At Least She Doesn't Go Up To 11

One of the slightly dimmer children in my mother's classroom, upon seeing this picture on the wall, asked if the volume knob actually worked.

Tattoo Designs

As some of you may remember, I've got ink. Of course, being as addictive as it is, the birth of a child is too large an opportunity to pass up for another appointment with the needle to burn another piece of permanancy into my flesh. (Tattoos are weird that way.)

Just trying to get a consensus on the design.

These are the Chinese Symbols for "mother" and "daughter". (Mother is the larger one on top) These would be joining two other Chinese symbols on my back.

This is a little design that I've come up with in Photoshop. May I just say hooray for the text to path feature previously only available in Illustrator? Obviously, this is the Prawn's name. Some people have commented that it is slightly hard to read, but I think I'm okay with that, as I think it looks nice as a pattern on it's own.



Both designs leave the option for a second one should be we lucky enough to have a second child. I can either add another "daughter" or "son" to the first one or a second name "wreath".

What do you ladies think? So far, the name wreath has the most votes, but I'm really open to either of them

Playtime

The arrival of the Prawn also heralded the arrival of many stuffed animals in our household. While is it very sweet to have a shelf of furry creatures with glassy eyes staring at our offspring, she unfortunately doesn’t seem to be all that keen on any of them just yet. We assume that she will make her own decisions on favourites, but we have to admit to a bit of lobbying on our part for 3 favourites of our OWN.

Sir Humphrey Bollagard: An extremely soft, cuddly donkey type creature bought by my virtual sister in law. (My b.i.l’s girlfriend who it’s painfully obvious to everyone that he’s going to marry) He started out as just Humphrey, as it seemed suitable name, but then Mr. DD began to use him as a crotch guard while changing The Prawn when it became obvious that she was making a serious kicking attempt to scupper plans for possible siblings, so he became Humphrey Bollagard. He was knighted after sterling service in the nappy changing arena.

He has one black mark against him however since he scared the living hell out of her on at least one occasion. Note: Don't place an unfamiliar stuffed toy on baby's lap when they are asleep.

I have mixed feelings about my child telling people that her donkey is called Sir Humphrey Bollagard, but you have to keep other people on their toes.


Ugly Worm: A gift from the Prawn’s godmother, my best friend from college.

As a recovering D&D player, I was actually mulling over the purchase of a cuddly Cthulu but my friend got this repulsive, yet cuddly beast for her goddaughter. Mr. DD doesn’t think he is as suitable a favourite as Sir Humphrey, but the lingering subversive gamer in me hopes that the Prawn will take Ugly Worm to her spit-covered bosom.

As I am a great imitator of ideas, I would dearly like to have a go at making an Ugly Doll myself. I am not, by any means, a seamstress, but I think I could probably handle an amorphus blob, a big creepy eye and a couple of teeth.

Many more Ugly Dolls are available from their home website.

Nichales Cow: I bought Nichlaes Cow way back in May of last year, before I was even pregnant. I loved his little face and hoped that we’d be able to have a child to enjoy him as much as I did. I highly recommend Nordic Kids, by the way, for unique baby stuff. Chances are, if I buy baby gifts, I buy them from there. The same manufacturer also makes a similar cuddly pig (which we have gifted to two other babies) and more recently, a cat.) I also own the change purse that bears his likeness, so, as you can see, I'm a big fan.

He is not quite as cuddly or large as either Sir Humphrey or the Worm, but what he lacks in cuddliness and size he makes up for in charm.

Musicality

In our quest to make the Prawn into a well rounded human being, we’ve tried to fill her life with as much music as possible. Indeed, she attended at least 3 gigs before she was even born. While she seems to be quite enamoured of Green Day and fairly tolerant of just about all of the rest of our record collection, we thought it was probably prudent to invest in some children’s music to make sure she doesn’t have any rage issues from being exposed to repeated listenings of Appetite for Destruction at an early age.

