Prawn Cocktail: Soberly Navigating Babyhood

All the Little People (Or, How I Quit My New Job in Just a Week)

2011-04-21T01:29:00.002Z

I'm sure that if you've turned on your televisual communication device within the last year, no matter WHERE you live, there's a story somewhere about some schmuck in an educational field who's gotten either fired, reprimanded or firebombed for probably telling the absolute truth about what goes on in their classroom TO THE WHOLE INTERNET. My only thought, when seeing a story like that is, "Did they not think anyone was going to see that?" Those pesky kids. They're all about The Facebook.

Although I definitely set a personal record for the amount of time elapsed between being hired and deciding that my job was mind-bendingly awful and leaving (one week) I'm slightly wary about making the whole sordid tale a matter of public record due to the involvement of children. (not mine. well, one of mine, but lots of ones who weren't mine. who might have litigious parents.) However, since I will use no real names ( especially not the name or location of the center in question) and am no longer employed, I feel slightly less queasy about it.

When searching for a pre-school with the Prawn (who is now 4, by the way, sheesh.) when I first arrived, she initially attended a pre-school that I almost didn't leave her in on the first day. I opened the door to discover a perfectly crafted "nursery chaos" scene before me. Kids running rampant, throwing toys, hitting each other with anything they could lay their hands on AND the director's 11 year old son, who was in the classroom "helping". ("DYLAN! You can hit me, but not anyone else, okay?" NO! NOBODY GETS TO HIT!) Needless to say, she didn't stay long. Within a few months, I'd found her a place at another center, one that seemed a lot more structured and curriculum based. Less running, less throwing toys and no one espousing the virtues of physical violence. It is at this center that I was very briefly employed.

It's hard to know where to start. I like to think that I'm at least a little more careful than the average consumer. I check reviews for big purchases. But like a total dumbass, I let a nice lady (who, despite briefly being my boss, I still feel is a nice lady, albeit with a heart-attack inducing job) lead me down a corridor of brightly colored classrooms with happy looking children in them, use big educational type words and thought, "Wow, I want the Prawn to go HERE!" Of course, I now know that anyone who uses the word "curriculum" in conjunction with "pre-schoolers" has a bridge somewhere that they're trying to sell me because, even at the best of times, anyone under the age of five is truly one step from swinging through trees and flinging their own excrement at other people. (And that's my kids included. Don't think for a second that just because I love them that I believe my children to immune to shaved monkey behavior.)

My growing list of "people who need a slap" expanded once more in the short 5 days of my employment to include, "whoever made up the licensing regulation that stipulates that all children, even those 4 or 5 years of age, must be kept still and silent on a naptime cot for TWO WHOLE HOURS in the afternoon." The only explanation I can come up with is that the person or committee has never actually MET a 4 or 5 year old and so would not be aware that the only way to keep a child in this age bracket ANYWHERE for that long is to use nails. And even then, they'd have to be really BIG nails. The teachers in the center live in fear of those two hours because it is a non-stop battle of wills between frustrated and bored children and equally frustrated teachers, BOTH of whom would really, really like naptime to be over.

My shift began at the very start of these two witching hours and I provide breaks for the exhausted lead teachers. I was, on my first day, dumped headfirst and solo into nap time with little warning of what to expect. (Do you know how hard it is to keep the peace in a room where you don't know the children's names? Oh, yeah.) There were, of course, the obligatory 3 boys that desperately needed to be separated who I spent an entire hour telling over and over again that they needed to be respectful of their friends who were trying to get some sleep. (Oh, did I mention the happy, clappy discipline policy? Apparently, the "IF YOU DON'T SHUT YOUR SMART MOUTH, I WILL SHUT IT FOR YOU" method is NOT an approved style. )

The discipline style has a name, although I won't mention it as I don't exactly want to draw attention to this little diatribe from the wrong quarters, but lets just say that it involves "choices". And it's supposed to work something like this:

-Timmy is 4 years old and 4 year olds are insane, so he's standing on top of a table. First, one gives a statement of fact.

"Timmy, I see that you've climbed up on the table."

-The second step is to attach a totally made up and preferably totally understandable reason as to why the child has performed this unacceptable behavior. (This goes for really heinous crap like hitting and biting too) This is called "Positive Intent" and it is meant to show the child that they are not a bad person, but someone who has made a bad decision. Luckily, a group of Timmy's friends are playing on the other side of the library cart.

"You must have wanted to see what your friends were doing on the other side of the library cart."

-The third step is an explanation as to why the child needs to knock the behavior the hell off.

"Climbing up onto the table isn't safe because you could fall and hurt yourself or someone else."

-The fourth step is to guide the child into a positive alternative, even though they'd really like to keep standing on the table, thanks very much.

"Let's come down and see what your friends are doing on the other side of the library cart! Maybe you can join in whatever game they're playing."

Now, on the surface, this sounds like a reasonable strategy. Re-direction, at least, is a good weapon in any parent's arsenal. (Along with beer.) However, when dealing with 17 4 year olds intent on destruction of person, property and emotional well-being, you do not have time to use 4 disciplinary steps when just, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TIMMY, GET OFF THE FUCKING TABLE!" will suffice, because, at the same time, you also need to deal with Aiden and Markus who are in housekeeping hitting each other with ironing boards. This form of discipline takes time. And with that many children, there is no time.

This brings me to my biggest concern which was the sheer volume of children in the Prawn's classroom. While most public school classrooms are severely overcrowded, the children within them are older and are expected to have at least some small vestige of impulse control.

One of the only interesting bits of information in my week long training session included the fact that humans exist in three different states of being: Survival, Emotional and Executive. In Survival Mode, (rather obviously) we are concerned with whether or not we are going to last out the day. (Am I Safe?) In Emotional Mode, we are concerned with how we feel. (Am I Loved?) The Executive State is where we make decisions and do our learning. Apparently, humans are not fully capable of functioning in Executive Mode until the age of 24, so this certainly explains that time that I drank so much in college that I threw up in somebody's flower bed.

My point is that one should avoid putting one person in charge of 17 individuals that spend all of their time in Survival/Emotional Mode because truly, we're not just talking about no education taking place, but putting children in a situation where perhaps the answer to "Am I Safe?" is "No". During my week at training, 3 teachers at the center called in sick 2 days in a row. This resulted in the 3, 4 and 5 year olds (The Prawn being one of them) being combined into one class of 20 with one teacher looking after all of them. (A really quite gross violation of State licensing laws.)

I brought it up with the center manager when I got back, although it felt a little odd to be dancing the line between being a loyal employee and a concerned parent. "I wish I could say that this kind of thing won't happen again in the future, but it probably will," she said. "I certainly can't go to somebody's house and drag them into work, no matter how much I might want to." And while I realize that this was entirely true, it certainly had a lot to do with both my decision not to continue on there and to take the Prawn out as well.

I took the job to feel that I was being of some use. If I had to leave my children for 6 hours a day, I wanted my job to mean something. But it was obvious that the entirety of my job was to be based around being an assistant warden rather than an assistant teacher. 99% of what I did and what I would have continued to do in the future was scolding children who were a) committing a terrible act, b) committing the same terrible act for the 165th time or c) about to commit a TOTALLY NEW terrible act because they'd gotten tired of the first one. You can imagine my state of mind by the time I got home each evening, every nerve frayed and STILL had two children at home who are completely capable of committing terrible acts of their own to deal with.

I still feel a lot of guilt over my decision. I'm not the kind of person who quits a new job (especially one that's taken so bloody long to get) in a week, especially one that I was so enthusiastic about to begin with. Not only that, but I've removed the Prawn from her social network, familiar friends and teachers who she liked very much. (She'll be starting in a new and very acclaimed center in June) But at the end of the day, I suppose parenthood is like that; doing what's best even though it can be shitty. What I do know is that I don't wake up with a ball of lead in my stomach, knowing that I have to leave my kids to face another afternoon of shouting for a very low wage.

I DO wake up thinking, "What interesting things can we do today?"

Anyone still out there?

2011-02-08T02:45:00.004Z

I am most likely writing to the aether at this point, seeing as how my last entry was in MAY of LAST YEAR, but I just thought I might check in on the off chance that someone somewhere may still be listening.

Bullet points.

-Now firmly ensconced in the USA.

-The Prawn is enough of a person to know what sort of items are not allowed through airport security.

-The Squid (who has been rather unfortunately rechristened The Pig) is rapidly approaching her first birthday. Her favorite activities include screaming, wiping her face on the clothing of the nearest adult and not sleeping. Luckily, she is cute and this excuses most things. (However, I'd do just about anything for a full night's sleep.)

Pictures? Oh, yeah.

Starting Over

2010-06-14T10:41:00.001Z

My mother in law once told me that she and my father in law were scheduled to attend what she described as a "Tea and Dick Party". Having not long been married to my husband, I was wondering if perhaps I would have to re-evaluate what I believed that I knew about my in-laws. The British are certainly not alone in their penchant for perversion, but the quaintness with which they endow it often makes it seem all the more sordid. It turned out that it was a party being thrown by two friends called Theresa and Richard, which was vaguely disappointing.

At one of these parties, one of the male guests related the story of his first sexual encounter, which took place in a rather picturesque wood. Apparently, at the Moment of Truth, the gentleman in question suddenly experienced an excruciating pain in his feet which he took to be par for the course for The Nasty. It was not until several moments later that he realized that his legs were sticking out onto a public footpath and he had, in fact, been run over by a bicycle.

I always think of this story when I venture into the bluebell woods on the nearby Ashridge Estate. (Not only do I have this lovely anecdote to draw on, but during one of Mr. DD's and my trips to the woods while dating, we encountered a couple who obviously had the same idea, making the sightseeing slightly awkward.) Luckily, when I stopped by to take in the sights last month with The Squidlette, our fellow wood-goers were more likely to be worried about the state of their sock-suspenders rather than whether or not anyone could see their bare ass rising above the flowers.

The arrival of the bluebells every year has always filled me with hope. Although I've spent many seasons trotting amongst the blooms in heavy sweaters, they've always heralded the start of warmer weather and long, light evenings. This year, the sea of blue filled me with a slight melancholy, knowing that it may be the last time I see them, for who knows when I may next be in England during bluebell season.

Although Mr. DD and I have always known that we'd someday be leaving the UK for a life in America, now that it is only weeks rather than years until we go, it's brought little things into sharp focus. Like how much we'll miss family and friends. How we'll explain the dramatic life change to the Prawn. And how, in three years, we've gone from having precisely SQUAT to having an attic groaning under the weight of our belongings.

One of our tasks of the past weeks has been to cement both the Prawn and Squid's claim to US citizenship which, of course, meant a trip to London to the US Embassy who's security and imposing nature make it the ideal place for a fun day out with a toddler and newborn. (Not to mention the extremely child friendly appointment time of 9 am.) Squidlette got the morning off to a roaring start by staging a total meltdown in the car in some of worst London traffic I've seen since it took us 3 hours to go 2 miles once while taking my parents to visit the Tower. The "Bucket" (the word we use to refer to her carseat) was a magical device for the Prawn; pop her in and all was right with the world. It's spell would lull her to sleep and keep her that way until she was unceremoniously removed upon our arrival at home. The Squid, however, merely tolerates The Bucket and a traffic jam on the M1 pretty much tested her tolerance to breaking point. Said meltdown required me to unbuckle my seatbelt, lean over into the backseat and try to stick a bottle into the orifice that was creating the noise, all the while enduring funny looks from slowly passing fellow motorists and a barrage of "WHATCHA DOIN MUMMY?" from the Prawn.

After arriving nearly 45 minutes late for our appointment, a fairly long spell in a hot waiting room that has apparently remained unchanged since the Eisenhower administration was enough for the Prawn's patience to wear paper thin and on the way out she chose to become an immovable object on the subjects of a) wearing shoes b) holding hands and c) remaining vertical, necessitating Mr. DD to carry her, screeching, across several busy intersections while I crossed at pedestrian crossings with Squidlette and for a few brief moments was able to pretend like I had nothing to do with the wailing banshee across the street.

Our pain, however, was not all for naught and has yielded two small, blue books that now declare both Squid and Prawn to be US citizens, entitled to all of the rights, privileges and opportunities to buy cheaper products imported from China that goes along with it.

Mr. DD's visa process has been substantially more complicated. While it has NOT, in fact involved a Hollywood style simultaneous questioning in two separate rooms to determine whether or not we are aware of the other's favorite colors (after nearly 11 years and two children, we would have the least convenient marriage of convenience EVER.) it HAS entailed rather a lot of complicated paperwork and and a not insubstantial sum of cash. However, we are now down to the last hurdle of his interview which is booked for mid-July and we are at least marginally certain that it won't involve any probing beyond those questions that the embassy official will put to him. We hope to be re-united Stateside in early August.

The reason for the girls and my early departure, (apart from the fact that packing everything up will be much simpler without a small person questioning why all of her toys are being sealed up inside a cardboard box) has a lot to do with an unpleasant dispute with our downstairs neighbor; a woman who is sadly afflicted with cancer of the personality. While I don't wish to go into extreme detail, suffice to say, she has become only the second person my enormously mild-mannered husband has ever had a shouting match with in his life (the first being a stripper on my brother in law's stag do) and that existence in this apartment has become rather like living above a bridge with a troll underneath; a grossly overweight troll with a hatred for children and a propensity for revealing clothing, door slamming, sleeping til 4 in the afternoon and drinking heavily during the day.

Neither Mr. DD or I are fans of conflict, so despite the fact that we're not in the wrong, we're simply removing ourselves from the situation. I learned long ago that there is no "winning" against a thoroughly unreasonable personality and the only way to resolve the conflict is to walk away. Although it may give her pleasure to see us go, it is unequalled by the pleasure that I will gain in never having to see her face again in my life and the knowledge that just being her is punishment enough. Mr DD is rather anxious for us to leave on that account as we're fairly sure she is unaware of the fact that there's a guitar amplifier up here that could put cracks in the foundation of the building.

It's weird to think about going home after 11 years overseas. There are overtones of "leaving home" that I've not experienced since I was 18 and it occurs to me that repatriation is going to carry some of the initial challenges that I faced in 1999 when I relocated to the UK shortly before Mr. DD and I got married. Being American doesn't automatically prepare you for life in America, especially after over a decade abroad. When I think of the naive and easily offended creature that appeared on these shores all those years ago it is hard to believe that that same woman is returning to her country of origin a) with 7 more tattoos and two more children than she left with b) a far more cynical approach to everything and c) vaguely concerned that she might say something wildly offensive at any moment. It's all going to be about re-learning how to fit in. (and trying to keep the word "wanker" out of my vocabulary)

I've thought for years about "going home". While I still know that America is where we want to be, I realize more than ever that the UK has been just as much a home to me as the US ever was. My children were born here. Half of my family is here. THAT'S what makes a home, more than borders or nationalities.

And I will miss it deeply.

Overwhelmed

2010-05-19T13:31:00.001Z

Two kids.

Damn.

Birth Story, Take Two.

2010-03-30T21:32:00.001Z

I remember writing The Prawn's birth story some 3 years ago from a fairly bad place on the other side of a birth experience that was utterly unexpected and traumatic. Over the last few days, I've devoted a very small portion of my brain (the only part not occupied by washing, feeding, expressing, disciplining and, on occasion, breathing in and out.) trying to figure out how I felt about my experience this time around.

In the first place, I didn't bother with a birth plan. While expecting the Prawn, I spent one very long evening composing a rather detailed plan for her birth which I responsibly printed out and included in the folder of notes that I took to the hospital. This piece of paper was instantly discarded and used as firelighters when it became apparent that the Prawn was having NONE of that labor shit and that she was QUITE HAPPY just where she was, thank you, necessitating the medical SAS to stage a uterine incursion to extract her. This experience taught me that that once you are caught in the current of the hospital system, it is best to behave as a very pregnant twig and follow where it leads. Knowing also that a Caesarian was on the cards this time around made it seem even more pointless to try to dictate the terms of The Squid's arrival when I myownself wasn't really going to have much to do with it other than turning up in an open backed hospital gown, showing my ass to the anesthetist, lying back and then marveling at the sensation of not being able to wiggle my toes.

The Rock Star and I arrived at the hospital unfortunately early due to my insistence that we were supposed to be there at quarter TO seven as opposed to quarter PAST seven, so we spent 15 rather whispery minutes sitting in an all too familiar cubical and surrounded by the all too familiar curtains with the all too familiar sights of Aylesbury and the surrounding areas. (Although this time around, I noticed that one of the buildings depicted was in the complex where I work) Of course, the catch phrase of the hospital is "hurry up and wait", so had a fair amount of time to get reacquainted with the local sights before called down to the theatre.

Unlike my visit to the theatre with the Prawn, I walked in under my own power, getting a really quite detailed look at all of the instruments that would be being used shortly to expose my insides to daylight. Perhaps it was this fact or the fact that we'd been waiting for nearly 25 minutes in a very hot hallway, but the proceedings did NOT get off to the best start when the very talented anesthetist (to whom I felt much indebted later) put a relatively simple cannula in the back of my hand, and I pretty much nearly fainted like a big girl. My thoughts, through my rapidly diminishing field of vision, was that this was NOT a good start, considering what was to come.

During the Prawn's birth, I did not have the luxury of a spinal block. The epidural that I had been enjoying the services of for 12 hours or so was simply topped up for the surgery. While epidurals are great for blocking out labor pains, they are not ideal for being attacked with sharp surgical implements and towards the end of the surgery, I started to get some sensation back at a rather inopportune moment, requiring me to be put under for the duration of the procedure. Because of this, it was AGES before I actually got any bonding time with the Prawn. The anesthetist was dead set that I should make it through this procedure awake and to make sure of it, gave me a fairly heavy dose of the numb stuff. So heavy, in fact, that I was not ENTIRELY sure they had begun the operation until suddenly I heard a baby crying and was informed that it was, in fact a girl. (Which both the Rock Star and I were hugely relived about as we had a) neglected to choose a name for a boy and b) had a large drawer of pink clothes waiting at home.)

Of course, because this is me. this is around the time that things started to go wrong.

The Squid was bundled up tightly and given to The Rock Star and I got a full 3 minutes or so of gazing adoringly at my new daughter's face before it became apparent to me that all was not going completely well on the other side of the curtain, where bits of me that had never seen the light of day lay open to the elements.

First I was hot. Then very cold. Then incredibly sick. The Rock Star informed me that the anesthetist was very busy twiddling buttons behind my head, trying to keep ahead of my plunging blood pressure and the nausea that resulted from the blood pressure medication. The junior and senior registrars were called into theatre due to the fact that things were going a bit pear shaped in the uterus contracting department. Despite the fact that I was now completely numb and no longer about to pass out or throw up, I could tell that there was a fair amount of pulling, tugging and shoving going on. The Rock Star was made to clear out of the way and was standing on the other side of the theatre with The Squid looking nervous. However, I didn't really notice any of these things as I was just so grateful to feel absolutely nothing.

Things finally DID come under control, albeit after some major bruising and blood loss and I was wheeled into the recovery room where I was able to hold the Squid. But what kind of birth experience would it be without a little MORE drama? One of the theatre nurses noticed that the Squid was making a rather demure squeaking sound which was not par for the course as far as newborns go. A consultant from pediatrics was dispatched forthwith and agreed that they'd like to have a little bit of observation time in the NICU. Of course, this is the news that NO new parent wants to hear, but as shot away as I was, I was keen for her to be looked after as well as she needed to be, so rather reluctantly surrendered her to a pair of blue scrubs and asked another midwife if, since they were taking my baby, could I please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD have a glass of water as I'd not drunk anything since the night before? I then proceeded to ignore advice to drink slowly and nearly drowned due to the fact that my diaphragm was in a spinal block induced coma and was temporarily unavailable for lung clearing activities.

It was, in fact, several hours before the Squid was returned to our be-curtained cubicle back on the ward. The Rock Star was valiantly trying to keep a full fledged freak out from occurring when they finally wheeled her back in, looking rather pitiful with a My Very First Cannula sticking out of her tiny left hand. We were informed that she'd been started on a course of precautionary anti-biotics and given a chest x-ray ("Welcome to the world. ZAP!") to make sure there was no infection lingering about. They were fairly sure she'd just gotten a snootful of fluid as many babies delivered by Caesarian do, but they wanted to be 100% sure.

Thus began again a rather traumatic time on the wards, much as I'd remembered it from the Prawn's birth. I would simply like to re-iterate the fact that whoever thought it was an awesome idea to stick 6 post op women AND their babies in the same room for a minimum of 2 nights should be promptly found and set on fire.

One thing that had definitely changed was the speed at which the hospital was intent on getting Caesarian patients out of beds and out of their hair. With the Prawn, I remember begging every nurse and doctor that passed me if they could PLEASE GOD TAKE OUT THIS GODDAMMED CATHETER only to be told that I had to wait for someone very senior in charge to give them the go- ahead. However, this time around Operation Mobility was sincerely in force and midwives were working furiously to get those of us who had just undergone major abdominal surgery walking around again so we didn't keep hitting the Call button every time our new offspring sneezed. Unfortunately for me, while I was able to get out of bed fairly soon, due to some unexplained internal bleeding, I was equipped with what was rather simply called "a drain". For those not acquainted with this particular post-surgical apparatus, I shall spare you a detailed description save for the fact that it is deeply unpleasant to have to carry around a bag of fluids that are currently leaking out of you via an opening that, up until 24 hours previous, did not actually exist. And if I thought having it IN was bad, this was nothing compared to taking it OUT. This was done by a very kind midwife who was just as surprised as I was that the surgical team had left approximately half a mile of tubing in my innards which, at the end, whipped out rather suddenly, tagging what felt like every organ I owned on the way and causing me to yelp like a stuck pig. Oh, the indignity.

