The Palace Park

The Palace Park

Thursday, 10 December 2009

Little Jazz. . . baby that's me.

Or in this case, Fanglet, it shall be you.  In fact, I think I've just come up with a holiday card idea for next year involving you, Josephine, and a Carol Channing wig.  Oh, yes! I do look forward to 'mocking the baby.'  It will be a favorite game, I can already tell. 

I'm not sure what people who were having children did before parenting classes.  One can only assume that they made baby hides into handbags and shoes and stews out of the innards.   Morbid, I know.  But seriously, I know parenting is challenging (I used to be a nanny and dude, some of those kids are FUCKED up.  And yes, your mother just swore on your blog.  Bad Mama! Bad!).  I get that the world as one knows it changes and that I cannot possibly be prepared and blah, blah, ever-loving blah.  I know this intellectually and soon, I will know this emotionally and mentally (let's hope it doesn't involve a padded room, applesauce through a straw, or drastic wardrobe decisions involving an abuse of plaid).  I am not ready as I'll ever be, I'm just along for the ride.  And really, truly, little tomato of mine, what else can I be?  I only know you from the way you move and what you like to eat.  (Or don't -- based on the Jerusalem artichoke soup reaction from last night.  Or maybe you loved it. I know I did. Damn good soup).  As far as I'm concerned, the rest will come along as it comes along.  Fortunately, our class will take place at the Vortex, a jazz club in Dalston/Kingsland where some of the finest Vietnamese food this side of Saigon can be had for a song.  Did I mention salt beef bagels as well.

And ask people who know me: this is a bit unusual. I tend to be a mite controlling. A bit anal. A bit pre-planned. Enjoy the spontaneity whilst its here, kid.  I'm already planning your bar/bat mitzvah wardrobe.  So there.

So,  yesterday we had two medical appointments: one with our Community midwife and one with Dr F.  The community midwife seems to be on her game but really wasn't that supportive about the idea of a home birth at this stage. Or maybe she thought it was just too early to really discuss.  However, it did strike me as foreboding that a) she knew about our rather confusing journey thus far and b) well, I forgot what 'b' was, but there certainly is one. 

Dr F has decided we need yet another round of scans. Seriously, how many ultrasounds does 1 person and 1 baby need? At what point is it appropriate for me to tell them to 'get stuffed?'  You don't like it and I'm not overly keen on the repeated invasion of your privacy (not mention that gel is C O L D, little baby).  And the hospital is a drag; every time we go there, I leave with the sniffles.  Not cool, Fanglet. Not cool.

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