The Long Story: Cherry Blossom

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..

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

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

The Birth Story (For Reals This Time)

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

???!?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

The Prawn has chicken pox.

This would not normally be a problem.

But I've never had them.

I'm at itchcon 1.