:
“Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.”
Now, run down to the shops and fetch the shopping for Mummy. There’s a good chap.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Bad mummy
The world is conspiring to make me feel like a bad mother – three months before I actually become one. Earlier this year, the government helpfully revised its guidelines as to how much booze a pregnant women should drink during what can, at times, feel like a very long nine months. Nothing. Not a drop. Was this advice based on any new scientific evidence? Nope – it was based on the assumption that pregnant women are so air-headed that they couldn’t possibly remember the recommended weekly limit.
So that’s one thing. Then there’s the never-ending list of Things Mummy Can’t Do. Don’t eat pate, mayonnaise, ice cream or cheese, and don’t think about petting that cute cat rubbing itself against your ankles. Don’t go anywhere near peanuts, and while you’re at it don’t lie on your back for too long. Don’t go gardening unless trussed up in a full head-to-toe body condom in case there’s something nasty lurking in the soil. Watch those vegetables – they might, rather shockingly, have come into contact with Evil Soil at some point too. But don’t blame us if you get constipated – you do need to eat enough roughage, dear, and you’ll give yourself piles if you don’t look after yourself. You know, I even had one midwife tell me off for a spot of gentle jogging – it might ‘jiggle the baby about’ too much, she reckoned.
This week pregnancy hysteria reached ridiculous heights with the news of a new stick to beat mummy with - research that argues that if mum-to-be indulges in the odd plate of chips while pregnant she’s automatically dooming her child to a lifetime of obesity. ‘Eating for two puts unborn child at risk of junk addiction,’ screamed the Guardian.
I confess. The odd chip has passed my lips. As have several packets of salt-and-vinegar crisps and - whisper it - some chocolate. I even went out to a pudding club at the Market Restaurant and guzzled my way through five puddings in one sitting (though I did feel a bit nauseous afterwards and spent the night with a sick bucket on hand, just in case). Does this mean you’ll be a little on the chubby side? Does it heck.
Anyway, I read down to the end of the report and discovered that the research had been commissioned by The Royal Veterinary College. That’s right, a group of people who are very good with cats, dogs, rats and the odd bird. But probably not quite as experienced when it comes to up-the-duff mums of the human variety.
So, sweetness, if you do turn out to be rather on the large side, you should know two things. First, I’ll still love you. And second, it’s not my fault. Now, where did I put that glass of Pinot Grigot…?
So that’s one thing. Then there’s the never-ending list of Things Mummy Can’t Do. Don’t eat pate, mayonnaise, ice cream or cheese, and don’t think about petting that cute cat rubbing itself against your ankles. Don’t go anywhere near peanuts, and while you’re at it don’t lie on your back for too long. Don’t go gardening unless trussed up in a full head-to-toe body condom in case there’s something nasty lurking in the soil. Watch those vegetables – they might, rather shockingly, have come into contact with Evil Soil at some point too. But don’t blame us if you get constipated – you do need to eat enough roughage, dear, and you’ll give yourself piles if you don’t look after yourself. You know, I even had one midwife tell me off for a spot of gentle jogging – it might ‘jiggle the baby about’ too much, she reckoned.
This week pregnancy hysteria reached ridiculous heights with the news of a new stick to beat mummy with - research that argues that if mum-to-be indulges in the odd plate of chips while pregnant she’s automatically dooming her child to a lifetime of obesity. ‘Eating for two puts unborn child at risk of junk addiction,’ screamed the Guardian.
I confess. The odd chip has passed my lips. As have several packets of salt-and-vinegar crisps and - whisper it - some chocolate. I even went out to a pudding club at the Market Restaurant and guzzled my way through five puddings in one sitting (though I did feel a bit nauseous afterwards and spent the night with a sick bucket on hand, just in case). Does this mean you’ll be a little on the chubby side? Does it heck.
Anyway, I read down to the end of the report and discovered that the research had been commissioned by The Royal Veterinary College. That’s right, a group of people who are very good with cats, dogs, rats and the odd bird. But probably not quite as experienced when it comes to up-the-duff mums of the human variety.
So, sweetness, if you do turn out to be rather on the large side, you should know two things. First, I’ll still love you. And second, it’s not my fault. Now, where did I put that glass of Pinot Grigot…?
