Squid et Fang

Suddenly November

2011-11-29T13:06:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, it is November. The air is chilly and there are roasted chesnut carts dotting the Thames, mulled wine and hot chocolate available in go cups dot markets from Alexandra Palace to parts yet explored.

Your sister, The Benevolent Dictator, is gracious and kind. She laughs easily and readily and sleeps like a champ. I am with her often though not constantly and there are moments when I look at her and can only gape in wonder. She snuggles and I hadn't realized until she snuggled into my chest that first time, her slate-y eyes slightly crossed, her cupid's bow of a mouth lightly open what a small wretched gift it was that I had only gotten to hold you for those few precious minutes. Because, truly, I think to have brought you home, to have cared for you, held you near only to have you die...I don't know that I could have come back from the place that would have led me.

She smells like you, like babies smell. Salty, warm, sweet...full of hope and promise and a bit of heartbreak but of the best kind of heartbreak: the kind where one is left with a deeper capacity to love.

Formerly known as Le Squid

2011-08-06T15:24:00.000-07:00

Oh, my darling...how the time goes. Already, it is summer.

Your sister a gorgeously ginger biscuit of a creature with slate eyes so like yours arrived on 8 July at 0425. Her appearance was elegant, efficient and quick (not unlike yours). She is very laid back but make no mistake: no one puts this baby at the back of the bus. We call her the Benevolent Dictator.

I had no expectations of what was to come with the labor, not really. I made a list of what I wanted/needed to happen but, well...I sometimes forget I'm young at heart and fairy tales are mine for the dreaming.

People are constantly after me to regale them with how exhausted and tired I am...and the truth of the matter is that sure, I'm tired and occasionally there are floods of tears. But these are further and farther apart than I would have dared hope and for the most part, I just move languidly and at ease through the days and nights, finding my way with the Dictator, learning who she is and who I am growing into and what these things mean for us both.

There are moments with the feelings of awe and fear are so great within me, I can't help but think of you and gasp as I look at her, terrified that something other and reaching will take her away. But she is strong and vibrant and undeniably here.

My approach to being the mama bear is to be as fluid and relaxed as my nature will allow. For the first time in ages and ages, I am giving myself leave to operate on 'Mississippi Time.' My adage of 'Nothing happens before it happens' couldn't be more true now. We go where the day takes us with the occasional doctor/midwife/health visitors' appointment. I love being with the Dictator but my desire for stimulation has lead us all across the depth and breadth of the City. The Dictator, she travels well. I firmly believe this because from before I even knew of you, I believed in baby-wearing. I was baby-worn, learned to sleep wherever the wind blew and -- despite the notable bumps in the the roads of my past -- a great deal of that early childhood was idyllic BECAUSE of that flexibility and freedom.

In September, we take the Dictator back to the US. We will show her the willow tree that bears your name, we well take her round to be feted and adored. She takes adulation in stride, my Infant of Prague, my baby kraken.

Yes, sweet Fanglet. You have a sister.

What I have done differently this pregnancy

2011-06-01T03:15:00.000-07:00

• I stopped being embarrassed about my increasing expanse and by being pregnant very early on. I ask for seats, ask people (politely) to move so I can tiptoe like a ballet-dancing elephant past them.
• I cut 7 inches off my hair into a shorter version of the photo of my hair in France just over 2 weeks ago. In a few weeks, I will go back for a trim and to put in a peacock green and navy blue chunk of discreet highlights. I always said I would do a green streak and them new cutie-pie, fresh from Northamptonshire Stylist Craig showed me their range of blues and I just knew. Craig is my new bff. I plan on making sure he stays in London for a very long time (or at least as long as I am here).
• I found a series of projects and a new job I liked and I applied for them.
• I said yes when people asked if they could help.
• I said yes when people asked if we would like any of their pre-loved baby stuff.
• I said ‘no,’ to things I don’t/didn’t want to do (usually)
• I have tried to limit the access of CRAZY and/or destructive people into my life. Crazy in good, healthy, fun, eccentric ways – you’re always welcome. Crazy in a ‘destructive, nasty, malicious, vicious, tenacious way,’ yeah. . . you know where the door is.
• I made and use a sign that says ‘Be Nice or Leave,’ and I sometimes use this sign on myself.
• I started a serious engagement with Congitive Behavioural Therapy (and not that Acceptance and Commitment-based stuff I did in 2008, but serious hardware reprogramming). This has been the most important thing I have done and it probably would have had to happen at some stage, regardless of whether Fang had passed away. There’s still a lot of work to go, but I really feel like I am becoming the best possible version of myself (albeit a bit later than I had originally thought I would) that I can be.
• I bought a great Mango evening gown designed by Penelope and Monica Cruz that has become the fill-in for most black-tie/fancy dress events that I have had to attend. I will save this dress and am currently working on tracking down the perfect array of cheongsam fabric to make into to lounging pajamas to wear underneath the dress for when it works but is a bit too revealing. ( I bought this dress for 8 Euros in France. I know, right?)
• I got rid of the maternity clothes that I really felt unattractive in or that just plainly didn’t fit because – although I am clearly SHOWING at this time – I am not about to erupt into a geyser of amniotic fluid at a moment’s notice.
• I have researched my birthing options thoroughly and have had to agree to a few compromises and that compromise is not a bad thing
• I have come to terms with why I have to make such compromises
• I have tried to keep up with my Pilates for Pregnancy regime but am not married to it.
• I don’t dwell excessively on what went wrong last time around, though I do make an effort to remind myself that part of all the poking and prodding this time is because I came very close to dying last time round.
• I have been more private and considered about this pregnancy, not because I don’t want to share but because it feels like the right thing to do.
• I eat and drink what I want to when I want. I have had a glass or two of wine. I have eaten the stinky cheese. And both were fan-freaking-tastic.

2011-05-25T03:55:00.000-07:00

Cher Fang

Your sibling the Squid will be arriving soon. When exactly, is anyone's guess but the OB is leaning towards early and I have to say, I kind of agree although if the Squid could shift slightly to the left and down, I'd be cool for it to hang out as long as it wanted. In, I know the Squid is alive. Out, anything can happen, including dying.

Morbid, I know. It's a gift.

Only today. I think it is the new stomach medication battling with the prozac. I am a walking advert for a new addition of _Geek Love_. If the Squid is in fact a squid, I blame GlaxoSmithKline and Merk, both of whom have sponsored this pregnancy.

So much has happened and yet at the same time so little. Your uncle M next door has completely derailed and -- after 2 rather spectacularly dramatic if unsuccessful suicide attempts -- is currently convalescing at the local psych ward.

Poor lamb. He did try to tell them he was sick.

As an aside, would someone please explain to me why hospital staff would give a man who has just tried to off himself a knife and then acts surprised when he tries to slit his throat?

As a result, your Auntie W is understandably frazzled and trying to keep their immediate world from unraveling. It is a trying time for her.

In other news, I have started a new job at the University of the Arts working on the Phillip Knightley papers; he's a retired journalist who wrote a comprehensive history of the War Correspondent called _First Casualty_. His papers are interesting and it has fulfilled a void that I knew was there but hadn't realised the full extent of until I was back in an archive. What it has NOT done is whet my appetite for digging into the PhD. Instead, it has sidetracked me into thinking abotu War Correspondents and coverage of wars.

So easily distracted am I.

There is also my recent obsession with ice which I have only just now deduced is linked to the return of fierce burning and vomiting of blood that accompanied me through most of last summer. Ice is cold. The crunching of ice is distracting, however momentarily, both from the pain in my body and what was (and occasionally still is) the pain in my heart. Fang, talk about connecting dots; its a good thing this isn't a competition of quick wit because I am not quick at anything these days.

Except maybe peeing.

I think on you everyday and stand in the garden most nights for at least a moment to hear the whisper of wind chimes. And the peony bush we planted for mother's day has blossomed. And the season's first robin perched in your tree. You see, you're just everywhere, even though I can't quite see you.

2011-03-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

Your birthday was last Thursday. Your papa was in Zurich, looking after the Swiss gnomes. I went to Norwich to stay up late and chat with my friend Ruth before spending the weekend at Turks Hall, mainly, if truth be told, to be near you.

We came home on the Sunday after a very tense weekend. Ruth behaved horribly (beautifully but horribly), the finance is tiring (not in the least because she insists on referring to you as a miscarriage and she knows how heartbreaking they are. . .I finally had to point out that yes, miscarriages are painful. I've had two, thanks. But they are slightly different from taking a 2 day old baby off life-support. Not a nice thing to have to say to one's host but well, the hostess wasn't very nice; more like l'enfant terrible.)

Home now, trying to reacclimate to being unemployed and -- seemingly -- unemployable. I had a fantastic interview at a retailer for an archival project they are doing, feedback positive, etc., expect for one glaring thing: I'm pregnant. Obviously they can't say no work for you, pregnant one. But that's what they meant. So another interview next Monday and we'll just wait to see.

The world moves on, I suppose. But you are always my little darling.

Emily Dickenson 'Hope is a thing with feathers'

2011-02-10T14:30:00.000-08:00

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity
It asked a crumb of me.

Well, now, little love. What to say when there is so much to say?

I miss you every day.
Your Auntie TW is getting married next September
Your Uncle Brian is getting married in August
You will have a sibling we call The Squid in July
You died because of a quirk, a new or spontaneous mutation of Noonan's Syndrome.
It may happen again but apparently not now.
I still smell your sweet baby smell when I close my eyes.

2010-12-11T08:36:00.000-08:00

Dear Little Fang

I know things have been quiet. But it isn't because I have forgotten you, not at all. On the contrary, every moment of every day, I think about you. Lately, I also think about how you passed and the circulmstances leading up to getting to hold you for the first and last time more than is comfortable, more than I want. This is in part because in July, if all goes well, you'll have a sibling, a little kamquat-sized creature we call the Squid.

I spend a great deal of time at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson wing of UCLH. In the last month I've been twice, with two more appointments scheduled for the end of December and an average of 5 a month through the pregnancy (more if needed). I have my own obstetrics team, my own midwife, my own team of shrinks (in addition to the shrink and psychologist I had to find for myself after I came home in March because, let's face it, aftercare in this country is jacked), and a sonographer who assures me he is one talented mother-f@*ker. He's also Russian, which is great because as health care professionals go a) they tend to not bullshit you and b) they tend to be honest. None of this cosseted vagueness that we went through last time, you know, when they left out key things like 'Stop going to work; it may kill you,' and 'hey, we really think that you should know that there is a very real possibility that not only will your child die, but you might die as well.'

Of course, I didn't die, but it would have been nice if someone had given your poor papa a heads up. He's still not quite forgiven me for scaring him the way I did in the labour room and he certainly hasn't forgiven me for being the teensiest bit angry with Dr Perregrine for not listening to me when I told her I was in labour. As it is, I have requested that she not on my team and that is as far as I have gotten when it comes to throwing my toys out of the pram.

So far. . .

Trick or Treat?

2010-10-28T14:17:00.000-07:00

So it almost Haloween, little one. There is a great costume of the Count (get it? Because I call you Fanglet? I know. . . I know. Good thing I'm not a commedienne.)

I have been taken over this week by ennui. And if I can't figure out how to nip it in the bud, I am afraid it will roost permanently on my shoulder, a crow's carcass. A bag of Chips Ahoy.

Over the weekend, your papa and I went to Suffolk for the races (a small, unspoken tribute to your Aunty Susan) and then to Norwich of an evening. On Monday, I met the Biscuit in town for a coffee, and then rushed and rushed through the rest of the day: JobCentre, Meeting, Pilates. Stretch, Chubby, Stretch!

On Tuesday, I took my driving theory test. I went early, stood at reception and as I signed in, the receptionist looked at me, puzzled. 'I think I recognise you! You were pregnant? I remember all the pregnant ones.' He smiles as he hands me the documents. 'You were big! Twins, right? How are they?' This man is one of the friendliest Englishmen. I smile softly, take my documents.

'The wee one passed away. 2 days after he was born. But he was so lovely.'

Kicking puppies, kiddo. Kicking puppies. He tears up, walks away and I'm left in suspended animation. I still need a locker to check my bag and coat into, I still need to sign in. . . And all I can think about is your tiny little hand and the way you smelled. Your hair and your little slate grey eyes.

'A little boy.'

And that is pretty much where I've been for the last few days, when I'm not going through the documenting that is part of the emotional maladaptive schema therapy I'm doing. Which is so painful at times, I think it is going to devour me. Part of the process is about establishing provenance over skewed reactions to people, conversations, emotions, etc. It requires me to note how/what I am feeling, catagorize where I fit with the schema and match the schema up with the earliest memory I can conjure on where I would have learned such reactions. I won't go into detail here because your grandmother visits and I don't want to make this about having a bad childhood, because I didn't. I had a lovely childhood, much of the time. And when it wasn't lovely, it was so dysfuntional, I don't think any of us - my parents, my brother, me, any of us - realized what was going on or how upside down the world had gotten. I stopped looking for people to blame and be angry with a long time ago. The kicker about this whole thing is that I can see it all - I can see how two tremendously beautiful, shiny people like my mom and dad meet, how they fall in love, and how it all goes horribly awry at times. I can see where my mom's parents - both of whom are so lovely - had some seriously fucked (now, don't suck your gums at me; mommies swear sometimes. That's life) ideas on what life was supposed to be like and they had exacting expectations. And your Grumpa's parents? Well, let's just suffice it to say Olympia Biniweski crazy drug-created family in 'Geek Love's family has nothing on them. Seriously. And all of that trickles down until I go through the better part of my twenties thinking most men are shit-eating cheats and women are just crazed. Or that I am crazed and deserve to be punished for it.

So, yeah. Therapy is going really, really well. It is so much fun to live in all of the schematic moments of my past. We'll get to the good parts, where I learned positive schemas (I'm making a separate list of them too), but right now, when I'm down too far to care, this is kind of like kicking a horse when it has missed the wall and is waiting to be shot.

Tomorrow I leave for Lyons where I will see Magali Sapet-Butel, an exchange student that lived with us my sophomore year of high school. Sophomore year, it is safe to say, was the worst year of my educational life, 1st year of grad school not withstanding. Kids can be horrible and I was an easy target: frizzy hair, kooky glasses, enough orthodenture to choke a horse. . . I was too misearble to do anything but curl up in a porcupine like ball rather than fight back. I was branded a bitch, a witch (literally, prayers being said in attempts to save my damned soul), was stuffed in lockers, the whole shebang. I don't think there was a day until January that I didn't cry sit in my bathroom digging into myself with my nails or the like. I was not a happy bunny and I wasn't easy to be around. And when I think about that time that Maggie lived with us, that is what I remember: being ashamed of who and what I was, of being defective and not good enough at anything. I didn't even feel exotic enough; German is not exotic unless you're into Kant, Goethe and S&M and I'm not really into any of them (although I like a nice latex dress as much as the next girl). French on the other, well. . . That's a different story. Maggie was exotic in a way I would never be and instead of making friends with her, I saw her as yet another cross to bear. Damn cheese-eating surrender monkeys, as the pater Simpson would say. Which is so unfair and yet so very, very true.

When I think about going to Valance and seeing Maggie, time slips away and I'm gauche, awkward and 15. I am terrified and it is ridiculous. I have no cause to be. This is going to be a great good thing, if I can get out of my own twisted snit long enough to pack underwear.

Note to self: pack some underwear. And a toothbrush. Unpacky the cookies. They are not your friend.

22 September

2010-10-07T10:06:00.002-07:00

22 September
Cincinnati, Ohio

I’m sitting in the lobby of Union Terminal in Cincinnati and it is half past midnight. This is one of my favourite buildings in the world; perfectly preserved and converted into a museum and still functioning as a train station. There’s a full moon out and I’m waiting for the 3:27 to Washington, having decided a few months ago that a train trip would do me good. It would force me to slow down and be patient, 2 things I am not always great at; especially the slowing down part.