I went browsing on Amazon.com for suitable Prawn-friendly tunes and after handing over a fair amount of cash, I received a package from the States with many hours of listening pleasure in it. Children’s music can be so, so SO AWFUL and I was willing to part with a fair sum of cash to make sure that my daughter didn’t grow up believing “The Wheels On the Bus” sung by people that sound as though they have frighteningly white, sharp teeth was not the limit of her musical horizon. (Not that there’s anything wrong with “The Wheels on the Bus”. They’ve got to learn the basics of public transportation somehow. The wipers going swish, horn going beep…they pretty much have it covered except for the drunk next to you who goes puke, puke puke.)

First and foremost among my purchases was Peter, Paul and Mommy, the classic children’s album that was a classic even by the time /I/ started listening to it. The first track, “Marvelous Toy” had me in floods of tears as I remember quite clearly my mother and father singing it to me. The Prawn looked bemused; the whole sunrise/sunset thing was slightly lost on her. The rest of the album was not quite as perky as I remembered it although see seemed to enjoy “Daddy’s Taking Us to the Zoo Tomorrow”. I urged her not to take it literally as there is little time this week available for zoo visitation. (Luckily, there IS quite a good one just over the hill, filled with bears that are huff-huff-a-puffin, monkeys scritch-scritch-a scratchin and seals honk-honk-a-honkin.)

A friend's gift of Elizabeth Mitchell’s “You Are My Little Bird” after the Prawn was born turned me onto the children’s folk artist in a big way, inspiring me to download “You are My Flower” and purchase “You Are My Sunshine”. Although the latest album is by far the most polished, there are some lovely gems on her earlier recordings. Despite my rawk leanings, I’m really kind of a floaty, folk chick at heart who enjoyed living in a same sex dormitory in college and singing along loudly to the Indigo Girls. (No joke. I totally went to Lillith Faire) Mitchell obviously takes her folk music seriously (anyone who invokes the name of Woody Guthrie usually does) so I’m pleased to have her warbling away in my living room on most mornings.

No children’s record collection would be complete without at least one Dan Zanes album, I’m lead to believe, so, invariably, the Prawn now owns one. I don’t know much about him other than that he’s the Raffi of the day. (I can’t say I ever listened to Raffi, but kids went apeshit for him. But then again, kids also went apeshit for Bananas in Pajamas, which scared the hell out of me, so who knows WHAT’s going to turn the little buggers on?) I enjoyed the album a lot, although I believe that the Prawn will most likely enjoy it when she is slightly older. While Mitchell’s music is repetitive and fairly simple in structure, Zanes’ is slightly more complex, not to mention banjo heavy. I’m sure it will provide many happy hours of bopping around the living room for a toddler.

Along with the aforementioned Sesame Street Bathtime Sing-a-long and a Putomayo Playground compilation, I’m sure the Prawn is now musically tooled. For curiosity’s sake, please feel free to share childhood musical memories of your own!

Show Us Your Righteous Indignation

I have taken to taking the Prawn out for afternoon strolls in her buggy. I was once led to believe that small babies are quite passive and happy to stay where they are put, gleaning information from the world around them, ready to impart what they have learned in a philosophical treatise entitled, “Mama, Dada and Doggie: Nouns, Caregivers and Face-lickers” when they turn 9 months old or so. However, I found that I was much mistaken. The Prawn is BORED and lets us know by telling us, “ATTENTION PARENTAL UNITS. STIMULATE MY BRAIN OR FEEL MY WRAAAAAAAAAAATH!!” Hence, the daily change of scenery.

Yesterday, as I made my way up the sidewalk with the Prawn, a boy, on the unchanged voice side of puberty shouted out a window of a taxi at me, urging me to display a set of familiar female body parts.

There are many things that one thinks of saying long after a speeding car with a rude pre-pubescent wank-pot in it has disappeared, (i.e. “I would but you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”, “Come back when your balls drop”, etc) but nothing really covers the disgust that one feels when hearing something like that out of the mouth of a child while you yourself are pushing your 3 month old daughter up the street in her buggy. Having been to college in a small midwestern town with a high pick up truck/population ratio, I have experienced this phenominon on many occasions, but almost always from the person who was DRIVING the truck rather than someone who should be strapped into a booster seat in the back.