Monday, August 13, 2007
Dot dot dash dot
My god you’re a fast learner: last week I felt you kick for the first time; this week it’s developed into morse code. The succession of little kicks, flutters and the strange feeling of bubbles bursting inside my stomach is your first communication with the outside world – and with me.
The first time it happened, I spent the entire day thinking I’d eaten something bad. I was on the verge of phoning the hysterical-first-time-pregnant-woman hotline (helpfully run by Trafford General, whose midwives are a lesson in non-patronising pre-natal care) when it dawned on me that it wasn’t last night’s tea. It was you. Having a bit of a boot about; an amniotic post-lunch somersault.
And only a few days later you did such an almighty and well-timed kick that your dad got a slice of the action too. I think you’re going to be a generous little soul, parcelling up all those ‘firsts’ fairly and squarely between me and your pa, making sure neither of us feels left out.
Good boy. You carry on kicking.
The first time it happened, I spent the entire day thinking I’d eaten something bad. I was on the verge of phoning the hysterical-first-time-pregnant-woman hotline (helpfully run by Trafford General, whose midwives are a lesson in non-patronising pre-natal care) when it dawned on me that it wasn’t last night’s tea. It was you. Having a bit of a boot about; an amniotic post-lunch somersault.
And only a few days later you did such an almighty and well-timed kick that your dad got a slice of the action too. I think you’re going to be a generous little soul, parcelling up all those ‘firsts’ fairly and squarely between me and your pa, making sure neither of us feels left out.
Good boy. You carry on kicking.
Friday, August 3, 2007
House on bricks
I must confess: the minute I posted my last entry, the sun came out. The park formerly known as ‘mud pit’ has dried out and walking the dog is less a lesson in trying not to fall arse-over-tit and more a gentle perambulation.
I shouldn’t write ‘arse’ or ‘tit’, should I? Close your ears against such naughty words and remember: it is every parent’s right to be a hypocrite. While I may swear with navvy-like abandon, any foul-mouthed emissions from my son will be met by a quick clip round the ear.
But I will have carried you for nine months, given myself over to stretch marks and saggy tits (there I go again), a gravity-loving arse (really, I can’t help myself) and don’t get me started on childbirth. Third. Degree. Tearing. So I reckon that after all that trauma I am allowed to be a hypocritical mama.
Do as I say, child, not as I do.
Etc.
Anyway, the sun has finally come out and I’m sat sweltering in the attic, a gentle breeze blowing over the roof-tiles and in through the window. The dog’s in the garden, belly-up in the sunshine, and I imagine your dad is downstairs with both kitchen door and beer bottle resolutely open.
I’m in the attic as I write because there’s nowhere else to sit. The attic, usually my office, is now sanctuary from the hellish building works going on downstairs. In honour of your impending arrival, we thought we should sort out the damp, get a new toilet (not that you’ll be using it for a good few years yet), stick in new windows, lift the floorboards to stuff in acres of insulation, re-plaster, make your room bigger and better, oh, and the list goes on.
It feels like the house is jacked up on bricks, waiting for some kindly mechanic to take pity and restore it to full working order. And, loath though I am to shift the burden onto such tiny shoulders, it’s all your fault. If it weren’t for you I would have been quite happy to ignore the mouldering damp, the shelves falling in, the skirting boards flaking off. I would have made do with our leaky WC, our draughty front room with its hideous textured wallpaper ceiling, our strangely-shaped spare room. Honestly, I would.
But with you on the way we’ve been galvanised into action, and so on top of the physical joys of pregnancy I’ve got to put up with a house on bricks. I guess this is my first lesson in motherhood: it’s all about give and take. I give, you take.
I shouldn’t write ‘arse’ or ‘tit’, should I? Close your ears against such naughty words and remember: it is every parent’s right to be a hypocrite. While I may swear with navvy-like abandon, any foul-mouthed emissions from my son will be met by a quick clip round the ear.
But I will have carried you for nine months, given myself over to stretch marks and saggy tits (there I go again), a gravity-loving arse (really, I can’t help myself) and don’t get me started on childbirth. Third. Degree. Tearing. So I reckon that after all that trauma I am allowed to be a hypocritical mama.