Unusually enough, my sister in law was on the maternity ward at the same time as I was. Sometime during my second day, The Rock Star texted his brother asking whether they were upstairs yet and discovered that they were, in fact, behind a set of curtains on the other side of the room with our new niece, who has been affectionately christened "Wubba", born less than 24 hours later than the Squid. Luckily, the midwives were on the ball and two women with identical surnames and nearly identical addresses in the same bay caused little to no consternation or pharmaceutical mishaps. Although I would not have wished a c-section on Trumpet, it was rather nice to have someone to text across the ward at 3 am when a VERY young woman was brought up with a new baby who proceeded to scream ALL NIGHT. It's mother, not possessed with much in the way of initiative, took to tapping half heartedly on the plastic cot beside her bed rather than pressing the buzzer for the nurse who could have been of some assistance. Trumpet referred to the ward as "Guantanamo Bay for new mothers".

Round about Friday, when I was ready to pack my bags to go home, we were dealt another blow to our morale when a pediatric doctor said that although all of the blood cultures were negative, they were awful gosh darn sorry, but they'd forgotten to have a good look at that pesky chest x-ray very closely and due to what they saw, they were keen to keep The Squid in for two more nights to complete the course of anti-biotics. Not only this, but due to a miscommunication with the NICU, the Squid's cannula had already been removed, meaning that my 3 day old daughter would have to have a second ENORMOUS FREAKING NEEDLE inserted into her hand. Not only THAT, but THIS time, I got to be the one to hold her tiny arm still while they did it, making me feel even more like Mother of the Year.

This of course, also meant two more nights in for ME. By this point, I was beyond tired; not due to the Squid, (who spent rather a lot of time sleeping) but rather to the lack of opportunity to have ANY peace and quiet for 2 nights running. I don't mind saying that this lead to an absolute melt-down on my part- the idea of two more nights on the wards were more than I could bear. However, I was kindly offered one of the private side rooms for the duration of my stay so that I might actually be afforded half an hour here and there to catch 40 winks. So while still in the depths of despair at having to remain in hospital, the idea of a private room made it slightly more palatable.

I was feeling especially desperate due to the fact that I'd hoped to be home for the Prawn's birthday on Sunday. In an uncharacteristic burst of foresightedness, I'd wrapped all of the Prawn's presents before leaving for hospital, so it wasn't much work for the Rock Star to gather them up and bring them to my little room along with the Prawn so that we could have a birthday of sorts in hospital. This was probably way more depressing for me than it was for the Prawn, who was thrilled with a bounty of Peppa Pig merchandise and a gingerbread man to munch on. While I felt terrible at making her share her birthday with me and her new sister in a clean but wholly sterile environment, she was quite happy to run around and try to find a moment when the two of us weren't looking to press the "CPR" button on my bed control.

We were finally given the all clear to leave on Monday morning. While I had visions of being made to wait until sometime in the afternoon for the drug trolley to rumble my way, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted in the morning by an enthusiastic midwife who'd obviously been informed about the melting down earlier in the week and had made it her mission to get me out of that ward as fast as humanly possible, so by the time The Rock Star arrived at 11 for visiting hours, both the Squid and I were packed, dressed, in possession of powerful painkillers (those were for me) and ready to get the HELL out of there.

Life since the hospital has been blessedly easy in comparison to what I was actually expecting, although both the Rock Star and I are waiting for the penny to drop. As far as sibling rivalry goes, The Prawn has pretty much been acting like your garden variety 3 year old with a burr up her tailpipe, but none of her acting out has actually been DIRECTED at her new sister, who she seems to be surprisingly well disposed towards. As for the Squid, she does rather a lot of sleeping and remarkably little shouting, although she has drenched both of her parents in bodily fluids various, but since this is par for the course for newborns, we shall not hold it against her. In the hospital, I took to calling her "Spitty Frog" due to some highly comical amphibian-style faces she was wont to pull. Upon her return home, we christened ourselves "The Itty Bitty Spitty Committee", which, let me tell you, sounds HILARIOUS coming out of the mouth of a 3 year old.

We are well, but tired. Happy, but exhausted. And we are a complete family.

The Squid and the Prawn

2010-03-25T23:24:00.003Z

Just wanted to post a quick picture of my girls. I've not decided if the look on the Prawn's face is cute or an expression of "just wait until you're looking in the other direction and this thing is SO going to be covered in permanent marker."

The Arrival

2010-03-21T09:26:00.001Z

Eleanor Kestrel Anne arrived at 1pm on Wednesday, March 17th- 7 lbs, 13 oz. More to come when mama and baby manage to make it out of hospital! :)

Luck of the Irish?

2010-03-04T20:41:00.002Z

It's going to be a St. Patrick's Day baby.

It's going to be a c-section. I'm a little disappointed, but it's probably the most sensible option.

Fingers crossed for spontaneous labor before the 17th!

Good News

2010-02-22T20:41:00.002Z

Well, it certainly could have been worse.

My numbers are on the low side of high, so no big needles for this mama. Whew.

The specialist midwife actually told me that thinking on treating diabetes in pregnancy has changed significantly over the last few years and that insulin is only ever used in the most extreme cases of GD or in women that were diabetic pre-pregnancy. Luckily, all I've had to do is change my diet and check my blood sugar three times a day, which DOES require a little bit of pricking, but no biggie. We got to see the Squid again too, which was nice.

I've got another appointment with a consultant this Thursday when I SHOULD get a better idea of what kind of birth I should be in for, i.e, whether they'll let me go til at least 39 weeks and give a natural birth a try or if the baby will be too big necessitating a repeat c-section.

The no sweets/no carbs lifestyle is a bit of a bummer, but I'm grateful that it wasn't too bad when it was caught even if it WAS quite late. Although I am missing my good friend chocolate, I am making do with rich tea biscuits in the meantime.

3 weeks to go.

Stumbling a Bit in the Home Stretch

2010-02-17T14:31:00.003Z

35 weeks.

Due to a family health crisis, I had to fly to America in January, right around the time I should have been taking my Glucose Tolerance Test. On my return, our entire household contracted Martian Death Lurghy which didn't abate until the end of the month, so rescheduling took a little longer than it should have.

So when I got a call from the antenatal clinic of the hospital yesterday informing me that I had Gestational Diabetes and a) could they please see me Thursday to figure out what to do about it and b) could I knock off my cookie/juice/fruit/carb/everything scarfing ways in the meantime, it was a bit of a bummer.

It's one of those things that you can't help but feel totally responsible for and in my case, not getting around to the test sooner is a double whammy. Luckily, according to the midwife, my blood sugars aren't THAT bad, so I'm hoping that it's something that I can treat with diet rather than needles. (pleaseohpleasedontmakemestabmyselfbecauseiwilltotallyfaint.)

Fingers crossed for the most positive of outcomes.

Countdown

2010-02-01T17:00:00.001Z

This afternoon, I've been looking back through my blog archives for late 2006 and early 2007 when I was pregnant with The Prawn, trying to draw some inspiration from the fact that, yes, pregnancy does, at some point END.

Due to my body's unfortunately tendency toward miscarriage, I have pretty much been pregnant for all save two months since last January. This has lead me to an enormous sympathy for elephants. (22 months is a long time, ladies.) So, 10 months and counting since I could, in all good conscience, refer to myself in the singular. Oy.

The first mention of any serious complaint in my pregnancy with the Prawn came in February, about a month away from her due date. I suppose it should have come as no surprise that 3 years on, the niggly bits might begin to start a bit earlier. As I included in my Facebook status the other day, I've already come to the point where when I drop something that I need on the floor, I tend to take it rather personally. The fact that the Prawn does not know any of the most popular dirty words is a minor miracle. (To be honest, she learned the S-word after The Rock Star dropped a running hard drive on the floor once, but he managed to convince her that "sugar" is a much more interesting word. She now says it exclusively in times of stress.)

Of course, I must add the traditional "how grateful I am for this pregnancy" disclaimer at this point. Other than our early roller coaster ride, the rest has been pretty much a piece of cake up until now. That I can bring myself to complain at all is testament to a ferocious head cold, which, on top of other discomforts has reduced me to being a big whiney girl about the whole thing. (Diminished lung capacity will do that to you. So will heartburn so bad that it's started eating the back of your tongue.)

The serious waddle is about 3 weeks old at this point. Pain in places I wasn't aware that I had ligaments started last week. And new for this week, just in time for the head cold, sneezing and hoping I don't wet myself! Awesome. Of course, I am, in fact, a limber and adept frolicking flower fairy in comparison to my unfortunate sister-in-law, Trumpet, who has spent most of her pregnancy on the couch, wedged into positions that could charitably be called "not as uncomfortable as sitting on a rusty spike" with complex arrangements of pillows and hot water bottles.

Last week, I dutifully made my way to a midwife appointment for the usual pokings and proddings. When it came time to listen in to the heartbeat, the midwife, as is often the case, had to pursue the Squid around her uterine squat in order to get a good reading. When she finally DID manage to get a handle on the little bugger, she said, "Ah."

"Ah?" I said.

"I was wondering why I couldn't find the heartbeat where I was expecting it. The baby's breech at the moment!"

This was not exactly news that I wanted to jump up and down about, even assuming that I was CAPABLE of jumping up and down any more.

People make a pretty big deal about the METHOD in which babies come into the world. I would certainly be the first to admit that this is a VERY big deal to a lot of women and with seemingly unnecessary c-sections on the rise, (more down OBGYNS who are anxious to get back to the golf course rather than a SUDDEN INABILITY OF WOMEN TO DELIVER BABIES NATURALLY. Seriously, I don't for a minute believe that our pelvises have been evolutionarily sabotaged in the last 30 years.) it's even MORE of a thing; creating feelings of weakness and guilt for women who are rushed into surgery. It's taken me a good few years to process the ordeal of the Prawn's birth but after a few chats with a very helpful hospital midwife, had begun to hope to take the natural route this time around.

However, if the Squid remains resolutely head up, in four weeks, I'll be scheduled in for an elective c-section 2 weeks after that whether I like it or not.

There are several things wrong with this.

a) GETTING CUT OPEN AGAIN WHILE AWAKE. I can not over-emphasise how fucked up this is. This is something that happens in horror films. (Luckily, at no time during the Prawn's birth did any of the surgeons gloatingly attempt to show me my lower intestine.)

b) 6 weeks is in no way enough time for me to pick enough underpants up off the bedroom floor to fit in a moses basket. Also, there's a not insignificant mildew problem that needs some serious attention before we end up with sentient fungus.

c) Do you have any idea where our bottle sterilizer went? Cause I don't. Also, the crib?

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

Do I wish for an end to c-sections? Of course not. They undoubtedly give a fighting chance to mothers and babies that under other circumstances, would not have been so lucky. But I can't tell you how much I don't want another one.

So I will be spending the next 4 weeks trying desperately to get the Squid interested in the upside down lifestyle. One website recommended putting headphones down your pants and trying to "coax" the baby down with Mozart. (It occurs to me that moving the headphones up to the top of the belly and replacing Mozart with Wu Tang Clan might be more effective.) However, I think I'll stick to bouncing on our newly ordered exercise ball, spending some time on my hands and knees and maybe joining the Prawn in the enthusiastic dance routine she's developed to "Single Ladies".

Or maybe I should just get on with picking up those underpants.

New Friends

2010-01-20T16:20:00.002Z

So, here's the fun bit about socialism.

Since I had the Prawn, a "Health in Pregnancy" grant has been introduced that gives every pregnant women past the 25th week £190. To buy fruit, presumably. However, I think I'm not speaking out of turn when I say that most women don't, in fact, use the money on organic bananas.

Since we're fairly sure that the Squid will be a girl, there' s not a huge amount that needs buying. However, as soon as the £190 hit my account, I immediately bought everything that DID need buying. These essentials including new, PBA-free bottles, (while I intend to give breast feeding another shot, I want to be prepared) a moses basket that hasn't been sitting and moldering in the attic for 3 years, a new and more ergonomic baby sling instead of investing in a double buggy and lastly, the little fellow above.

It is difficult to explain the affection that I hold for the Prawn's favorite toy, the infamous Mr. Moo. He's like her little avatar; if you've ever read His Dark Materials, you could almost say I think of him as her Daemon. She is never without him, his tail or horns shoved up her nose or in her ear. (making frequent washings VERY necessary.) So, I suppose we're hoping on going two for two with Frank and Fischer toys, because two little pigs arrived in the post yesterday along with the more boring and practical things. Why two? Well, we've learned that you just don't screw with fate when it comes to favorite toys. Moo and his almost doppleganger, Moo Too, are in constant rotation (although we always have to go through "Moo's wearing his white hat today" when Moo Too comes out since he has different colored horns) so we thought getting two pigs was probably the best option.

And if the Squid isn't a fan...the other can go to some other lucky little person.

Headlines

2010-01-08T15:17:00.003Z

Having spent two days over the last 8 or so on trans- Atlantic flights (WHICH, by the way are not exactly designed for the comfort of your average knocked up person), my levels of cranky are slightly elevated in any case. But then there are days when the universe says, "This day? Not so much for you."

It began with a total stranger in a car shouting at me that I was a "dippy tart" due to the fact that I couldn't move forward 2 inches in a traffic jam. I honestly couldn't. I was already vehicularly sodomizing the car in front of me on a treacherously slippery road and was not going to risk kissing their bumper, so I smiled a friendly smile at the gesticulating BMW driver and gave him the finger. I fantastized, of course, about rolling down my window and equating his need to abuse a pregnant woman on the way to a midwife appointment with his microscopic genitalia, but I refrained and simply turned up my radio instead to block out the torrent of abuse I could hear coming through both his and my window.

After said midwife appointment, (which went just dandy, thank you) I decided to brave the supermarket, which was obviously an idea that everyone else who has been stranded for days in their own homes due to the depraved indifference of the local councils during the recent snow had, because it was packed to pre-Christmas levels.

Being pregnant, does not, as you might believe, keep people from ramming shopping trolleys into you. In fact, I was run into no less than 4 times. The final ramming came from behind, made me jump and accidentally run into another woman. I profusely apologized, but was still treated to a "bitch" by my entirely able bodied victim as she rather exaggeratedly limped away.

By the time I arrived at the checkouts, I was biting my tongue and trying not to announce to the entire store that they were all bastards and I hoped they'd all get hemorrhoids when the woman behind me smiled sweetly and said, "Ooo! Not long now!"

"Pardon?" I said.

"When are you due?"

"Oh, right. March."

"NO. Really?? But you're so BIG!"

Oh.
My.
God.

But wait. There's more.

The checkout woman then followed this lovely observation with:

"How're you feeling? A bit fat and fed up?"

WHAT.
THE.
ACTUAL.
FUCK.

It was at this moment that the large jar of spaghetti sauce that I'd just purchased made a valiant bid for freedom and plummeted to it's rather messy doom on the floor, earning me withering looks from surrounding customers, who didn't know how lucky they were that, in my rage, I didn't pick up one of the large, jaggedly broken pieces of glass and become probably the most interesting newspaper headline of the year in the Aylesbury Vale.

Pregnant Slasher Rampage At Local Tesco

Not so much for me, with today.

Better?

2009-12-16T15:45:00.001Z

New look for a new year. :)

Broken Blog

2009-12-14T15:56:00.002Z

So, a few weeks ago, there was a catastrophe in rockmama serverland. Although I feel lucky that some of my other on-line endeavors survived at ALL, Prawn Cocktail (Soon to become Seafood Cocktail) has been a bit borked ever since as all of the images were stored on the unfortunately deceased hard drive. So, until I come up with a better design, this rather minimalist approach will have to do.

26 weeks and all seems to be well. I had my swine flu jab without incident; although I determinedly sought the "safe" vaccine from at least 6 different sources, I was rather crossly denied at every turn. "If you're not allergic to eggs, tough toenails," was pretty much the stock response. However, today my sister-in- law (who visits the same doctor at the same surgery, is only 3 weeks ahead of me in pregnancy and isn't allergic to eggs either) informed me that she was offered it without even asking, but PLEASE DON'T GET ME STARTED because lord knows my acid reflux is already about as bad as it can possibly be bar me helping it along with the consumption of fizzy drinks, spicy food and the contents of a car battery.

Squid is wriggly more than not. The Prawn was a fairly lazy womb dweller, often necessitating the deployment of the Prawn Detection Device (my home doppler) to make sure that she was still ticking along nicely in there. The Squid leaves no illusions as to her status with frequent jabs to my already delicate stomach and bladder at all hours of the day and night. Since the Prawn has been anything BUT lazy on the outside, perhaps The Squid will be a more relaxed and chilled out soul once in the world.

The Prawn, of late, has become a rather hellacious toddler, which, I'm lead to believe is what toddlers are meant to do, although when taking a screaming, kicking wildcat into her room for the 4th time in one day, you can't help but feel that maybe you are Doing Something Wrong. She has, however, been quite sweet about the pregnancy. (not quite sweet enough not to act up in public, but still.) She talks to Squid through my belly button.

"Hello baby! Is it comfy in there?"

She also likes to prod her father's belly and inform him that while mummy has a baby in her belly, he merely has biscuits.

I don't have any illusions about the Prawn grasping the concept of what "being a big sister" or "having a baby" actually MEAN at this point. The baby is an abstract, very different from the screaming, wrinkled little person that will be coming to stay FOREVER AND EVER at the end of March, right near her birthday. (It is completely possible that Squid and Prawn could SHARE a birthday, which might cause rumpuses later on in life.) I hope that she will accept the arrival with good grace, although, at the moment, virtually NOTHING she does is with good grace, so I'm not holding my breath. Perhaps more calm will descend the closer to 3 she gets. Or perhaps not.

Our first step toward our big move across the ocean has finally been taken; we have submitted our preliminary paperwork to get Mr. DD a green card. It is slightly dis-spiriting to see the excruciatingly slow "now serving" ticker on the website of the embassy, but knowing that our petition is finally in the system is a relief. We hope the interview process won't be utterly terrifying. I must soon start thinking about making an appointment to get the same process underway for the Prawn (more straightforward, since, as my offspring, she's entitled to US citizenship) so I can have some idea of how long it will take for the Squid.

Further updates as event warrant!

Abu el Banat

2009-11-03T14:47:00.001Z

After our last disastrously long wait at the hospital, both the Rock Star and I arrived with something to do this morning.

It’s a hideous autumn day here; alternating cold rain with bursts of sunshine, leading the unsuspecting out into the world sans umbrellas only to tip down on them again seconds later. After managing to aggressively pursue and capture one of the hospital’s elusive parking spaces, we splashed through the parking lot to the ante-natal clinic.

The outside of the clinic is always vaguely depressing due to the number of smokers (some of whom are even more depressingly pregnant) standing outside despite numerous signs in and around the hospital complex that reiterate the “HEY, THIS IS A MEDICAL FACILITY, DUMBASS, YOU CAN’T LIGHT UP HERE” message. So after running the gauntlet, we settled down into the waiting room, wondering if besides entertainment, we should have also thought to bring a camp stove and sleeping bags.

However, I’d not even had a chance to make it through the quotes in the preface of my novel before we were called back, more than making up for our marathon wait of a few weeks ago.

Our scan technician was an African gentleman with a positively bewildering accent. I always feel awful asking people with thick accents to repeat themselves, as it always feels more like a failing on MY part than anything else, but the simple phrase, “Do you have anything you’d like to ask me?” took a grand total of 4 repetitions to filter through into either mine or the Rock Star’s brains.

The scan went very well. All looks normal, which IS of course the most important thing. But of course, we were also kind of dying to know the gender.

One of our favorite TV shows of all time is The West Wing and The Rock Star has had this little monologue running through his head from the moment the scan technician opened his mouth to let us know the verdict.

PRESIDENT BARTLET
You know, 15 years ago, we took a trip to Egypt, all five of us, saw the
pyramids and Luxor, then headed up into the Sinai. We had a guide, a
Bedouin man, who called me “Abu el Banat.” Whenever we’d meet another
Bedouin, he’d introduce me as “Abu el Banat.” The Bedouin would laugh
and laugh and then offer me a cup of tea. And I’d go and pay them for
the tea, and they wouldn’t let me. “Abu el Banat” means “father of
daughters.” They thought the tea was the least they could do.

So, another girl for the Potahousehold. We’re looking forward to telling the Prawn the news, although my guess is that she’ll be like, “Sister! Great! Can I watch Dora now?” The reality of “competition” in the house probably won’t quite set in until the Squid is ensconced within our 4 walls. She is too young yet to understand that at the very least, she’ll get to do everything first, which will bug the living daylights out of Squid.

“She gets to wear make up! She gets to stay up later! She gets to wear a low cut dress! (don’t count on it) WHY CAN’T I??”

Of course, as with any scan that concludes that a fetus is a girl, we’ll still keep an open mind in case of hidden boyparts that might suddenly appear at birth.

Listening Skills

2009-10-19T16:18:00.000Z

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she'd gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an "I don't want to go to bed" type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn't be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn's arrival. This is a decision that I don't really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn't cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it's the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn't going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I'm concerned, that's the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant's appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, "HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE....if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?"

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it's finger on the little buzzer.

"Erm....really? It's not that big a deal. A little...um...ignorant, but probably not worth getting...erm...too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?"

"WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I'LL ASK FOR IT!" roared Rage.

"Yep, yep, okay, that's fine..." Self Control conceded.

"GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!"

"Yep, that's cool, I'm going...."

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I'm OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn't last long and we'd be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who'd come in for an early emergency scan who's mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all "just shove it." and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, "I'm off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!" (I'm terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn't know from appropriate anymore. I'm listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let's just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it's in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my "birth story", I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn't have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON'T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what's best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. "However low the bar is, don't worry, WE'LL SET IT LOWER!"

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn't really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin's autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I'm going through that again, I could do with whatever you're smoking.

What she responded with: "I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don't like to do Caeserians for purely social reasons."

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door "Shining" style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

"EXCUSE ME, LADY?" Rage screamed through the now splintered door. "WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?" Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON'T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We've been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I'm not 24. I'm 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I'm done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: "Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don't want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control."

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

"I'M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON'T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I'VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN'T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!"

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn's birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it's in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital's "Afterthought" service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to "talk to someone" in order to "process previous birth issues". The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can't have another one because you don't have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven't grasped what "never having any more kids" means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that's your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

Updates

2009-10-14T15:14:00.002Z

So, where were we?

Ah yes. The Squid.