We arrived in Dayton on Sunday the 13th to blue skies and a parched autumn. Since the cold has arrived early to London, I had been craving an Indian Summer, so this suited me down to the ground. There was a BBQ, there was Karaoke at a dive bar called Dizzy Jim’s where one can sing their hearts out 7 nights a week. There was a week of early morning coffee with Gigi, a week of all night drug stores just waiting for a bout of insomnia, a week of Law & Order marathons; a week of just good stuff happening. A week of living like I’m sixteen and the world is just itself.

12 September 2010

2010-10-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

12 September

The last two weeks have been a bit of a nightmarish haze. I think it safe to say that mentally, it has been the worst period I can remember in recent years this side of Chicago. And cookie – Chicago got bad.

The thing that I’ve had with managing my depression, in creating a collaborative environment for both Depression and I to be in, is that when a downward spiral starts, I don’t always know how to prevent it when there is more than one catalyst. You, my sweet, are a case in point. Life with out you is hard enough to adjust to. Add to that life a work environment that has turned so toxic that I break out in a rash thinking about it, the death of two incredibly close friends, and one health crisis after another and you can almost see how, a week ago Friday, I wind up in tears at the Priory (I know, right? What a great name for a loony bin). By this point, outraged with myself to the point that I actually started hyperventilating. My shrink – I won’t call her a lovely woman but I will give a nod to her competency – thinks I should be admitted but we’re US bound and let’s face it: the last thing the Priory needs is Ohio crazy shaking down the walls.

Something is off in my body; later that evening, I start my period unexpectedly (I know, little one; not something a boy should have to hear his mother prattle on about until he’s at least 45). And it leaves me flat out. I’ve started working with a naturopath and have started working with my acupuncturist again (who, bizarrely, I ran into outside my own house – literally, outside our flat. She had just come from looking at a house on our road. I hadn’t seen her in over a year). As I type this from a Mid-Town apartment in Manhattan, I also have numerous magnets taped across my upper body, drawing out an infection that started out as a common cold and before the 2nd sneeze had turned into Strep. I know, I know. 2010 and I have issues.

Your first Rosh Hashona has come and gone. Your first new Year. No apples and honey for you to try, no breaking the fast (not that I would’ve been with you around).
But all in all, I’m pretty lucky. My worries and woes are strictly first world and I have a pretty swish life. I mean, I’m writing this in Manhattan, for cripe’s sake, so how hard done by can I be? In the next 2 weeks I will have been in NYC, Ohio, Washington DC, back to London and then off to Prague. That, my little cherub, is pretty fucking sweet.

Home

2010-09-13T14:22:00.000-07:00

One very long flight and a lovely day in New York later, we've arrived in Dayton. I felt rubbish for pretty much the entire flight, but made it in one (very grumpy) piece. The thing that surprised me is how much it hurt coming home this first time without you in my arms. I hadn't even thought about that hurt; it hadn't even crossed my mind. And when it hit me, it was rough-edged and searing and I couldn't even breathe.

Your Grandy and Grumpus had a great BBQ for our return and then your Aunty C, our friend Ohio Mike, and I dragged your father to a dingy Kareoke bar called Dizzy Jim's where we sang and laughed and cut up until the wee, wee small hours.

It was damn good harmless fun. We'll take some more of that, pretty please.

The last few weeks have been pretty rough. Stepping down off of one antidepressant (velafexine/Effexor XR) and transitioning to another (fluxotine/Prozac) has been harder than I thought it would be. A common cold turned into strep within 12 hours, and my schedule keeping - something I'm usually VERY good at - has been a disaster. I leave people waiting, forget where I am going, where I'm supposed to be. Run late, arrive early, get distracted and often just feel overwhelmed. The furvor of leaving a job I'd come to loathe and the process of filing formal grievances culimnated in a 3.5 hour phone call today that left me spent and with the start of a migraine.

Too much coffee, too much anger, and too much upset over the well-intentioned but startling ineptitude and excuses left me curled up in bed with a wet washcloth over my eyes. But its done now. And I've decided not to go to the mattresses this time round and to stop looking for fights.

I'll let you know how that one turns out.

In other news, there is just one more test the genetics team want do. . . I know, sweetest. There always seems to be one more test. But this one, they tell me. . . this one will be last. Noonan's Syndrome, a long shot, but a just in case. It would make very little difference to me, you know. But sometimes I do wonder if I have the strength to go through all of this poking and prodding and and well-intentioned interfereing again. And if I have another baby in the UK, I won't really have a say in the poking and prodding.

Only time will tell, I say. Only time will tell.

Next time I'll tell you about the groovy Korean Voodoo and the magnets.

Going private

2010-09-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Much of the Fanglet's life has been out in the open uncharted world of the WWW. It is a over a year since the whole journey started and it is far from over. I still plan on writing to you, still plan on having things to say, but I need to be more focused on how that happens. And I need to take his papa's feelings more into account, especially where my little sweetpea is concerned. Bizarrely, I don't know that I would have kept the blog open if things had gone differently.

The three months have been exceptionally hard. I think I can safely say that they have been the hardest yet, probably because it took so fucking long for the histology results to grow. Also, the whole changing meds in the wake of going back to one of the more dysfunctional places I've ever worked (The cakeshop included. I mean, a guy ran away from the cakeshop on his 2nd day of work! Who does that? And doesn't take any cake with them? Seriously, people!), family drama, family illnesses, and good friends moving on to the other side has just left me feeling at times like I keep getting kicked while I'm not even up off the ground.

But I've learned so much: so much about the kind of mama I am, the kind of mama and woman I want to be, the kind of person I want to be and already am (and like the song's since, there ain't all that much difference between the two). And you all have been the best; there for me with so much love, and support, and late night phone calls, and teary, snotty, inconsolable moments that I really don't think I could get through this all without you. And certainly, with a little luck and a whole lotta sexy lingerie (or not) - not another pregnancy. And no, before you get all excited Mama, that DOES NOT mean I'm knocked up. Seriously. Give a girl half a moment of not bieng on antibiotics or in a hospital gown (and the always sexy DVT tights)

So, I think the time has come to move this little thing off to a subscription-only setting (reasons being too numerous to count, the main one being it is just time to let the little one have a bit more privacy. And it weirds the Husband out. I know, English people can be weird about overzealous displays of emotion. You can imagine how he's handling a return to the figure modeling (which is kind of essential, because I am really so very angry with my body that I need to get over that and the best way to get over body issues - for me - has always been to appreicate that its just a body, like everyone else's.

If you're interested in subscribing, let me know either by following or by email.
I hope you do.

I'm also going to start blogging more Archive-y stuff again and am going to be getting back to my PhD research and those will be easy to find. I'm nothing if not a quasi-exhibitionist. And a chatty one, at that.

You hurt me bad. Real Bad. Love don't live here anymore.

2010-08-29T08:03:00.000-07:00

So, I think Chris Rock is one of the sexiest creatures ever put on this earth. And he's funny. Damned funny. And seriously, who doesn't love BAD COMPANY?

On Sunday, I went to work. I needed to see for myself just how spectacularly people hadn't covered for me whilst I was away. 'Ceiling leaking? Don't tell me, that's HER job. Don't want to know about the cleaners, even though. . . ' On Monday, I went work. I toiled. Threw up blood in the sink, toiled some more. And all the while, got more disillusioned and frustrated with not having the tools or the knowledge I needed to get MY job done. My job, which was to facilitate a larger group's abilities to get their job done. On Tuesday, I come back from looking at flats to discover that not only had someone dropped a meeting in my calendar without sending me an invite, they also had decided - having hung up on me - that I wasn't worth talking to because they had people in their office.

And that's when the laundry list of frustations and bewilderment came to a head. And I realized the following:

a) I do not need to work in a place where it is ever considered appropriate for an individual to be sexually harassed.

b) Start-ups run by people who have more money than common sense and that are no longer start-ups but companies in their middle adolescence are not the right environment for me, especially when the only by-product is money.

c) I do not want going to jail for someon make else's refusal to abide by laws - regardless of how frustrating and piddly they may seem - to ever be a possible side-effect of my job.

d) Recruitment and Human Resources are not interchangeable and

and - finally -

e) When you spend every day before, after, and during work fighting back tears not because you've lost a child or because your stomach feels like it has scorching pinballs but because you've got a list of things that you've been trying to push through for 2 YEARS and no one listens, then you've gotta go.

I gave notice, we tentatively worked out a handover plan and then the US came online and the head of HR went through motions about 'taking things seriously,' and 'we'll get these addressed,' and the only thing I could think of to say in response was 'You knew all of this was going on, some it for years, and you did not address it one whit. You have not addressed it, and I know that once I'm gone, you're still not going to address these things, or what this place is on the verge of becoming. So. Please. Save us both the bullshit.'

And I left. And it felt good. And damn. . . it still does.

Marking time, skinning chickens

2010-08-16T05:54:00.000-07:00

Back in the Country, I spend a great deal of time reading my way through the rather substantial collection of 20th Century literature your Auntie S had managed to collect. There is a lot of overlap with my own taste (though a lot of divergence as well; I'm not a huge Updike or Martin Amis fan, though I can recognize their remarkable talent). And it is strange to read heaps of first editions, some of which cost more than my prom dress. There is a lot of bleak, windswept fiction on the shelves: novels of social realism, stark warngings from the Gulag, from behind various curtains - Iron, Silk, Damask - tales of compromise and class war and life lived and abrupted. And there are cookbooks. Voluptous, weighty tomes filled with details on food that one reads for the sheer beauty and largess that they present. Cookbooks have become a favourite of mine, ever since I discovered that the oven isn't a battleground. I don't cook or bake as well as I one day will, but I am happy to learn.

I wonder if S. saw herself as ordinary. She so clearly wasn't ordinary or comfortably worn. She was herself and all that that entails. And I wonder about her sister, the enigma that was your Auntie L. I never met L., at least not in the flesh. I met her when she was already expired, a box of ashes tucked in the cupboard under the stairs.

I meet a lot of people after they are already dead. I meet them through their letters, and notes scribbled in margins. I meet them through the things they collected - the string, the buttons, the brass tacks. . . the forgotten magazine subscription renewal, the overdue notice from the Library.

Today, the Library phones, Like a credit card company, to tell you when your items are late. It is so uncivilized.

So, whilst I'm reading and contemplating, the laying hen is playing out her role as escape artist. She will meet her demise with a broken neck and a trail of feathers. And I'll wonder just what the hell to do next. And what I do is simple: I call my daddy. And together we decide skinning is the way to go, at least for this first time. So I do. I skin it, clean it out, contemplate making chicken pate, then realize that I am feel very, very squeamish and not a little queasy from the endeavour. So instead of pate, I have a very large drink. I cook the chicken, it is devoured, and I still sleep the sleep of the innocent in a bed that is like sleeping on a cloud. Or a giant marshmellow.

Your uncle returns home today and I'll have to tell him about the chicken. And really hope that wasn't more attached than he let on, as the only bits left now are a few feathers. . .

July ended and August came

2010-08-12T06:51:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, 3 August 2010

Your sixth month approached and flew overhead like a peregrine circling before arching out over the water’s edge. It seems impossible that it was six months since you came and went. It seems impossible and yet is entirely true that it has been well nigh on a year since I first found out I was pregnant. I remember the day in August well. I remember where I was and what I was doing when the light bulb of awareness finally flickered on cartoon-like above my head. It involved a very smart pregnancy test and a very dim me.

Your father, Josephine and I went to the seaside on a Friday evening, driving out of London as though we were on shore leave. We spent two decadent days in Eastbourne, lounging at the Grand Hotel, a wedding cake of a building, and gazing out at the ever-changing ocean.

I love the ocean. I love, respect, envy and fear the ocean and its certainty, its sense of assured purpose. The tide comes in, the tide goes out and within the cool mysterious depths of the water, millions of other worlds are running parallel to this one. It is an awesome realization and I could stay for years at its edge, my feet just at the surface of this world, the tang of salt and sand on my skin.

The last month has been passed in a hurling whirlwind of activity. There is the overwhelming sense of being swept up into the winds tropical storm, only to be plunked down with an unceremonious ‘ooomph’ into yet another hospital bed. My grand statement of ‘No more hospitals here’ has gone the way of my resistance to doing genealogical work: resistance is futile.

I have felt increasingly ‘not right’ since I came home from Hospital. There has been the usual poking and prodding, always followed by a knowing and slightly condescending nod of ‘You’ve jus had a baby so that is why you feel rubbish.’ And yes, while there is truth there I think we can all agree that we now know that no, in fact, it wasn’t just because I’d given birth to a spectacular wonder of 5 pounds, 7 ounces of a little boy. In fact, it would appear that what ever caused amniotic fluid to rage through my body in unfriendly waves had made nest for itself in places it really shouldn’t be and bacteria had festered into a most unpleasant and agonizing infection. An infection so insidious that it was only when the low-grade fever I’ve been running off and on for the last 4 months began to rage and my stomach once again became agonizingly distended that I once again found myself at North Middlesex Accident and Emergency and then later in a hospital bed on yet another series of drips for 4 days. The diagnosis: Dearest Little One
ravaged stomach lining, an ulceratic state, and massively impacted colon as well as an unpleasantly enlarged spleen.

After 17 days of more antibiotics, nauseating dizzy spells, and a very kind doctor telling me ‘You have to rest. Really,’ I’m now faced with having to slow down, way and relearn how to simply stay put. Relearn to not drink 15cups of coffee and chain smoke Gaulouises and Lucky Strikes like I’m an extra in MADMEN.

Add to that what can only be described as consistently misplacing my basket and having what the French would call an existential crisis and what we Americans call a nervous breakdown, and that has led me to the quiet solitude of a country house in Suffolk.

Today I picked my breakfast: raspberries, gooseberries, and one just ripening plum.

My shrink – a lovely man of quiet reason – has been quick to point out that I’ve been fantastically unlucky. It is quite enough to lose a child. To then lose yet another spectacularly close and wise friend (your Great-Aunt) and to then try and resume the intense pace of a job I used to love and laugh about in the midst of the storm, well that’s enough to send anyone down the wayward path of madness.

I’ve spent the last two weeks wandering around the rather jumbled rooms of my mind resembling a jumble sale. I move from one activity to another in a haze, often collapsing on to the nearest sofa, chair, chaise, bench or bed in a heap of exhaustion and tilting dizziness. Sleep is not restful: my dreams are a chaotic – at times terrifying – tangle of chases, dark and forbidding shadow figures. I run and run or can’t run in equal measures and I awake often in a state of confusion often accompanied by a deep sense of fear. The fear gives way to anger and my attitude I am sad to say is that of a petulant teenager, hostile and overwrought with no notebook to hand to vent because I left it – carelessly abandoned – on the bus.

Professionally, these last months, I must have been a walking wraith, a nightmare to behold. When I returned to the still weekend quiet of my office to attempt to make sense of what I had left, I noted that the photo I had chosen to display my proud mark of motherhood was that of you in death – your tiny body clothed in a yellow sweater and matching trousers, your skin an eerily bruised blue. And do you know that I don’t even remember making what had to have been a conscious decision? I don’t even remember choosing to display that particular moment like a talisman of howling pain? My poor colleagues. . . the eggshells they must have tread on.

Which leads me to a crossroads and at a not to distant point in the future, I will have to make decisions. I will have to get back on the commuter train into to Town, walk back into the office I so carefully and lovingly put together and try to make my peace with the world that had started to become a trigger for my anger and frustration, and full of language I can’t quite remember I know how to speak.

2010-08-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

So, it rained most of yesterday. It was appropriate, I suppose, given that I spent much of the morning in a meeting with other mums of babies who've passed on. These women all have gone on to have children or want to have children (mostly the former) and whilst it was cathartic, it was also a bit. . . overwhelming. Of course, I hid the real crazy and didn't mention taxidermy. You're proud, I know.

But it would make a great TV show, if there were more a market for Twilight Zone/Surreal TV.

Damn you, Stephen Crane

2010-08-09T05:21:00.000-07:00

We laid part of you to rest in Suffolk on a Saturday with you Auntie S, Tanzie and little Pedro.