Do as I say, child, not as I do.
Etc.
Anyway, the sun has finally come out and I’m sat sweltering in the attic, a gentle breeze blowing over the roof-tiles and in through the window. The dog’s in the garden, belly-up in the sunshine, and I imagine your dad is downstairs with both kitchen door and beer bottle resolutely open.
I’m in the attic as I write because there’s nowhere else to sit. The attic, usually my office, is now sanctuary from the hellish building works going on downstairs. In honour of your impending arrival, we thought we should sort out the damp, get a new toilet (not that you’ll be using it for a good few years yet), stick in new windows, lift the floorboards to stuff in acres of insulation, re-plaster, make your room bigger and better, oh, and the list goes on.
It feels like the house is jacked up on bricks, waiting for some kindly mechanic to take pity and restore it to full working order. And, loath though I am to shift the burden onto such tiny shoulders, it’s all your fault. If it weren’t for you I would have been quite happy to ignore the mouldering damp, the shelves falling in, the skirting boards flaking off. I would have made do with our leaky WC, our draughty front room with its hideous textured wallpaper ceiling, our strangely-shaped spare room. Honestly, I would.
But with you on the way we’ve been galvanised into action, and so on top of the physical joys of pregnancy I’ve got to put up with a house on bricks. I guess this is my first lesson in motherhood: it’s all about give and take. I give, you take.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The rainy city?
Ah, baby, it’s raining. Again. Every year we’re told it’s the wettest, hottest, coldest, windiest, sunniest since records began (usually in the same month) and every year we roll our eyes and privately think, ‘well, it’s just English weather, what do they expect?’ But this year it really is the wettest summer England has ever known, and we’ve got raging flood waters to prove it.
First Hull and Sheffield found themselves under water, and then a few weeks later Tewkesbury, Gloucester, Bath, Worcester, Abingdon and Reading found themselves (literally) in the same boat. Though the media like to crank up the hysteria, there was no denying the catastrophic effects: all those families, both north and south, having to watch their lives float away on the fetid brown waters.
So this is your first lesson in climate change (although some – including George Bush, a war-loving US president you’ll one day read about in your history books – still swear blind that climate change is a figment of the scientific community’s collective imagination). The irony of it is that by the time you’re old enough to register the waxing and waning of the seasons, damp, dank summers like these will be long past.
What summer will mean to you will be hosepipe bans, sweat collecting in the small of your back, front pages that scream of water shortages and sucked-dry reservoirs. You’ll moan at me to buy you ice cream and a paddling pool, and when I say no you’ll try your luck with your dad. You won’t see Glastonbury-goers sliding down muddy hills and struggling with tents in the rain, and I won’t buy you welly boots to take to your first ever festival ‘just in case’ your trainers get sucked deep down into a puddle of mud.
And the strangest thing about this long, wet summer is that, up here in the rainy city (Manchester), we’ve so far got off lightly. No floods, no gardens washed away, no rivers bursting their banks. Just sodden, squelching grass underfoot when your dad walks the dog and your mum shaking her fist at the slugs, who take advantage of all this water to rampage about, eating her flowers and leaving gleeful slime trails in their wake.
First Hull and Sheffield found themselves under water, and then a few weeks later Tewkesbury, Gloucester, Bath, Worcester, Abingdon and Reading found themselves (literally) in the same boat. Though the media like to crank up the hysteria, there was no denying the catastrophic effects: all those families, both north and south, having to watch their lives float away on the fetid brown waters.
So this is your first lesson in climate change (although some – including George Bush, a war-loving US president you’ll one day read about in your history books – still swear blind that climate change is a figment of the scientific community’s collective imagination). The irony of it is that by the time you’re old enough to register the waxing and waning of the seasons, damp, dank summers like these will be long past.
What summer will mean to you will be hosepipe bans, sweat collecting in the small of your back, front pages that scream of water shortages and sucked-dry reservoirs. You’ll moan at me to buy you ice cream and a paddling pool, and when I say no you’ll try your luck with your dad. You won’t see Glastonbury-goers sliding down muddy hills and struggling with tents in the rain, and I won’t buy you welly boots to take to your first ever festival ‘just in case’ your trainers get sucked deep down into a puddle of mud.