17 weeks today and all is going well. I had an appointment today with a very jolly midwife (who I wish I got to see ALL the time) who pronounced everything normal and above board. The Squid co-operated with the doppler, reassuring us that he/she is still jiving away in his/her uterine squat. In 3 weeks, we go in for the anomaly scan at which point hopefully we'll figure out if we have to buy a whole heap of clothes that aren't pink. I also have a consultant's appointment next week in which to discuss birth options (since the Prawn was a c-section) and also future contraceptive plans. (Tie those puppies off while you're in there!)

In other news, the Prawn spent Saturday running her father back and forth to the toilet and at one point, while seated on the throne, she began singing a lusty chorus of "Rule Britannia" (a natural potty song, I think you'll agree) which just about had Mr. DD paralytic on the floor with laughter. It made me sad to think that my mother-in-law (who, if there was a merciful deity, would NOT still be alive and suffering from CJD) was not about to see this, because I believe she would also have just about wet her knickers on the spot. ( No doubt, if my mother-in-law was about, the Prawn would already know a LOT of other songs, not all of them fit for polite company.)

Squid

2009-09-24T10:56:00.003Z

14 weeks and all seems to be well.

The Squid (as this little bugger shall be known) seems to be doing his/her uterine thing. Little wiggles are detectable now, if I'm sitting or lying just the right way and I found the little escape artist's heartbeat for the first time just 15 minutes ago with my Home Sanity Saving Kit (My doppler) although, unlike the Prawn, who was happy to sit still while being poked and prodded, The Squid seems to like his/her personal space and will wriggle away from the magic pointy wand.

Mr. DD and I have been speculating as to the gender of The Squid since the 13 week scan went well. Although there's no scientific basis, since this pregnancy has already been vastly different, I'm beginning to be convinced that The Squid possesses a dingle dangle. Of course, I was convinced that the Prawn was a boy and THAT assumption cost me five quid to a friend who was equally certain she was a girl.

Six more weeks to wait and wonder!

UPDATE!

Just got the Nuchal Translucency test results and the Squid is decidedly LOW RISK for Downs. The Prawn was high risk, (1 in 230) so I was dreading the worry again, but the Squid is 1 in 8900. Go sqiddy!

2009-09-14T14:55:00.002Z

So.

I was bleeding.

A lot.

It was red.

Did I mention that there was a lot?

I was escorted this morning to Waiting Room C at the hospital. I've been in it before, so I knew the way. While I'm glad this waiting room exists, it sucks. It's at the back of the antenatal unit, far away from pregnant bellies, but it' s tiny, and cold. It's the room for the early pregnancy unit where they also tend to put women who's scans won't be showing them anything to be happy about.

They finally did call my name and while waiting for the scan tech, I thought, "By the end of today, this is all going to be over. I can have a good cry tonight and then try to figure out what to do next." I was told in A&E on Saturday that they could book me in for an immediate D&C following the scan if need be. So I came totally prepared with pajamas, socks, pads and two books.

So imagine my absolute fucking shock when the technician turned the monitor my way.

"So, okay, here's your baby, and here's the heartbeat..."

Excuse me, the what?

Despite the copious red blood, despite everything...still there. My cervix is closed, the placenta is firmly attached and NOT covering my cervix, so she basically had no explanation for the blood other than "Sometimes women bleed during pregnancy." Of course, this has certainly not been the case for me. Some women may bleed during pregnancy, but I sure as hell haven't been one of them. If I see blood, RED blood, it's always been game over.

The NT scan, luckily, is booked for Thursday, so I'll have some more reassurance later in the week.

The scan put me at 12.5 weeks. This is my fifth pregnancy, but only my second ever second trimester.

I can't say how sorry I am for the roller coaster ride. From now on, I shall keep my mouth firmly shut in the event of any more scary shit until I know one way or the other. Thank you all so much for riding it with me.

2009-09-12T08:04:00.001Z

Fuck the universe right in the ear.

I am official done with this reproducing shit.

On the way to hospital again.

Speechless

2009-08-28T12:02:00.003Z

Okay, first things first.

9w 3d and we have a really little jumping bean with fingers and everything. I have finally gathered the courage to register with the midwife. Roll on, end of the first trimester.

Secondly.

I received a bill yesterday from Dr. BTG that had apparently been rejected by my insurance company. Hoping it was a mistake, I phoned them up only to be told by an Eastern European customer care operative that their "policy regarding fertility matters" had changed rather recently and my claims were now NOT covered. I commented on how nice it was to tell me this when I first sent them a letter detailing my treatment back in July. I could almost audibly hear the woman on the phone shrug her shoulders.

So, we were now responsible for £900 pounds of doctor's bills. I had a good old cry, upsetting the Prawn in the process, until Mr. DD pointed out that it was only money and we could probably take care of that amount in 3 or 4 months with careful budgeting. He is always right.

So, I had my final appointment with Dr. BTG this morning. The scan went very well and then, as we were leaving, I told him that the remainder of the bills needed to be forwarded to us rather than the insurance company.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, waving his hand dismissively, "just pay me in champagne."

We laughed.

"I'm serious," he said, "say...two bottles per visit, six in total?"

Then I nearly cried. Instead of owing £900, we were now only responsible for approximately £200 quid in champagne. (We WILL be getting the good stuff!)

Today was a Good Day.

Hmmmm...

2009-08-11T10:48:00.002Z

So, I had an appointment on for a scan this morning.

I was expecting the worst.

But there was a heartbeat.

I can't count chickens, as I have seen a heartbeat before and had things go wrong, but it's better than a kick in the teeth.

2009-08-05T12:39:00.003Z

I haven't quite figured out how to leave the house yet. In other words, it always feels a little weird to be a sane person who realizes that they're going crazy.

Dr. BTG was trying to be optimistic. "Don't worry." he said. "Come back in two weeks." Forums, after all, are filled with "I didn't see the HB at 6 weeks, but it was there at 8!" happy endings, but I'm guessing that in two weeks, I'm not going to need another sonogram to tell me what's happening because....well, it's me, isn't it?

There's some tightening. And cramping. And the nausea. (Did I mention that I feel atrociously ill?) But no blood. Really, body? You're REALLY going to drag this out?

But of course, it's the limbo that's the worst. Until I get the results of the blood test that should tell me conclusively what's going on, I'm just kind of waiting it out.

The Mr thinks we should give it a rest for a while. Get back on the happy pills for a while. Get back into exercise. Be able to enjoy our Prawn and the rest of the summer worry free. I think I may be inclined to agree. It's just trying to get past the worry of having all of the baby stuff taken care of by the time we leave these shores and suddenly find that anything medical shoots up in price by 300%. I worry about my age. I worry about the widening age gap between a second sibling and the Prawn. I worry about money. I worry about how many more miscarriages I can endure both physically and emotionally.

I've been thinking about my life at the moment like a patch of scorched earth. Every time green shoots of renewal start to poke through the surface, another fucking rain of fire just come out of the sky.

I'm just talking here, people, I don't know where I'm going with this.

Update:

Got a call from Dr. BTG saying all looked well with bloods. Slightly low on progesterone, but wants me to go back to shots.

So, still have no idea. Still waiting for answers.

This record sucks? Can we dance to a different one?

2009-08-03T17:00:00.001Z

So.

6 weeks.

No heartbeat.

All Hail Captain Overreaction

2009-07-27T12:46:00.002Z

Okay, in my defense, since when have I ever seen blood and everything has been okay?

So...actually still pregnant. I know, right? I'm batting 1 for 5 at the moment, and I know I certainly can't count on number 5. I have an appointment with Dr. Bow Tie Guy a week from today to see what might be able to be done to improve the odds of an actual baby resulting from this. According to the epic blood test that I had a while back, I'm slightly low in two proteins that are essential, but Dr. BTG didn't think they were causing my problems. So....I guess we'll see.

We're keeping very quiet at the mo (except, of course for posting it publicly on this blog) as sis-in-law is also pregnant at the mo. I know that she was worried about telling me the news (I would have been to if I'd been in her shoes) and don't want to make it any more awkward for her should everything go pear shaped again. I want her to feel like she can talk to me and share her happiness, even if it DOES suck for me, cause she's awesome and we're family.

Thanks to all of you who commented on the last post; I know you've all been following my story for a while, as I've been following yours. It means a lot to me that you're all cheering me on.

2009-07-22T10:25:00.002Z

If my body belonged to someone else, I would be plotting revenge.

I would be trying to figure out how to break into her house. How to deface her blog. How to hurt her even a fraction as much as she'd hurt me.

Two words.

Chemical pregnancy.

I despise my body.

More Than a Feeling

2009-07-17T16:01:00.002Z

Just to show that I'm not all doom and gloom...

Mr. DD is, at present, participating in the annual Pepper Show which he's been involved with for a number of years. Every night for some time now, after we get home, he kisses the Prawn goodnight and tells her that "daddy is going to play guitar", so I thought it was probably time she got to SEE him do it. Last night was the final dress rehearsal, so Prawn and I went along.

A two year old has about as much ability to sit still as a giraffe has to be inconspicuous, so my hopes for staying were not high. However, I was to be astonished.

The Prawn was enthralled. Enraptured. Utterly attentive. Completely and totally thrilled. AND HAPPY TO STAY IN HER SEAT FOR 45 MINUTES WITHOUT THE ASSISTANCE OF SESAME STREET.

She jigged. She bounced. She clapped and waved her arms. She totally moshed out to Boston. She shouted "YAY! ANOTHER ONE!" after every number. I cannot even begin to tell you how thrilled I was that she enjoyed herself so very much. My kid already likes live music! And she's only two!

I must admit to being filled with heady thoughts of summer festivals in the future, my little headbanger dancing like a wild monkey. :)

OMG. WTF.

2009-07-14T21:08:00.003Z

There are some moments when you worry about your mouth hanging open for so long, there's a good possibility of drooling on your own shirt. Today was one of those days.

Many moons ago, I waxed lyrical about the mother of mine and Mr. DD's goddaughter, who is practically a baby herself at 23 (this is not to say that there are not perfectly mature 23 year olds out there, but when I was 23, I thought that running naked across a soccer field at 3 am made me REALLY COOL, so maybe that just puts the whole issue to rest right there.) and one of those people who honestly just reacts to stimulus rather than thinking deeply into anything. This is not to say that she is a bad person. She is a young person who has had a very, very easy ride and will continue to do so.

I took the Prawn over to play with said goddaughter who is a little over half a year older than she is. While they were in a bedroom wrecking havoc, The Barmaid and I chatted about not particularly challenging issues, but finally we did come round to "so, you guys thinking of having another one?"

"Well," I said, "I actually WAS pregnant earlier this year, but I miscarried in March. I went to the hospital for a surgical option."

"Oh my god!" she said, leaning in conspiritorially, "Surgery is so WEIRD! I've had two abortions since I've been with *insert name of current boyfriend*!"

The thing is, I would have expected to become enraged or emotional at this idea that somehow having a surgical solution to a miscarriage and oh, HAVING A FUCKING ABORTION were in any way similar, but somehow, it really just washed right over me. It was rather like hearing a two year old say the word "cocksucker" because they figured out how to use the remote and had been watching "Die Hard" for the last few hours. I knew that it honestly didn't occur to her that this might be in some way an innapropriate comparison to make.

"Oh." I said. "Did you skip a pill or something?"

"No. We just weren't using anything."

THEY JUST WEREN'T USING ANYTHING, FOLKS. YOU HEARD IT HERE.

I need a drink.

Familiar Territory

2009-06-22T13:33:00.003Z

Been a while since I posted.

Have been a bit down recently about the whole miscarriage thing. I don't know if I didn't have time AT the time to process much or if I thought it shouldn't bug me because I already have a kid or what, but I'm finding it hard to look at pregnant bellies again.

It's hard, with secondary infertility, to feel that you have the right to complain at all. I mean, you already HAVE the one thing that so many other people would give their right arm for: a happy, healthy child. It feels GREEDY to be sad; to long for another baby.

While at home in the States recently, an old high school friend stopped by to visit. We got pregnant within a few weeks of each other. I knew it would be hard to see her, but didn't really feel like I was close enough with her to say, "Hey, you know you're awesome and all, but I think it might be a little difficult for me at the mo." So, along she came, big belly and all.

And it sucked. I hope it didn't come through in my demeanor exactly how much it sucked, but it did.

Some of our best friends Blighty-side are also expecting again; after a long battle to conceive, I might add. (She suffers from PCOS) I know we need to get together with them, but at the moment, I don't know how to get through the evening.

I need permission to feel sad. From someone. Anyone.

She Gets Cookies for Dinner

2009-04-22T15:43:00.002Z

Prawn: “Daddy has a big mouth!”

Mr. DD: “Well that’s not very nice is it? How would you like it if I said you had a big bum?”

Prawn: “BIG BUM!”

Mr. DD: “Does Prawn have a big bum?”

*Prawn sticks bum up in the air*

Prawn: “YES!”

Mr. DD: “I see. Does daddy have a big bum?”

Prawn: “YES! Daddy big bum!”

Mr. DD: “Right. What about mummy? Does mummy have a big bum?”

Prawn: ” uhhhhhhhhh … ”

Prawn: ” ummm … NOPE. Mummy SMALL bum”

My child is only 2 and knows when to tell the right kind of lie.

The Street

2009-04-22T13:05:00.000Z

I’ve having one of those sunrise/sunset moments at present. The Prawn has discovered Sesame Street.

And when I say discovered, what I actually mean is, lives, breathes and eats The Street. There is not a moment of the day when she does not wish to be worshiping at the feet of St. Elmo. (And not the 80’s brat pack feature, although one might say that the unchanging nature of Rob Lowes good looks might have a slightly holy bent to it.) We only have about 7 episodes ranging from newer (probably 2007 or so) to older (late 90’s, judging by the “computer” episode where Telly Monster shows you how to load a floppy disk into a machine that takes up 3/4ths of the desk that it’s sitting on.) so needless to say the Rock Star and I are frantically trying to get our hands on more so that we don’t want to commit suicide.

I embellish. To be truthful, I’m fairly happy to sit down with the Prawn and watch Sesame Street as it still features a lot of the fun, grainy clips that I remember from my childhood. The trippy 12 song, with the latest disco beats and just-about- post LSD era animations of a pinball traveling through national landmarks came up almost immediately. And how great is it to see that at least half of the original cast is STILL PLUGGING AWAY after 32 years? And that all of the muppets finally sound the way they did before Jim Henson went ot the big, googly-eyed felt pile in the sky? (Big kudos to Eric Jacobson and Steve Whitmeyer) While all of this was incredibly exciting to me, the Prawn just wanted to know when Elmo was coming back.

It’s my belief that someone should study the whole Elmo phoenominon. Until last week, the Prawn had never seen Elmo. Never heard of Elmo. But the moment she was introduced, it was love at little, furry, red monster sight. I’m not really sure how to feel about Elmo, especially the “Elmo’s World” segments which are generally pretty inane, but there’s obviously something about him which causes immediate crack brain in children. (I actually think the biggest surprise about Elmo for me was the person who voices him. I was pretty sure it was a woman for a long time, but it turns out it’s an enormous black guy called Kevin Clash who does some directing on the show as well.) So how does he do it? Subliminal messages? Rays from space? Whatever it is, I wish he was sharing, because if I could hold the Prawn’s attention like that, I’d have it made.

But anyway, it’s all a little surreal to be watching a show that I watched as a child with all the same characters 30 years later with my own little girl on my lap.

ONE! ONE HAPPY MEMORY! TWO! TWO HAPPY MEMORIES! THREE! THREE HAPPY MEMORIES. AH AH AH!

Why, if I were not married to Mr. DD, I would seriously try to woo Mr. BTG

2009-04-06T12:28:00.002Z

So, can I just say that I love my specialist?

I've had a couple of weeks to process and am started to feel a little normalized, although my new normal probably includes about 8 pounds that I put on while I was pregnant. I have no doubt that my Wii Fit will mock me when I step back on the balance board this evening.

I wrote a long letter to Mr. BTG last week detailing my unfortunate experience and was enormously pleased to get a prompt response.

So, not only is he going to do the basic "let's find out if there's an easy solution to this" testing, but is going to try to get me referred to St. Mary's recurring miscarriage clinic in London, which is one of the best units in the country. While he's not entirely sure that I fit the criteria, he's going to do his darndest to get them to see me.

"We WILL win. I promise you." he ended his letter.

I TOTALLY believe him.

The Long Story: Cherry Blossom

2009-03-26T21:41:00.002Z

When I was about 10 or 11, my mother, myself and my late and sainted Great Aunt Myrtle (sainted not only due to the fact that she was the nicest lady that you’d ever want to meet, but because she was married for a rather long time to my “uncle” Charles; he of the terrible driving, mouth like a sailor and teller of inappropriate stories.) traveled to Kansas for the wedding of one of my cousins. We were put up in the house of a generous friend of the family and all bunked in the same room.

After an hour or two on the first night of our stay, it became clear to my mother and I that dear, sainted Aunt Myrtle snored like a congested Army cadet sleeping off a week long hangover after shore leave. To combat this aural assault, my mother turned on the air conditioner and returned to a few hours of slumber. However, this method turned out not the be foolproof, as Aunt Myrtle was delicate of composition, awakened to a chill in the air and rose to turn off the unit. Of course, this cycle was repeated many times a night and all of us returned to Maryland happy to have witnessed the wedding, but even happier to get a good night’s sleep. (All I can say is that Uncle Charles must have been deaf as well as crazy.)

It was this trip that I recalled as I tried to catch a few winks on the hospital ward on Sunday night, while both of my ward mates did their best impression of bunged up hippopotimi.

This was not the blog entry I wanted to write this week.

Since the last pregnancy went so well, we figured that my body had probably sussed out this whole baby-building thing, so I decided to be as Zen as possible and hopefully all would be well.

I’d be forgiven for being optimistic when, last Thursday, I finally reached the magic 12 week mark without incident. Saturday was the Prawn’s birthday, we had friends coming to celebrate, life was good.

But then, on Friday, there was blood.

After a rather predictably useless visit to A&E that night that yielded little more than a bad bruise due to an over enthusiastic medical student’s blood taking attempt, my fears of the worst had to be put aside in order to put the finishing touches on 48 pink and yellow cupcakes.

In the grand scheme of things, the one mercy that I was afforded over the weekend, was that the day of the party, I was able to be wholly there for my daughter and even managed to have a great time with family and friends even though I knew that I was probably staring down the inevitable. The Prawn’s ecstatic face when she noticed that we’d decked the ceiling with helium balloons was reason enough to be cheerful. Being able to watch her hugging and kissing her godsister and the two of them laughing like a pair of loons while playing together…fantastic.

However, on Sunday, it was pretty apparent that all was about to go pear shaped, so back to the hospital we went.

Our first point of contact was the most uninterested Ukranian medical foot soldier who could not have been more unhappy about working the Sunday night sports injury/domestic violence shift. (Seriously, guys, you’re REALLY wanting to go to the emergency room because you tripped while playing football and have a bit of a swelling on your ankle? SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP; USE AN ICE PACK.) It’s no bloody wonder, really, judging by the state of of my fellow A&E patients. However, unlike most of them, I was admitted after actually being able to see a doctor that specialized in, oh, what was actually wrong with me. (As relieved at I was to see an OBGYN, I am still suffering from her efforts to insert a canula in my hand; I am the proud owner of a 3 inch long bruise running down my arm. Both she and Mr DD were alarmed at the small, red fountain that erupted.)

My previous experience on a hospital ward during the week that I had the Prawn loomed large in my mind as I was wheeled up to where they stashed gyn patients. (Anyone who’s able bodied who has been stuck in a wheelchair will tell you that this is a vaguely humiliating experience.) However, the wing that I was escorted to was newer, cleaner and by FAR more comfortable than Labor and Delivery. (My guess is that since L&D is a constant revolving door of a place, it can never been quite as well looked after. ) I quietly slipped into the dignity-stripping hospital issue nightgown, tearfully said goodnight to Mr. DD, and after giving up on getting something to eat (I hadn’t had anything since 3 in the afternoon) tried to catch as much sleep as humanly possible between the nocturnal apnea antics of my two ward mates.

Morning on the wards starts at 6. As it was likely I was going to be offered surgery sometime that day, my chart was stamped with a large “DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS” sign, guaranteeing an entire day of a mouth that tasted like the underside of a city bus. I had little to do but wait for the scan that was scheduled for 8.30 that would inevitably show me what I already knew to be true, so I passed the time dozing while listening to the two other ladies (who had obviously been on the ward for some days) complaining about the time it took to get their pain medication.

Since Mr DD had to drop The Prawn off at nursery around 8, making the scan at 8.30 was always going to be a bit of an ask, but when I realized that I was about to be wheeled down to the antenatal wing by myself, I couldn’t help but feel slightly desperate. The feeling of desperation increased when I and my unnecessary chariot were left by the reception desk to watch a parade of endlessly pregnant bellies and beaming mothers walk through for their appointments. Luckily, one of the receptionists showed an ounce of common sense and wheeled me back to a waiting room that was obviously reserved for appointments such as mine, far away from the main waiting room, where I don’t mind saying that I finally completely lost my shit. The scan technicians kindly delayed for 10 minutes in the hope that Mr DD would be able to make it, but when it became apparent that I was holding everything up, I let them know that it was fine to go ahead.

It’s one thing to know something in your gut, but it’s quite another to have it graphically confirmed. Although I was technically 12 weeks pregnant, the fetus had stopped growing at 8 weeks. Since the bleeding had taken so long to start, the diagnosis was: missed miscarriage. The scan technician was very sympathetic, but apparently, in cases such as this, a diagnosis has to be confirmed by a senior technician, so I was left alone in the room, shivering and covered with ultrasound goo with a junior nurse who had no clue what to say to me. Not that I blame her; what in the hell DO you say to someone who’s just seen a dead baby? So, she fell back on what most people do: “Where’s your accent from?”, which turned into, “Oh, from near Washington DC, huh?” which, even MORE oddly turned into, “Is that where Natasha Richardson was from?”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS WITH THAT? DO YOU THINK I WANT TO TALK ABOUT A CELEBRITY WHO DIED BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO DUMB TO WEAR A HELMET WHILE PARTICIPATING IN A SNOWSPORT RIGHT NOW?” I wanted to shout. But of course, I didn’t and said something along the lines of, “No, she lived in New York. That was a real shame.”