The ashes of a 5lb, 7 ounce baby takes up the same space as Pedro, a much loved, fat cat.

I have had this poem running through my head off and on the last week, in between flushes of heat and spastic colons, and chaotic dreams. Last night, we were sailing and you were high up on the masts.

In the desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Wherein Mama loses her basket

2010-07-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

I've been wandering around in my mind a lot lately, little one. Thinking about you, and life, and moving on, and going back and I think about things I've read, snippets of stories, fragments of other people's lives (because, as an archivist, one spends a great deal of time up to one's elbows in other people's lives), lines from poems half remembered and all mashed up togehter. . .

'Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck.'

I've fallen ill again. Or am ill still, depending, I suppose, on what has caused this next spectacular infection. Surely, says one Dr, you can't have been feeling poorly for long. Surely, says another, you can't be as large as you claim you were in just January. Photographic evidence is just boggling when presented, and my temper is wrought, it takes nothing for an explosion. I've spend 3 nights and 3 days in hospital, like a cruise. A short cruise, maybe to Cozumel. The last month has been a blur of broken sleep, nightmares, frantic days at work, exhausted seconds, minutes, hours at home - the world moving in slow motion whilst the heat of summer presses into my skin, into my head.

Losing you has only reinforced something I've known for a while: The art of losing one's mind isn't all that hard to master.

Strangely, I think I miss you now more than I did. . . I miss your smell, your little hands, your little eye lashes, and your little rosebud mouth. I miss everything about you and the further I move away from that point in time when I held you, the harder some days it is to breathe. The more I want to throw my head back and howl with rage and joy. Sometimes line seems to blur between where I am, where I've been, where you were lost and I can't remember which moment I am in. . . little things screw up my sense of timing: waking up in an emergency room in pain after dozing off.

2010-06-30T05:45:00.000-07:00

And we came back. We did this well over a week ago, so you're probably wondering, Little One, what I could be doing that kept me from writing to you. Well, let's just leave it to say that the hits just keep on coming.

We left on a Thursday night. This would normally have been smooth sailing. I would have packed a scrummy dinner to be eaten on the ferry. I might have even tissue-wrapped your father's shirts. Stranger things have happened. Instead, all of my good intentions flew out the window with a bit of scalding hot coffee and a trip to the emergency room. Result: a 10-inch long, varyingly wide burn that ran from the bendy in my waist to my upper thigh.

New rule: No emptying the washing machine near freshly made coffee.

Reminder: Large McDonald's arches on the fridge. Why? Because coffee is hot and your mama should know better.

So we get home, I finish packing in a very nice haze of painkillers. We drive to the ferry. We crash out on the sofas and a few hours later I wake up to realize OUCH! The large protective blister has popped! And the layer of skin that was a blister, well, it has come off. Which leads to an infection, which leads to numerous trips to Prague 6 from our hideway in Skalice.

We have a brilliant time. Your Uncle Mix pulled out all the stops and made us most welcome in his country manor. And he's expecting a baby with his paramour, which is most exciting news.

In Prague, we eat, we wander, we laugh, we argue, and I love being there but don't long to live there, if you know what I mean. It is nice to know I can live in parallel to the city, dropping in as and when. And then we retreat to the country for long walks, reading, naps, and - in your father's case - World Cup Football.

From Skalice we drive west then south to Neuchatel, where your Uncle C and Auntie J live near the Lake. We spend two days eating and drinking (your father rediscovers his appreciation for Tequila/vodka/Redbull and pays dearly). We arrive at the ferry just shy of the 8pm and bicker over who is at fault: Human Error or Technology.

On the ferry, your father gets a text: your Great Aunt has died. This makes my heart hurt so much, I can't help but cry. She was amazing. The only thing that cheers me is that she'll be able to join the ranks of fab people keeping pace with you.

At home, the world spins and spins. Work is crazy busy, Uncle M has a stroke, Auntie P and Uncle CR get hitched at Eton Chapel and really, all I want to do is have some fun then sleep for an eternity. Things slow down by Tuesday - and really, how could they help but slow?

In all of this, I have to say, we had our 1st genetics appointment, which was basically another session of 'Hmmm. Well We think you're good to go, but let's wait for the metabolic tests. And yeah, we don't really know what caused the hydrops.' But the brain damage, little one, that's just cause you didn't really get a chance to breathe deep. And my heart cracks a bit more before it can heal.

And almost everywhere I go, people offer up commiserations. It is touching and yet doubly painful. What I notice is that people want to comfort more that we let them, your papa and I. And when they can't comfort him, they come to me because, well, I guess I'm just a wee bit more cuddly. When I'm not setting things on fire.

2010-06-09T03:18:00.000-07:00

And so we are preparing for a road trip that will take us to Dunkirk, through Germany, to the Czech Republic, back through Switzerland, then home. We will not be taking Josie, mainly because I'm crap at sorting out her pet passport and because it is just too much for her right now, a long road trip. Lately, I've noticed that she is slowing down. She is doing so with amazing grace but she is definitely slowing down. A good walk, a good run she never turns down, but she crashes hard afterwards.

She is getting older and one day, she won't wake up or she'll get sick and I'll have to let her go. And your papa won't let me get her taxidermy-ed either. Which is probably a good thing, because just how creepy would THAT Xmas card be?

I am back at work, in theory 3 days a week, slowly phasing in. But what happens, what is so hard to change, is that I can't shut work off once I open the door. It creeps into everything until it BECOMES everything. I find myself making lists - not fun lists, like what creative things I want to do or where we should stop on our trip, but W O R K lists about accommodation, the office, the corporate flat, who needs what, etc. And I can't stop. My heart begins to race and my breathing comes faster and then BAM! I hit the wall, trip into an anxiety fueled panic. Or, I go to sit down and realize I am so physically exhausted my bones feel like they are being crushed and I think I am going to start tossing cookies.

Not optimal.

Add to that that I occasionally, without even realizing, start crying and that my milk (even after the cabergoline and 3.5 months) is still coming in like a bitch, and well, that's life.

The house is in a state. I mean, seriously in a state. And most of the time, I can't even summon the desire to do anything about it. I have serious skills in the compartmentalization and avoidance departments. I can ignore pretty much anything, just retreating into my own mind. There are so many stories in there, so many interesting conversations and music and words that I can go there and just ignore the papers piled, the post waiting to be read, the bills needing to be paid, the floors that need to be mopped. And so your poor father will come and be perplexed by the state of things and wonder if I've gone to far into my own head and I have to reassure him I'm still around.

And there is just so much going on! The weather is warm, is super fine and I just want to have the kind of summer I never had when I was 17. I want to stay up late and sleep through the day and stretch out like a cat. With no responsibility beyond the children's library reading club. I want to drink pitchers of sangria while I giggle with my girlfriends and dance like a fiend; I want to make out with my husband in the back seat of a car.

And I want this so much, I know, because the one thing I really want, I just cannot have. I can't have you. I can't hold you and feed you and feel like the world is crashing down because there isn't one piece of clothing not covered in spit-up or because the diaper genie is so full it is about to explode. Maybe I'll get these things yet (and I hope I do) but it doesn't change the fact that, like the crooner sings, there will never be another you.

As ever
Mama

Letter to my 20-year-old -self

2010-06-07T03:30:00.000-07:00

Dear you

You've decided to move on . That lovely Victorian studio you find in Cincinnati on Ohio Street? Keep it. For as long as you possibly can. If there is ever an option to buy it, do so.

The Poet you meet at the bookshop? Don't take him so seriously. Be smart, have fun, and when its done, just nod and accept the lessons learned. We have a tendency to brood too much and it will ruin so much of our time and life if we let it. That boy on the Boston - Albany Express? He'll break your heart but it will make you stronger if you let it.

Keep traveling. Travel for the sake of it, not to run away from life. Travel near and far and go back to places. Give the people you love some distance and space for a couple of years so that you can grow into your skin. We are good at keeping in touch with people; cultivate this skill, these relationships. They will get you through life when you think it might break you. You will have tragedy and disaster, courted and otherwise, but you are a tough cookie with a sense of humour that will pull you through but you can't do it alone.

If there are 3 things I could give you as gifts, they would go a little something like this: 1) the knowledge that that horrific black dog that stalks you is not who you are. You are not worthless and useless and you need to realize this or it just may take you down. Hard. Depression is a fact of your genetic make up and you need to learn to deal with it. Preferably sooner than later and without a martini super-glued to your hand. 2) We're spendthrifts. Learn to walk away from the red linen trousers when the debate over 'rent v trousers' arrives. You can't keep everything but you don't need to get rid of EVERYTHING. Balance and being middle of the road for some things, these are good things. They won't detract from the things we do well or otherwise. That beautiful black dress that is so 1958? You need to keep that bad boy. And one more thing: Go on and dye your hair. Its just hair: it will grow back. But when you go platinum, go to the salon.

Seriously.

Love you madly as ever,
Me

On taxidermy, thearpy, Reeses Cups and family trees

2010-05-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Wee One

You would have been 3 months old this week. We probably would have had a party, you, me and the dog. I'd have made you both wear paper hats - the kind with elastic.

I may still make the dog wear a paper hat. It does so amuse me to dress her up.

Your grandparents left on Monday. We spent a gorgeous weekend being lazy, wandering around the various markets, playing scrabble and just generally enjoying one another's company.

When they arrived, your Grandy brought me two bags of mini Reese's Cups. Needless to say there are no more left. Not even the hint of dark brown paper nests or gold tin foil.

I still feel slightly nauseous, but in a good way.

I wish I could say that everything was grand. That whenever I think of you, it is completely without any sadness or devastation. For the most part, little one, it is with a kind of resigned happiness but some days. . . some moments. . . whoa. The pain is so intense, it just comes at me like a freight train, all grinding noise and smoke. And that I haven't been researching taxidermy and preservation methods like a demented person based on a series of recurring dreams in which you and I wander around town with you in a baby bjorn. Because THAT would not be at all weird.

You're coming home tomorrow, finally ready for collection from the Funeral director's. The kicker is that I had one thing I wanted to achieve before going back to work - the one silly, over-emotional thing that I really needed to have done, I don't know that I'll be able to. I wanted to find a little nest for my baby bird to play in. And I haven't been able to do that yet. Cue eating ice cream on the sofa in my pajamas and crying because I feel like a failure as a mama. Even though, rationally, I know I'm not a failure and the very nice therapist is helping me work through these types of feelings to become the better version of myself.

In other news, the upside of doing a genealogy project for your Dad's family is that I found some amazing photos to send to Wales and to Suffolk. And I will be able to provide the geneticist with a frighteningly thorough family tree. One side goes back to the early 11th Century.

And now you know why we tend to not do any genealogy here.

Everything is relative. . . except relatives

2010-05-14T02:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Fang

Your grandparents arrived in London last Thursday. On Friday, we got ready for the party we were having on Saturday. On Saturday, we had a party. Mama may have drunk a bit too much, but no harm, no foul, as they say. Your grandmother may or may not have hit a couple of cars on her way back to ours. It was a good party.

They've gone off to France, your grandparents. I got up with them Wednesday morning, made your Grumpa coffee, hugged them goodbye and contemplated briefly whether I was making a mistake not going with them. I looked at your father as he got ready to drive them to the station and knew that now just isn't the time for me to be away.

The last few months, I've been a bit of a slacker. I'm not exercising like I should (I should be at the gym, working on getting back my womanly figure), I'm not keeping house like I should, I'm not really keeping up with commitments the way I should. In another place, in another time, I would be giving myself a hard time but now, I'm just along for the ride.

Things are changing fast. I am going to have to prepare myself for the fact that my office won't be the same: two people that I was close to are leaving (or have left) and there is a new person starting. Add to that the people traveling from the US and well, yeah. . . The world is just going to be different. But different can be good, right?

Your dad came home with news: his boss is leaving for another job and his boss's boss (I know, right? Hang in there) has been made redundant. I love that phrase 'made redundant.' It is so much more obnoxious and passive-aggressive than 'You're fired.' And it made me a bit nervous because I had made a decision that goes like this:

If the Bureaucracy doesn't get moving on notifying us about appointments, then dude, I'm going to jump ranks and get pregnant, results be damned. You need a sibling, I am ready to be a mama and actually HAVE a baby in the house (no offense, kitten. Have I mentioned that I had read a book about taxidermy-ing people? Well, embalming people for display, but still. . . I know, I know. Grief makes people a bit bonkers) and really, all of this milk has to be good for something, right? And Josie really needs someone small to pull her tail and tug on her ears.

But that could also just be me getting a bit apprehensive about how slow things now seem to move. When we were a unit, there was a finite period of time before we'd know how the chapter ended. You were - whether either of us were ready for it - going to come out eventually. But now, now things can just move idly along and get sidetracked. And I don't like being sidetracked.

You know?

2010-05-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Little One

Okay, so I think it is more than fair to say that Friday, well, Friday sucked crusty gym socks. Truly. It was the hardest day thus far and I know there will be more of them but sometimes they really do my head in.

After a little ambush by the obstetrician (I mean, really, do we need to walk through the autopsy report again?!), I seemed to on automatic pilot, albeit a very hostile automatic pilot. But I came out the other side of that Friday feeling remarkably okay. Went on to through your Auntie P's hen night with only a minimum of damage (in the guise of a gorgeous little Dries Van Noten espadrille that is no more) and a rather nasty blister.

Such is life and footwear.

Your grandparents arrived yesterday, bringing with them some of the sweetest things, including a 3 Little Bears quilt you Grandm B made; it is the perfect accompaniment to the lovely cross-stitch panel of bears in dreamland that your Auntie T made for you and your future siblings. Lucky little cuss. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced your grandparents but am trying not to work up an anxiety attack.

We'll see how that one goes.

As ever,
Your mama

Warning: this medication may cause excessive gambling

2010-04-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

You will wake up anxious, a carry-over from the night before, when a work colleague - fully aware of your current circumstances - contacts you to ask for a password that you left him before you were signed off from working IN the office and before you were FORBIDDEN to do any work. He will have developed this nasty habit -violating your space and the indisputable fact of your being on leave - and will seem immune to the anxiety he creates with requests like 'I need a car for my personal holiday' when he texts you on your personal phone and emails you on your personal email.

You will have gone to sleep that night feeling sick to your stomach and in fear of what the next day - another Friday - will bring.

You will wake up early, after a fitful night of sleep in which office zombies stumble around looking for you. You will be holding your little baby, hiding in a filing cupboard and while you are holding him, he will die from suffocation.

You will get out of bed and get dressed and fix your breakfast. You will feel dazed and bereft. You will remember your keys, your handbag, your book on the geography of bliss. You will forget your mobile phone.

You will get to the train station 45 minutes before your appointment. You will have left a 22 minute window for delays. This will not be enough, since transport will have other plans. Trains will be delayed, Tube platforms closed due to overcrowding. You will make your way to the Feto-medical unit with painstaking care and you will arrive late.

It will be the first time you set foot into the hospital where you gave birth and where you held your son while he died. You will walk into the feto-medical unit with your cheeks flushed and your breath starting to become ragged and you will not even realise you are crying silently.

The nurse, one of your favourites will lead you gently to the room where you will meet your OB. She will bring you water and rub your back and you will not lash at her despite the overwhelming desire to do so. You will save that for later, when you chase a sleek sports car down the road for turning illegally, when you chase after it screaming 'You sonofabitch! You need to learn to FREAKING DRIVE!' You will stand your ground when the driver stops, leans out his window to yell back, as he reaches for the door. The rage and anguish you will feel in that moment will terrify you. You will actually scream after him 'You really think you want to take me on?'

You will want your mommy.

But these moments come later.

First, before you can get angry and rail at the world, you will have to see the obstetrician, someone you have not seen since before your little boy died. You will remember the last time you saw her, sitting on your bed in the open ward, before they sequestered you. She will ask you to map out a plan of action for the meeting and you will say 'x, y, and zed.'

And yes, you will, in fact have said 'zed.'

She will say, no, first we will talk about the autopsy. You will say 'But I've already done that. I don't want to do that.'