It got me thinking, on the rest of my stroll (The Prawn, who is supposed to BENEFIT from the change of scenery, fell fast asleep and when we returned home looked at me reproachfully as if to say, “Weren’t we going to GO somewhere, you lazy wench?”) about the whole nature vs. nurture argument. It’s fairly obvious to me that one can’t rely on either one or the other to completely shape a child, although either can limit the extent of his or her horizons. Children obviously aren’t BORN with a need to behave like utter asshats- asshattery is a learned skill. In the case of my squeaky friend, my guess is that he’s heard such phrases from his father or older brother with startling regularity. Obviously, I began composing an open letter in my head that I would dearly like to stick on the village notice board.

To the caregivers of the vile whelp who verbally assaulted me on Marsworth Road, 6th of June, 2007,

If you will pardon my tone, just what in the name of holy hell are you doing in that home of yours that makes your ignorant man-cub think that it’s okay to shout “show us your tits!” to a lone woman pushing a baby buggy up the road?

You are clearly inbreds and should be locked in public stocks and pelted with rotten tomatoes at earliest convenience.

Love and kisses,

Rockmama

Battle of the Bulge

I realized that there were some hard truths to be faced this week when I begged MR. DD to drag 3 heavy boxes of summer clothes down out of our stuffy attic so that I could stop sweating profusely in my winter long sleeves. (The fact that the weather has now turned slightly more “seasonal” is not lost on me)

When one blows up a balloon for the first time and then deflates it, one will notice that it is no longer the taut, rubber bit of merriment that it once was. It does, in fact, more resemble a deflated testicle than a previously entertaining bit of latex. So it goes when inflating a human belly. There are, shall we say, bits left over that made it well nigh impossible to fit into ANY of my previously worn summer clothing without said bits hanging unceremoniously out the bottom. There were very nearly tears. And so it came to pass that I ended up in our local shopping centre looking for something to clothe myself with that didn’t make me look like a whale that wandered up a shallow tributary.

I can’t say that fashion interests me. Fashion is for people with too much time and money on their hands. Fashion is for people who conveniently “forget” to wear underwear to nightclubs and then make damn sure they open their legs wider than the Grand Canyon while getting out of their car so that the assembled throng of camera jockeys can get their money shot that will inevitably make it onto the pages of tabloids everywhere, but that’s ok because AT LEAST PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT ME. The only time that fashion interests me is when it precludes me from dressing myself in a flattering manner.

I’m in luck this summer, because the “thing” seems to be long shirts that cover a multitude of sins as well as reproductive detritus. Some of these “things” are very flattering- empire waist tank tops, etc. But, is it me, or do the vast majority of these “things” happen to be shapeless sacks that flatter NO ONE including the morbidly thin? How does something that makes someone like Kiera Knightly look like she’s been eating butter on EVERYTHING including breakfast cereal become popular? Something that looks bad on thin girls and fat girls alike shouldn’t be flying off the shelves. (And can we not even talk about the cropped 80’s “Desperately Seeking Susan” leggings that seem to be making a comeback? For anyone with calves of a circumference greater than coke can, these are a real no-no. Kiera Knightly, for example, or perhaps the Olsen twins, are the only people I’ve seen who make them work without looking like they belong on the US Olympic hurdling team.)

I managed to acquire a few items of clothing that I’m promising myself that I WON’T be wearing next summer; hopefully not even at the end of THIS summer. While I spent most of my pregnancy thanking the almighty that I wasn’t carrying through the heat of summer, I failed to realize that I would be giving birth too near to swimsuit season to have a chance in hell of not looking vast. While Hollywood people seem to emerge from the hospital wearing size 0 clothes, the majority of us do not. (I have a theory that no one in Hollywood actually gets pregnant. They pay surrogates and strap on a fake belly for 9 months. It’s the only real explaination.)

Size 0, however, is not my goal. I’d settle for a size 12 at the moment. Here’s to the hard work ahead.