Lucky for me, the door opened at that moment and Mr DD appeared with the senior technician, which was an enormous relief. The senior tech confirmed her junior’s findings and I was sent back up to the ward to wait for a doctor to discuss my options.

Stoke Mandeville is not immune to basic NHS problems, the two biggest of them, in my view are understaffing and bad communication. Suffice to say that it was about 2 hours before the doctor came to see me and then I was pretty much forgotten about until around 3 when the Rock Star finally cornered a nurse and asked her politely, but firmly if she could please find out what in the name of holy hell was going on. I was now going on 24 hours of food and water deprivation (although I’d been given a saline drip to keep me hydrated, this did nothing for my Bus Mouth) and was starting to feel woozy. Not only that, but the Prawn’s going-home time was approaching and we, as of yet, had no idea how we were going to get her.

FINALLY, at 4 pm, a trolley arrived to take me down to the theatre. When faced with the prospect of surgery, it’s natural to think PAST it, but when actually confronted with it, lying on a gurney in the ante-room of the operating room, panic kicks in a little bit. Especially when the first person you see coming out of the theatre is a large man, sucking on a lollipop, covered in tattoos and dressed in scrubs. My moment of predjudice was an odd one; how am I, who have no fewer than 6 tattoos myself, to justify a feeling of dread upon discovering that this be-inked individual is the “master of surgery”? (Meaning, I think that he is responsible for everything and everyone in the theatre being exactly where they should be.) I suppose, when you’re about to trust your anethesthtised body to perfect strangers, that you crave gravitas, which, sadly, tattoos do not always convey. However, he was extremely competant, despite my reservations regarding the sanitary nature of eating sweets in a sterile environment.

The anesthetist was undoubtedly my favorite character of the experience; a rather short and camp character, he winked at me as he began preparing syringes and asked sympatheticly how long I’d been waiting.

“I was admitted last night.” I told him, welling up a little.

“Oh, you poor lamb! Such a long wait!” he said, patting my shoulder, “Let’s get you a gin and tonic.”

I’ve been under the influence of anesthetic a good many times and recognised the feeling as he administered what I termed, “the good stuff.” He laughed. “Yes, that was the good stuff. Nighty night, my love.”

The dose must have been relatively light. I’ve always struggled to fight through the fog of anesthetic while post op nurses cajole me to open my eyes. But this time, when I heard the mention of a cup of tea, I was wide awake. Although I’m notoriously picky about tea, the cup of hospital issue overstewed brown water tasted like the nectar of heaven after over 26 hours with no food or drink.

I was released at around 9.30pm.

It’s kind of hard to describe the feeling upon returning home. The relief that I’d felt in the hospital to have everything over and done with gave way to sadness a bit. Two days ago, I’d been pregnant. Now I’m not.

A family member who’s also experienced pregnancy loss wrote to me of her disappointment during one spring season, when wild thing start to bloom. “How can I grieve so much over a zygote smaller than a cherry blossom?” she said, “But I think of those little lost potentials every cherry blossom season.”

It’s this that is most distressing during pregnancy loss; the loss of potential. There is little anyone can do upon seeing two bright lines on a pregnancy test but begin to imagine the change in their lives that will be caused by a life to come and what that small bright spark might bring. When the bright spark is gone, the loss of it’s promise is as devastating as the physical loss to the body.

Everything that I know tells me that this was most likely bad luck. Our bodies have a good sense of self-preservation and know not to waste energy on a pregnancy that will not result in a healthy baby, but it’s hard to want to thank your body for what feels like an act of biological treason. It’s difficult to learn to like yourself again.

But all of you guys know all of this far too well.

Despite my experience, I am optimistic and grateful. I have a supremely amazing and beautiful daughter and a partner who I can rely on unconditionally. We are healthy. We are solvent. We will try again.

We have much to look forward to.

Just a quick one..

2009-03-24T11:44:00.002Z

I was admitted to the hospital on Sunday night for a "surgical solution" to be performed yesterday afternoon. There were no problems and so far, no pain. Given the choice between this and a "natural" miscarriage, (which I've experienced twice before and found to be drawn out, painful and traumatic) I'd go for the surgical option any day.

Yeah, it blows. Both Mr. DD and I are really sad, but there's parenting to be done, so we're trying to keep it together as best we can.

The End

2009-03-21T09:14:00.002Z

It is the day of the Prawn's second birthday, and unfortunately, I believe that my pregnancy is over.

My body has a hell of a way of timing things. I was 12 weeks on Thursday and had dared hope that all would be well. But now there is blood. And there are cramps. And I have a party for 16 people to host this afternoon.

Any good thoughts that you can spare my way would be much appreciated.

Goodnight, Loon

2009-03-12T10:11:00.000Z

The Birth Story (For Reals This Time)

2009-03-09T14:54:00.003Z

I've been having some nigglings recently as the Prawn's second birthday approaches. The feeling in the air is the same as it was two years ago or something; the smell of spring. And it's stirred up an uncomfortableness that I've been having a hard time shaking.

The Prawn and I have been occasionally watching baby shows on Discovery Home and Health. I try not to traumatize her with "Home Birth Diaries" as this particular show often involves a lot of unmedicated screaming. (WHICH IS TOTALLY FINE, HOME BIRTH ADVOCATES, but I think it might kind of scare the crap out of my toddler.) However, there are a few that show much calmer births which don't seem to phase her at all. ("Baby coming out of mummy! Hello, baby!")

I've been looking at these natural births (both medicated and unmedicated) in envy recently and realized that the source of my discomfort has been stemming from my really quite shitty birth experience. It seems ungrateful, really, to class a birth experience as totally shitty since both the Prawn and I got to come home in one piece (albeit, I had a whopping great stitched up hole in my belly) but it's occurred to me more and more lately that a lot of the problems I had (and sometimes still have) relating to my daughter probably had their seeds in her birth.

Soon afterwards, I wrote the rather sanitized version. Long, but pithy enough to play down the serious trauma that I was feeling at the time. The only allusion to the unpleasantness of the whole affair were two sentences.

"Here is where I need to process. Two more days on the wards followed that I would sincerely like to forget about."

Well, I suppose two years is enough processing time.

I think the biggest thing for me was the sheer amount of time that I was left alone, both before and after the birth. I'd always imagined that I'd be able to labor with my husband beside me. This was not the case. I spent the majority of the time while I was having contractions completely by myself. I assumed that I'd be treated gently and with understanding. This was not the case either. Apart from 2 midwives who I had only the briefest time with, without exception, everyone that I dealt with seemed harassed and in no mood to deal with pregnant women. I felt TOTALLY alone.

After 3 days previous spent in labor on the ward, I was hovering on the edge of Bat Country by the time the Prawn showed up; I was THAT exhausted. While most women on the post natal ward had been admitted the night before, by the time the Prawn actually arrived, I was on my 4th night of lots of pain and no sleep. Of course, Mr. DD was ordered off the ward at 10pm, leaving me in the care of more surly midwives who were grievously over extended.

Thursday night (I went into the hospital on Sunday) was undoubtedly the low point of my then 32 years of life. The Prawn wasn't feeding well; my milk hadn't come in and she was positively screaming of hunger, keeping awake the 3 other women and babies on the ward (Don't get me started on the ward system, because my head will literally fall off.) which was yet another source of stress. (It's MY child keeping everyone awake) On a 4 day sleep jag, the walls were literally beginning to melt, so I hobbled down the hallway with the bassinet. I asked a nurse on duty (who was doing nothing but reading a magazine, I assure you) if she could pretty please cup feed the Prawn so that I could literally have 15 minutes of sleep. She said of course, so I went back and collapsed.

Two hours later, I woke up in a panic as the bassinet by my bed was still empty. I padded down the hall to the nurses station only to hear a conversation going on inside.

"She said she was tired."

"Bloody hell, she thinks she's tired now, just wait til she gets this little one home! What the hell does she think she's going to do then, pass her off to someone else?"

I'm not a paranoid person by nature, but even I realized that the two women inside were talking about me, so I walked straight in and have never seen two people come closer to pissing their pants.

The one who'd made the last unpleasant comment brightly said, "Alright love? You feeling better?"

"Give me my daughter." I told her. I wish now that I'd added, "and go straight to hell."

The next morning, during the consultants rounds, I told the doctor in no uncertain terms that if she didn't see fit to release me this afternoon, that I was walking out with my baby and she and everyone else could just sit and spin. Although they weren't happy about releasing a Cesarean patient a day early, (and they were right, too. The night I went home, I suffered a major drop in blood pressure) I think they could see the crazy starting to emerge from cracks in my facade.

As soon as I got in the car, I cried all the way home. I have never been so grateful to leave ANYWHERE in my life.

That covers me. But the Prawn was another matter.

The nature of the Prawn's birth made me feel assaulted by her presence. Watching natural births and even planned Cesarean births has made me realize beyond a shadow of a doubt that I did NOT have the kind of experience that was conducive to bonding with a baby. In the hospital and even for months after, she was a duty; this thing that appeared in my life that I was now responsible for and although I didn't resent her, I also didn't really feel much of anything whatsoever. Mr. DD spent a lot of time with her in those early months while I recuperated and processed and I truly wonder sometimes if that's why she sometimes shuns me now in favor of her father. Ironic, isn't it? Now that I AM head over heels in love with her, she wants little to do with me. While I know that it's a phase that she'll hopefully grow out of, it doesn't hurt any less when she shoves me aside, knowing that it's my own bloody fault.

Unfortunately, should this pregnancy come to term, I will be admitted to the very same hospital on the very same ward. I have experience on my side this time, and also the knowledge that the baby will be born on a specific date. I know that some women who end up with a traumatic Cesarean experience desperately want to experience a natural birth, but I am not one of these women. I don't feel like I "missed" anything. I'm not excited by the idea of a second Cesarean birth, but at least I'll feel ready for it. (although hopefully this time, the blasted epidural will last for the ENTIRETY of the operation.)

The Prawn, has of late, begun to understand what "love" means. Driving her to the indoor playground the other day, she began singing, "I love Mummy!" over and over again and grinning her most brilliant grin.

It almost makes it all go away.

The Crazy

2009-03-04T15:40:00.002Z

Yeah. 10 weeks. That's about my limit for my "twig in the stream" approach to this pregnancy.

Much fun was had the first time around with progesterone pessaries. Two little rocket shaped pellets of fun to be inserted straight up the yoo hoo every night before bed. Despite the gagaliciousness of this, it caused little difficulties apart from obsessive hand washing. However, this time around, my IBS has made the importation of these nasty little progesterone bullets a bit of a non-starter. The alternative venue for the pessaries is also a no-go due to my problems with Interstitial Cystitis.

So, after several weeks of this war of guts and waterworks, I slunk back to Dr. BowTieGuy to ask if there was, for the love of god, a better way.

Luckily, there is. I now receive weekly shots directly in the ass. While this doesn't sound ideal, TRUST me when I saw that it is the lesser of 3 evils, despite feeling as though someone has taken an airgun to my hind quarters.

Here is where the crazy comes in.

While taking the pessaries daily, I was aflicted with constant nausea, which sucks, but was at least reassuring. Since the shots began, the nausea has decreased markedly. So I'm left to wonder...am I actually getting enough progesterone? Has the sick gone because it's simply time for it to piss off or is something not happening that should be?

I've been working hard not to think too hard about the fact that I'm pregnant, because I'm secretly hoping that it will suddenly just be 12 weeks and all will be sunshine and rainbows. Well, partly that and partly that I simply don't have TIME to think about it due to a certain Prawn who wants "BOOKS!" or "JUICE!" "RIGHT NOW!". Roughly translated, I don't have quite as much time to puss around. Not reaching for that thing on the top shelf? Screw that. I have a 30 pound toddler to carry around; I do not have the luxury of being a delicate flower like I did in 2006. And also, the news blackout til week 12? TOTALLY freaking inconvenient. Have you ever tried to make an appointment with a midwife over the phone at work and manage NOT to say anything that might be interpreted by your fellow co-workers as pertaining to pregnancy?

But as much as I tried to convince myself that this was going to be a new, no nonsense pregnancy....the crazy still remains.

Prawn Quote of the Day

2009-02-24T14:22:00.002Z

Me: Darling, shall we pick up your blocks before naptime?

Prawn: (predictably) No!

Me: Come on, sweetpea, you KNOW that we put things away after we're done with them.

Prawn: (even more predictably, considering how close to naptime it is) No way!

Me: WREN....

Prawn: NO WAY DUDE!

You know, that was SO funny when we first taught her that.....

Now with more whining!

2009-02-17T14:43:00.003Z

I just wanted to take a second to thank all of you fabulous ladies out there who've come back to comment even though I abandoned this blog for the best part of a year. It's nice to know that even after this long, I'm not just pissing in the wind.

Speaking of pissing and wind... (did you like that segue?) the symptoms of my infestation are becoming slightly more pronounced. The frequent potty trips. The flatulence that can kill. Mr. DD has given me a free pass to let rip whenever without ridicule, but I have no such bargain with the Prawn, who will shout, "MUMMY TOOTED!" and laugh like a howler monkey before I managed to get the obligatory "pardon me" out. (Yep, she got my sense of humor. That's her inheritance; fart jokes)

The nausea is a LOT more pronounced at the moment than it was when I was carrying the Prawn, so I've found myself an avid consumer of Hoops (Spaghetti-O's for our American viewers) as it's the only thing that does NOT in fact make me want to hurl. Here are a list of things that DO make me want to hurl.

a) felt
b) buttons
c) the internet
d) my kitchen
e) my daughter's shampoo
f) everything else

WTF, hormones? What CONCEIVABLE reason could you POSSIBLY have for keeping me away from crafting products, the web and the place where I can get sustenance?

The sudden break from anti-depressants is also proving to be a bit of a trial. My depression has returned in much the same form that it took before I began taking Ciprolex, although I am willing to stick it out and see what happens after the first trimester. The way I feel right now would make the most pernicious Pollyanna into a cold, hard bitch, so I don't know if it's the best time to judge the seriousness of my emotional state.

Today, we had our second visit with Dr. Bow Tie Guy to check on the progress of said blob. The Prawn accompanied us today after much reassurance that while we WERE going to a doctor, it was not a doctor that was going to be touching HER. Despite these reassurances, she clung to Mr. DD for dear life until she became very sure that Dr. BTG had no evil designs in mind, such as trying to listen to her heartbeat or something similarly sinister.

She became much happier in the scanning room when the light was turned off and the Blob (New and Improved! Now with heartbeat!) was located very quickly. "BLOB!" she shouted happily, reducing the attending nurse to a fit of giggles. (and then more somberly, "Docta no poka Wren." which caused me no end of amusement, as it was what I promised her before we came into the building)

So the tale of blob continues! See the drama! Feel the nausea! Stay tuned.

The Old, the New and the Ugly

2009-02-06T17:49:00.002Z

So. A week of snow. A lot of time to sit indoors and concentrate on the things taking place in my nether regions while being the subject of constant demands for juice, milk, crayons, music, Baby Einstein, lollies and many other things too numerous to list. (Not that I begrudge the Prawn any of these things, but she's gotten to a stage when she believes that things with happen quicker if she repeats herself 457 times in a row.)

6 weeks is still FAR too early to count chickens, but since starting on the progesterone supplements, I'm beginning to be plagued by nausea, which, while hideous, it is a comforting thing, since I experienced it with the Prawn. It is also comforting since I never actually tossed my cookies while pregnant with the Prawn, but just felt rather unpleasantly like I had a bad hangover for 14 weeks.

Also? An Angry. I haz it. The Rage didn't hit me until later in pregnancy with the Prawn, but I seem to have gotten my hate on earlier this time. Maybe it never really left or maybe it has something to do with the fact that, the moment I saw the two lines, I had to quit my SSRI cold turkey which is the thing in the directions printed in bold saying, "FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, DO NOT GO OFF THESE THINGS ALL AT ONCE OR THERE IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY THAT YOU MIGHT RUN OUT INTO TRAFFIC." So, that's been fun. I checked with my GP to make sure that what I was doing was okay and he seemed to think that it was better safe than sorry, although he DID admit that a lot of drugs were probably okay for preganant women, but not enough research was available on the subject. So, on top of the normal uncontrollable weeping at advertisements on tv, I've got some serious brain chemical hoodoo working against me. It's a party.

There are two new factors this time around; one being a super boisterous Prawn and the other being a shiteous flare up of IBS. It's been pretty much non-existant until about 3 months ago when it decided to turn my bowels into a cramptastic fun zone and my stomach into a bloated nightmare.

I think this is going to be a longer 9 months than the first time around. Still, I'm thankful for this blob and all the mischief that it's causing. Keep on keeping on, little blob.

Good Luck Charm

2009-02-01T14:11:00.002Z

I'm just trying to remember how all of this works.

I got in for my first consultation with Dr. Bow Tie Guy on Friday. I'm constantly reminded of the disparity between the NHS and private care when I have the pleasure of attending clinics at Dr. Bow Tie Guy's base of operation. A beautiful waiting room with lovely, comfortable couches and a complementary coffee machine with ACTUAL MUGS to drink out of. Oh, and did I mention that the receptionist didn't look as if she wanted to spit on me when I arrived? LUXURY.

Dr. BTG's first questions for me related to my previous experiences in delivering the Prawn. "Normal birth?" he asked. It was lucky for me that I'd finished my coffee in the lobby so that there was no liquid to snort out of my nose in a distainful manner. As I wove my tale of 3 days in and out of labor and hideous internal examinations culminating in an emergency c-section, his brow furrowed.

"Where did this HAPPEN?" he asked.

I told him and he seemed supremely unsurprised. Hooray for the birthplace of my speculative second child!

Then came the moment that had been making me want to throw up since the moment I saw the two pink lines on the pee stick: the scan. I have, at least one other time, found out some of the worst news of my life while lying on my back without any underwear on, so the chance to put myself once again in this position had been making me feel completely nausious.

After parading down the hallway in a bathrobe slightly too short for purpose and exuding the supreme confidence that only someone wearing socks with no trousers can, I got straight back into the all to familiar stirups and held my breath.

So.

Theres a blob. It's the right size. It's where it's supposed to be. So that's going to have to be enough until I get to have another look the next time I'm summoned. I've been supplied with enough progesterone to shove up the tradesmans for the next month and a half, so we'll have to hope that said blob is happy enough in Chez Womb to stick it out.

Today I made myself a talisman. During my pregnancy with the Prawn, I made myself a small silver pendant adorned with a moonstone, meant to represent women, childbirth, etc, etc that I wore for the entire 9 months. However, due to the fact that it kind of cramped my fashion choices (the cord was red; the Chinese luck color. Yes, I'm a total gimp) this time, I've opted for a bracelet. So, me and the blob are all charmed up.

Fingers crossed.

Another ride on the Ferris Wheel

2009-01-26T11:29:00.003Z

I have to admit...it's been a while. Trying to balance 3 different blogs while simultaneously looking after a todder and running a moderately successful home crafting business have left little time for sitting down and tickling my keyboard. But I'm back for a reason.

In the last few weeks, I've been spending some big money. The first big blow out was on plane fare for the Prawn and myself to visit my parents in September. The other was for a membership at a new indoor snowslope that's opening right down the road.

So, on Saturday night, I discovered that I just wasted about 700 pounds.

That's right. The infamous pee stick came up with double pinks.

I went to my GP this morning for a new referral to Dr. Bow Tie Guy. I feel infinitely more positive about this pregnancy (which was TOTALLY wanted, btw, but came a little earlier than expected) knowing that I'm going to be under his care again and doing his utmost to make sure I get a live, take-home critter at the end of this experience.

Guns at the ready. Here we go again.

???!?!

2008-11-19T12:18:00.004Z

Excuse me, may I just scream at the world for a second?

WHY IN THE NAME OF HOLY HELL SHOULD I BE ASKED TO PAY FOR MY DAUGHTER TO GO TO NURSERY ON DAYS WHEN A) SHE'S NOT THERE AND B) NO OTHER FUCKER IS THERE EITHER? EXCUSE ME? I'M PAYING FOR DAYS WHEN SHE IS NOT ONLY ABSENT BUT THE ESTABLISHMENT IN QUESTION IS CLOSED??? HOW IS THAT EVEN A LITTLE BIT LEGAL?

Screaming over. Fuming remaining.

Not So Stupid

2008-11-15T10:26:00.004Z

The question is not "where have I been?". The question is rather "where HAVEN'T I been?" Either way, I've been utterly rubbish at blogging.

This morning, I was reminded more strongly than ever that I am now in possession of a fully fledged toddler. I know this because I realized I can no longer pull one over on her.

As toddlers are wont to do, The Prawn has two favorite stuffed toys. The loss of either would spell immediate doom. I blogged some time back about the loss of dear Humphrey, who, fortunately, had a stunt double waiting at home. This loss upset me far more than it did the Prawn, who immediately accepted the double as if he were the original. The double, I might add, is, at present sitting on the coffee table looking FAR tattier than the One True Humphrey EVER did. The only reason he has been allowed to get to this state is because Humphrey III (yes, there is a Humphrey III, soon to be joined by Humphrey IV for our travel to the States) was the victim of a late night vomit attack and is languishing in a very large pile of washing.

Humphrey's second in command is Moo. Moo has been with us for nearly 4 years now, as I bought him in anticipation of the baby that we tried so hard for finally arriving. So you can imagine how chuffed I was when Moo rose up the ranks of her affections. However, Moos too get filthy and due to our schedule, it's difficult to push a load of washing through in one day (Our dryer is also "quirky". Quirky meaning that it doesn't always dry things.) and a night without Moo would obviously just be a nonstarter. Keeping this in mind, I ordered MooToo; a duplicate from Nordic Kids, which I just have to plug as being totally chock full of cool stuff.