And the strangest thing about this long, wet summer is that, up here in the rainy city (Manchester), we’ve so far got off lightly. No floods, no gardens washed away, no rivers bursting their banks. Just sodden, squelching grass underfoot when your dad walks the dog and your mum shaking her fist at the slugs, who take advantage of all this water to rampage about, eating her flowers and leaving gleeful slime trails in their wake.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Baby: blue
Lots of things to tell you. First, you’re a boy. Yes, I know you know you’re a boy but I didn’t until last week’s scan. And oh boy, what a boy: there was no mistaking your, er, ‘equipment’ when the nice lady with the scanner took a look. Your dad was proud.
I imagine you’re reading this and squirming. Don’t worry, love, by the time you read this you should be well used to me embarrassing you. I’ll still be giving you big squashy kisses, ruffling your hair and telling you I love you when you’re 15. Preferably in front of your mates.
So that’s one thing.
You have also been subjected to all sorts of arts events since you’ve been snoozing in my womb. First up was a trip to London: Antony Gormley’s exhibition at the Hayward (life-size bronze casts of the artists dotting the London skyline, immobile, stoic men standing on rooftops and balconies as far as the eye could see), followed by Gyorgy Ligeti and Steve Reich from the London Sinfonietta (Reich’s Sextet being possibly the best piece of live music I have ever seen or heard, though I was so tired at the end of it I cried – the joys of being preggaz).
And then there’s been Monkey: Journey to the West, a circus-opera-musical-acrobatic combo that made me clap my hands in delight; and Ojos de Brujo, a Spanish band who managed to combine flamenco, Brazilian dancers, hip-hop, drum-playing, traditional tunes, hand-clapping and god only knows what else into a triumphant red-blooded Latin musical stew. Ah, baby, you would have loved it – in fact, judging by the flutters in my belly, you did.
So that’s another.
The flipside to this pregnancy lark is just how hormonal you’ve been making me feel. I can handle the fact that I can’t see my feet; that my belly-button is now monstrously stretched out of shape; my boobs hanging down like slightly sore udders; the fact that my arse will never be quite as pert and lovely again. All that is fine. It’s just that the hormones have been making me feel a little bit blue of late: not quite so happy-go-lucky, bouncing-on-my-toes as normal. Work is petering out, too, a consequence of clients calculating a) I’m not quite so on the ball as I was and b) I won’t be around in a few months’ time. The blues and clients: not a great combination.
All this will pass, I know. And all this will be worth it. I know that too.
The upside is that I have absolutely no qualms about stating my mind, telling people off (drunks, ‘youth’ on buses having a crafty fag on the back seat, badly-behaved clients etc.). I’ve become fearless. So start quaking in your amniotic boots, baby: your ma will truck no nonsense from you when you hit your ‘difficult’ teenage years. Even if she does ruffle your hair and tell you she loves you.
I imagine you’re reading this and squirming. Don’t worry, love, by the time you read this you should be well used to me embarrassing you. I’ll still be giving you big squashy kisses, ruffling your hair and telling you I love you when you’re 15. Preferably in front of your mates.
So that’s one thing.
You have also been subjected to all sorts of arts events since you’ve been snoozing in my womb. First up was a trip to London: Antony Gormley’s exhibition at the Hayward (life-size bronze casts of the artists dotting the London skyline, immobile, stoic men standing on rooftops and balconies as far as the eye could see), followed by Gyorgy Ligeti and Steve Reich from the London Sinfonietta (Reich’s Sextet being possibly the best piece of live music I have ever seen or heard, though I was so tired at the end of it I cried – the joys of being preggaz).
And then there’s been Monkey: Journey to the West, a circus-opera-musical-acrobatic combo that made me clap my hands in delight; and Ojos de Brujo, a Spanish band who managed to combine flamenco, Brazilian dancers, hip-hop, drum-playing, traditional tunes, hand-clapping and god only knows what else into a triumphant red-blooded Latin musical stew. Ah, baby, you would have loved it – in fact, judging by the flutters in my belly, you did.