Beware the Firm Who's Name Rhymes With "Mountie"

Changing the Prawn has recently become just about as easy as diapering an octopus. She seems to sprout limbs when I get her on the changing mat and uses every single one of them to make the process as difficult as possible. So, imagine my joy when the phone rang today, just as I’d gotten the bottom half of her babygro off.

Oh, how I hate unsolicited phone calls. Telemarketing is evil and no one can convince me otherwise, but there is a special circle of hell reserved for these particular telemarketers.

Possibly the day after my c-section when I was felt like Atilla the Hun was making war on my midsection and that Fog that eats people was camped out in my centre of higher reasoning, a woman came by my bed. She asked me for some details, my address, phone number, etc. Taking her for a nurse, I answered her questions, hoping maybe she’d give me some more drugs. But all she left was a bag filled with samples, which was vaguely confusing.

It wasn’t until several days later that I twigged who had visited my bedside; a member of a rather well known marketing firm here in the UK. I felt like the top of my head was about to come off when I realized that the hospital had allowed this vulture onto a ward full of drugged up and highly confused women and allowed her to take personal details.

So, guess who was on the phone today?

Picking up the writhing Prawn, I went to answer the phone only to find this unscrupulous marketing firm on the other end.

“Just calling today to find out if you’d invested your £250 Child Trust Fund voucher, madam.”

Did I tell her that I found her firm’s methods odious? Did I tell her that I would happily set fire to the next member of her company who dared contact me? No.

“This is a really bad time,” I told her as the Prawn let out a shriek and tried to escape my grasp. I hung up before I could hear the rest of her apology.

Wankers.

A Public Service Announcement

No matter HOW cute they may be looking, it is completely unacceptable to eat your baby.

The Origin of the Species

I've found myself being slightly disconcerted recently by the realization that if Mr. Darwin had had his way, most likely, neither I nor the Prawn would be be here now.

This occured to me the first time soon after the c-section. If my cervix wasn't going to open after 3 days and a lot of fairly strong drugs, there was a good chance that it wasn't opening for for anybody. It doesn't take a degree in history to know what would have happened to me in the days before medicine.

As if that weren't enough, there's also the breastfeeding situation.

As much as I've been trying to convince myself that I don't feel guilty for my lack of success with breastfeeding, but the truth is, I do. My production is ridiculously low. I have tried breast massage. I have tried pumping well beyond when the breast is empty to stimulate production. I have tried Fenugreek. I have tried it all. But nothing seems to be working. If I get two lots of 80 mls a day, I'm lucky. In the days before formula, it also doesn't take a genius to know what fate would have befallen my daughter.

Health care professionals seem to be quite keen to point out the obvious to me. "You do know that breastfeeding is best for your baby?" one stern health visitor asked when I told her I'd been forced to suppliment. No, I thought, I must have missed that part of pre-natal class and the roughly 8 billion posters stuck to the walls of every health care facility I've visited for the last year, plus be bereft of an ounce of common sense. Telling me that I'm nutritionally failing my child when I'm already acutely aware of the fact is helping a lot, really it is. It also doesn't help that local NHS Trusts have breastfeeding targets to maintain funding, so it's not really in their interests to make me feel better about my situation.

That the Prawn is here at all is a minor miracle in my book. She's a tremendously happy and healthy baby. I just wish I could rid myself of the guilt of failing her.

It Has to Be Said

Okay, this story has been chapping my ass all week. I’ve wanted to write about it, but have been restraining myself.

First off, there can be nothing more horrifying in a parent’s life than a child being abducted. Nothing. It’s beyond awful. I check back with the BBC several times a day to see if any headway has been made in the search for this little girl and hope against hope that this story has a happy ending.

But.

Can anyone please tell me how any parent can think that leaving 3 children under 4 alone in a flat while you have dinner at a restaurant up the street is a good idea? The missing girl’s grandparents are quoted as saying that anyone who criticizes her parents is “misguided” and “has got it all wrong.” Excuse me, but did they or did they NOT leave 3 TODDLERS alone in a flat?