MooToo arrived this morning (not the first time our postman has seen me braless and in my pajamas, I might add) along with a rather cute shirt that I bought for the Prawn. However, when opening MooToo's packaging, I was horrified to discover one small difference. While The One True Moo's horns are green with white spots, MooToo's horns are WHITE with GREEN spots.

"Do you think she'll notice?" Mr. DD asked.

"I don't think so," I said, inspecting MooToo. "at least not yet."

However, after cunningly sweeping Moo into his washing pillowcase and replacing him with MooToo, the first thing the Prawn did was to point accusingly at his horns and remark:

"DOTS."

Well, shit.

Despite this realization, she doesn't seem actually ADVERSE to MooToo, but I think we may have to refer to him as what he is.

NotMoo.

Junk

2008-10-06T10:39:00.002Z

Okay, okay, so I’m back for a minute. I know it's been a while, so mea culpa.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days about clutter. This is due to the fact that our flat currently looks like a testing ground for a new and advanced brand of demolition equipment.

It all starts with parents. I grew up in a beautiful home that my parents created from the ground up. It’s a haven of tranquility and although I remember clutter in certain rooms (i.e. mine) while growing up, the living spaces were almost always free of excessive detritus. (Although, being the offspring of two teachers, half graded piles of schoolwork just blended into the background.)

It is perhaps a little unfair to compare my living environment to my parent’s lovely home- first and foremost due to the fact that our flat would fit into their house three times over. Secondly, they have a great deal more storage space than we do, so it’s not that they don’t OWN a bunch of useless crap, but it’s definitely better hidden. Our useless crap is currently all residing in the lounge like a load of unwanted and slovenly houseguests.

My parents are arriving tomorrow afternoon for a visit on their way back from a whistle stop tour of Italy. Mr. DD and I often use these visits as an excuse for a life purge of sorts. However, this time, we might just have left it a bit late.

I spent an hour or so spelunking in the space that we generously call our attic on Saturday, (Mr. DD, being 6’2”, feels a bit like a giraffe in a coat closet up there, so any marathon attic sessions are undertaken by me.) determined to find things that needed to be expelled from the premises. (So that I could make room for MORE useless crap that needed to be stored) I discovered 4 bags of charity shop clothes that had been slung into the crawl space in frustration on previous visits that were unceremoniously flung back down through the hatch, startling the Prawn. The remnants of our “weird drawer” (don’t try to deny that you’ve got one, because EVERYONE does.) from our days on Galileo were dumped into a trash bag after a quick inspection. An old bathroom cabinet that had come with the flat and had TWICE been shoved into the gods finally came down to go to its final resting place. (The tip.)

Despite feeling as though we had managed to purge rather a lot of stuff, the flat is still left looking like hell on toast and although I’m fairly sure it will be shipshape and Bristol fashion by the time my parents walk though the door, I’m ready for it to be done RIGHT NOW. Both Mr. DD and I and even the Prawn have been left feeling quite unsettled by the clutter. It leaves me wondering about the mental wellbeing of people whose lives are lived amongst clutter on a day to day basis. The people who are featured on shows with titles like, “Holy Shit, You LIVE Here?” I’ve felt unsettled, grumpy and anxious amongst the piles of paper, bedding and things that I didn’t even know we still owned. The Prawn too has been more antsy of late. So how do some people managed to live their lives voluntarily surrounded by clutter, in many cases much WORSE than ours? How do they relax? How do they not want to see the floor? How do they not want even the slightest bit of ORDER? I mean, I’m not anal by any definition, but I know when I find bits of toast and cheese on the floor, it makes me crazy. (Toast and cheese are the two elements most likely to be found in odd places now that we have the Prawn. Cheerios are just a given.) Being surrounded by heaps and piles makes me pretty miserable.

So I am looking forward to tomorrow morning when hopefully all of the heaps and piles will have miraculously dissolved into the ether, leaving my home clutter free.

At least until the Prawn has breakfast.

Sick, Sick, Sick

2008-09-03T09:12:00.003Z

The moment that I have been dreading as a parent with weak constitution finally occurred at approximately 3 am this morning.

My mother told me that she too was notoriously squeamish when it came to all matters scatological until motherhood, as it does universally, beat just about all of the queasiness out of her.

Except when it came to sick.

She particularly remembers an incident that took place when I was about 8 and came down with a violent stomach flu. After emptying the contents of my stomach on the floor by my bed, she sent me to take a shower and steeled herself to clean up the mess. Only when she arrived at the scene of the carnage, she discovered that the Crime Scene had already been tampered with by our painfully brainless lab/cocker mix, Lady. This alone nearly sent her sprinting for the porcelain herself.

So, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Cardinal Chunder early this morning, I braced myself for the worst.

And the worst was what I got. After awakening Mr. DD with the words, "Honey, the Prawn has totally hosed all over her bed and I need you to hold her", I had to get to work stripping the sheets, which was a painful test of my newly hardened parental stomach. The Prawn, meanwhile, was happily charging around the living room in her pants, (having been stripped by Mr. DD) quizzically repeating, "Window?" as if to ask her father why the hell the world outside was all dark and broken and smelling like a bad night out in the city centre.

My reluctance to push the laundry through before bed came back to bite me in the ass, as, at 3.30, I was forced to fold everything in the dryer, (that luckily contained a clean shirt for Lady Barfalot) take everything out of the washer and put it INTO the dryer and chuck blankets, bottom sheets and the indomitable Sir Humphrey the Second (Lord Humphrey now, I reckon) into the washing machine.

I am pleased to say that I survived with no ill effects other than waking up for work this morning feeling like I had a hangover.

I rued not having at least chugged down a whiskey or something before returning to bed at quarter to 5 to feel like it was well deserved.

Update

2008-08-26T09:54:00.003Z

Before becoming a mother, I never would have expected to utter the phrase, "STOP RUBBING TOAST ALL OVER THE DRYER!" to anyone.

It's been a while since updating this blog. Life has kind of taken over. The Prawn is now 17 months old, has a vocabulary of over 100 words and finds new ways every day to delight and frustrate us. She is currently stomping around the living room like a T-Rex shouting "OBAMA!" and spreading crumbs everywhere. We're not those parents who try to turn their kid into a walking billboard or anything, but Mr. DD bought his book last week and since then, she's spent a lot of time pointing at the cover and saying,

"Daddy!"

"No, darling, that's Obama."

"Daddy!"

"OBAMA."

"OHHHHH-BAMMA!"

So he is now her favorite person on earth. The Democratic convention, what little coverage of it we're getting over here, is a dream come true for her and a balm to soothe the gaping hole that the Olympics left in her life. "LYMPICS!" she'd yell the moment she came into the living room in the morning. But now that there is Obama, everything is all good.

There is no denying her toddlerhood now. It is upon us fully with all of it's screaming tantrums and obsessive behaviors. She knows what "no" means, but mostly chooses to ignore the word unless she herself uses it. She can say "please" and "thank you". 3 seems to be her favorite number. Spaghetti bolognaise is a firm favorite in the food department, although Ken Hom's salmon, lemon and ginger stirfry doesn't go amiss either. She wants to walk most places, but isn't a fan of holding hands. Her favorite toy is a set of stacking blocks with numbers 1-10 on them, all of which she can recognize.

The Prawn marches on.

Rock Your Sock Off

2008-08-11T12:11:00.002Z

The Prawn likes Queen. We know we are doing something right.

She had her first taste of the mighty Bohemian Rhapsody yesterday evening while watching her grandfather’s Queen DVD on his amazing new massive telly. Her eyes grew large. Her legs began to twitch. She flapped her arms arhythmically. And most importantly, she went totally apeshit in the right parts.

“Can you say Freddie?” we asked her.

“FWEDDIE!” she shouted joyfully, cannoning into the coffeetable.

To further our delight at her interest in rock and roll, she provided us with this little performance in the car.

NOM NOM NOM

2008-08-04T16:03:00.003Z

Now that the Prawn is de-pocked and there doesn't seem to be any sign of the disgusting little blighters on me, I can concentrate on better endeavors. Like eating.

I don't often share recipes because there are a lot of people on the web who are much better cooks than I am, but seriously, this one? BEST THING I HAVE EATEN. EVER.

Ken Hom is a minor culinary god in my book. My second favorite dish of all time is one of his as well. (Chicken and Pineapple Stir Fry with Cashews) But for your eating pleasure...Salmon Stir Fry with Lemon and Ginger.

450g/1lb fresh boneless salmon fillet
2 tsp salt
4 tbsp groundnut oil
1 tbsp finely chopped fresh ginger (I sliced this into fine strips)
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp lemon zest (I sliced sections of the skin off and chopped them into fine strips as well)
1 whole lemon, peeled, segmented
2 tsp sesame oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper
basmati rice, cooked according to packet instructions, to serve

Method
1. Cut the salmon into 2.5cm/1in wide strips. Sprinkle the salt evenly over the salmon strips and set aside for 20 minutes.

2. Heat a wok or large frying-pan over a high heat until it's hot. Add three tablespoons of the oil. When very hot and slightly smoking, turn the heat down to medium and add the salmon strips.

3. Fry the salmon without stirring for about two minutes, then gently turn over and fry until the salmon strips are golden-brown on both sides. Take care not to break them up.

4. Carefully remove the cooked salmon strips with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. Wipe the wok clean with kitchen paper being careful not to burn yourself.
5. Reheat the wok and add the remaining oil. Add the ginger and stir-fry for 20 seconds, then add the sugar, lemon zest, lemon segments, salt and freshly ground black pepper and stir-fry gently for 1-2 minutes.

6. Return the salmon to the wok and gently mix with the lemon mixture for one minute.

7. Add the sesame oil and give the mixture a gentle stir.

8. To serve, remove the salmon and lemon slices from the wok and place onto a warm serving plate with a spoonful of cooked rice alongside.

Your mouth is going to thank you for this recipe and beg you to make it every night of the week.

Hmmmm...

2008-07-23T10:40:00.005Z

Okay, so we've now established that the Prawn has a deep an enduring phobia of doctors.

Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her so far like stick something up her butt or anything. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she's ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab....she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn's multitide of spots, was like, "WHOA! Sorry about that. That's DEFINITELY chicken pox." He probably couldn't get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

So, great for the Prawn. She gets chicken pox over and done with. I don't have to worry about me conceivably getting knocked up again some time in the future (ha!) and having to leave the house if she comes down with them. I also don't have to worry about her getting them (or me getting them) right before my brother-in-law's wedding. But at the moment, I have to scrupulously check for dots and have the doctor on speed dial should they appear. I'm guessing that since I was exposed so many times as a child and didn't contract them, that I probably have an immunity, but the Universe has been vomiting mouseparts on my bedspread for some time now and I'm not holding my breath.

Fuck My Hat

2008-07-20T21:28:00.002Z

The Prawn has chicken pox.

This would not normally be a problem.

But I've never had them.

I'm at itchcon 1.

Fan Girl

2008-07-14T14:05:00.003Z

During Wimbledon, we had the telly on pretty much from the moment we came home until 9 or so when the tennis finished. I'm not a huge tennis fan, but I like watching Wimbledon. It's lovely background noise; quiet punctuated with applause.

During the final, we were rooting for Roger Federer to beat the record of 6 victories in a row, so Mr. DD taught the Prawn to say "Ro-JA!" (Her chanting of "Ro-JA" was also punctuated with exclamations of "WIN!" with accompanying arm lifts, that we taught her when she was only about 10 months old. )

Yesterday, while attempting to get her to eat at least a 3rd of her dinner, Mr. DD was quizzing her on words she knew.

"Can you say "cow"?"

"gow!" she said with a mouthful of egg.

"Can you say "dog"?"

"dog!"

"Can you say "Roger"?"

Her eyes grew wide and her face shone with unadulterated glee.

"RO-JA!" she whispered rapturously, as if remembering some great lost love.

Ah, summer romance.

Hairy Problems

2008-07-07T09:59:00.002Z

So, the march toward toddlerhood continues.

I've asked other parents if their children had gone through an insatiable grabbing phase during which ANY item, no matter how mundane or uninteresting, must be kept out of sight or reach lest an explosive episode occur. Surprisingly, a lot of them have said, "no", leaving me to think I may have a slightly compulsive child on my hands. Or a budding shoplifter.

Everything in our house has now gravitated to the middle of tables resulting in abstract piles of jewelry tools, mail and coffee cups appearing with startling regularity. The Prawn would have them all, if she could.

Strangely the most knotty problem of late has to do with her hair. (See what I did there?)

The Prawn had some good hair genes to draw on. Her father, damn him, has a long, luxurious mane of thick, strawberry blond locks. Sadly, her little genes determined that she would have hair the consistency of her mother's (the finest of the fine) combined with CURLS, which is a sure fire combo for the worst snarls in the history of the world, resulting in a 15 month old who uses more hair care products than me.

She has varying degrees of tolerance for barnet maintenance operations. It is only recently that she has submitted docilely to hats and hair clips, which has been a great relief. However, washing and conditioning is quite another thing altogether. Suffice to say that both of us need toweling off after her baths. And don't get me started on the hairdryer.

The obvious solution would be to cut her hair but since I rarely have enough luck to get her to stand still enough to eat a grape, my guess is that a trip to the hairdressers would require restraints if not sedation. Plus, I wouldn't do that to my hairdresser, who I would like to continue cutting MY hair.

Any suggestions out there for unmanageable toddler tresses?

Music Critic

2008-07-02T12:10:00.002Z

Being the musos that we are, we spent last Saturday at the Hard Rock Calling festival in Hyde Park. We had toyed with the idea of taking the Prawn, but once we were there, we were down on our knees thanking the common sense gods that we'd left her with our friend The Barmaid. The line up included John Mayer, Sheryl Crow and Eric Clapton; all artists the Prawn has been listening to since birth, but the heat of the day and the enormity of the crowd would have made toddler wrangling a chore and a half.

We recorded a bit of the finale on our camera, although we found that someone else got a MUCH better video from where they were standing.

Upon returning home the next way, The Prawn toddled over to where Mr. DD was watching the playback on the camera. As John Mayer stepped up to play, she remarked, "GEETAH!" gleefully. She then looked more thoughtful, pointed, said "Babe!" and watched Mayer's solo rapturously. (I was so proud!) Eric Clapton was next up to the mic. The Prawn was less impressed and pushed the fast forward button.

Old Slowhand may be married to a 32 year old, but he's losing his touch with the younger set.

The Prawn Hits 15 Months

2008-06-20T13:23:00.002Z

It's been a while since a little photo shoot, so here is the Prawn in all of her glory. :)

Changeling

2008-06-16T12:38:00.002Z

I remember a fairy tale from my childhood about goblins who were wont to spirit away children and leave changelings in their place- a child that looked exactly like the original but behaved like wild animals. I'm beginning to think that if they ever come back, I'm going to trap one of those little fuckers and force them to give me back my baby.

Yes, I have a toddler.

I don't know how it happened. It seems like just yesterday that she was just a happy little spud rocking out on the carpet while Mr. DD played guitar, but all of a sudden, it's become apparent that we have something living with us that has a WILL. That must be obeyed. RIGHT NOW. ON PAIN OF LOUDNESS.

It seems to have happened overnight, really, which is why it's so weird. One day, she's a relaxed little soul and the next day she is replaced by a whinging, whining ex-pat from the planet Tantrum. The slightest delay in the execution of necessary tasks, the slightest roadblock to her finely laid plans, ANYTHING brings about Hurricane Cranky.

Functioning on 4 hours sleep as I am, (she decided at 1.30am that sleeping was for pussies) it is hard to be objective. All I know is that I started drinking BEFORE I started Sunday dinner yesterday, so it was quite a day.

On a positive note, her vocabulary is improving. She can count to 5, say "bum" repeatedly and whenever she farts, she cracks up and shouts, "TOOT!"

My mother thinks we need to break her of the last two habits, but I'm not so sure.

Here's a video of her taken in a rare moment when she wasn't behaving like a wolverine this weekend:

Lolbaby

2008-06-09T15:26:00.002Z

How to tell if you have been spending too much time around the house talking like lolcats:

When your child drops her juice on the floor and shouts, "OH NOES!"

Crap.

The Accidental Racist

2008-06-04T14:50:00.002Z

Now that it's become quite obvious that The Prawn has become a small playback machine, more than ever we are watching our language. ("Melon Farmer" has become a staple word in our vocabulary.) My virtual sister-in-law even takes it upon herself to thwack my brother-in-law when he lets a choice word slip. And as for her grandfather...well we just make sure that she's too far away from him to hear what he's saying when he's in a mood.

My virtual sister and brother in law just recently purchased a Wii, which I now covet highly. We spent a lot of the weekend playing on the unique console, trying everything from tennis (which nearly resulted in broken furniture and the dog getting stepped on more than one.) to ski slalom. (which was about 10 times harder than it looked.)

Our biggest group effort was in bowling, however, and we all had a rather good time trying to thrash eachother on the virtual and scarily accurate lanes. The dog, who was recovering from tennis was obviously excited as 6 people seemed to be THROWING THINGS. IN THE HOUSE. So he bounded around, the concept of virtual reality too baffling for his tiny, doggy brain, wondering WHERE IN THE HELL ALL OF THESE THINGS WERE GOING before looking up at us ruefully as if to say, "You know, this looks like it should be fun, but it's really not."

In the Wii world, one chooses an avatar to represent you. For reasons too difficult to explain, my father-in-law's team was represented by a black "Mii" in their sporting exploits. The bowling program has an announcer who comes up from time to time if you get a strike or a spare who, rather predictably, shouts, "NICE STRIKE!" or "NICE SPARE!" The Prawn, of course, was sitting around, observing quietly (although her view of the proceedings was probably not all that different from the dog's.) and eventually toddled up to the television screen to see what all the fuss was about.

Just as father-in-law stepped up to play with his Mii of color, the Prawn happily shouted, "SPADE!"

It would have been pointless at the time to point out to my howling family that she was obviously trying to say, "spare" which had been shouted at top volume frequently over the last 10 minutes.

I've talked about how I feel about racial humor before. My feelings, in short, are that the best way to take power from something is to laugh at it. In an era where everyone lives in terror of words, racism can become stronger quietly, since everyone is afraid to talk about it for fear of using the wrong term, the wrong combination of words, the wrong tone of voice. Someday I'll have to have a conversation with the Prawn about hurtful words and I hope that while she takes my advice to heart, I also hope that there is never a combination of letters that makes her afraid.

One person who definitely ISN'T afraid to mock just about anything is Kevin Smith. In this scene from Clerks 2, terminal slacker Randall Graves makes a serious faux pas. Not in the least bit Safe For Work.

Elegy for a White Donkey

2008-05-30T13:35:00.002Z

Parenthood is full of small absurdities. Yesterday, I discovered the entirety of the alphabet (in magnet form) inside my Doc Martens. Instead of wondering what my life was coming to, I merely thought, “Oh THAT’S where those went.” I often think of my mother-in-law, who once opened the freezer to discover the ice cube tray contained not only ice, but several Han Solo action figures “frozen in carbonite.” I think I can just be grateful for the moment that I don’t have a boy, because I don’t think I could handle waking up with an excruciating pain in my back to discover that I was lying on Action Man. At any rate, I digress.

The absurdity came to a head yesterday afternoon while on a routine shopping trip with The Prawn. Due to the misery of the weather, she was safely ensconced inside her rain bubble cockpit with trusty sidekick, Sir Humphrey Bollagaurd as I completed my errands. When I came to Waitrose in order to purchase cupcake making supplies for the up coming natal festivities of Mr. DD and my virtual sister-in-law, I glanced down, and discovered, to my horror, that Humphrey was, in fact, AWOL.

“You’ve lost Humphrey!” I said out loud, and promptly burst into tears.

I blame my mother for this.

When I was small, she managed to instill a sense of extreme empathy that lingers with me today and unfortunately includes the anthropomorphication of inanimate objects. “Oh no!” she’d say, upon waking me up in the morning, “Bear fell out of bed! He must have had an awfully cold and lonely night on the floor.” Of course, this would emotionally cripple me for the day, imagining Bear spending the night on the floor, gazing up at me sadly, and wondering why I would be so callous as to ACCIDENTALLY KNOCK HIM OFF THE BED IN MY SLEEP.*

An instant search was mounted. I retraced my steps and stops all around town. I called back at shops I’d been in and shops along the route to see if anyone had handed Humphrey in. Then I did it again. And a third time. The town of Berkhamstead was treated to the sight of a grown woman with streaked mascara desperately hunting for a stuffed donkey.

The Prawn, meanwhile, who still has the short term memory of a goldfish, was fairly content to go along for the ride. She, of course, has no concept of “gone” or “lost”; to her, Humphrey simply IS. “Humfra!” she said happily, from time to time, deepening my despair as it became apparent that dear Sir Humphrey was nowhere to be found.

I wept bitterly all the way home, the Prawn in the backseat, happily oblivious. I could not help but imagine the sense of abandonment this well loved donkey must have felt as he tumbled from the buggy into the rainy street. I’m a 33 years old and I was devastated by the loss of this stuffed toy that my daughter had brought to life, just by loving him. I felt miserable and utterly absurd. Mr. DD was equally devastated when I tearfully informed him of the tragedy over the phone. I prefaced my confession with “Something awful happened!” leading him to believe that I’d crashed the car. I love that I married a man who would have PREFERED that I’d crashed the car.

The only thing that kept the disaster from becoming a catastrophe was that for once, the two of us had some foresight. Months ago, when it was obvious that Humphrey was becoming a fast favourite, we bought a “stunt double.” (This is when we discovered that he was, in fact, a pony called Parsley. It was a bit like finding out that your high school English teach that you had a crush on was gay.) Stunt Humphrey has been used once or twice when the One True Humphrey has been indisposed; either in the washing machine or left behind at Grandad’s house. The Prawn, of course knows only that Humphrey is white and soft, and has never been bothered by these substitutions, so when we returned from our ill fated trip, I went, with heavy heart, to the toy shelf to deploy Stunt Humphrey into active duty. In my head, I asked whatever spirit that formerly inhabited his predecessor to imbue the New Humphrey with the same spark of life, and then tentatively handed him to the Prawn, who’s face lit up as she embraced him.