So that’s another.
The flipside to this pregnancy lark is just how hormonal you’ve been making me feel. I can handle the fact that I can’t see my feet; that my belly-button is now monstrously stretched out of shape; my boobs hanging down like slightly sore udders; the fact that my arse will never be quite as pert and lovely again. All that is fine. It’s just that the hormones have been making me feel a little bit blue of late: not quite so happy-go-lucky, bouncing-on-my-toes as normal. Work is petering out, too, a consequence of clients calculating a) I’m not quite so on the ball as I was and b) I won’t be around in a few months’ time. The blues and clients: not a great combination.
All this will pass, I know. And all this will be worth it. I know that too.
The upside is that I have absolutely no qualms about stating my mind, telling people off (drunks, ‘youth’ on buses having a crafty fag on the back seat, badly-behaved clients etc.). I’ve become fearless. So start quaking in your amniotic boots, baby: your ma will truck no nonsense from you when you hit your ‘difficult’ teenage years. Even if she does ruffle your hair and tell you she loves you.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Doing it ourselves
I’m not a natural when it comes to DIY (or housework when it comes to that matter), and nor is your dad. It would be safe to say that we’ve developed something of a blind spot around damp patches, peeling paint, holes in the wall and unvarnished floors. Sadly for us (but luckily for you), we’ve woken up to the fact that doing DIY with a babe-in-arms will be far worse than doing DIY with just us two.
So we’ve been getting to it. First step is the damp. Simon spent the ‘worst weekend of his life’ last weekend taking all the plaster off the walls downstairs, in readiness for some men injecting the walls with chemicals, wrapping them in waterproof membranes and then slathering them in plaster.
I spent most of the weekend sat in the bedroom with the dog, under strict instructions from him downstairs not to do too much. I did manage to blacken the rusty old fireplace in our bedroom (a job I had successfully avoided doing for two years). All went well until I took off the masking tape that had been protecting the walls from the gloopy black paste I’d liberally applied. Off came the tape, and so did half the wall. The fireplace looks great though.
This is why I hate DIY: one step forward, two steps back.
We’ve also been without a bedroom door for six months (don’t ask). A month ago, Simon pulled a blinder and managed to find a replacement (to be fair, it was in next door’s drive and we could barely get out of our own front door without tripping over it). He sanded it down, cut it to size and then hung it. We went to bed feeling all smug that we’d finally sorted it, only for me to wake up, half-suffocated, at 1am. Your dad had liberally doused the door in white spirit after sanding, and the fumes seemed to multiply during the night.
Cue me waking Simon up and crying that the smell might hurt the baby (that’ll be you, then). And cue Simon getting out of bed, taking the door off its hinges, hefting it downstairs and putting it in the shed.
Two weeks later, the door is still in the shed. Told you we were crap at DIY.
So we’ve been getting to it. First step is the damp. Simon spent the ‘worst weekend of his life’ last weekend taking all the plaster off the walls downstairs, in readiness for some men injecting the walls with chemicals, wrapping them in waterproof membranes and then slathering them in plaster.
I spent most of the weekend sat in the bedroom with the dog, under strict instructions from him downstairs not to do too much. I did manage to blacken the rusty old fireplace in our bedroom (a job I had successfully avoided doing for two years). All went well until I took off the masking tape that had been protecting the walls from the gloopy black paste I’d liberally applied. Off came the tape, and so did half the wall. The fireplace looks great though.
This is why I hate DIY: one step forward, two steps back.
We’ve also been without a bedroom door for six months (don’t ask). A month ago, Simon pulled a blinder and managed to find a replacement (to be fair, it was in next door’s drive and we could barely get out of our own front door without tripping over it). He sanded it down, cut it to size and then hung it. We went to bed feeling all smug that we’d finally sorted it, only for me to wake up, half-suffocated, at 1am. Your dad had liberally doused the door in white spirit after sanding, and the fumes seemed to multiply during the night.
Cue me waking Simon up and crying that the smell might hurt the baby (that’ll be you, then). And cue Simon getting out of bed, taking the door off its hinges, hefting it downstairs and putting it in the shed.
