Milo

Milo
Is that a smile I see before me?

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.

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.