To her, he is the One True Humphrey and always has been.

The Worst Supper

2008-05-27T21:12:00.002Z

I remember eating out. I think it used to have something to do with eating. And maybe talking, but I can’t be sure.

We’ve been meaning to get together with the Cheerful Idiot and the Barmaid for sometime to celebrate our goddaughter’s birthday, so when we finally found a few hours that worked for 4 adults, it meant taking 3 children out in public and trying to get them to ingest something, which is always a situation to be avoided at all costs. To make matters worse, we chose a local branch of a crappy and overly pricey Italian chain joint with notoriously bad service, so we were obviously setting ourselves up for big fun. Mr. DD is also in the process of trying to get off of caffeine, so he spent the day thinking withdrawal related thoughts and wishing that he could sleep until forgetting that he’d ever HEARD of coffee, so his general fatigue was yet another factor to add to the general mayhem.

Even without the child factor, our local branch of Frankie and Benny’s (a restaurant that tries hard to convince you that it is oozing with New York Italian charm while simultaneously employing underage chavlings from the wrong side of Aylesbury.) is not exactly the venue for a restful repast. This was proven within moments of being seated when, in lieu of the traditional annoying, but generally innocuous, congregation of waiters to wish a guest Happy Birthday, the entire establishment was plunged into darkness and treated to a cacophonous version of the popular natal hymn the blared from every corner, followed by a fit-inducing light show. And then they did it again. And then a third time. The waves of hate emanating from my body could have killed small mammals.

Mr. DD and I don’t get out to restaurants much these days, but generally when we do get a chance to eat al fresco (al fresco translating to “not sitting on the couch watching The Simpsons”) it’s not quite the relaxing ordeal that it used to be seeing as how the third member of our party chews with her mouth open, belches loudly and feels that her hair is just as good a place as any for the main entrée. When wait staff as us “How many?”, “Two and a half” has become a standard answer and we tend to leave a fair amount of work for the poor sod who has to clean the table in the form of partially chewed pasta and baby wipes covered in various organic substances.

We miss dining mano y mano, Mr. DD and I.

Bad Behavior

2008-05-20T16:27:00.002Z

For anyone wondering if it is possible for children to be assholes, be assured, it really, really is.

The Prawn is not generally an asshole. In the traditional sense, I suppose it's not really fair to apply the asshole label until one knows how NOT to be an asshole, but let me just go on to tell you how tired I am of teething.

What kind of crappy design flaw is it to have teeth come in one at a time, causing apparently excruciating discomfort with every new gnasher? Surely, someone, somewhere should be working on a way to get all of the buggers to come in at the same time so that we could all GET A LITTLE SLEEP AROUND HERE.

Chatterbox

2008-05-12T15:30:00.004Z

The horror. It can talk.

I don't remember who said it, but a quote that sticks in my mind about children is that "it's lovely to live near a playground so that you can hear the chatter of little voices. Providing that you don't listen to closely to what they're actually saying." This fact was brought into sharp relief when I took The Prawn to our local toddler playground for an afternoon romp only to find it mostly occupied with 9-10 year old boys goofing around. I fixed them with a fairly disapproving look, but ignored them for the most part while the Prawn clambered happily over some of the equipment. However, I kept one ear on their conversation which was both shocking and hilarious at the same time. My guess is that they had been talking fairly freely before my arrival and either out of deference for my adult authority status (ha!) or the Prawn's pristine ears, while their talk remained coarse, they at least had the decency to SPELL their curse words.

"You know that blonde kid, yeah? Who called me a b-a-s-t-a-r-d?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to punch 'im in the f-u-c-k-i-n-g face tomorrow at break."

It took all my power not to laugh, seeing as how they'd go to all that trouble. Little s-h-i-t-s.

At any rate, the Prawn is also making more and more advanced forays into the world of linguistics and thankfully none of them have included any of the above mentioned words. It has become obvious to us that while we may still be able to swear like sailors once she is abed, that we'd better find more creative methods of expressing displeasure when she is in earshot.

Occasionally we leave her with a friend who is very good with children and we trust totally but who is, shall we say, slightly more basic in vocabulary than we ourselves are. She's someone who might say "anyfink" instead of "anything" or "I done that" rather than "I did that". One of my personal favorite derogatory phrases that I've learned since coming to the UK has been "minging", as it seems to be rather descriptive of something that is disgusting or unpleasant. This girl uses this phrase quite a lot and last night I off-handedly said it to Mr. DD about something only to hear a little voice down at knee height say, "MINGING!" gleefully. While not ACTUALLY a curse word, it's not necessarily something I want my child shouting in the supermarket, to be taken the wrong way by all and sundry. Mr. DD already taught her to say "bum" which is quite enough to be getting on with.

Her vocabulary list now includes almost all parts of the face, a fair number of barnyard animals, the number 2, the standard "mama" and "dada", clock, cheese, banana, (pronounced "nana") milk, juice, egg, a number of items of clothing, a few transportational devices and of course her first love, "guitar".

The fact that I manufactured something that is now capable of talking to me is a daily source of amazement.

Inked updated

2008-05-07T09:44:00.003Z

When I get an idea in my head, I don’t dick around. All I can say right now is that my ankle hurts.

At this point, I must admit my profoundly embarrassing love for “reality” series, Miami Ink, chronicling the life and slightly staged times of the Floridian inkers at Love/Hate Tattoos in South Beach and the effect that these nightly forays into the world of body modification was having on my willpower to not have any more work done. Mr. DD was already getting some ink to commemorate the birth of the Prawn, so I couldn’t very well let him have all the flesh scarifying fun. After a few days of playing around in Photoshop, I came up with a design that I was happy with and yesterday, the two of us trotted off to the local inkery to get marked for life. (The Prawn was safely and temporarily ensconced with a babysitter so that she didn’t spend the duration of our appointments tearing flash off the walls and decorating the floor with as many different colors of ink as she could get her mitts on.)

Tattoos always seem to be a great idea until the moment the needle touches your skin for the first time causing a sensation akin to someone viciously and repeatedly stubbing a very fine cigarette out on you. And then doing it again, and enjoying it. This is not to elicit pity, because asking for compassion following an entirely unnecessary and self-inflicted hurt would be just a tad foolish, but it doesn’t change the fact that it hurts like the proverbial motherfucker. It’s lucky for me that my inker is not only tremendously talented, but a fast worker, so the agony was a relatively short one and I came out the other end with a rather lovely bit of art on my right ankle with should heal up in relatively short order.

Mr. DD went second and offered up his arm to the needle to be adorned with the initials of our daughter. The area of the hands, for my husband, is a bit of a delicate region. In fact, such is his squeamishness about his digits and their outlands that, if given a choice between hand surgery and losing one or both testicles, I think his boys might have a run for their money. I was expecting at least a bit of pallor, but he took it like a man under the quick hand of our artist and was soon in possession with a very cool set of initials in a great font, ironically called Skin Deep.

So, here we both sit, blogging our experiences and nursing the niggling pain in our extremities and enjoying our new bits of ink.

Until the next time.

More Prawn Than You Can Handle

2008-05-03T22:12:00.001Z

This is the one time of year that I get to post "don't you wish your countryside was hot like mine" pics. Our local bluebell woods was remarkably quiet this afternoon. It's a shame that this isolated and quiet spot turns into Disney World when the flowers come out, complete with shouting children, quarreling adults and rambunctious dogs.

This is the Prawn's second visit to the woods and the site of her first smile a little over a year ago. This time, she got to navigate the paths under her own power.

Photo Shoot

2008-04-30T08:59:00.003Z

It occurs to me that it has been far too long since the last Prawn Cuteness fix, so, for your viewing enjoyment, here she is.

This is a relatively new trick; the headstand.

The tiny trampoline was a birthday gift and a great toy success.

A moment from The Prawn's visit to the farm; getting to hang with the calves.

Just woken up on the right side of the bed.

Prawn and mummy.

Alchemy

2008-04-28T15:58:00.001Z

Things have been a little manic in Rockmamaville of late. What with the Prawn now being a fairly sentient human being who demands books (not that I’m complaining; it’s awesome. She could want to watch Lazy Town all morning, which would obviously kill me) be read to her RIGHT NOW on pain of “Peepo Baby” flung with amazing viciousness at your crotch and almighty tantrum, it’s a little harder to get a chance to sit down with a cup of tea and a natter with the beloved internets.

The other activity taking up much of my time has been a renewed and fervent interest in my hobby, which is jewelry making.

I wish I could tell a story about how metal working always called to me or how exerting my will over base metals makes me feel like I’m in touch with the beating heart of the planet. But both of those things would be total horseshit, because the reason I ACTUALLY got into it was because I wanted to spend a spring college semester screwing around and jewelry making sounded like a fun and relatively easy elective. It actually turned out to be terribly addictive and all the screwing around got put on hold while I JUST SOLDER THIS ONE LAST JUMP RING TOGETHER. During that semester, I made a couple of lovely pendants, a nickel ring and a “locket” for my friend Rosco that was heavy enough to be used for basic self-defence.

I didn’t pick up a jeweler’s torch again until a year or so after I moved to the UK when I discovered a nearby adult education course in jewelry making and thought it might be nice to reacquaint myself with the basics. Again, I managed to get totally sucked in and was soon busy crafting items to be sold by my saintly mother to her friends and colleagues under the heading of “My Aphrodite Jewelry”.

My mother has been my greatest saleswoman and cheerleader. So much so that early on, she let everyone at her church know that her daughter was selling jewelry on the internet at www.myaphrodite.com. While this was partially true, my website address is actually www.myaphroditejewelry.com, so we had a quick gander at the former site only to find that it was, in fact, a purveyor of sex toys. This early mishap spurred a frantic flurry of phone calls to ladies whom she’d alerted to the 20% off sale on “butt plugs and other anal stimulation devices”. (It is now some sort of erotic search engine.)

My work over the years has become more precise and professional in appearance. I get far fewer burns, rarely melt anything, get negligible fire scale and do a lot less swearing, however, I still do occasionally cut the top of my finger almost clean off with a jeweler’s saw on a semi-regular basis and spend a lot of time on the floor looking for beads or clasps that I’ve dropped before the Prawn can eat them. Although my mother still has a few “Stones and Scones” parties in the works, I’m trying to move the majority of my business onto Etsy, which has been a glorious find for me and hundreds of thousands of other small artisans. I’d encourage anyone to take the handmade pledge for a year and buy all of your gifts from the site. If you want felt mice dressed as pirates, you’re in luck. If you want a plush uterus, you’re sure to find one. If you’d like a wallet made of duct tape (WAY cooler than it sounds) with a photo of Bettie Page on the front, go for it. From the ridiculous to the sublime, everything that you could ever want under one roof, you WILL find it on Etsy.

Of course, I’m there too.

The Pen

2008-04-21T09:55:00.003Z

Although we were dimly aware since the Prawn was born that at some point this was going to happen, it seems to have come roaring up awfully fast.

Mr. DD and I went to visit a nursery last week, which seems like far too much of a grown-up thing to be doing, but we went, regardless. Our current working arrangement doesn't allow Mr. DD to get nearly enough work done, nor is it fair on the Prawn, who spends the morning trying to think of new and creative ways to get her father's attention. The companies that Mr. DD and I work for are relocating to a business park about 20 minutes away and our current half day strategy will no longer be viable. So, I'll work three days a week, Mr. DD will work 4 and I'll spend 2 days at home with the Prawn all day. The other two days, she'll be spending at nursery.

Both of our experiences of nursery were based on...well, our experiences of nursery. Like, when we were both, ourselves, in nursery. These early memories included a big open room in a converted church hall with tables for snack, a lot of toys and a playground. It was their job simply to keep us occupied while our mothers went home to spend the afternoon lying down in a darkened room.

When we first arrived at the nursery, we were greeted by CCTV cameras and a buzzer on the door, which obviously bodes well for safety, although drives home the point that things have changed a little since my days in the playpen.

What we found inside was organization FAR beyond what we could possibly have imagined. There were rotas, outdoor play, messy play, music time and meals. There were Tweenies, Toddlers, Tiddlers, Babies and Older Babies, all sorted according to development and skills. Both of us were totally boggled at lists on the wall of over 60 children's preferences, dislikes, disciplines and allergies that were scrupulously taken into account.

The Prawn was enthralled. She's always been fascinated with other children and spent the majority of the time wriggling like an angry otter in order to escape and join the fun. During the last part of the visit, while we chatted to the owner in her office, one of the staff offered to take the Prawn. While we thought this would result in an almighty shouting fit, she was perfectly happy to be carried off by the stranger to join a circle of older children, all marveling over a toy pig that walked and waggled it's snout and curly tail. Far from being intimidated by the situation, she joined in enthusiastically while the older children smiled and cooed "hello, baby!" at her.

"Um, so where do we sign?" asked Mr. DD.

I won't have any hesitations whatsoever about leaving her at this place. The vibes were good, the safety and attention to detail were outstanding and it's obvious to me that it'll be good for her to interact with other children on a regular basis and have the full attention of her carers for the time that she's there. While the money is going to be tight, it'll be worth it in the amount of work that both I and Mr. DD are able to get accomplished and the heightening of the quality of time that we spend with her.

Moo

2008-04-14T10:21:00.007Z

It's been a bit quiet here at Prawn Central recently. Since starting on my meds, I've been trying to keep my head down, take deep breaths and get on with things.

The Prawn has developed into quite a little conversationalist recently. It's been convenient for those moments when I needed to get something accomplished in the kitchen and was always able to pinpoint her location in the flat from the endless stream of chatter that issues forth. There are a few words that are clearer than others. Her first word, guitar, is a clear favorite, said at varying levels of inflection depending on the mood of the speaker. "geeTA," for instance, can conceivably mean, "Look, mother, there appears to be a guitar hanging on the wall." "GEEta," is more like, "Father, you appear to be playing a guitar. Allow me to assist you by stealing your pick and attempting to ingest it." Whereas "GEETAAAAA!" generally means, "Attention parental units: you decision to remove the guitar from my sticky-fingered grasp is one that you are likely to regret imminently."

We've also made our first linguistic forays into the world of barnyard animals. Her favorite playthings, ever since the age of 6 months or so, has been a set of DK picture cards, which feature many toddler favorites such as "cat", "dog", "sheep" and "sweater". (For some reason, "sweater" kept turning up in the animal box. It was most disconcerting.) It occurred to me that this admission might lead people to believe that we are "those" parents who consistently shove flashcards underneath their progeny's nose, determinedly willing them on to academic excellence despite the fact that they're still predisposed to eating week old Cheerios from under the sofa. I swear to god that we're not. Our holiday companions brought some along for their 2 year old and the Prawn seemed fascinated, so we picked up a pack for ourselves.

The Prawn seems to dig on animals. At the moment, she seems to have a "cow" thing going on, so we were thrilled to have a chance to take her to a dairy farm that a friend of ours works on to show her the real thing. Our friend, The Colombian, is possibly the most laid back person we have ever personally met in real life, and seems to very much enjoy his job, despite the fact that it drags him out of bed at 4am every morning. He refers to his cows as his "ladies".

As soon as we hauled the Prawn from her car seat, she pointed at the nearest cow and shouted, "MOOOOOOOO!"

We were lucky enough to be there at a moment when one of the heifers was about to calve, so the Colombian invited us into the stall to watch the blessed event. I was vaguely hesitant as the stall also contained about 16 other cows and a 1.2 ton bull. "Oh him?" the Colombian said, when I asked him if he was sure all would be well, "Tommy's okay." This is not entirely fitting with my experience of bulls, nor of the Colombian's (he was once attacked by another bull on the farm twice in about 15 minutes. "It was like being hit by a car and then having the driver realize he didn't hit you hard enough the first time and then coming back to run you over again.") so I was still a little wary taking the Prawn into the bovine domain, despite Tommy's glowing character reference. However, Tommy seemed to take much less interest in the proceedings than the rest of the herd, quietly retiring to a corner to possibly contemplate his absolutely enormous testicles.

For The Colombian, birthing calves is like doing paperwork, so he chatted to us merrily while elbow deep up the backside of a clearly uncomfortable cow. (One wonders what it must feel like to try to give birth to something with 4 legs.) "Hello, mate!" he exclaimed, as the calf's head became visible, "Welcome to being a cow!" The Prawn, at this point, was unimpressed and desperately squirming in Mr. DD's grasp in order to be allowed to roam freely among the beasts and among their many leavings. "Dude, this is the miracle of life happening right here," we kept trying to tell her. "Dude," she seemed to say in return, "I see some cow shit that I would desperately like on the knees of my jeans, so hands off!"

The calf, a little bull, was finally delivered. "You want me to take your picture with him?" asked the Colombian, reaching for the camera I was holding. (which happened to be my future-sister-in-law's) "Erm..." I said, shrinking back, "maybe you should wash your hands first." He looked down at his hands, covered in every conceivable cow fluid imaginable, in surprise. "Oh, yeah!" he laughed, going to dunk them in a not much cleaner water trough. (I was just imagining my sister-in-law's reaction. "Um, why is there after-birth on my camera?")

Such was the Prawn's first introduction to "cow" and all it entails.

Dig Deep

2008-04-04T11:38:00.003Z

Due to the chemical stuff going on in my brain right now, I've got just a teensy tendency to get pretty emotional about stuff. Anything involving kids totally does me in and I know it does a lot of you in too, but if you have a moment, please, stop by Emily's blog and consider a donation to the Mandell family.

The Journey Starts with One Pill

2008-04-02T09:31:00.003Z

When I last spoke to my doctor about anti-depressants, we made a tentative agreement for me to try a herbal supplement for 6 weeks and if I felt no change, then I should come back for the real deal.

It hasn't been 6 weeks yet, but yesterday I went back and told him the truth. That I don't feel better. That I can't get anything done. That I'm having trouble not bursting into tears while watching car commercials on television (Oh, and that great footage that Sky insisted on showing over and over of baby seals being clubbed to death? Don't even talk to me about that.) and that I'm afraid that little frustrations that I experience might soon get blown out of proportion, resulting in me saying things that I might THINK sometimes, but definitely aren't worth sharing. That even if Mr. DD said tomorrow, "Rockmama, I got someone to watch the Prawn for a week, we're going to a beautiful ski area high in the mountains, staying at a 5 star hotel, boarding our brains out all day and drinking a bottle of Moet every night", that I still wouldn't be happy.

So, I can has drugs, yes?

Luckily, I have a brilliant GP who wasted no time in writing out a prescription.

What I'd like to hear now from any ladies who might also be taking these medications is how you've found them. What side effects have bugged you the most. And if they've helped. After the first pill, I am, at the moment, feeling sick in precisely the way I did at about 9 weeks pregnant. (I am not 9 weeks pregnant, just for the record. It is, in fact Arts and Crafts Week at Panty Camp at present.) I have to say, that reading over the entire list of possible side effects is enough to make one wonder if feeling bad is really so bad afterall.

So, let me know, women of the SSRI, is it worth it?

Year of the Prawn

2008-03-24T20:40:00.003Z

When documenting the passage of time, especially in regards to the growing process of children, it’s easy for details to start leaking out of your ears. I’m fairly sure that if I didn’t have pictures of the Prawn as a tiny blob, I would have a difficult time remembering that she did not spring from my womb fully formed, toddling, demanding cheese and shouting “geetar!” Have I forgotten enough to try to start the whole process again, complete with possible complications and disappointments? Possibly. Traitorous swine brain.

At any rate, our little crustacean has now been with us for a whole year. Both to celebrate her birthday and spend some time with their trans-Atlantic granddaughter, my parents flew in last Monday. From stories that have been passed down to me of my babyhood, I’m fairly certain that The Prawn is a far more charming child than I was. Luckily, this innate charm has completely won my parents over; I don’t believe there is any residual resentment that I haven’t yet had what’s coming to me in the baby karma stakes. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed forever, though; I imagine that the wheel of retribution is turning slowly but surely my way.

While we spent most of the week pleasantly sipping tea on the couch, reading and watching the Prawn discover new concepts like, “clock”, “duck” and “cow” (her cow impression, which is a strangled roar, is not to be missed) we decided that we should complete my parents' London Landmark tour by going to the Tower. The Tower is one of the more pricey attractions in the city’s tourist arsenal, but to my mind, well worth the expense for such a lot of history in one place.

Since we live 45 minutes outside of the city, the question is, To Drive or Not to Drive. Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone would much rather that we took the train, but Ken Livingstone is not in possession of a pre-toddler who would much rather be spelunking in carriage trash bin for Burger King remnants than sitting in her seat. Also, he’d need to lend me the 25 quid in fare, so he can politely sit and spin. Neither Mr. DD nor I object to the congestion charge (which is only 8 pounds) and neither of my parents were particularly keen to ride the Tube, so driving won hands down.

Our TomTom, which we rely on rather heavily when venturing city-wards, is obviously having some sort of elicit affair with the M1, which is not at all the way to get where we were going. While it has made our lives easier in a lot of respects, TomTom has yet to learn a rather elementary navigation lesson; that the shortest distance between two points might not necessarily be the FASTEST, especially in a city. For the second time in as many weeks, we resolved to next time ignore TomTom until we got to some part of the London that we recognized. Long story short, the 1 and a quarter hours journey actually took closer to 2.5 hours due to route diversions and roadworks. Lucky for us that we brought several pounds of Cheerios with which to distract the Prawn. (The US kind, without the sugar coating. If she ate as many of the British variety, we would have needed a sedative of some kind. As it was, we’ll still be hoovering those things out of the car for weeks.)

Upon our arrival at the Tower, we congratulated ourselves for bringing the new backpack-style Prawn transportation device instead of the traditional buggy, which works fine in the local shopping centre, but does not have shocks capable of withstanding 10th century cobbles. She seems quite content to let Mr. DD haul her around like a load of camping gear.