She will say 'But I want to.'

She will ask where your husband is and you will look around, panicked. Have you left him somewhere? Did you forget him? Do you have a husband? You panic then you remember: this was just supposed to be a check-up. She is not playing by the rules. She is not reading the script. You will sigh, and hunker down, waiting. She will, nod, thoughtfully and say he should be at the appointments that come next.

You will nod, a schoolgirl getting her knuckles rapped.

She will tell you the head of the clinic - a man who's name is very close to Panda, so much so that you always think of him as 'Dr Panda,' the man with the same specs as you have but in navy blue - disagrees with the autopsy findings. The world will tip slightly. This isn't even close to being over.

You will tell her you are angry that she ignored you and treated you like a child who didn't know her own body.

She will apologise. You will say you are angry that the delivering OB lied to you about James breathing, that they shouldn't lie when they are asked to be truthful. That it is wrong and deceitful.

She will narrow her eyes thoughtfully. She will say 'I've done that, told a delivering patient that everything is fine.' You will look her in the eye and you will raise an eyebrow. 'Then you are wrong as well. In a situation like this, you shouldn't lie. It will come back to bite you in the ass.'

She is now getting her knuckles wrapped. She takes it. She gives you a half smile and nods. She'll ask for another urine sample, just to make sure things are good. For only the second time in your life, you will not be able to pee on demand. She smiles. 'You can bring it back later.' Riiight.

You will leave on a semblance of normality, until one of the kindly nurses stops you in the hall and says 'I am so sorry. So, so sorry.' And you will thank her, unable to look in her eyes and will walk quickly out of the building, until you can run. Run. Run. Down the street. Away. Run.

She will examine you and say 'All feels good.' She will give you a prescription to dry up your milk, with a sigh. 'We don't always prescribe this. It can cause depression.' You look at her in disbelief, not that the medication can cause depression but because you didn't actually have to spend the last 2 months lactating every time a baby cried, no matter how tightly you breasts were bound. And besides, you're already depressed. Functional, but depressed.

You will have begun thinking to yourself in third person. You will recall a novel you read, a Margaret Atwood novel, about a woman about your age who thinks in the 3rd person for a while. You will remember the book and you will think 'It worked for her.' You will go with it, walking to Confetti then to Ray's Cafe in Foyles.

You'll notice all the Nina Campbell making an appearance and think 'Hmm. The Year of Nina Campbell it is. Much prettier than the Year of David Peace.'

And at Ray's, you will lose perspective, waiting in line to buy a sandwich. You will listen to the exchange between the cashier and her friend, waiting impatiently for the other 2 members of staff doing nothing to take your order. You will give your order to one of the other baristas and he'll look at you blankly.

You will criticise their service, something that will surely guarantee spit in your latte or your sandwich but you don't care. They will flinch, hurt. And for a moment, you feel guilty then pleased. Good, the ugly, says. Good, let them hurt.

You will wait for a friend who is late, not on purpose but because of transport. You will realise you don't have your phone and you will end up missing one another. You will wait. You will eat your sandwich. You will drink your latte. You will read about happiness in Iceland. You will think about Bjork. You will think about autopsies. You will start to well up. And then, suddenly, you will be able to pee. You will rush to the bathroom, crying silently again, to fill up yet another sample for UCLH. You will laugh hysterically at the thought of buying a gift certificate at Agent Provocateur for the bachelorette party you are throwing tomorrow for a friend the will sit in your bag, next to a pee sample wrapped in a clean dog poo bag.

You will - after another anxiety attack because the woman at the pharmacy makes you repeat, each time more loudly - why you aren't breastfeeding. Her intercom isn't working and when you hear your words echoing back through the hallway to you, you will feel rise in your throat. And you will run quickly to the bathroom, where you howl for what seems a day like a wounded animal.

'My baby is dead.'

You will have said it so many times, you marvel that it can still hurt. But this time, this time it is fresh and raw and you might as well have never had to say it before. You will want your mommy and you want to go home.

But you will wait for your prescription. You will walk to the Tube. You will go home. You will talk to your husband about airline tickets and about how he can just stick them up his ass because really, really you JUST CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS RIGHT NOW. Really, NOT NOW. . You will walk out of the house. You will lock yourself out. You will cry. You will want Friday to end and for it to be tomorrow, a day you are looking forward to.

You will make dinner, you will wait for your husband to come home and hold you. You will make a hat (instead of a tacky tiara) for the bride herself to wear. You will call the friend you didn't meet. You will make plans.

You will be okay.

You will read the insert of the miracle pills that will make the milk go. The insert will list as a side effect: 'Strong impulse to gamble despite serious personal or family consequences.'

And you decide you'll just set those aside until you talk to your shrink. Because, really, you will have enough crazy on your hands already.

2010-04-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, your father and I made our way to UCL Hospital for a talk-through with Dr Harding, the lovely doctor who was in charge of your care to walk through the autopsy report. The gist of the report is that you were doomed from the beginning, my little darling, which is just so hard to hear because really, how can something so perfectly formed, something so active and chatty in the womb just not be 'viable?'

Instead of leaving feeling more resolved, I am now flooded with questions and a bit of anger. Okay, maybe more than a bit of anger. I learned, for instance, that when you were born, you weren't breathing. This surprised and angered me because I had specifically asked the obstetrician as she handed you over to Dr Harding if you were breathing. She said (and I distinctly remember this, just before the haze of shock and blood loss swept in) 'Everything's fine.' There was a bit more snapping on my part, something along the lines of 'Are you f*@king kidding me? If everything were FINE we wouldn't be here!'

Sometimes, Fanglet, sometimes, I wonder if there isn't something about my nature that encourages people NOT to listen to me.

But none of that changes that fact that you're not here, even if you'll always be our little boy. And deep down, I don't blame anyone or anything. I just think that they could have been honest with me and they could've tried a little harder to find an epidural.

We don't mean to hurt one another

2010-04-21T18:26:00.000-07:00

My little dead dumpling:

Did I ever tell you the story of your Scottish Auntie Sarah and I making knedlach in Flora? No? Well, suffice to say they were inedible and you're lucky you missed it. Dumplings only became my forte later in life.

'What do you say/ when its all gone away/Baby I didn't mean to hurt you/Truth spoke in whispers will tear you apart/No matter how hard you resist it/You humble me, Lord,' Sings Miss Norah. Writes Mr Breit.

See that? Mama likes her citations.

Mama likes a lot things. I like my shoes, my pretty dresses, scarves and suits. I like my lingerie well made and my wine well-stocked. I like my records tidy and to hum show tunes as I walk down the street. I've never been pragmatic about money and - if we're being honest - I'm not sure I know how to be.

I know. How relieved are you with regards to the latter? You'll not ever have to hear me sing the entire 'Thoroughly Modern Millie' soundtrack as we clatter in the stroller equivalent of a 4x4.

And yet. . . how heartbroken does that make me? I'll never get to wipe my 'Red Carpet Red' lipstick off your cheek with a saliva-wet napkin, never get to nag you about what time you'll be home or worry when you venture beyond the garden walls. it is a strange thing, this one-sided situation. Strange, indeed.

Sometimes, I wonder. . . I wonder if you had died before you were born if I would feel this sense of being despondent, adrift. And I have to say, I think it would be worse.

Tonight, your papa and I had a stalemate and I am wondering how much longer we can continue to reset the chessboard of Love. And yes, I realize how totally cheesy that sounds. But you're dead and I'm still you're mother, so suck it up. Romantic relationships are not my forte. As the man sang 'Life's too short to be hangin' around.'

And yet. . . I love this man, this life, and where I am. There is so much more than just moving along and I'm only just beginning to realize how much more there is.

This weekend we went to visit your Auntie S and Uncle B. I'm in knots that Auntie S may be more ill than we think, that I might lose her. It will shift the entire paradigm of all of our worlds, not in the least mine. . . she's the kind of woman I long to be and become: grace, wit, and taste personified. You are more lucky than you never got the chance to know that she loved you. And she did. So much.

We all did. And I just keep wondering why you're not here. Maybe I'll know on Friday.

The Sun came up and it was Tuesday Morning

2010-04-16T03:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday the sky was blue, the air full of spring and colour. The night before, I had danced late into the night with the promise of you, the memory of you, and then I sat down and I had a little laugh and a little cry. Tom Waits 'Old 55' played on repeat.

We walked, holding hands, up to the funeral home. We were early, my doing, because I needed to see you, my sweet little Fang. Just to make sure that the right baby, MY baby had been returned. And you had been. You were nestled so sweetly in the casket, it took my breath away. I turned to your father, a taller, sturdier version of you -- like an imprint, really -- and whispered 'Can we take him home now?' A moment of madness, of hysteria bubbling, welling up.

We return to the office to wait. I notice brochures embossed with the word Batesville and I my brow furrows. My brow furrows more. Batesville? Like Batesville, Mississippi Batesville? Batesville Casket Company Batesville? I know the place. Idly, I pick one up. It is the same Batesville, down the road from Oxford and I shake my head. Mississippi, my love, creeps into the oddest places.

We are ushered into a black limousine. You are put between us. We hold hands. The car moves slowly down the road. Slowly, passed the school, and the green, through this place where we live. Sunlight dapples through the trees. We turn into the Cemetery, with its beautifully cultivated lawns, its carefully tended borders. The car stops seamlessly outside the chapel. Your name is written in italics on the schedule for the day: 'Baby James Robert Radcliffe-Binnington, 10:30am.' Your dad smiles sadly 'We've been hyphenated,' he says. The whole outing has taken 45 minutes.

We spend the rest of the afternoon being terrifically gentle with one another. We fall asleep holding hands, talking about your smell and your little feet.

I want.

2010-04-09T06:04:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the porch of my office. This porch is a testament of how much the man I love - the man I married on a cold, crisp November day somewhere in the Midwest, loves me.

He built me a porch.

I am drinking my morning coffee, having an illicit and rare cigarette. Luxuriating in the earmarks of spring. The coffee is Ethiopian, a gift from a friend recently returned. It is amazingly good.

A bumble bee is swirling around the garden, drunk. I wonder if insects have a police force. Can you get ticketed for being a drunk bee flying?

In the neighboring garden a woman is cooing to her baby. The baby coos back. They both giggle. I listen, voraciously, an eavesdropper. I listen and then I don't. I want to be cooing to my own baby, my own little Fang. I want my own little Fang to coo back.

I coo in my head to my own little Fang. It doesn't really work.

Of all the things I am, and I have been, I never thought I would be this: a 32 year old babyless mother. Heartbreak town. Cue the violins. I tear up. Clear my throat. Finish my cigarette. Take a sip of coffee. The tears are still there, just beneath the surface.

Josie is stretched out, soaking up the morning sun. She senses a shift in mood, in the air and rises graceful and sleek. Downward dog, a deep stretch. In a liquid movement she has come to rest her head on my knee. A gentle budge. Don't be sad, her eyes say, pleading. Not sad. Not sad mama.

Dread is on the periphery of my morning. It is sauntering up casually towards Anxiety, another watcher. 'Fancy a date,' asks Dread. Anxiety is coy, a bit uncertain. Dread has a reputation for being something of a rake.

My breath speeds up. Panic starts to well up in my chest. I close my eyes. Breathe slow, I say. Focus on the word relax.

Focus. Focus on relax.

The two retreat into the shadows. I sigh with relief. With deflation. I could have avoided going into the office, used a panic attack as an excuse to stay here, in the garden. But I don't. Maybe I should. Work is a political minefield. A game of speed chess that keeps changing rules. Changing players. I can't keep up or keep track of the names.

I want to stay at home. Here. I want so much that I can't have in this moment. I just want you to come home now, Fang. It isn't funny anymore, this disappearing act. Listen to your mother. Just come home.

But of course you can't. And on Monday, I will go and just double check that they have released the right body to the mortuary. Even if it is just your body and you don't live there anymore.

2010-03-31T13:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Little One

Today your Auntie C left after 10 days of Mommy-sitting. It has been so lovely having her here, having her as a distraction, a buffer, a shoulder.

A letter arrived on Friday morning with the preliminary findings of your autopsy. In all of the things I never thought I'd do in my life, this figures pretty high on the list. I never thought I'd write my dead sweet little boy a letter about what his autopsy results were. I never thought I would love or miss someone this much.

The findings are vague; thus far, all I know is that you had underdeveloped lungs and a venous drainage problem that made you and life 'incompatible.' And so we wait a bit more.

Other things I never thought I'd do: I never thought I'd discover that most funeral parlors do not charge baby funerals or cremations and that they also provide little baby coffins free of charge. The coffins are in white with a name plate. The funeral directors provide a car to carry the parents and guests to the crematorium. I never thought I would use the phrase 'my dead son' or variations and feel numb to the flicker of shock that crosses people's faces. I never thought I would hold a scratch mitten and think of your tiny, tiny hand clutching my finger while my heart swelled and prepared to break.

When we left you sleeping at UCLH, I think both your father and I entered a state of suspended animation. We went on auto-pilot and -- for the most part -- assumed that the world would step in and take over and that your remains would arrive in a box. Magically, the saddest of presents, so that we could lay you to rest with your grandparents in the sweet smelling spring of Welsh countryside. You would have learned to fish here, to climb trees, and to swim in the sea. And so you shall learn to do all these things, my little darling. You'll just learn to do them in your own time.

On my life list. . .

2010-03-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

I have added 'Spend a year without any antibiotics or painkillers.'

I have been on antibiotics every month for the last 5 months -and bizarrely - they only leave me feeling drained. The most recent batch - a double whammy focusing on my woman parts - has left me feeling like I'm stuffed full of cotton fluff and on the verge of growing patchwork ears. Food tastes like sawdust and my eyes itch. All in all, this is a lot of fun. I'm sure you can imagine.

As life resumes, I am now 'back in the community.' I have a community midwife and community health visitor (specifically to make sure I'm not on the verge of any Plathian acts of self-harm) and a shrink who specializes in Post Traumatic Stress and perinatal situations.

Next week, your Auntie C (one of my bestest friends) arrives. It will be so lovely to have someone from home here, especially someone who wears the same size shoes.

A suitcase of books and 1 bag a piece.

2010-03-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

The first few days are hazy. The door bell rings continuously. Flowers fill the house, the scent of lilies beautifully overpowering. Gifts arrive, sent before you left, whilst I tell myself that because you knew how much we love you, how much other people love you and how we want you to live out your own path that you knew it was okay if you moved on to that Great Good Thing you were meant for.

The phone rings. People come by, their faces wary and pained. Your father and I are seldom apart. I sleep, worn out, slightly confused and tender. I cry, I stare out the window, I laugh. We make jokes that people might find strange but that we have to make because laughter, well, is a miracle worker.

I never did tell you that you reminded me of the Dude in THE BIG LEBOWSKI, did I?

And so we go to Italy. We walk and talk and hold hands and cry. We laugh and eat and read. Sunlight dapples, snow swirls and for the most part, no one finds us to demand anything, need anything, ask for anything, to check our pulses. The Arno swirls through Florence and Pisa and we sit on our last day in Italy outside a cafe by the sea, just thinking and holding hands, thinking about you, about the siblings we hope you'll have, about each other. We are just together in a way that we had not been for several months, for so many reasons. And we come home.

I packed up your clothes last night. Softly, softly cracks the heart. Crying just a bit, because you would have looked so sweet in this and look, the little scratch mittens. Your dad goes back to work, I can touch my toes, the crocuses are blooming and life moves on, just not the way one thinks it will.

Now, if I could really just get the milk to stop coming in at those 'socially inopportune' moments. . .

Coming Home

2010-02-28T14:57:00.001-08:00

Fang arrived on Wednesday evening, 24 Feb 2010 at 9:05pm on his own steam and without the much-insisted upon epidural. As par for the course with my overall pregnancy, the delivery was a little less than straightforward and there noticeable absence of an epidural. A true highlight for both Tim and I was Fang’s arrival was the arch of pee aimed straight for the delivering doctor that accompanied him. What can I say? He has always had a great sense of humour.