What blows me away further is that these are not stupid people. They are both doctors, which indicates a fairly high level of education. It is incomprehensible then, that no matter how “safe” they felt their resort community was, that they should have even considered leaving their children alone.

Let us put aside for a moment the whole pervert/pedo/deviant lurking in the bushes outside the window angle of abandoning a 3 year old and two 2 year olds in an apartment. THEY’RE 2 AND 3 YEAR OLDS. Do you know what they do? ANYTHING THEY FEEL LIKE DOING UP TO AND INCLUDING SETTING FIRES AND LICKING WALL SOCKETS.

When I was about 11 or 12, I babysat for my neighbor’s children who were maybe 5 and 3 at the time. 20 minutes after putting them to bed, I began to hear strange thumping noises coming from upstairs that were managing to cut through the soundtrack of whatever R rated film I’d chosen from their VHS collection for my viewing entertainment that I never in a million years would have been allowed to watch at home. You know what they were doing? CUTTING EACHOTHER’S HAIR. WITH PINKING SHEARS. Where they got them, I have NO idea. (Both of these children are now on the other side of college. God, how old am I?) At any rate, this adventure into the world of hairdressing happened with me simply downstairs and not a few hundred yards up the road.

I’ve gotten that off my chest now. If you have a moment this week, spare some good thoughts for the McCann family.

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, Sorry....

OMG.

I know. Enough with the Prawn pictures.

But...

Damn.

Hands of Fury

Based on a lifetime spent watching nature programs on television and the last 6 weeks watching the Prawn, I’ve become increasingly baffled as to how we’ve managed to succeed as a species due to the fact that babies are really a bit useless.

This is not to say I don’t totally adore my useless baby. On the contrary I love every finger and toe on her squishy little pink body. But when compared with the offspring of other species, who are pretty much independent straight from the womb, she’s a little dopey. In the wild, her mother probably would have eaten her. This is, of course, the price we pay for our big brains; they take a good old while to jump start.

At the moment, it’s her hands that are bothering me; and coincidentally, bothering her as well. They seem to belong to someone else. A while back, a viral video was circulating the internet featuring a dog who’s hind leg seemed to have a mind of it’s own, causing the dog to attack himself. This is kind of how it goes with The Prawn. Her hands, under the direction of some obscenely gleeful puppet master, take great pleasure in pummelling her tiny head.

So we’ve started swaddling her at night and sometimes during the day if she’s particularly fussy. I’ve read some anti-swaddling propaganda on certain fringe websites, (it’s cruel, it’s restrictive, blah, blah, blah) but seeing as how the practice is thousands of years old, they can go suck it. Swaddling, of course, has it’s most famous proponent in the Bible. If the Virgin Mary thought it was good enough to keep the son of God from punching himself in the freaking face every 5 seconds, it’s good enough for the Prawn.

I’ve been told that The Prawn will eventually gain control of her limbs and cease trying to perpetuate this early form of self-harming and use her hands for good rather than ill. There are enough perils in the world that I must try to keep my child from without having to worry about her being one of them.

The Mommy Conundrum

Truman Capote once wrote that there are more tears shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones. Truman Capote, being a sensationally egomaniacal twerp, not to mention notorious homosexual deeply entrenched in the party scene in 1960’s New York obviously never considered infertility. However, these words sprang to mind around 4.30 this morning when my daughter’s regular velociraptor noises became a full throated wail and I was forced to abandon all notion of getting back to sleep in order to bring her into the living room to rock her in the rocking chair. The blackbird in the tree in the neighbor’s garden began to sing just after I sat down. I wanted to throw something, but I didn’t have anything to hand.

I knew I’d be doing this post soon enough. It seems that most blogs, even ones dealing with life after infertility, contain at LEAST one post who’s gist is, “I know that I wanted this more than anything on the planet, BUT….” I’ll apologise up front for it; I know how ungrateful it sounds. I also know that in a few months, things will most likely be better and I’ll believe that The Prawn shits sunshine and roses, but at present, I’m spending a lot of the day wanting to hide under the bed.