I quite like the Tower. It’s an extraordinary mish-mash of architectural styles resulting from it’s myriad of uses over the years, including prison, execution site, royal quarters and military station. It’s always quite something to come face to face with very old things, no matter how commercialized they’ve become. Apart from the several gift shops (which I have to say are tastefully incorporated into the scenery) the Tower has not yet needed to resort to Madame Tussaud type tactics to bring in visitors. The sheer weight of past events is sufficient to draw a crowd.

After the obligatory tour of the jewel house, the Prawn began to become restless, so we let her out of her pack to stretch her legs. The problem being, of course, that she doesn’t regularly use them yet, so after tiring of my attempts to help her navigate the cobblestones, she took off crawling towards the scaffolding site. Human nature dictates that we’re grimly intrigued by the gruesome. However, on the site of the scaffold where a good many nobles including Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey lost their collective heads, an artist has attempted to create a dignified memorial in metal and glass. I think this disappointed some visitors, as they much RATHER would have had a Madame Tussaud type re-constructed scaffold complete with re-enactments on the 12, 3 and 5. But instead, the memorial squashes our morbid fascination and makes the viewer feel just a little bit guilty. This was not the case for the Prawn however, who was all like, “Whee! Heads!” as she gleefully scooted around the edge of the memorial as fast as humanly possible, staying just out of the reach of Mr. DD, who was dodging German high school students to get to her.

My mother’s favorite part of the day hands down was getting a picture of Wren with Moira Cameron, the first female Yeoman Warder in the regiment’s 523 year history. Right on, strangely dressed sister, thought the Prawn.

The Prawn’s birthday fell on Good Friday this year, despite being born on a Wednesday. This had me vaguely confused until I remember that we experienced Leap Year calendar tomfoolery just about a month ago. Both my mother and I (and now The Prawn) have often had birthdays on Easter weekend due to whatever bizarro solstice related system is used to determine when the holiday falls. It was convenient, however, when planning a party for a day that everyone had off. My mother and I spent the evening before making a small cupcake army in lieu of a traditional birthday confectionary; who can argue with a self contained cake that, in a pinch, you can shove in your mouth at one go? My father and Mr. DD helpfully did the manly chores which involved hanging bunting and scrubbing mildew off of the bathroom tiles that I’ve been trying to ignore for the last few months.

Everyone knows that birthday parties for very young children are pretty much an excuse for a lot of grown ups to get together, eat junk food and finish off a couple bottles of Pino Grigio. Occasionally, the birthday boy/girl is the only child present at said gathering and earns his or her keep by pulling amusing faces in exchange for Cheetos. However, there were in fact 5 other children of various ages and at varying stages of mobility present at the Prawn’s natal festivities, so there was quite a lot of “omigodwhathaveyougotalloveryourshirt?” going on. The mountain of food that I had purchased the day before and was having sinking feelings about the chances of it getting eaten pretty much all DID, which was a relief for both me and my refrigerator. A hugely pleasant time was had by all, despite the fairly major space restrictions. The Prawn’s birthday dress was covered in strawberry juice within the first hour. And there were remarkably few tears considering the critical mass of rampaging children and adults balancing plates of food on their laps. A roaring success.

My parents departed this morning. I’m always terribly sad to see them go, but I think the Prawn will be even more bereft to have lost her two constant companions who filled every spare moment of the day with learning, tickling and funny faces. I imagine that she’ll wake up tomorrow and be like, “YOU two again? What happened to the older models? THEY didn’t have to work on laptops, cook or do the laundry! I DEMAND THAT YOU SIT DOWN HERE AND THROW THAT BALL TO ME 250 TIMES IN A ROW! AND IF YOU DON’T, I’LL CLING TO YOUR LEG AND GO EEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH UNTIL YOU DO!” Such is the nature of grandparents.

Before I try to rescue my house from the disarray of the past week, I leave you with some gratuitous Prawn-related imagery.

Milestone

2008-03-21T21:27:00.001Z

My dear little Prawnlet is a whole year old today.

Pictures of the mayhem that was her first birthday party to follow on Monday after the departure of the grandparents.

A Very Quick Year

2008-03-10T11:53:00.002Z

As it is desirous for any blogger to meet other bloggers, Prawn Cocktail has joined in the internet tomfoolery that is 5 Minutes for Mom's Ultimate Blog Party 2008. Check out the party action!

In the spirit of things, and since it's been almost 2 years since I started this blog, here's a quick run-down of all things Rockmama. I'm a 32 year old American ex-pat living in the greenbelt surrounding London. Although my long haired, rocker husband and I spent 7 years living on a traditional, English narrowboat on the Grand Union canal, we've now lived on dry land for a little over a year.

Although we now have a beautiful daughter about to turn one, our road to parenthood was not smooth. After 3 years of trying and suffering two miscarriages, we were beginning to wonder if it was all going to happen for us. Luckily, we manged to find a great and sympathetic doctor (the others usually dismissed my by saying, "Oh, it's very common, just try again." This usually led to me wanting to punch someone in the face.) who discovered that I had a progesterone deficiency. After 14 weeks of supplements in early pregnancy, I finally went on to have our daughter (whom is known as The Prawn) almost a year ago. She's wonderful, bizarre, hilarious and our new best friend.

While I work for a GPS specialist, talking to people on the phone using acronyms that I don't completely understand, my real love is metalwork. I make and sell silver and gemstone jewelry. Other great loves reading, snowboarding, music, tattoos, swimming and cooking.

To celebrate nearly a year of the Prawn's presence, I've put together a cheese-tastic slide show of some of her best moments. Bring on the Velveeta.

Love is a Many Prickled Thing

2008-03-02T22:18:00.002Z

Most weeks, Mr. DD, his brother and our future sister-in-law and I try to get together for dinner or drinks at Chez Prawn after the bedtime of She Who Must Be Obeyed just to keep up with what’s going on and to demolish bottles of wine. I may start referring to these get-togethers as Evenings of Knowledge, because we will inevitably, in the course of our conversations, have to go to Wikipedia 3-4 times.

Last evening’s conversation turned to Mother’s Day and the fact that the American holiday is celebrated the second Sunday of May while the British one is tied into Lent. (the 4th Sunday after, apparently) According to the mighty Wiki, British Mother’s Day is actually tied to a Roman festival honouring Juno, mother of the gods. The US celebration is loosely based on the British one, although it was started after the American Civil War in order to rally woman to an anti-war stance.*

This is my first Mother’s Day. My induction last year fell on Mothering Sunday and I naively believed that being induced might result in, oh, I don’t know, AN ACTUAL BIRTH, so I was kind of looking forward to becoming a mother on Mother’s Day. This morning, by the time I woke up, my daughter was already down for her morning nap after having emptied the dishwasher, taken out the recycling, cleaned the kitchen and made me tea all while her father sat on his ass on the couch and scratched himself. Well, according to him, anyhow.

My favorite Mother’s Day story, which I might have told before, but can’t find in my archives anywhere, takes place the year I was about 5 or 6. During the annual Mother’s Day church service, all of the children in the congregation were invited to the front of the sanctuary to choose a colourful plant to take back to their mothers. Whoever did the purchasing of said plants must have had a momentary brain lapse, because in between the little impatiens and petunias, there was a single cactus.

I’ll give you two guesses as to who got the cactus.

I got an email from my mother this morning.

“I was just looking at Ms. Cactus yesterday and thinking about how lucky I was to have a daughter who, at the tender age of whatever, had the foresight to realize what a great choice this was. :) (But truly, I wonder what on earth made you choose a cactus over all the other colorful, flowerage available.)”**

Well, it might have seemed like a rather contrary choice at the time, but all those other kids can totally suck it. Because while those petunias and impatiens all met a quick, neglected death in someone’s kitchen window, my cactus (which was no bigger than an adult thumb) now looks like THIS. One wonders why the cactus industry (if there is such a thing) has never tried to capitalize on the symbolism. “Roses wither in days. Nothing says eternal love quite like something that is short, squat, spiky and hangs on despite the fact that you only water it once a year. Plus, the cats won’t eat it.™”

I hope that one day, the Prawn will give me a Mother’s Day cactus that I can look at as a reminder of her love for years to come, free from the threat of drought or being the salad course.

*The other two items that we looked up had to do with the word “nee” (inserted after a woman’s married name and before her maiden one.) and Jewish holidays. We run the conversational gamut on Evenings of Knowledge.

**I probably was kind of fascinated with the idea of a plant that could hurt people.

Result

2008-02-27T12:24:00.003Z

So, apparently, anti-depressants don’t work.

According to the media, at any rate, who are all too happy to discredit SOMETHING as most of the leading presidential contenders have never slept with prostitutes. (except maybe McCain, but that was a corporate lobbyist, although it's a short step from there to whore in my opinion.) The front page of the Independent this morning just about made me mad enough to chuck the paper in the sink and turn the water on (A sure-fire way of killing insidious newsprint) but, as it was not my copy, I didn’t in case my father-in-law still wanted to read it. “Now that anti-depressants have been discredited…” it started.

Hold on, I thought, Anti-depressants have been discredited by WHOM exactly? By YOU, the media, who, as we all know, love nothing better than scaring us to death? By one study at a British University? The fucking cheek! To take something that’s given a lot of hope to millions of people who suffer with depression and dismiss it’s relevance outright is, at best, presumptuous and at worst, irresponsible.

The irony was, I had just scheduled an appointment with my GP to have a chat about getting in on the SSRI goodness not 20 minutes before reading the headline. I toyed with the idea of canceling, because I felt a bit stupid going in and asking for something that the media had, a day earlier, publicly declared to be no better than snake oil. But Mr. DD encouraged me to keep the appointment, if for no other reason than just to have a chat with my GP about it to find out what my options are.

I like my GP immensely. I would like him a lot more if he were easier to get in to see, but the unbelievable stupidity of the “get seen within 24 hours” system which requires you to get on the phone by 8 am exactly and frantically ring back over and over until you get through in the vain hope of actually being able to see YOUR doctor is the subject for another post entirely. I spent a fair amount of time with a really drippy lady GP who obviously just wanted me out of her office ASAP and didn’t listen to a word I said, so I switched over to Dr. Seuss, (Not his real name, but not too far off.) who, it’s become apparent, is the most over subscribed GP in the practice. This is because he’s actually GOOD and you leave his office feeling like you’ve been seen by a doctor rather than a surly medical student with a frat kegger to get to.

After explaining to her how I’d been feeling for the last 4 months or so, he gave me the standard “Are You Depressed?” questionnaire. In my humble opinion, the little quiz is worth precisely bupkis due to the fact that most people who are mildly or even moderately depressed often feel a bit silly answering the question, “Do you experience persistent feelings of doubt or self worth or feel that you have let down your family?” with the answer, “Yes, all the time”, because, quite frankly, it sounds a little melodramatic considering how you ACTUALLY feel, which is just kind of a low level of lethargy, difficulty in getting motivated and sort of general disconnectedness from everyday life. Dr. Seuss was quite sympathetic and wasn’t convinced by the effectiveness of the test either, but was required to complete it for paperwork’s sake.

I actually scored just below the recommended level for actual honest-to-god depression, which in itself was rather depressing. However, Dr. Seuss was still prepared to start me on a course of anti-depressants if I wanted, as it had been going on so long. After speaking a little further, I agreed to try 6 weeks of alternative therapy with St. John’s Wort, but after that time, if the situation was no better, he’d give me the good stuff.

I was satisfied with that, honestly. I took a course of SJW in college when I was suffering and it seems to make a small improvement, but with herbal remedies especially, you can never really be sure. So, knowing that I still have a lifeline if it doesn’t work made me happy enough to give it another try.

Just wanted to thank you ladies for all the support and good vibes.

Out Of Doors

2008-02-25T22:22:00.004Z

Now that the days are beginning to feel vaguely spring-like on this side of the Atlantic, we thought it would be nice to introduce the Prawn to the Great Outdoors. Namely, the bit of it that exists just across the street from our flat on the village green. While the Prawn already has one spring and summer under her belt this will be the first outdoor friendly season that she will be mobile, so we thought we’d get a head start on Sunday due to really quite bizarrely mild temperatures.

We thought the playground might be a good place to start as the Prawn has shown a fondness for rough and tumble play. I had afternoon tea with my friend the Danish Muffin last week and saw that her little boy, Cone-ass the Barbarian, had one of those canvas tunnels that he enjoyed crawling through. The Prawn looked positively enthralled, but slightly reticent to join in due to the fact that Cone-ass is a year older and much more rambunctious that she is. (He was all like, “What the hell are you doing? Crawling? What’s THAT about? On your feet, soldier!” and kept trying to drag her around by her hands.) At any rate, I thought she’d enjoy a tunnel of her own, so I picked one up from Argos for about 10 quid. After an initial flat refusal to enter, putting the Sky remote at the opposite end had the desired effect. I swear that TV remotes act as crack for babies. They simply can’t get enough of them, no matter WHAT banquet of expensive playthings is laid out before them. She loves the tunnel now and comes charging through, laughing like a madthing if Mr. DD or I pokes our head through at the other end.

There’s something vaguely depressing about an empty playground, especially on a weekend afternoon. The combination of the rugby and the football saw to that. There were 4 urchins kicking around a football that had seen better days, but other than them, we had the place all to ourselves. However, we hit upon a snag almost instantly.

The Prawn hates playgrounds.

I imagine that this is a phase that will pass, cause dude, kids love playgrounds. I have many a fond memory of palms blistered from hours on the monkey bars or being sick during language arts because I spent all of recess being spun round and round on a tire swing. Good times. My guess is that we took Her Prawness slightly to close to naptime and were therefore assured the crankiest possible reaction. The swings, as you can see, produced the most definitive result. Even after both Mr. DD and I demonstrated that swings obviously rule by swinging on them ourselves, the Prawn was unconvinced and ratcheted up her dislike to LipCon 5, as you can see.

Now, I totally want to instill great virtuousness in my child and laughing at others pain is certainly not something I want to encourage, but it is difficult to stifle guffaws when a person the size of a wastebasket pulls a mug like this.

Things got no better when we decided to let her have an explore on her own. I suppose, for someone who’s never really put their full body weight on damp ground before, the experience might be less than pleasant. The Prawn steadfastly refused to move an inch on the dirt, raising her chubby little arms above her head in order to be liberated from her predicament.

Admitting defeat, we finally traipsed back inside, dreaming of warmer weather and a bi-pedal Prawn who will enjoy the outdoors. Maybe minus the mud.

Goofball

2008-02-19T12:49:00.001Z

Just a dose of the cute.

Prawny B. Goode

2008-02-13T15:08:00.002Z

At 10 months and 3 weeks, the Prawn has finally said her first definitive word.

Several weeks ago, Mr. DD was ready to call it for “Dada” and I had to admit, there was compelling evidence. The Prawn pointed at him and said, “Dada!” However, as the days went by, it was apparent that she was rather indiscriminate with the word, using it to describe not only her father, but her pacifier, BB King and the oven, so Mr. DD grudgingly agreed to take back his earlier, “official first word” call.

However, today, it has become much more obvious that she now has a word for a common household object.

Well, at least it’s common around OUR house. The fact that it’s her first word is not all that surprising.

"Gee-ta!"

"Tee-ta!"

"Tar-tar!"

I think Mr. DD is almost as pleased as he would have been with "Dada".

Sick and Tired of Sick and Tired

2008-02-06T16:12:00.000Z

I’ve never been reluctant to talk about stuff on this blog. With a sympathetic readership there’s very little that you can’t talk about up to and including the very personal private personal functions of your very own personal private ladyplace. It’s a little harder, however, to go into the realm of feelings without sounding like a complete tool. Other people are quite adept at talking about feelings, but given the choice, I’d probably far rather make jokes about my period or something.

At any rate, my feelings have been bothering me in an itchy rash kind of a way lately. I guess it’s no secret that depression is pretty common among women my age and I’ve kind of struggled with bouts of it on and off since late high school. (Although back then, it was probably just more about the fact that this girl I was friends with totally wasn’t talking to me and my boyfriend was sneaking around behind my back and OMG, I TOTALLY CAN’T GET MY HAIR TO DO WHAT I WANT IT TO.)

I had the obligatory health visitor questionnaire 10 weeks after the Prawn was born. Was I a) happy all the time, b) happy most of the time, c) sad most of the time, d) sad all of the time or e) so sad I’m thinking about hurting myself or my baby. The lady who administered this rather drippy test smiled apologetically at me as she asked me to answer. “I think as long as it’s not e, you’re pretty much par for the course at this point,” she admitted. Strangely enough, when the Prawn was smaller and more stressful in terms of care, I felt just fine. Apart from the first 5 weeks when I was convinced that my life was over and could go from 0 to crazy in 0.2 seconds flat, and alarmingly, that’s how I’m starting to feel all over again.

My main symptom is the low level feeling in my gut that I’ve just been given terrible news. I’m pretty sure just about everyone knows this feeling, although I imagine that it’s different for everyone- The kind of sad that just kind of seeps into everything you do. I will cry at the drop of a hat. This is especially embarrassing in the gym while on the treadmill and an NSPCC ad (for those of you in the States, a large child abuse prevention charity.) will run on MTV or something and I have to yank my headphones out and look away. (By the way, what do you reckon they do to the children in those commercials to make them look as if someone has just brutally murdered a puppy in front of them?) Absolutely anything having to do with children suffering at all makes me totally nuts. That photo of the baby being tossed from the apartment building in Germany? I was a gibbering wreck in front of the television. Oxfam ad? NO THANK YOU. Seeing any more pictures of crying, malnourished babies will keep me under the bed for a week. I cried the other day while reading the Prawn a book. About a snail and a whale. Why? BECAUSE WHALES ARE ENDANGERED. The Prawn was all, “Pull yourself together, woman!”

The worst part about it is trying to be “on” for her when all I want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor. Of course, this compounds the existing depression with the feeling that I’m being a terrible mother, which is just the cherry on top of the whole shit sundae. I suppose I can thank my lucky stars that I have never considered hurting her or myself due to whatever chemical fuckwittery is occurring in my head. I just feel bad. All the time. Pure and simple. As stressful as life with the Prawn is sometimes, I really don’t feel like she’s the source of my problems. If anything, she’s become more of a joy to parent as she’s begun to be a sentient human being who knows where her nose is and enjoys stealing things from other children. She’s hilarious.

Mr. DD is awesome about it, but it’s hard for even him to understand what goes on in the mind of a depressed person. For anyone who’s never struggled with it, it must be terribly frustrating to watch someone you love feel bad and have them tell you that it’s not your fault, but there’s nothing you can really do to help. The one thing that he HAS been able to do is give me the freedom to go out every now and again. I’m going with my brother and sister in-law this evening to see “Sweeny Todd”, which I’ve been clawing at the door to see ever since I saw the first trailer. A story of murder and a broken family may not be the ideal choice to suit my present mood, but hopefully the fact that two of my favorite movie crush-boys are in it (Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman. Yes, really, Alan Rickman. Seriously, Sense and Sensibility, anyone?) will mean that I can enjoy my little tub of Ben and Jerry’s (carefully saved up for this week with WW points. Oh yes, did I mention I’m dieting as well?) and try to feel like a normal human being for the evening.

Thanks, internets, for being my sounding board.

Getting a Head Start

2008-02-04T12:14:00.000Z

There is a reason that I don't go out of my way to go to the large Tesco Extra on the side of Aylesbury that's a pain in the ass to get to. And it is not, as it may seem, that it's a pain in the ass to get there, but rather that when I go, I come home with scads of useless crap that I didn't set out to buy.

The clothing is usually my downfall, either for myself or for the Prawn. I mean, who doesn't need another plain black shirt? For 5 quid? Or a super-frilly something to re-enforce a gender stereotype for my daughter? However, while perusing the racks yesterday, (which are likely straight out of a factory in Thailand who's workforce should be out at recess rather than operating sewing machines) I came across this abhorrent piece of fashion sputum in the Prawn's size.

Strangely enough, Tesco on-line does NOT have a photo of the offending item. I only found the picture of it due to the outrage of another blogger. In an age where scientists are finding the on-set of early puberty in girls as young as 8 being more and more common, do we REALLY need the body hate to start at 3-6 months?

Why We Haven't Sold Her to Gypsies During Teething

2008-01-27T17:58:00.001Z

The Daddy

2008-01-25T11:07:00.000Z

The Prawn has been listening to music pretty much constantly since she grew ears at about 18 weeks gestation. In fact, at around that time, she attended her first concert at which she was privileged to listen to the blues stylings of the one and only Mr. Joe Bonamassa.

The Rock Star often puts on concert videos in the morning for background noise while he works. (Or, attempts to work with someone in the room who would also very much like to be using his laptop, but for vastly different purposes.) Yesterday, while he was watching Eric Claptons 2007 Crossroads Festival video, the Prawn awoke from her nap.

As he usually does, The Rock Star went to fetch her and jigged her around the living room in time to the music, which at the moment, was being provided by BB King, most likely making up silly lyrics.

"Who's your daddy?" The Rock Star asked, rhetorically.

The Prawn, without hesitation, pointed straight at BB King and went, "DADA!"

Great. Now we have to explain the difference between "YOUR Daddy" and "THE Daddy."

10 Months Young

2008-01-21T17:18:00.000Z

The Prawn, modeling the latest in baby shredder gear, ready to hit the slopes and all of those sick kickers. These kids. I don't know.

We've actually had to cancel the Prawn's first introduction to snow due to the UK government deciding that two people with a combined income of under 40k a year are just making FAR TO MUCH CASH for their liking and dropping a 5 grand tax bill on us out of the blue. It's my understanding that we have accountants that we pay part of that just under 40k a year to to make sure that WE KNOW IF WE'RE ABOUT TO HAVE TO TAKE OUT A LOAN TO PAY A TAX BILL, but I might be wrong about that. At any rate, our long anticipated boarding holiday, the idea of which sustained me through the Prawn's newborn days and many other shouty moments is most firmly off the table. As is pretty much everything else that we'd planned on doing this year, so it's a bit of a kick in the face of a January.

But the Prawn sustains us and grows more sentient by the day. Parenting has become easier as of late due to the fact that she often amuse herself for the best part of an hour noisily whacking a pot with a spoon. Spoons have become a favorite of hers recently; we made the life changing discovery that she will eat ANYTHING as long as you let her hold a spoon other than the one you're feeding her with. This has made for a much happier breakfast, lunch and dinnertime relationship with Mummy and Daddy and far less mashed potato on the walls.