We named him James Robert Radcliffe Binnington, although I think Fang probably would have stuck with him. He was James to his papa and James Robert to me (along with a whole host of other endearments he probably would have grown up to roll his eyes about). He weighed 5lbs and 9 0z and fought a good hard fight against hydrops fetalis. His organs just couldn’t hold water properly and everything flowed out into his skin and his lungs were very underdeveloped from the weight of all the water around him during pregnancy, which was – ironically – caused by his own kidneys thinking they weren’t working well enough. He spent most of his time on a morphine drip, reclined back like a WC Handy lookalike crossed with the Big Lebowski (he had a very fetching pair of foam sandals that he wore most of the time and would have looked smashing in a bathrobe). He died on 27 Feb 2010 at 2:45 pm in the afternoon.

Both my husband and I are eternally grateful to the fabulous staff at the University College London Hospital Neo-Natal Unit, the staff at the Feto-Medical Unit, as well as all the other medical staff at Great Ormond Street Hospital and North Middlesex Hospital (for the most part) that we have encountered through this arduous journey. For every whine and whinge I've uttered and written about during this pregnancy, I am so very, very aware that I have an amazing world class healthcare system at my disposal and within my grasp. We would not have been able to have James for the short time that we did without their amazing work.

The next few months will be incredibly hard. There are so many things that have to happen before my physical self can revert to a semblance of 'normal' and they are things I hadn't thought I would have to have happen. There are a lot of questions that need to be investigated and -- we hope -- answered. We have opted for a post mortem largely because it is suspected that the underlying cause of this particular case might be genetic and before we even think of attempting another pregnancy, we both have to know those odds (seriously: how many pregnancies can 1 girl attempt?) because neither of us could bear to go through this again. Also, if the questions we get answers to can be of use to any other pregnant penguins who find themselves faced with the possibility of polyhydraminos or hydrops, and to the medical staff who treat hydrops, then the least I can do is help make that happen.

In my mind, as much as it hurt to let him go on his first sleepover, Fang has just gone on a very extended play date that involves a sleepover. With his great-grandfather Jinx, maybe. I envision fishing. And maybe a few chapters of Treasure Island which is what Jinx read to me one spring holiday a long time ago, just before he taught me to play backgammon.

Thank you to all of you for your ongoing thoughts and support. We are more grateful than we can ever express.

Rachel xx

The Western Front

2010-02-26T14:19:00.001-08:00

Things will be quiet here for a while, kids.

Late nights are here to stay

2010-02-18T16:54:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet

So, here we are: another day, another dollar. Your father and I are almost through the complete series of The Wire, so heaven only knows what we'll move on to after that. We've also been watching a great many Korean horror movies, but they are getting to be a too intense for me at the moment, so I think it will be back to 'Pride and Prejudice' for me.

This week has been really low-key. We've gone to the library, the garden centre, Crouch End to go for a short walk up the high street with your Auntie E, and today I ventured into town to have lunch with the nice woman who has been filling in with me whilst I've been out ill. In every instance, I have had to come home and collapse like a limp rag which leads to me believe that a) perhaps the lovely Miss Govind at North Mid was onto something when she said I should be resting; b) All those years I didn't sleep are catching up with me; and c) we really need to train Josephine to NOT lay right across my legs. They impede my ability to go to the loo. The trip into town for lunch today had me down for the count for about 4 hours. The downside? Now I can't really sleep.

In other news, I was put on a course of 'new' antibiotics tha I would say have only slightly worked. Plus, they make me slightly nauseous, which is a bit rich, given that I often already nauseous.

On the other hand, you're busier than I have felt you being in a while (I guess that Olympic size pool wasn't as soon as we thought), so I won't whinge too much. Now that we're at week 31, I kind of feel like any discomfort I have that doesn't involve a high protein count or draining fluid out of my uterus is par for the course. I'm also kind of waiting for the whole nesting instinct to kick in, because the house is a bit out of control for my liking.

Tomorrow is our weekly appointment at UCHL. The excitement is overwhelming, I know. I can feel your little feet hammering on my ribcage in anticipation.

A sucker for packaging

2010-02-15T07:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet

The theme for this week has been 'in the community.' Wednesday, I crawled back to the GP with yet another Urinary Tract Infection. I hobbled up the stairs (amazing now how quickly these infections go from 'Ouch,' to 'Oh, my freaking god, I think am dying') to yet another a duty GP (as it appears my own GP is on the lam) who spend a good 40 minutes chewing her lip and asking me a slew of inane questions, all of which she could answer herself by READING THE FILE I had given her. She grilled me as to why I'd been given such a range of antibiotics (you know, because in addition to being a trained archivist, I'm also a pharmacologist) and as to why the infections keep coming back. The sample she took was. . . unpleasant. Full of icky things that could lead to another stint in the Ante-Natal unit. She then hemmed and hawed over whether she should call the Registrar at North Middlesex. 'I mean, I just don't know if we can treat you in the community. I don't know what medication to give you and well, you really don't belong in the community with this kind of infection. You should be treated at Hospital.'

I was tempted to ask if being treated in the community involved an animal sacrifice or a prayer circle. Because, to be honest, I'll try pretty much anything once. Except Class A drugs. You know, being pregnant and all. So we went back to Hospital, they took another sample, and the nice midwife gave me this great painkiller that left me feeling incredibly generous towards my fellow man. We were released a few hours later on our own recognizance.

On Friday we schlepped over to Great Ormond Street Hospital to see our favourite team of Cardiologists, which led us back to UCLH to have some fluid removed.

We went to Great Ormond Street on Friday and Dr Sullivan was not very happy. And I was not very happy -- having expanded even more and my stomach having gotten incredibly tense-- and Fang, well, Fang was most certainly not happy and was having to work much too hard to breathe. So, after our scan, he told us that he wanted to send us back to UCLH in the next hour and have them get some of the fluid off, especially as the baby had developed hydrops (which can be caused by many things) and the hydrops looked as though it was getting worse.

So, we grabbed some lunch and went over to UCLH where my new OB said she wanted me to meet with their head of Obstetrics and the head of Paediatrics, so they could explain what we were looking at. I won't go into that right now because I'm not ready to think about it, but I get my own paediatric team of 5 people when I go into labor AND the OB staff. Who knew I'd be having a party?

We have a new book we have to carry around (in conjunction with our other book) and some slick new packaging on 'Our Pregnancy Journey.' All very smooth and well presented.

The 'amniotic drainage' was very exciting. They send you back to the bed where they do the scan, sterilize your stomach with icy fluid, then one Dr starts monitoring with the ultrasound gadget whilst the other looks for the best place to 'tap.' I was 'lucky' because the placenta and you were quite high, numb the belly so they had lots options. They stick a 6 inch needle -- very fine -- with a thin hose being guided in, and then they remove the needle and start draining into very nice glass bottles. The fluid -- which is essentially baby pee -- is a light blonde colour, like a wheat beer. It takes between 20 and 30 minutes and is more strange than painful. I immediately began to feel better. After that, they strap you to table in the Maternity Day Unit and do a trace on the baby's heart beat for an hour, hour and half and monitor you for contractions. We had a few contractions but they were mild and you seemed much happier. And me, well, I can now kind of see my feet.

On Saturday, you're Auntie L arranged a baby shower for us. It was fun. People brought cake and food and we played a few games and then I got to open presents that were all for you. Well, most of them were for you. A couple of them were for me, including GUESS HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU, which makes me cry almost as much as the CWDC commericals that are currently airing. You know the ones. 'Its not just a cup of tea. Its a tool we use. . . ' We waddled to the shower, where we gossiped and chatted and ate until I couldn't move, then came home to dig into season 4 of The Wire.

It was a good day.

A defense of socialized medicine and the NHS

2010-02-09T06:16:00.000-08:00

Now, for all of my griping and complaining and snarking at the medical professionals I've encountered during my pregnancy, I'm going to take a step back and be objective.

I know. I think Hell just froze over. We could go sledding down there.

Throughout the course of my pregnancy, the only thing I've had to pay for are the pregnancy tests (and I took about 27. I'm kooky like that). With the exception of the urinary tract infection fiasco and the maternity ward thing (hard to overlook the latter, I know, but I do believe that was down to individual midwives and not indicative), I have had quite comprehensive care. I have been referred through for tests and prodding with a speed that has left me breathless. If I have one major complaint about that it is that I don't always feel we've had an accurate explanation -- in layman's terms -- of what the procedure or test is for nor have we been given time to make a measured decision. The latter complaint may have more to do with the fact that many of the decisions have required we choose then and there. I've made the decisions (with consultation and participation from my partner, mind) with firmness, in an attempt to clamp down on trepidation and fear. Bizarrely, I've taken on the hard edge I would normally associate with the people in the Service I watched growing up. By the same token, my intolerance levels have also gone up. I don't want apologies or excuses for things that have gone wrong; I don't care if you're understaffed and struggling: they've got a job to do and by all that is good and right and just in the world, do the job, fulfill the misson. I want assurances and proof that they aren't going to go wrong because of carelessness again.

I do not think that treating patients with blinkers on is an NHS-trait. I think it is a medical professional trait. Not all, mind you, just enough egos in a room together to cause confusion. I've heard horror stories about health care in the US, Canada, Sweden, Czech, and it almost always comes down to human fault or incompetence and a breakdown in the process. A few years ago, I wrote a series of essays for a Mental Health Trust in Enfield. The essays are here. 5 Years later, I stand by everything I wrote then.

I pay my taxes, I work hard, and I do sometimes feel a bit livid when I see people abusing the system. But by the same token, there are people who need assistance, who need help, and who need medical care and would die without the NHS. If there is one fear I have for the NHS, it is that all of this PFI nonsense is going to send it into a tailspin and that private healthcare -- healthcare for the few -- will be brought in as the way forward. Private health care is an option I am fortunate enough to have (not for everything but for enough) and I won't lie: I've used it. And it wasn't bad. And my treatment was expedited. I just don't want people to read about my experience with a very specific hospital environment and think that all socialized medicine is mistake. Nothing is perfect. But I am very conscious that in the US, we wouldn't have been able to afford any of this care.

Hot Potato

2010-02-08T12:55:00.000-08:00

So, there will be a series of small posts over the next few days, but the most pressing (in my mind) is how I've become a hot potato. I've been 'signed off' work for 'rest' (as ambiguous and undefined as it sounds. Not 'bed rest' mind, just 'rest') and as a result my work has decided (if I am objective, I say, rightly -- to a degree) that having me on site without further clarification other than a circled option on a statutory form. I, too, would like clarification. The irony being that the Doctors are happy to have me run from hospital to hospital with nary a concern for how I get there but at the mention of sitting at my desk they get all broody and 'oooh, yikes. We couldn't possibly make a claim about working; you need to negotiate that with your management,' to which management replies 'oooh, yikes. We couldn't possibly allow you to do ANY work with out further clarification

Because, you know, keeping a woman trapped at home and allowing her out only to tell her you now think there is something DEFINITELY wrong with her child is a great way to keep her sane.

Quackers. The world has gone quackers. And the wallpaper? It is indeed yellow.

And before you even arrive, the guilt sets in. . .

2010-01-25T07:27:00.000-08:00

Today your application for the University nursery arrived. It seems weird to be putting you down on a waiting list for a nursery place before we've even met you, but needs must, poppet. That is, unless you've got a black AmEx and the trust fund to pay off the monthly bill tucked away somewhere I don't know about. . .

Money is not everything, just so you know. It just feels that way sometimes. And we won't even talk about the first inkling of guilt that has set in over 'farming you out.' I -- as a baby and toddler -- was lucky that for the most part, I had my mom at home. I didn't become the bolshy and independent creature writing now until I was at least 4. I don't think. Your uncle was farmed out, first to a lovely Mennonite woman, then to a very active Le Leche activist so really, how much more Mother Earth can you get? Again, there are countless therapy couches that await you.

I'm still (unsurprisingly, I suppose) on the mend. It does occasionally take me aback how long it takes one to mend after an illness. Walking to the corner shop or the high street sends me into a fairly decent rendition of a narcoleptic siezure. This of course, makes Josephine beyond thrilled. She loves when I nap because a) I'm sleeping and b) I'm in one place. Plus, she can use my ever-increasing stomach as a pillow. What's not to love?

It has also occurred to me that I should clear up any confusion re your last name. Though it will be a (rather dignified) mouthful, it isn't Biffington-Smythe. Biffington-Smythe is the name bestowed upon us by the amazing and stupendous Mary Stuckey, who (in addition to being a gorgeous redhead) is incredibly brilliant, with a mind like a razor blade and a wit that rivals Mrs Parker and Benchley combined and she does political rhetoric. I know. She's the best. Anyway, I digress. She coined the nickname as an in-joke and I, well, I took it to a whole new level. By the end of the conversation, I was desperately trying to convince your father that we needed to get two neutered rabbits, one named Mr Biffington and one named Mr Smythe and they would get married and be Messers Biffington-Smythe and wear matching bow-ties. And we could train them, and they would be cute, and . . .

I know. Your poor papa has always had the deck stacked against him. You can only imagine what has insued since Pregnant Me has come on the scene. Even Josephine has been known to take cover at times. In fairness, your father was warned: at our wedding, my daddy did tell tell that I was not unlike a 'lynx trapped in a phonebooth' when I get angry.

Home Sweet Home

2010-01-22T12:24:00.000-08:00

Well, fanglet, my little off-shore oil driller, we made it home late Wednesday night, courtesy of Miss E. Your dad would have happily come to fetch us but I thought he had done enough time ferrying himself between the hospital for the time being.

Our release (which was a bit like this) was agreed late in the day on Wednesday with a varieties of conditionals: we'd take it easy, watch pee for strange regressions, share more samples, and come back next week. Thursday we slept straight through for 11 1/2 hours (aside from the sleepwalking bathroom breaks). Last night, we slept for 9 hours, getting up to drag ourselves back to the hospital.

This weekend is all about just taking it slowly and getting better. Better is good.

Set 'em up Joe, and play walking the floor

2010-01-19T23:17:00.000-08:00

Where is a jukebox when you need one?

Things just weren't getting better in the UTI department, Fang, so Sunday night I packed myself off to the North Mid (again). Well, I swore at your father, said some pretty mean things, cried, peed blood, tore at my hair for a few hours and then, then I packed myself off to Hospital. I know, I know. Drama.

The hives, they are just stress but the infection got worse. A fever set in, chills set in, and other syptoms that all had gone even further awry were flicked on like lights at last call. We took the maternity bag and your dad drove like champ to the Hospital where we were seen rather more quickly than either of us thought. A round of antibiotics was started straight away by IV once they caught sight of my most recent sample, a murky mixture of high proteins and blood that made even the Dr recoil a bit bemused horror.

It was decided I would initially be admitted for 24 hours and sent down to the Ante-Natal ward. I had mixed feelings about this: the Ante-Natal ward is a mixed ward of 4 beds to a room, all women who've just given birth or are wounded penguins like me. I kind of wanted to see what the ward was like to gauge if I was going to cough up the £60/a night it costs for a private room on the floor.

My vindication point? When your papa turned to me and said 'I am so, so sorry. You were right and I should have listened to you. You WERE ill.' That he didn't accuse me of being pregnant crazy (a theme) or do anything else then other than just hug me, well that was just pure love.

After being administered with a drip and antibiotics, we moved upstairs via a super-secret elevator (turns out this is to deter baby thieves) and I bedded down for the night with all the other wounded birds.

My roommates were two lovely Turkish women, one of whom had gone into labor early and had been injected with something to stop that silliness and the other who had given birth on Saturday, as well as a very young Jamaican girl who was screaming 'Oh, God! Oh, God, Oh, God. . . the baby IS coming. I'm telling you. . .' a litany that would become her mantra over the next 8 hours. In fairness, even the people in a private room heard her, so I don't know that we'll be going that route, unless we have to stay longer than a couple of days.