Two weeks later, the door is still in the shed. Told you we were crap at DIY.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Hello
Hello Oscar or Isabelle. I don’t know who you are yet, girl or boy, or even if those are the names we’ll finally plump for when you’re born, but hello all the same.
I was going to start this in March, when I got pregnant, but things conspired to get in the way. You, mainly. Three months of feeling like death. 24-hour nausea, the distinct impression I’d been flattened by a steam roller and all the life s q u e e z e d right out of me, ppffff, just like that, all my energy disappearing as vapour into the air.
As it turned out, I got it easy. Morning sickness (nausea aside) was something I didn’t suffer from. And as for the tiredness, well, that seems to have abated and my energy levels are returning to normal.
So that was one reason I didn’t put fingers to keyboard as soon as I found out I was pregnant. The other was that I suddenly became aware of the fragility of this new life growing inside me. It seems like the first thing you stumble across when newly pregnant are dire warnings of miscarriage – one report quoted a figure as high as 25% of all pregnancies ending in miscarriage. I never thought it would be so hard – naively, I just thought the most difficult part was getting pregnant. The rest, well, the rest would be fairly straightforward, surely?
There are a thousand magazines and websites and books that delight in telling you otherwise. That tell you horror stories of all the things that can and do go wrong. Of all the tests, the things you should do, and the things you really shouldn’t.
I am an obsessive reader. So I made myself sick with stats and reports and articles and features and blogs and weblinks of all the things that could possibly, maybe, go wrong. And then I thought that starting this blog to you, this diary of your life that you’ll never otherwise know, was too early. It would be tempting a fate that lurked, at the edges of my life, waiting to pounce and to take you away.
But we’re four months in. 16 weeks. You seem to be hanging on in there. Making me feel terrible, yes, but hopefully making yourself bigger and stronger. And I saw you: on my 12 week scan. You were scampering about, kicking the s**t out of my bladder and bouncing up and down as if my womb was your personal trampoline. When the woman doing the scan clocked your non-stop wriggling she said, ‘Hmmm, good luck with that!’
Good luck indeed. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been keeping my fingers crossed, honey, that you’ll make it, that you’ll be OK. I’ll love you whatever, and already I’ll love you forever.
I was going to start this in March, when I got pregnant, but things conspired to get in the way. You, mainly. Three months of feeling like death. 24-hour nausea, the distinct impression I’d been flattened by a steam roller and all the life s q u e e z e d right out of me, ppffff, just like that, all my energy disappearing as vapour into the air.
As it turned out, I got it easy. Morning sickness (nausea aside) was something I didn’t suffer from. And as for the tiredness, well, that seems to have abated and my energy levels are returning to normal.
So that was one reason I didn’t put fingers to keyboard as soon as I found out I was pregnant. The other was that I suddenly became aware of the fragility of this new life growing inside me. It seems like the first thing you stumble across when newly pregnant are dire warnings of miscarriage – one report quoted a figure as high as 25% of all pregnancies ending in miscarriage. I never thought it would be so hard – naively, I just thought the most difficult part was getting pregnant. The rest, well, the rest would be fairly straightforward, surely?
There are a thousand magazines and websites and books that delight in telling you otherwise. That tell you horror stories of all the things that can and do go wrong. Of all the tests, the things you should do, and the things you really shouldn’t.
I am an obsessive reader. So I made myself sick with stats and reports and articles and features and blogs and weblinks of all the things that could possibly, maybe, go wrong. And then I thought that starting this blog to you, this diary of your life that you’ll never otherwise know, was too early. It would be tempting a fate that lurked, at the edges of my life, waiting to pounce and to take you away.
But we’re four months in. 16 weeks. You seem to be hanging on in there. Making me feel terrible, yes, but hopefully making yourself bigger and stronger. And I saw you: on my 12 week scan. You were scampering about, kicking the s**t out of my bladder and bouncing up and down as if my womb was your personal trampoline. When the woman doing the scan clocked your non-stop wriggling she said, ‘Hmmm, good luck with that!’
Good luck indeed. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been keeping my fingers crossed, honey, that you’ll make it, that you’ll be OK. I’ll love you whatever, and already I’ll love you forever.
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