We've been wondering recently when the day will come that we must cease telling her how cute she is for fear she turn into a heinous bitch in later life. We are undone by her flippy curls over her ears. By her endless stream of chatter. By the way she crawls so fast, she "trips". By her 1000 watt smile. At some point, though, she'll figure out that these things are true and begin a campaign of manipulation that only a small, flippy haired, blue eyed girl-child can carry off.

Little bugger.

Heartbreaking

2008-01-15T17:26:00.000Z

Please go give Alexa some much needed love.

Knocked Up

2008-01-14T17:20:00.000Z

Before you even ask, NO, I am not knocked up again. But is it me, or is everyone else?

I’m not sure if this is just because I’ve recently developed a large tumour in my brain that compels me to seek out gossip (because, obviously, there’s no other rational explanation for my shameful secret) or if it’s because the press has developed an irrational fixation on pregnant celebrities, but it seems that at any one time, there seems to be some frantic celebrity baby watch going on that will continue at fever pitch until some nosy bastard snaps the first photo of the little blob in public, at which point everyone loses interest.

It seems strange to me that women in the public eye who get pregnant are the source of such endless fascination as (I’ve been told) it’s actually pretty common among members of the female species. I suppose the state of pregnancy is always slightly unusual to the casual observer due to the really quite alarming physical characteristics of the condition, namely, the enormous, animated belly poking out in front. Although other conditions, including gross obesity, also have this characteristic, pregnancy is different. It’s a condition that’s treated reverently and with a certain degree of respect. Therefore, when an A-lister gets into a family way, it is though the light of heaven shines straight out of her ladyplace.

The recent must-have item in Hollywood seems to be an unplanned pregnancy with a boyfriend who spends most of his time running a nightclub paid for with your money and playing Xbox. Obviously chic. Condoms? SO yesterday. And One can’t possibly be expected to remember to take EVERY SINGLE LITTLE PILL in that wheel thingy when you have 15 trips to Starbucks to make in one day.

Press releases from publicists could almost be fill-in-the-blank: “ _________is expecting her first child with boyfriend, Cheaty McWorthless. The couple are thrilled and delighted”. Of course, from just about any photo you care to dredge up, it’s patently obvious that __________ is anything BUT thrilled and delighted, because in fact, __________ was a day away from canning Cheaty McWorthless’s ass when the dreaded plus sign appeared in the little window of the pee-pee stick. Solo pregnancy in show business guarantees headlines in the Enquirer. But pregnancy with a seemingly doting partner gets you People, US, Glamour, Vanity Fair, and a shitload of free baby swag from every trendy specialist boutique. So obviously, Cheaty gets to stay on, being a loathsome sponge until the baby shows up, at which point she is free to sell the story; “I Left Him for the Sake of My Baby” garnering massive public support and securing a guest spot on Oprah.

Then of course, there is the all important matter of a cool name, because god forbid you do something so prosaic as name the child after your grandmother who loved you dearly and baked you things, although you can be forgiven if your grandmother was called Edna or Fanny. (IF YOU HAVE A GRANDMOTHER CALLED EDNA OR FANNY, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT BY THE WAY. I HAD A GREAT AUNT EDNA WHO WAS A LOVELY, LOVELY WOMAN.) I have to admit to falling victim to the peculiar name bug when looking for names for The Prawn. I don’t mind telling you that some of the casualties of the girl’s name list were Kestrel, Lirael and Lyra. (for you literary buffs) But naming an A-list baby seems to be a task that causes famous parents to take leave of their senses and bestow their offspring with monikers that will no doubt make up an entire chapter entitled “How My Parents Fucked Me Up” in their future autobiographies. While Apple is a lovely name for a fruit, a computer and a small, photogenic girl, it is not necessarily a name that will ever look right on a credit card or eventual social security check. Indiana is a fabulous name for a state or an archaeologist, but unless he’s willing to wield a bullwhip in the school yard, no so much for a little boy. (Although I have a sneaking suspicion that in a state of hormone induced madness, it might have been one of the names that I suggested to the Rock Star if the Prawn had been born in possession of a winkle.)

The part of pregnancy that the public rarely ever sees is the downside, which involves miscarriage or infertility. Pregnancy announcements are made and then there is a deafening silence if something should happen to go wrong. In addition to the insanity that surround celebrity pregnancies, it would be comforting once in a while if someone who regularly found their face on the cover of magazines might come out and say, “yeah, that happened to me too” rather than slinking away to hide (although this is probably a more natural reaction) so that other women struggling with the same problems could feel slightly more normal and know that not all pregnancies lead to a) endless lunches at the Ivy or b) an actual honest to god baby. Although it is not entirely a surprise that women in the public eye who have had trouble conceiving don't want to spill their guts in a national glossy. Someone like Nicole Kidman, who had a rather public miscarriage around the time that her marriage ended, must now be utterly shitting herself and being forced to do it in front of every long lens in the business when she's probably doing the same thing that all of us have done; freaking out and checking for blood on the toilet paper.

So we have yet another 6 or 7 months or so before the latest round of unwed celebrity mothers are fit to pop. Let’s hope they’ll use the time wisely. Count their blessings. And get rid of Cheaty’s X-box.

Late

2008-01-07T16:45:00.000Z

The holiday season kind of got on top of me this year. I feel like I should have phoned the police.

For any of you participating in Pru's card swap- I JUST GOT THE CARDS IN THE MAIL TODAY. That's how much I suck. My mother has been known not to get hers in the post until the end of January, so I am at least beating genetics at this point, although not by much.

The Prawn is poorly, you see. I have discovered in the last few days that a) baby snot should be recycled as an industrial grade lubricant b) that there is no good way of taking the temperature of someone who has not yet reached the age of reason and c) that I never thought that I'd complain because she stopped fighting me when I tried to change her clothes or that she slept in until 8 am.

I can at least be grateful that (knock wood) she does not seem to have the virus which causes explosions in both the north and the south, if you catch my drift. As much as I would love to seal her in a plastic bubble until this nasty little Rotovirus disappears, I think I will have to settle for not taking her out in public for a while. I have issues with vomit, you see. While newborn vomit is mostly milk, the Prawn has now aquired adult style yak, which unfortunately also makes me want to heave. All that time worrying about diapers and it never occurred to me that I might have to clean up chunder. Ack.

On that pleasant note, I bid you adieu. I have a husband at home who requires Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, stat.

Dirty Laundry

2007-12-30T23:35:00.000Z

Just a little bit of cute before the new year.

Exhibit A, Exhibit B

2007-12-26T14:06:00.000Z

This picture pretty much sums up all the problems in my life right now.

Scenes From Christmas

2007-12-26T14:04:00.000Z

Christmas Melt Down

2007-12-20T15:06:00.000Z

Strangely enough, two years ago, on this day, I shouted at a teenage girl who ran up to me with a charity tin, squealing, “Give us money!”

Me: If you rattle that tin in my face again, you little slag, I swear to god I’ll smack you.

I don’t know what it is about December 20th, but it’s a day that tends to make me lose my grip a bit. Today, my tenuous grip on sanity was shaken further by a 9 month old who’s teething and fighting a cold at the same time. Everything I tried to do this morning was rebuffed with a barrage of what I can only imagine was baby cursing, so much so that I was tempted to wash her mouth out with soap. (I DON’T MAKE MY BABY EAT SOAP. No calls to child services, please.) Putting pants on became akin to being jabbed by sharp objects. Putting a coat on was obviously a fate worse than death. Being put on trial for war crimes at The Hague was infinitely preferable to being strapped into a car seat. And going round the shops? Don’t even ask.

The last few weeks have been something of a struggle. The Prawn, for lack of a better word, has been behaving like a jerk. I know it's because of the new teeth that are forcing their way through her gums as well as the lurghy that has taken up residence in her respiratory system. It seems terribly unfair that babies can't behave as WE do when we get sick- simply take to their beds and wake up only occasionally for sustenance. But no, they are afflicted with the jerk reflex which causes them to behave as if they have spent most of their short lives with a pack of wolverines. Not only that, but they infect US as well and through our own sickness, we are expected to be patient and understanding of their antics all while battling sleep deprivation, a sore throat and migraine.

I hate myself for sometimes wishing that she'd just disappear for a few hours or having to leave her in her crib, screaming so that I can do some screaming of my own into a convenient pillow. No mother should feel that way about her kid, I think, but I'm pretty sure that just about every one does at one point or another.

Motherhood is all about the guilt. Asking Santa for a happy baby for Christmas.

Playtime

2007-12-11T18:00:00.001Z

The Prawn is just on the brink of sentience. Although she discovered vanity some time ago, (she gets unnaturally excited about her own reflection in the mirror. I sense a world of teenage image dramas in my future) she is just learning that there are many things in the world with which to interact and eat. So, obviously, this means it’s time for toys.

The Prawn’s favourite toys are as follows:

-Any laptop within reach.

-Any mobile phone within reach.

-Any electrical cord within reach.

-Any remote control in reach. (which usually results in us having to watch the shopping channel with subtitles that we can’t figure out how to turn off.)

-The strings on the hood of Daddy’s sweatshirt.

-Daddy’s guitars.

-The recycling.

-Crap she finds on the floor, no matter how well we’ve hoovered it.

If someone had told me that babies were the same at cats, (wanting to play with anything but the stuff you buy them) then we probably could have saved a lot of cash.

There are a few playthings, however, we’ve bought her that can hold her attention for more than 5 minutes.

Mozart Magic Cube, by Munchkin. A gift from my parents. This thing is pretty bitching, actually, despite our feelings about toys that require batteries. It has 8 works by the master of babysmarts himself programmed in and a choice of 5 instruments-harp, French horn, piano, flute, and violin- that are available on each side of the cube for individual or orchestral listening. Each side flashes to the beat of it’s instrument so it makes for a cool visual experience as well as audio. The Prawn digs kicking it around the room, turning on and off instruments. It’s the toy that is inevitably kicked by one of us while we’re trying to get the Prawn to sleep, setting off a cacophonic version of "Là Ci Darem la Mano" and triggering a desperate attempt to find which edge of the cube boasts the “off” switch.

Wooden Shape Sorter, by Mothercare. Mothercare has a small, but fairly decent range of own-brand infant toys that do not squeak, squawk, chatter or play stadium volume music. The Prawn just doesn’t need that shit. (Translation: we don’t need that shit) While visiting my folks, they dragged out and sterilized all of my baby toys and out of all of them, the Prawn tended to gravitate toward the shape sorter more than any other. (Save for the xylophone, but that’s only because it had a stick attached to it that was clearly perfect for poking an eye out with) Upon our return, I managed to find one that didn’t holler “GOOD JOB!” upon putting the shape in the correct slot to bring home for her. She’s spent a lot of time chewing on the pieces and banging the sorter itself on the floor, no doubt endearing herself further with our downstairs neighbours.

Black Labrador puppet, by Folkmanis. This is the first thing that she’s chosen herself. There’s a lovely children’s toyshop in the trendy downtown area where my parents live that sells imported wooden toys, fun games and other unique stuff. We held a number of things out for her to look at that were met with the withering indifference that only an 8 month old can muster. However, when we held out the Labrador puppet, she reached her arms up for it. Little surprise, as she is fascinated with The Rock Star’s family dog, Dougal, who is also a black Lab. So, we bought Mini Dougal home where she has proceeded to lie on him and bury her little face into his fur, giving her an outlet for her love of the real thing which would most likely be very dangerous as Dougal is a total nutter.

I think probably many people go slightly mad their child’s first Christmas, but I’m saving the bulk of my crazy for her first fully sentient holiday. She’ll be getting a tambourine from Santa this year and that’s about it.

Considering that everything she REALLY wants to play with is ours anyhow, perhaps I should just wrap up my car keys for a bit of extra magic.

A Christmas Story

2007-12-07T11:31:00.000Z

It’s taken me almost a week to get my ass back into gear, but considering that I’ve been living with a jetlagged 8 month old for the last few days, I’m surprised I’m still standing.

So, it’s that time of year again. This Christmas is particularly exciting as I will have the opportunity, to actually, you know, decorate. While living on a boat has it’s advantages, especially if you like ducks, fish and manual toilet emptying, a rather large disadvantage is not having the space to swing a cat, let alone put up a Christmas tree. Mr. DD and I always tried to make do with a tiny plastic tree which was never large enough to accommodate our already vast collection of ornaments. (When we were married, my mother threw an “ornament” shower for us, so we’re all good on the hanging stuff front).

This year, while we finally have the space, we also have someone living with us who will want to get physically, spiritually and orally acquainted with said Christmas tree, so it’s going to be a little bit of a challenge to decorate like I’ve always wanted and still make sure that there is only a wisp of a chance that the Prawn will decide that Christmas lights are tasty and nutritious.

My father once wisely said that Christmas is a holiday that’s always tinged with melancholy due to the fact that it cannot be celebrated one Christmas at a time; every Christmas is a reminder of all the Christmases that have gone before.

I suppose I was around 15 or 16 when I had a sudden and unsettling realization that Christmas was never going to have the same kind of magic that it had for me as a child and it made me terribly sad for a number of holiday seasons. I’m not sure I even knew how to articulate how I was feeling, but I just knew that it “wasn’t like before.”

On my first Christmas home from college, we travelled up to Pennsylvania for the annual family Christmas get togethers. The Christmas Eve celebration (typically my favourite part of the whole holiday) was held at the house of my mother’s cousin, as it had been for years. (She’d taken over the party from HER mother, my grandmother’s sister) It was actually snowing, making the woods where her house was achingly picturesque. I’d left something in the car, so I’d crunched back down the driveway to get it. On the way back, my foot shot out from under me and I ended up flat on my back in the driveway. As I lay there, looking up at the falling snow and hoping that I wasn’t suffering from a concussion, I suddenly hear the faint sound of a choir in the valley below singing “Silent Night.”

It was a strange and happy epiphany I had at that moment; I suddenly made peace with sense of loss from Christmases past and knew that although that feeling of wonder that I’d experienced as a child was gone, it would be replaced with a warm, more familial feeling as I grew older. I’d look forward to it for different reasons. I’d celebrate it in different ways. The melacholy that had afflicted me for years evaporated, leaving behind the knowledge that it would leave behind only a happy, nostalgic ache, once every 25th of December.

So, lying in the driveway, snow slowing soaking through the back of my coat, I smiled.

This year, I've found that some of that sense of wonder has returned. It's my job to make Christmas happen for my daughter. (Even though this year, she will be more interested in eating Christmas than experiencing it.) All of the beautiful things that I remember from my childhood can come to life again for her, as well as new things that Mr. DD and I will create for ourselves.

I can't tell you how excited I am about that.

Not Enlightened

2007-12-02T03:43:00.001Z

Should my daughter ever choose a spiritual path, I'll give you two guesses as to which way she probably WON'T be going.

Cute Update

2007-11-26T01:49:00.000Z

Just a quick update from this side of the pond; Thanksgiving was lovely and full of opportunities for the Prawn to interact with cousins various. The other bit of cute in this picture is The Tadpole, one of our goddaughters. Matching outfits courtesy of The Tadpole's parents. (The Prawn's godparents)

Taking Flight

2007-11-18T23:05:00.000Z

So, we're off. Wish us luck.

The doctor issued us a prescription for Piraton, which I believe is an anti-histimine, to give to her in a VERY small dose after watching the Prawn attempting to fling herself from my grasp in his office. I'm not keen on giving it to her, but after a serious attack of cranky this afternoon, I'm not sure what I'll do on a 777 if she chooses to do it again. (Look for an escape hatch of some sort, I imagine.)

At any rate, we're off to the New World!

The Cranky

2007-11-13T16:46:00.000Z

Okay, so remember when I said about 3 or 4 months ago that that the Prawn's teeth were coming in? Well, I was pretty wrong at that point. I was hoping to attribute her cranky behavior to teeth coming in because I didn't want to believe she was just behaving like that for the hell of it. However, now the teeth really ARE coming in and it's time for me once again face the fact that there are occasions that, while I love her, sometimes I don't like her very much.

There are moments when she is almost unbearably sweet. Peekaboo is her favorite game of late and it's amazing to listen to her laugh with delight. She's also recently gotten the hang of waving. And sticking out her tongue. All very cute and lovely and I adore her. But then we try to put her to bed.

Up until now, sleeping hasn't really been so much of a problem. She'd drift off quickly after being deposited in her cot. But now it's all about the screaming.

My theory is that it's all part of the new clinginess that also involves screaming when one of us walks out of the room for a minute, even if we're not out of eyeshot. She's not been a fretful or nervous baby by any means up until now, so these new screaming fits at bedtime are a bit of a new thing for us.

We are definitely of the Controlled Crying school. There is no way that we want this behavior to continue and DEFINITELY not to extend into the middle of the night, like it did last night. (I've got bags 2 miles long under my eyes) We leave her to it for 5 minutes before going back in to re-insert the dummy, kiss her and walk back out again. We leave it slightly longer the next time. Luckily, she's never really gone beyond crying for 2o minutes. Yes, I know that we are lucky.

The reason it is easier to use the Controlled Crying method is that she's developed a new cry which sounds exactly like a pouty child throwing a tantrum. This is the bedtime cry. No real tears, just forced crying. It's funny, but it's kind of been the first warning that cognisance is on it's way- she's already learning how to play the system. "I shout, Mummy and Daddy come back and then I can stare at them innocently while chucking my dummy down the inaccessible side of the cot and bashing the bars with my feet."

At any rate, times they are a-changin. In a week's time, we will be across the Atlantic, visiting my parents in Maryland. Before we get there, however, we have to get on a plane for 7 hours and while checking her into the hold seems an attractive option, it's not strictly legal, so we went ahead and bought her a seat. Am I going to be a holistic Mummy and try to keep my child entertained for the best part of a day in a confined space, or am I going to put Medised into her bottle, have a glass of red wine and fall asleep?

Take a guess.

Reasons Why The Prawn Should Be Watched At All Times

2007-11-07T13:18:00.001Z

Everyone told me that this would happen someday. I laughed, thinking that neither I or Mr. DD would ever be silly enough to let it happen, but happen it did.

The Prawn has eaten poo.

I am pleased to say that I was not at home when this rather disgusting snack occurred. I was, however, in touch with Mr. DD on MSN. Suddenly a message pops up.

Mr. DD: OMG, OMG, OMG

Me: What?

Mr. DD: OMG, IT'S SO DISGUSTING I DON'T EVEN WANT TO TELL YOU.

Me: What??

Mr. DD: I THINK I'M GOING TO BE SICK.

Me: WHAT??????

Mr. DD: The Prawn just ate her own poo.

Me: WTF?!! How did that happen???

Mr. DD: I changed her and SERIOUSLY, I turned my back for a second and when I turned around, she's all face down in the nappy going NOM NOM NOM.

Me: ........

Mr. DD: Seriously, I thought I was gonna barf.

Me: YOU were going to barf? What about HER???

Mr. DD: I cleaned her up. She's happy as larry.

Me: OMG, that is so heinous.

Mr. DD: I know.

Me: Can you give her a breath mint or something before I come home?

Daylight Stupid Time

2007-10-30T09:43:00.000Z

To be honest, I've never really given Daylight Savings Time much thought. It's just always been, "Oh better change the clock so I don't end up looking like a big dork showing up early or late for work."

But you know what? Fuck Daylight Savings Time. Fuck it right in the ear. Has Daylight Savings Time ever had a cranky Prawn start shouting at it at 5 instead of 6 in the morning? NO IT HAS NOT. (To be fair, it is Mr. DD who gets out of bed in the morning to deal with the Prawn, but I know he's not loving it either.)

So now it's a question of how we can wrestle her back into a sleep pattern for civilized people. My best guess is that this will involve rather a lot of shouting from a 7 1/2 month old who's wondering why the hell she's still not in bed at 9 pm even though she is being repeated run over by the Sleep Truck. The Sleep Truck is more appropriate for the Prawn than the Sandman as she'll be all, "AAAAAaaaaa, NANG NANG NANG, AAAaaa, NANGzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" rather than gently drifting off to sleep.

Meh.

Prawn Cocktail: Soberly Navigating Babyhood

All the Little People (Or, How I Quit My New Job in Just a Week)

Anyone still out there?

Starting Over

Overwhelmed

Birth Story, Take Two.

The Squid and the Prawn

The Arrival

Luck of the Irish?

Good News

Stumbling a Bit in the Home Stretch

Countdown

New Friends

Headlines

Better?

Broken Blog

Abu el Banat

Listening Skills

Updates

Squid

Speechless

Hmmmm...

This record sucks? Can we dance to a different one?

All Hail Captain Overreaction

More Than a Feeling

OMG. WTF.

Familiar Territory

She Gets Cookies for Dinner

The Street

Why, if I were not married to Mr. DD, I would seriously try to woo Mr. BTG

The Long Story: Cherry Blossom

Just a quick one..

The End

Goodnight, Loon

The Birth Story (For Reals This Time)

The Crazy

Prawn Quote of the Day

Now with more whining!

The Old, the New and the Ugly

Good Luck Charm

Another ride on the Ferris Wheel

???!?!

Not So Stupid

Junk

Sick, Sick, Sick

Update

Rock Your Sock Off

NOM NOM NOM

Hmmmm...

Fuck My Hat

Fan Girl

Hairy Problems

Music Critic

The Prawn Hits 15 Months

Changeling

Lolbaby

The Accidental Racist

Elegy for a White Donkey

The Worst Supper

Bad Behavior

Chatterbox

Inked *updated*

More Prawn Than You Can Handle

Photo Shoot

Alchemy

The Pen

Moo

Dig Deep

The Journey Starts with One Pill

Year of the Prawn

Milestone

A Very Quick Year

Love is a Many Prickled Thing

Result

Out Of Doors

Goofball

Prawny B. Goode

Sick and Tired of Sick and Tired

Getting a Head Start

Why We Haven't Sold Her to Gypsies During Teething

Inked updated