The end result to that little story that, yes, her baby was indeed coming. She projectile vomited on the floor (my side of the floor, mind you, all under my curtain and on the back of the chair, poor lamb) and tried to get out of bed. She made it to the floor before the baby started crowning. I ran to the front desk. 'Hi, sorry. . . the young woman who was ill earlier? She's in labour.'

'You don't know what you're talking about. Get back to bed.'

'No, really. She's crowning. And she's just pooped on the floor.'

'That girl! What do you mean, she's pooped on the floor?! Why didn't she use the toilet?! Bah!.'

'Um, because she's in labour?!'

'GO BACK TO BED.'

I go back to my bed in shock. Get to the room to find one of the turkish women standing in front of the tiny slip of a thing in horror. 'Where is help? Did you get help?' I shake my head, pull my emergency alarm cord, and rush over to the other side (like I'm going to help deliver the baby, right? Me, the woman who doesn't even like to open tins of wet dog food. I mean seriously. . . ) And there is a baby, coming and coming and I find myself start to kneel down in front of the girl and am saying over and over again, 'It will be okay, it will be okay,' when one of the nice midwives comes rushing in.

4 minutes later, it is over and one of the midwives is wrestling with her placenta (the girl -- she's 18 if she's a day -- is back in bed now) and then tells the young woman 'Well, you need to get up and get yourself cleaned up. You've made a mess of this room twice tonight.'

I'm not even joking.

Your dad looked so sad and frightened when he left and I wanted to run after him and a) comfort him and b) well, to be honest, there was no 'B'. Fanglet, I was freaking addled. Since Tuesday, I've slept maybe 3 hours a night? I was a wreck, unable to function without crying. Unable to do LAUNDRY. The laundry TAUNTED me. Monday night I didn't sleep any better, but I did get three solid naps of an hour each in today and even that little bit of sleep made a huge difference. And last night: we slept 5.5 straight hours. In one go. Bliss.

And yes, I am still taking my crazy pills so the world is on an even keel except that it is FUCKING UPSIDE DOWN!

Fang: sleep makes a huge difference. Sleep on a crazily adjustable bed where I can sleep like a worm all disjointed and crazy is even better.

The rest of the time here has like a farce. Truly. The bonding, the POW camp air of the inmates. It actually kind of reminds me of Hogan's Heroes, this great sitcom from the 1960s when I'm not frothing with resentment and anger.

And the baby born on the floor was a little girl and she and her mum are doing very well. The mom is in shock but doing very well. And the evening midwives appear to have forgiven me for asking them to come and give her a hand. Either that, or they have just spit in my herbal tea. But I make them laugh and they'll remember me, which could work either way.

There is a rumour they may spring us today. One can but hope. . . one can but hope.

Leaking oil

2010-01-16T06:48:00.000-08:00

Well, not really oil. I am not, after all, an automobile or a tank. Even if I feel like one.

Last night, I awoke to find my entire left bosom drenched in colostrum. Enough colostrum that the wet patch measured about 3" by 3". Now, in fairness, this isn't a shock. And it really isn't that big of a deal but at 3am, it sure as hell freaked me out, as I burrowed into my snug haven of sleep. I've been producing colostrum in thin drips and drabs since month 3.5. I know. About the same time I fit into that that size 38EE bra I had bought two weeks before. The production levels To the point where your father walked into the bathroom once to bring me something (he did this reluctantly, being English and all) whilst I lounged in a WARM (not hot, people. Relax. I have not hard boiled you, Fanglet. You are fine. In fact, you just hiccuped so I know you're in there) bath. But this is the first time I've ever produced enough to wake me up.

So now, I have a collection 1ml and 5 ml syringes to freeze some of this stuff in case you appear early (a suggestion from the lovely Elaine at the NCT breast-feeding hotline. I know, I know. . . wasn't so long ago I had the Information Commission and National Archives Advisory Service on my speed dial. Now, the we've added the breastfeeding hotline. I'm still not quite sure how that happened.) Going to by the syringes was actually quite amusing.

Envision this scene: a busy pharmacy on a Saturday in Wood Green. A Large pregnant woman who probably shouldn't be wearing leggins (but hey, who are you to judge?) and a skirt waddles up to the register.

'Hi. Do you um. . . do you sell empty syringes?'

'We do. Why do you need them?'

"Oh, it isn't for a drug habit or anything.' I smile nervously. Way to go, FA, way to go. Make her think you're not a freaking nut job. You have no drug habit. You haven't had a Galoise in months. MONTHS! You barely have 2 cups of coffee a day. 'I just need to express and freeze the colostrum I'm producing. I'm high risk for pre-term labor, so want to make sure we're prepared.'

The clerk blinks, and steps back, looking slightly uncomfortable. 'Uh. . . okay. Well, we do have syringes. I'll just. . . I'll get some for you.'

I leave with my syringes and saunter back out to the high street to go and buy some size 20 underpants. The clerk is still eying me nervously. Your Auntie W, who is with me, is trying so very, very hard not to laugh.

Wherein I contemplate venturing outside

2010-01-14T07:14:00.000-08:00

. . . and instead eat another cinnamon roll. Okay! I admit. 3 cinnamon rolls.

The snow is on its way out. In a few months' time, the news will be full of flooding stories rather than tales of snowbound travelers.

Today I slept in, listening to Radio 4 and contemplating my day. I am officially on holiday and am wearing my pajamas to prove it. Yesterday, I ventured out to the corner shop to pick up some supplies for dinner (Beef stroganoff; your father was 2.5 hours late and I had a flashback/forward to future evenings or a parallel past where fathers don't call and mothers are tucked safely away in kitchens, contemplating martinis made with Drano) and next door to help your Auntie W with some Ebaying, but other than that, we have been cosily tucked in bed or on the sofa, whiling our way through rather appalling television or videos. Yes, I said videos. Two DVD players and they are both on strike. Never mind. The VHS works and I've got enough Alfred Hitchcock and Samuel Goldwyn films to last the week.

In addition to sleeping in (I've been sleeping, you've been up to all sorts of hijinx, swimming around like an overexcited carp), we've had all sorts of exciting deliveries: my new wellies (for those retaining water), new soda cartridges for the seltzer syphon I got your dad for the holidays, and a new Toshiba flatscreen TV that your father's employer (an investment bank run by swiss gnomes) gave him as a 'thank you' gift. And. . . drumroll: the rug for your room! And two very sweet Jehovah witnesses who will be stopping by on Feb 4th for tea (herbal infusions, of course). I know, I know. But they were so sweet and really, what does it hurt to chat about faith? There's far too little of that kind of talk in our house anyway, what with your father being a firm C of E drop-out and agnostic. Which reminds me, I really need to get back on the synagogue hunt.

After our good news Tuesday morning, I went to North Middlesex as there was yet another letter waiting on my doorstep requesting more urine. I know. Really, how much urine can one hospital need?
I cajoled your Aunt W along with me (promises of Ikea work wonders), since my US drivers license expired in October and they won't renew it for me as I am not in the Services or a Services dependent. Since we're not flying anytime soon, I will probably have to retake the Ohio Driving Test, as well as sit (okay, little pedant. Okay 'drive') my practical exam next month. I rocked up to North Mid, paid my £3.20 for parking (I know, talk about fleecing golden geese) and went to Ante-Natal where the great debate over 1 or 2 samples began. And where the midwives now always know my name, which leads me to believe I must be Norm in this Cheers-like scenario.

I could write more, but I need a nap.

Wherein Once Again We Have Baffled the Medical Establishment

2010-01-12T05:28:00.000-08:00

Dearest Little Fanglet

And so here we are, in between hospital trips. We've just finished a trip to UCH and are now preparing to go to North Middlesex Hospital to leave not one but TWO urine samples, because you know. . . one isn't enough.

But the news me, you, your father, and the people who love you want to know is thus: you have no genetic abnormalities (confirmed by a fax from Homerton Hospital to UCH today), no chromosomal abnormalities, no limb discrepancies, and no reason for the abnormal amounts of fluid that are distending my belly and making it look like a team of crack feline assassins have been using my stomach as a scratching post.

And we got some groovy 3D images of you.

But Baby Its Cold Outside

2010-01-07T12:53:00.000-08:00

Regardless of whether you're a Johnny Mercer/Margaret Whiting fan or Louis Jordan/Ella Fitzgerald fan, come on; 'But Baby Its Cold Outside' is a great number. One of the songs that you've been getting a lot of lately is 'Life is so Peculiar,' a duet that Jordan did with Louis Armstrong. But baby, it is cold outside, and we're hunkering down with apple cinnamon tea and lots of blankets.

We were going to Florida, where a box of goodies including a few new maternity dresses and your bedroom curtains, were going to be waiting for us. Mama does love Restoration Hardware's curtains and when we looked at the price of made-to-measure here and the fabric choices, well, we just decided we'd rather have the ones we knew we liked. Your room, which will be getting a bit of a work over this weekend when we bring home your Moses basket (a precursor to your living in a van down by the river, of course) and a few other bits and pieces home.

Our trip to Florida has been postponed primarily because I have enough fluid in my uterus to irrigate a desert nation. A small desert nation, to be sure, but kid, if this stuff could be desalinated, sterilized and reused, you wouldn't have to worry about your college fund. I'm just saying. . . This condition -- apparently -- is called Polyhydramnios and can be nothing or something and my doctors, well, they have no freaking clue. Literally. In fact, Mr F, the OB, looked positively downtrodden when he got my gestational diabetes results which were negative. It would have, he said, explained everything. And now nothing is explained.

Remind me to have your Oma tell you the story of what they had to through to get my birth abroad registered. It will be fun for you. Honest.

Anyway, this excessive fluid makes me look between 4-6 weeks more pregnant than I am and could be our way to to meet early. Not that I am in a hurry, poppit. You need to cook a bit more. Honest. There will be loads that I lie to you about over the course of your life: the tooth fairy, Santa, the Screaming Latke, the Great Pumpkin, but is not one of those things. You need to chill out, stay put, and make sure your little kidneys are processing. Mama will work on decreasing the water.

I allowed myself 1 day of intense self-pity over not going to see your Gigi. But I bounce back quickly and besides, I have some complaint letters to write and a dissertation to step up the pace on, so we'll just take it easy and rock n' roll.

Josephine is, by the way, ecstatic that we're staying home.

So much to write, too much to process

2010-01-06T06:17:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet

London is covered in snow. Florida is sunny. We have yet another consultant appointment this afternoon at the North Middlesex Hospital this afternoon -- an unplanned one. That makes 7 trips in a week. Which, in my mind, is 7 too many. But all will be revealed.

And these are interesting times.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T15:50:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet -

Welcome to 2010. There is a blue moon out tonight, which is most exciting. And we are safely snug at home on an witchingly cold night, which is also exciting, at least for me.

Last night your father and I stayed in. In years past, we have thrown parties or attended parties but this year, I felt it more my speed to stay home and take a nice bath. I took your Auntie W to see a play (Jersey Boys, which was very good) and to a nice ladies' lunch at the Critterion, which is just a gorgeous venue. Beautiful ceilings and lovely atmosphere. It was a great day but it left me wiped out and I was grateful for bed.

Today, we tidied and tidied in preparation for a new year and people coming for brunch. We also began the 2nd series of SLINGS AND ARROWS, a very cleverly done CBC series with Paul Gross (he was in a fab show called 'due South' about a Royal Canadian Mountie who gets stationed in Chicago; a great series. You'll learn to love it. We then went over to Miss Z and Mr B's for Shabbat dinner. Beef Wellington and a gorgeous floating chocolate cake.

We're going to Florida this Friday to visit your Gigi Lo, which shall be a lark. She spends winters in Florida at this park called Crystal Lake and it is heaven because it is one of these places where grandchildren (and great-grandchildren) can do no wrong. We are like Infants of Prague, moving through the community, feted and adored. I think we can handle a week of adoration, pettest, don't you?

Pembrokeshire, ho!

2009-12-27T05:22:00.000-08:00

So, little Fanglet, here we are, safely ensconced in Pembrokeshire. Miles from a mobile phone signal but the wireless works a right treat. It has only taken your poor Grandfather 5 years to be able to get a decent signal but now that he has one. . . well, you get the idea.

We drove up Christmas morning after a lovely dinner at Miss H and Mr J's. This has become our Christmas Eve tradition: an early supper with them and then early to bed to drive to Wales. I awoke after a fitful night of sleep at 0509 and dragged your father up with me, my motto being 'If I am going to suffer, well, it will be a bumpy ride for you too.' This is compounded by the fact that I should not be spoken to for the first 45 minutes to an hour after I wake up. It is just easier.

The roads were clear and the car, which had not wanted to start at all the evening before, drove like a dream. We arrived in time for a trip to the Salutation and a few rounds of snooker (no, Mama didn't play. I just snarked from the sidelines).

Christmas dinner was a gorgeous affair and we've had a really lovely time. Everyone has been convivial and genuinely happy to see one another, which is always nice. Yesterday, I lazed around and today I am making a bit more of a concentrated effort to do some reading on Henderson, Louisiana, for my PhD. I've purchased Allen Toussaint's latest album "Bright Mississppi" and Joe Henry's latest 'Blood From Stars,' so that you and I have something to contemplate over the next few months. Joe Henry is, in a word, genius. Maddening, eclectic, genius. And dead sexy. So it is not really a surprise that he'll make up a large part of your musical education. He records for the Anti record label and has also branched out into producing.

Tomorrow we head back to London where we'll have dinner with Mr B and Miss Z, and possibly your Auntie L. We'll stop off in Swansea to see a dear friend and then on our way. Provided we can make it up your grandparents' drive.

The Holiday Blahs

2009-12-23T06:10:00.000-08:00

So, dear little Fanglet, off we go on a holiday adventure to Wales on Xmas morning. We will be visiting your father's parents, your Auntie K and Uncle JT. We'll make them southern-fried, yet, my little darling. It will be an adventure because a) it snowed this week and England has tried to ground to a halt as a result and b) your grandparents live miles from a decent cappuccino machine.

This week has -- in a phrase -- sucked ass. I lost my voice Friday, going quickly from sounding like Lauren Bacall for all of twenty minutes to sounding like James Earl Jones on helium. (Speaking of Mr Jones, who is a hotty, if anyone is thinking about buying me a little present, I would love to see him in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Novello. I'm just saying. . . ). By Saturday evening, I was down for the count and desperate for distraction. We went to R and E's for a birthday celebration (bringing cake -- of which we ate none) and spent an uncomfortable evening being insulted by a 5'0 Chinese woman who was vocally horrified by the size of my belly ('I wasn't that big until I was 8 months! What HAVE you been doing?') We left early (your father WAS NOT hungover) and watched season 1 of The Wire on DVD whilst I ate copious amounts of fruit sorbet and cried.

Watching The Wire, I have decided that I am most like the Lester Freeman character. Jaded but true blue, with a love of research. Last night, we watched the episode where poor, sweet Wallace -- the foster child of my dreams -- gets shot and I was quite possibly a bit irrationally upset about this development. I took it very personally and cried for about an hour.

Mama might need to start watching a different series.

On Monday, we were vaccinated against Piglet's Demise, also known as Swine Flu/H1N1. The end result has left us feeling like we have. . . guess. Guess! Wait for it! Yaay! The Swine Flu! The needs of the many, little Fang. The needs of the many.

Things are, however, looking up. It turns out that I had 2.5 vacation days left, so I am now off on 29 December and 4 January (sadly, these 2 days are slightly marred by doctor appointments) and a half day on 7 Jan, which is just before we go to see your Gigi (which is what I've decided you'll call your Great-great grandma Lo).

20 weeks and 2 days. Or 5 months. Your call.

2009-12-18T07:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet

So, there you are (this is two weeks ago and a bit, now. The dress was a total find -- how could I have forgotten thrift shops existed in my pregnant haze is beyond me -- from Oxfam and it cost me all of £6. Sadly, the Nokia E71 I thought was such a great little number is a piece of crap so the picture looks a bit odd and you can't see my shoes (also from oxfam, which are this great oxblood brown leather - £5! 5 freaking pounds!) but seriously, I've not been very good at documenting this whole pregnancy wardrobe thing.

Tonight is your first black tie dinner at the East India Club, for which I am wearing an Isabella Oliver gown (black, sadly, although if I had been a bit faster off the mark, you'd be wearing this gorgeous Temperely number in a Teal green. Phwoar), with Hellenic jewelery that your Papa bought for me (read, I bought, handed to him and said 'Give this to me. It is a hanukkah present.' -- In fairness to your Pa, he has excellent taste in jewelry and design but he's been busy and well, I wanted this necklace, bracelet, and earring set and it was on sale, etc.) Your Papa, as I have hinted will be in black tie. We will have fun. I will try not to bare my teeth at anyone.

You've been a busy bee this week, lightly tap-dancing your way across my belly. I feel very enamoured of you, as though you are some sort of wild, exotic creature I've managed to coax into visiting. We have had no doctor's appointments this week (I know! What will we do with ourselves) but I am fighting off yet another cold -- sigh -- and it promises to be a doozey.

And now, off to the hair dressers. We won't discuss how I've forgotten my evening shoes so will be going around the dining room in stocking feet. The dress is long and my ankles look like chubby hairless dachshunds.

Next time, I shall horrify and embarrass you on the importance of grooming during pregnancy. I know. You're so looking forward to the outside world.

A little Patsy Cline is good for the soul

2009-12-11T05:44:00.000-08:00

'Heart break, heart break. . . What does it matter how my heart aches. . . '

Poor Fanglet. You are really getting quite fed up with doctors, etc. And you really dislike ECGs and ultrasounds, so much so, I think if you could have gotten any further away from the scanner, you'd have been climbing up my esophagus. It must be said, I've had my fill as well. And we won't talk about how heart-breaking it is to watch little children riddled with illness, their bodies weak and pallid, soldiering on without a care in the world or the agonized hope and love in their parents' eyes as they watch their kids being kids. Or how painful it is to watch your father sit there, taking this all in, terrified that you're going to be one of these children and he'll have to go on being so brave he might break.

It is also decidedly unhelpful to make comments like 'Well, the heart looks mostly normal but is missing a flappy bit that we would expect to see,' and then go on to say 'but that might be normal, so we'll just have you come back.' Nothing definite, just plodding cold-fished, medical speak that I am starting to think means 'We're bored! You're our new play thing until something more ABNORMAL comes along.' I am torn because I know they mean well and I know how lucky we are -- you and I -- to have access to this kind of care. But I do wish they'd get a clue.

Tonight is my office holiday party. I know Mama doesn't talk a lot about her work here. One should not blog about one's employer, so I won't. I will however say that Mama works with archives and records. Lots of them. They are sometimes quite old records but more recently they are things called 'born digital' and no, I don't think Andy Williams will be singing a sequel to 'Born Free' on to the Top 40 with that one. Mama also goes to school, although it is up for debate how often she is really 'at school' and is working on something she'll tell you all about later. Right now, I need to eat some more of that yogurt, pumpkin seeds and dried banana stuff. That was too good.

Little Jazz. . . baby that's me.

2009-12-10T06:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Doors, Windows and Donkey Flesh

2009-12-07T08:48:00.000-08:00

When your uncle and I were younger, our dad used to get so irritated with us for standing smack bang in front of him whilst he was trying to watch the telly by saying 'You make a better door than you do a window.' I was talking about this with my colleague at work today and he started laughing. 'In spanish, we have the saying: "La carne de burro no es transparente," which translate 'Donkey flesh isn't transparent.'

Now, one thing you should know about your mother is that I love a bargain. I love well-made, well-crafted as well, but I loathe paying retail. It goes against my principles. So don't be surprised if a lot of what you are greeted with come from places like: Nursery Value. You've also been gifted a huge amount of things from your Auntie A and Uncle JH and their daughters the Swedelets, among all of the others. We're very luck, my love, to be surrounded by pragmatic and generous people. It allows Mama to keep her feet in the style they are accustom to. . .

Don't think of waterfalls, don't think of waterfalls. . .

2009-12-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Fang

For the last few months, I've had a little infection in my urinary tract. I know, I know. More information about your mother than you ever wanted to know. But work with me, here, because there is a story about to unfold.

I've spent a great deal of my life in various stages of such an infection. Sometimes, this is due to taking too many baths, sometimes, it is because I've changed a laundry detergent or other factor. Often, it was because I consumed enough coffee to make even Tourette sufferers marvel at my twitching and short temper. A host of reasons, really. Anyway, I digress.

Since you and I became partners in crime, I've had to give numerous samples of blood and urine. You'd think I was on probation for dealing or possession, or the like. I keep a little log in my phone (I know, I know; again TMI) calendar of these donations. Not including the 17 pregnancy tests I took with you (again, I know, I'm a freak but I just wanted to MAKE SURE you were in there to stay), I've given 5 scheduled samples of urine in the last 4.5 months. Every time I go for any medical appointment, I give a sample. And each time I give a sample, I get a letter saying I have to come back and give another sample (if you're keeping count, that means we're now at 9 'hospital' samples, not counting the one I left today at the hospital). And the last few times I've been to the GP, I've mentioned 'Oh, by the way, it is very uncomfortable when I go to the loo. I've cut down on sugar, caffeine, etc., to see if that helps, but to no avail. I think I may have an infection.' And the GP responds 'You're overreacting. Some people just experience discomfort when they pee.' Yeah, Fang. If someone ever says this to you, you have my permission to thump them and say 'Suck it, TWINK!' Because a urinary tract infection is like peeing needles of freaking fire. No lie.

Anyway, last week, I dragged my pained aching body to the doctor. The car stalled as I turned onto the road leading to the doctor's office and I stood in the rain, in my pajamas (don't ask; it was a low day), trying to push the car into a parking space. 3 strangers saved me and the car and I walked into the surgery like heavily pregnant walking corpse.

When I finally got in to see the Duty Call doctor -- who was 25, if she was a day -- I gave her my rundown of symptoms and she gave me a vial to pee in. I know! More pee! Woohoo! She then sent the vial to the lab and told me that there was nothing that could be done to make me feel better that I wasn't already doing. She also said that 'mixed growth' meant I wasn't giving my sample properly and that 'some people experience discomfort when they pee.'

On Monday the Dr called with the results of my most recent sample. I phoned her back. She phoned me. And so it went. I phoned this morning at 0830 before we went to our scan appointment. I left a message. I left my phone number. I left so many different ways to contact me that I made myself and the receptionist dizzy. And after the scan, I stopped in to the clinic.

Finally, at about 1pm the Dr called back to say 'Hey, you DO have an infection! So, I'll prescribe you antibiotics that won't harm Baby.'

'That would be good.' (Me, looking around for Jennifer Gray who played 'Baby' in Dirty Dancing, which is what I automatically do when people mention 'Baby.'

'Are you on any oral contraceptives?'

'Um, no. I'm 20 weeks pregnant.'

'Oh. Did I know that?'

D'oh.

Oh, Fang. It is going to be a long walk to week 40, pettest.

And in other news, you have a very big belly! And you look like a baby now not a shelled turtle! Times are indeed changing. Take that, postal clerk who had the gall to ask me if I was 'pregnant or something?'

198 miles to go

2009-11-30T07:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Fang

This weekend we went to Leeds for a belated Thanksgiving dinner with people whom I hope we will see more of, especially since Leeds is only 198 miles away.

One major cultural difference I've noticed through my years here is how the British (and this is all-encompassing cultural comment) have such a different sense of distance and travel. At home, people I know (including myself) rarely think anything of driving 3-6 hours for an overnight. But here, people don't really think along those lines. In fact, when I said I was going to Leeds for the night, people were a bit shocked.

We spent the evening eating gorgeous food and goofing around with 4 really great kids, and catching up. I can't comment on what Leeds is like as a city because we didn't spend much time there. But I'm looking forward to exploring Yorkshire more once you arrive.

Almost Perfect

2009-11-26T07:05:00.000-08:00

Items I didn't really think would enter my vocaubulary (mainly because I wasn't thinking of them):

Breast pads
Disposable Underwear
Breast Pumping
Lactation Consultant.

Call me crazy, but I'd always thought of myself as more of a 'wet nurse' kind of gal.

Of course, I also thought I'd never be sporting a 36-FF bra, so I guess it's a learning curve for all.

This week, I've recovered from my cold (sort of) and registered your father and I for pre-natal course with the National Childbirth Trust. We've opted for the 'boot camp' version of the course, a 2.5 day extravaganza of baby-training as opposed to the 2-hours-over-8-weeks option. I just really could not wrap my mind around 8 weeks of fluffy when 2.5 days will give me the same information. This does not come without potential for trouble and it brings to mind an episode of 'Almost Perfect,' this TV show that was on in the mid-90s that starred Nancy Travis. The episode I'm thinking of is one where Travis' character is forced to learn to relax and goes on an intensive yoga course that goes awry. Indeed.

Pain in my head, pain in my heart

2009-11-24T12:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet

For the last 5 days, I have been in a bit of agony. A vice-like pain has descended over my forehead, a combination of sinus pressure and headache. Then there were the aches and temperature fluctuations. Oh, and the desperate need to be ill but not being able to be ill only to then be ill just when I thought we'd moved passed it. But you are fine and I seem to be on the mend.

I spent much of the weekend napping. I would have an hour or two peak time and would then crash like a rock to the hard ground beneath. We did make it to a wedding but had to leave early. And within 20 minutes of getting home, I had deteriorated to a pile of blond-haired sludge. Most charming.

Yesterday and today we napped and napped some more. And I dare say we'll be going to bed soon. But we have managed to finish the last in the 'Millenium' series by Steig Larsson.

Pathological Whines -- in utero

2009-11-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

Mummy? Hello? Hellooooo? I keep kicking to let you know I'm here but so far you seem a bit obtuse. What is going on out there? Why are you not paying me more attention?! And what is that growling noise I keep hearing in the middle of the night? No one said anything about growling out there. Is that this Josephine you keep parroting on about? Because she sounds like trouble.

Or competition.

And could we get some of those feta cheese triangle-y things you ate for lunch? Those were good and I don't think 5 were enough.

I'm hungry! I'm thirsty! What happened to that lovely pink champagne you were drinking in August? We've not had that in ages. And really, I was told on good authority that champagne was all the rage for babies. You go get some more of that. Now. And do think we could read something other than stuff on the politics of indigenous culture? I mean, really, woman. How much can one fetal unit take?

One day, you'll ask me why you don't have fur like your sister

2009-11-13T10:33:00.000-08:00

And I'll have to tell you the truth: that you were brought to us by aliens. Just kidding. Sort of. Josephine is convinced she is human and convinced that she and I are of the same cloth. Crazy, I know.

2009-11-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

The strangest thing I find about being pregnant is how quickly my body changes. I mean, 40 weeks is one thing, but the changes occur so quickly. . . overnight, in some cases. Already, I've grown into a 36 F bra. This, mind you, is from a 32C.

I've been a bit down, Fang. Just rather listless. Any nesting instinct that is supposed to kick in hasn't done so yet. In fact, the only instinct that has kicked in is the desire to nap. I go to bed about 9pm and then wake up at 2am, lying in bed as I stare at the ceiling, daydreaming idly. At some point, I suppose I'll get up and start doing something -- reading for school or maybe organizing the kitchen. I do have a list. And I have those lovely pills that keep the toothier, meaner demons at bay. And ginger snaps.

In Praise of Normal

2009-11-11T13:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at North Middlesex having another scan. This was supposed to be an anomaly scan but it turns out you're a wee bit too small for that (not a surprise here; these are usually only done after week 18). We got to watch you turning flips and chewing on your feet when you weren't busy sucking on your hand. For all intents and purposes, we got the sign off that you're 'normal.' Everything is relative except relatives, sweet pea.

Post-holiday recap

2009-11-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Fanglet,

We have returned from France (albeit reluctantly). I had a lovely time, at lots of duck (yum), slept a lot, and tried not to be overly annoying (unsuccessfully). I will publish photos as soon as I can figure out what I've done with the damn digital camera adapter. I think I may have put it in my sock drawer. Don't ask: the sock drawer is a very useful place.

The weather was amazing every day we were away. We explored Bergerac, Perigeoux, and Riberac, which is the closest town to Felard, where we were staying. The Barn belonged to your great-Aunt Linda and when she passed away, she created this incredibly complicated web of ownership. On Tuesday, you father and I stayed at the Barn, carrying one of the sofas outside to read in the warm Autumn sun and to snuggle and argue. We argue; it is our way of showing affection. You need to get used to it.

We got back late Saturday night and on Sunday I was so exhausted I could barely move. This is the thing about being pregnant that catches me off guard: I feel like I can keep up the same pace I did before and then BAM! I hit a wall and collapse like a rag doll. The back pain that seems to doggedly pursue my right shoulder spread to my right arm and it was agony. I spent much of the day in bed, so tired I couldn't even focus on my new mystery novel THE GIGILO MURDER by Mehmet Murat Somer. Can you imagine NOT being able to focus on a murder mystery when the detective is a transvestite hacker?

On Wednesday we went to Great Ormond Street's Cardiac Unit where they spent about 5 minutes trying to coax you out of the tight little ball you'd screwed yourself up into so they could convince themselves there was something wrong with you. But there wasn't. You were so unflawed, the doctor was in shock. He even said that he'd expected to have to give us 'incredibly bad news' and was so happy he didn't. I can't help feeling a bit smug, as I am convinced they just need to let you be. But just in case, we will now be spending a good deal of time in various rooms for ultrasounds, urine samples, and blood tests.

We also met our OB, Dr Fakunde, who seems like a nice man and comes with an entourage. My arch-enemy at Maternity Reception was on he best behavior and. . . wait for it. . . your dad didn't even snap at the doctor. He might be allowed into the delivery room yet. . .

Le Petit Fanglet(te?)

2009-10-29T12:18:00.000-07:00

There has been much speculation this week over what your gender is, my little parasite. I spent much of Saturday until Wednesday feeling as though my ribs were being cracked from the inside out, which made me wonder what you were up to. That pain seems to have dispersed and we have now returned to my trapezoid on my right arm feeling as though it is being squeezed and twisted by angry imps.

La Grange, the barn we are staying at in Riberac, is lovely. It belonged to your Great-Aunt Linda, who by all accounts was bit a of a bossy boots. The result is gorgeously restored (but very cold) Old Barn (circa 1600) and a New Barn (circa 1980) that has sleeping room for 8 (comfortably). You will (I hope) be spending a lot of time here.

Once we return to London, we have an appointment at the Cardiac Unit at Great Ormond Street, so that they can poke and prod at us some more. I don't know exactly what we're looking for now, but I have it on good authority that they may just keep looking until you make an appearance. . .

But back to Riberac, because my lovely, I would happily raise you here. It is lovely and there is something so much more familiar about it than the UK; the buildings in this region are not so different to where I grew up in Germany and in Czech, I suppose. They call a section of Bergerac 'Little Geneva' after all. And so it goes. . .

We have eaten well this week, you and I. Merguez sausage for breakfast, lots of duck (no pate or rillettes, world, so relax, world. Relax). We've been to Riberac and will return again (the sewing shop has a lovely yarn section), Bergerac (no sign of John Nettles, sadly, but we are a long way from Jersey) and today we went to Rouffegnac to a set of caves. I've been reading a mixture of things: snotty (for he PhD), mystery (cause who doesn't love a good mystery) and dire (Mills and Boon -- the US equivelent would be Harlequin Romance novels). All in all, not a bad way to go. The weather has been divine: warm (high 60s, 70s with no rain and loads of sun) and we nap near a sun-dappled vineyard. Life is very good.

Big plans for a little fetus

2009-10-21T02:44:00.000-07:00

A 15-minute stop to drop off a urine sample turned into a 2.5 hour trip to the Ante-Natal clinic on Monday. Apparently, I had 'mixed growth' in the sample I left a couple of weeks ago.

You, my little tomato, are in for a treat: on 4 November, we're going to hear Steve Earle at the Barbican. Earle is over promoting his Towns Van Zandt tribute album. The last time I saw him, it involved a road trip to Scotland and chortling peacocks. That was almost 5 years ago. Crazy.

On 9 November, we're going to hear Steve Martin swing out all blue-grassy, and on the 16th, I'm seriously contemplating taking you to hear Pink Martini at the Apollo Hammersmith. The only bit of grit in the shoe of this plan is that I have my theory driving test the next day.

Driving test, you ask?

Indeed. I've only been driving for oh, I don't know. . . 16.3 years!! But thems the rules, those the breaks and, well, we do what we can to keep the Man happy.

Friday is your first Ethiopian meal. I'm really looking forward to this. Mama loves Ethiopian food. I only hope you love it too because that if not, that could make our traveling the next day a bit awkward. . .

Viva le France

2009-10-15T05:31:00.000-07:00

Now, I know there are things I'm not supposed to eat. Unpasteurized cheese (because of the listeria thing, but seriously, if you already have encephalitis, how much damage could it do? JUST kidding!), liver, pate, etc. (Vitamin A overload), no rare meat, no shellfish unless I cook it myself (like that is EVER going to happen until we're back on the Gulf Coast). But seriously, we're going to be in La Grange for a week and in that time, I can make no promises about what I consume, mainly because French food is just so much more INTERESTING that English food. And they don't always tell you what is in the food. Vegetarian? 'But of course this is vegetarian,' the server will say with a Gaelic shrug, completely ignoring that the broth is beef marrow. . .

The big dilemma is what to pack. I know, I know. I am so limited at the moment, hemmed in by the pallet of maternity wear that has been so kindly provided for me. I will take two comfy wool sweaters in a soft cappuccino colour, two tops in olive, several scarves, lots of woolly tights (thanks, Matalan!) and my new Shitkicker boots (in brown). I will also take a lovely patterned skirt and one or two of my wrap dresses and two pairs of trousers. Trousers are, of course, the most challenging thing about my life at the moment. I have 3 pairs that I can wear: a pair of Ann Taylor Jeans (size 14 from my very fat assed - post-Chicago days), a pair of size 12 Ann Taylor chinos (I know, WTF) and a pair of maternity trousers in black. They make me look Tony Robbins good.

Ehem. Not that I'm channeling Jeremy Piven's ego or anything. . .

It is a good thing your dad is going; he can carry my luggage. : )

Kid, you may think you're funny. . .

2009-10-13T04:55:00.000-07:00

But you're going to give me a heart attack. Today Midwife Allison called to say that you do not have the following: Downs, Edwards, Mosaic, or Patau's Syndrome, nor do you have any sex defects. Of course, when she said 'sex defects,' my mind totally went to another place and now I have visions of a fetus-populated BDSM club. Slightly disturbing if it wasn't funny. And it is funny.

I'm learning a lot of new words like microcephaly (a neurological disorder that results in a shrunken head and decreased motor skills), encephalitis (which I already 'knew' but didn't know; it is a type of meningitis and we loathe meningitis), and cytomegalovirus (a form of not-necessarily sexually transmitted herpes virus; you can contract if from sharing a soda with someone, etc).

It must be said that I didn't ask what your gender was. . . I'm trying to give you privacy. But seriously, if you keep this up, we're talking lock down early on.There will be no hiding of diaries. I will be so far up in your business, you'll think boot camp is a holiday.

Your father has been walking around like a dead man the last couple of days, breaking my heart almost as much as the uncertainty of what comes next. We're not all clear yet (there's another 2 weeks before that happens) but things are looking up.

The Waiting Game

2009-10-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

Cher Fanglet

What can I say?

Today we had the CVS test. My reasons were that there was triple the amount of fluid around your neck that they thought. The test itself was relatively painless. But the waiting is one of the hardest things I'll ever have to do.

Don't make it easy for me

2009-10-07T07:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I love Earl Thomas Connelly. Sue me.

Today we went and had your first picture taken. It was all very exciting and I will post the photo here. It is also a little upsetting because, apparently, your neck is too thick at 5.75mm and they (the Dr and Midwives) want me to go and have a CVS test done. CVS stands for Chorionic Villius Sampling and boy, it sounds like fun! Basically, it is a test for Down Syndrome, Tay Sachs, etc., and they jam a very fine needle into the placenta.

According to one resource, it goes a little something like this:

           'Depending on your stage of pregnancy, the position of your placenta, or on personal
            preference, your doctor will choose one of the following methods:

            • transvaginal CVS - usually carried out between 11 and 13 weeks of pregnancy, via thecervix.

              Your doctor will carefully insert fine forceps or a small tube through your vagina and cervix
              to reach the placenta

            • transabdominal CVS - usually carried out after 13 weeks, through the abdomen. You may be
            given a local anaesthetic to numb the wall of your abdomen before a needle is inserted through
            your abdomen into your uterus to the placenta.

After the test is over, I apparently will kick back and wait to see if I miscarry (there is a 1/100 or a 2/100 chance depending on where you read). Party time!

This afternoon, I phoned the Ante-natal Results and Choices helpline. They were lovely. I feel very, very pressured about the whole thing: the midwives and your father are very hipped that this happens. I. . . well, I personally. . . I don't give a rat's ass and would actually prefer to let you have your privacy, such as it is, to see if you just don't sort it out yourself. You've got a lot of time left in the womb, pettest and it seems a lot of pressure on you. And you're just a little thing.

Happy Birthday to Me

2009-10-05T02:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

I turned 32 on Saturday and I had a fantastic birthday. On Friday, I went for Gelato with your Auntie Kristy to Scoop and ate my way through their Chocolate Festival. Then we went to Foyle's in pursuit of a toilet and books. I bought myself 3 books: the 2nd Millenium Trilogy THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE; the new PD James THE PRIVATE PATIENT, and an early Robert Musil novel. Mama loves her German Twilight fiction.

I spent the pre-birthday evening with your dad, eating Chinese food and watching Telly, before adjorning to bed to read my new books with Josephine, who is being very adorable and very needy of late. She needs to be RIGHT BESIDE ME at all times, physically leaning into me. Bless. On Saturday, we had breakfast at the Sweet Tree Bakery, which I hope makes it. Their business model isn't really working; they don't open until 8am on weekdays, thereby missing early morning commuters!! Very silly. Very silly indeed. I then napped the better part of the afternoon in between organizing my clothes, separating out what I can wear and what I can't and unpacking the fantabulous maternity stuff that your Aunt Anna has given to help me make the pregnancy more manageable.

Your Dad also got me a massage which I was a bit blustery about (because I get blustery about silly things these days) at first but no am thinkng 'wow, I am so going to use that bad boy this week!'

We had a gorgeous Indian meal at your Auntie Helen and Uncle James'. They are amazing cooks and seriously, kid, you love a good curr, the spicier the better. You also love Mexican, Italian, Ethiopian (good choice, good choice) and make no bones about love of a good steak.

In short, there is no doubt, mon cher that you are mine.

We also had our first midwife appointment at the hospital. I am on the fence re home birth and hospital birth. I don't know that I actually like the idea of a home birth but hospitals are kind of grotty and well, there is a lot to be said for not having to leave the comfort of my own home or cleaning up afterward. Apparently, other people do that for you.

Bra that could fit on my head

2009-09-29T04:03:00.000-07:00

Well, now little Fanglet, things are a changing.

Your Auntie Theresa left last Thursday after a lovely visit. She has put up some photos and I took a few shots of my own (including a great one of her at Flickr.

On Sunday, your Dad and the archivists (Laura, Eizabeth, Richard, Katie, the Consort, and Lorraine) took me for afternoon tea at Wallace House. It was a lovely surprise (though it must be said I still don't really like these kinds of surprises). I then had to go and get fitted for new bras. I have, it would seem, gone from a 32C to a 36F. Interesting, no?

Mommy on Vacation

2009-09-28T10:24:00.001-07:00

Here are photos of your Mommy on our vacation. Sorry I could only get good photos of her from behind for some reason.

Auntie Theresa

Back in the Saddle

2009-09-25T04:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

So, here we are back in London. Surprisingly, there has been sunshine every day since our return. The British Isles are not known for being sunny, so I feel particularly blessed after being spoiled by the weather in Croatia and Montenegro.

I had a lovely time. The weather was balmy, the Adriatic a twinkling jewel box of sapphire and and aquamarine. I ate and ate and ate. I walked and walked and walked. And I napped and napped and napped. Theresa was a great traveling companion, driving most of the time and being very patient with me and my bladder as we demanded frequent stops because Pee! often becomes the most important and pressing thing in my world.

My tummy is not overly large but I am starting to not be able to button trousers that would go over my belly and though I don't look pregnant from behind, the bump is taking shape.

Your Aunt Anna has kindly started to supply me with maternity clothes and is also plotting to make sure that you are well provided for both in kit and clothing. I'm on the fence about knowing gender and I'm on the fence about having you tested for spina bifida and for Downs Syndrome because it wouldn't make a whit of difference to me. You're mine and I'm in it for the long haul.

When the going gets tough, the pregnant go to Montenegro

2009-09-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

Here we are: two days before our first holiday together! Your Auntie Theresa has arrived and is looking stunning. She has always been lovely: flawless porcelain skin, thick black hair with a red sheen.

This week, I want sleep, mashed potatoes, sleep, and pineapple juice in that order. Oh, and sleep. Sleep figures in quite prominently.

Not much else to report, except that I am obsessed with taking pregnancy tests 'just to make sure' you're still in there because I'm not completely bowled over with morning sickness. Not that I don't feel like ill, I do. But I haven't thrown up nearly as much as I thought I would. I'm hoping this passes once we have taken your first media appearance, which is scheduled for 7 October.

Sharing

2009-09-14T09:16:00.000-07:00

So, it may surprise you to learn that, little Fanglet, that I am not overly good at sharing my toys. Well, I'm not very good at sharing a particular toy: money. I'm not.

I'm gregarious, social and outgoing on the surface but these are skills that were developed in order to S U R V I V E; they are not my true nature. My true nature, my gorgeous little parasitic muffin, is much surlier than that. I am a lone wolf. Okay, maybe a lone golden retriever. A hostile teenager. A knocked up hostile teenager. I'm so chuffed, little minnow, I can't tell ya!!

There are many things I am not: I am not a morning person, I am not really a constant cuddler. I am also not really into sharing my space or my stuff on a daily basis. Friends borrowing clothes and books? No problem! Husband wanting to know my monthly income or borrow £20: Get stuffed, turkey butt! Now, this comes from my upbringing. My mama and daddy didn't play nicely when it came to money. Mama owned the pursestraps and Daddy spent a great deal of time and energy trying to run rings around said straps. And when that didn't work. . . well, we'll save that for when you're older. Let is suffice to say that your mama operates from the mindset that she's gonna do whatever she wants, whenever she wants. Usually, this is fine. Usually, mama is medicated and can be reasoned with. But sometimes, well sometimes irrationality sets in and that £450 Vivienne Westwood dress just cannot be resisted. It needs me. Truly. And so I buy Vivienne, I take her home, I wear her, and then I have to hide the tags.

In addition to being tired and craving mashed potatoes (that's all. Just mashed potatoes. For dinner. On their own. They were good. I might have 'em again tonight. Yummmm. Mashed Potatoes), money weighs like a spector. Neither your dad or I are very good at saving money. We're squanderbirds. We don't mean to be and we try to save but every time that nest egg gets big enough to nest on, we need new tires for the car, or the dishwasher catches fire, or we have to throw party. Or mama needs new flooring. I know. Life, as I have already told you, is hard. So are my new floors. ; ) But we try. I suppose I'm just trying to prepare you for a life of love and warmth and dubious financial planning.

8 weeks and counting

2009-09-09T03:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

The next few weeks are going to busy. You and I are going on our first vacation together to Montenegro with your Aunt Theresa, then I start back to school at UCL. I'm also working on a book chapter on text-based communications and a paper for a conference in Geneva. The conference is right around your due date, so we'll see how feasible that ends up being, although it must be said that I quite fancy the idea of giving birth in Switzerland near the Lake. All that lovely hot chocolate.

Things are getting a bit squiffy in the mornings, so I am going to have to break the news to the guys at work sooner rather than later. I'm not thrilled about this. . . I want to wait until I'm into the 3rd trimester but that doesn't seem feasible at the moment.

Siigh.

I love cole slaw

2009-09-07T07:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Fanglet

Your great-grandmere Lo makes the best cole slaw. I covet her cole slaw and the last weekend have found myself recreating this cole slaw in epic proportions with a slight twist: a splash of balsamic vinegar. And instead of white cabbage, we are eating our way through North London's stash of red cabbage. Seriously. I have had cole slaw 6 times in the last 4 days. All hale garden grown cabbage and tomatoes! The largess of mother nature bountiful is mine. I like cole slaw because it is easy: I don't have to cook anything (you will learn that this is par for the course) and I can eat it straight away.

In other news, we got dates for your first doctor's appointments: 1 October and 7 October. Most exciting. You and I nap a lot, which makes Josephine most ecstatic. She loves to nap and snuggle and is growing quite protective of your cocoon. My witching hours come at strange times: 3:30-5pm and 7-9:30 pm seem to be the most nauseating.

I spoke with your father last night; he has arrived in Las Vegas and is driving a canary yellow Corvette. This amuses me because your father isn't really a Corvette kind of guy. He is also sun-burned on the left-hand side of his body only.

Boys are silly.

2009-09-04T06:27:00.000-07:00

So. You're seven weeks and a hair. How does it feel?

Thus far I notice the following: there is this very weird metallic taste in my mouth in the mornings when get up until about mid-day. I am also exhausted, though I chalk this up to caffeine withdrawl.

Your father left today for a 10 day trip to Vegas. He will fly to San Fransisco through wildfires but fret not because I made him write out a will. Now, he'll point out that he had already written a will but this was written the same night he had to scuttle a plan by your unlce Clarkie and Martin to invade France via lifeboat. What I can say? Those two don't get out much. At least Martin doesn't.

The will is more for my piece of mind. I am also apprehensive about your father traveling and worry that if he were to die the ground might open me up and swallow me whole. That's how I know I'm knocked up: I'm overly emotional. Lesson learned: Love is hard, life is hard; people live, they die and we move on until we don't. And most of the time, all of this is worth it.

In other news, you've brought with you the gift of vomit. Friday, I felt squiffy and took a taxi home. I barely made it to the front door before I was sick all over the front garden. Bless your father, as he cleaned it up. On Monday, the same again but with more bite. But it is manageable and I wouldn't have it any other way.

In utero

2009-08-27T03:00:00.001-07:00

So, here I type. Knocked up. Pregnant. Etc., etc., etc.

Very few people know and we are in early days, you and I. I should point out that more people would know if your father, bless him, weren't such a paranoid worry-wart. Dude, I would take out a full-page spread in the Times, Telegraph and Guardian and it would have read something to the effect of 'Take that, you MutherF*@%rs!' Because, let's face: Mama likes to swear.

Anyway, 6 weeks today. ETA 23 April, 2010. Your maternal grandparents' anniversary. No pressure there, or anything, Fanglet. No pressure.

So far, I feel. . . freaking amazing. My skin is glowing, my hair is long flowing locks, I've just blown your college fund on redecorating the house (that only took 3 years of nagging, emotional blackmail, and full on extortion. Never let it be said you mama doesn't know how to make the world turn). I do get these weird tugging sessions on the sides of my stomach and the usually slightly doughy area of my lower abdomen is, well, not so doughy. And yes, Fang, Mama knows she should work out more. Don't patronize me in the womb. It doesn't suit you.

At the moment, I am told you are about the size of a very small sugar-snap pea. Or a baby tadpole. Already I talk to you and consult your preferences: spicy? Spicier? SPICIER? REALLY?!

Your Auntie C suggested I keep this as a little something something for you to read when you're older and also so that I can actually remember this experience as I have a tendency to block out entire periods of my past. Like most of Sophmore and Junior year of High School. And College.