Ms. Prufrock, of Barren Albion wrote once, when her newborn was in middle of the worst of her GERD, that she was sure that she LOVED her daughter, but wasn’t sure that she LIKED her all that much. I’ve seen this sentiment expressed in more and more mommy blogs, which makes me feel not quite so much like a jerk. These women’s experiences helped to prepare me to accept that I might not have that love-at-first-sight experience, so it wasn’t massively disappointing when I didn’t. In fact, due to my obscenely bad hospital experience, I felt more like I’d been ambushed by a baby rather than having given birth to one.

There are some moments when it is extremely easy to like the Prawn; when she coos and smiles (this is a new trick and it won’t be long before she realizes that she can use it as a potent weapon against us.) and naps with her tiny mouth open, but the thing that sleeps in the cot at the end of our bed is a totally different creature. I mean, if someone walked into your bedroom several times during the night and went, “AAARRGGBBBBLLLLPPFTTTAH!” for hours on end, after you’d done everything in your power to meet their needs, chances are, they wouldn’t be on the top of your favourite person list. Chances are, you’d phone the police. So, why does anyone expect you to feel differently about a baby?

To add to my feelings of mommy guilt, my breastmilk supply is really not all it should be. I can hear the rattlings of the La Leche League sabers and before any of them can tear the flesh from my bones, I will admit that I probably didn’t give breastfeeding the best shot I could have. Whether expressly expressing is the “easy option” I’m not sure, (I spend twice as long on the feeding process- first extracting the milk and THEN trying to get it down the Prawn’s gullet) but it doesn’t seem to be good in supply terms. I pump every time after we feed her, whether the feeding is a breastmilk one or a formula one. The health visitor gave me a disapproving look when I mentioned that we were supplementing with formula (by supplementing, I mean half and half, but I didn’t really want to tell her that.) and told me that it was just something that I’d have to accept since I didn’t choose to feed from the breast. Not the most helpful of statements, since, during the second week of her life, the Prawn spent a lot of time screaming because she was hungry and I was TOLD to supplement. I’ve ordered some fenugreek (which sounds like some weird continental cheese to me) online as I’ve heard that it can boost production. (So can oatmeal, apparently, but no one is going to be served if I spend the morning throwing up due to it’s absolutely vile consistency, so I’ll try the fenugreek.)

The Prawn is currently asleep in her father’s lap. Swaddled in her pink cellular blanket, gently snoring and smelling of lavender baby soap, she is easy to like. To love, even. When I can feel the same at 4.30 in the morning, I’ll know I’ve arrived.

A Thank You Note

To the Black Hearted Son of a Prostitute Who Has Been Using My Debit Card to Buy Phone Top up Cards and Pornography;

So glad to have been able to facilitate your texting/filthy movie habit. Being a new mum on a budget definitely gives me the leisure time and money to call my bank, sort out fraudulent transactions and then have to reclaim money that’s actually been debited to my account. You know, between nappy changes, feedings and senseless screaming, that’s exactly how I’ve envisioned spending my afternoon.

It’s gratifying to know that my maternity pay is going to a good cause.

You utter fucksock.

Love and kisses,

Rockmama

Moot Point

Well, my marathon plans were scuppered by the changeable plans of my potential ride down to the city, so I suppose the Prawn and I will be watching on TV. I doubt we'll catch a glimpse of Mr. DD, but you never know. It's especially gutting because it's supposed to be an absolutely fabulous day and Mr. DD really wanted to see us at the finish line.

But now I have a new problem. I think the Prawn has a cold. (Just as well I DIDN'T go to London)

Do I own one of those baby nose sucker-outers? Of course not. Is anyone in my family around today? Nope. Are any of our friends around today? No. Am I allowed to drive yet after the c-section? Hell no. However, my baby has a bunged up schnozz, so I think I'll probably risk a trip into Aylesbury to try to find a de-snotting device.

I spent my first night alone with The Prawn last night, hence the early morning entry. To tell you the truth, I was completely wetting my pants.

I've never had a thing about wanting to be in charge. In any number of retail jobs I've had, I've always turned down further training to become a manager because I had absolutely 0 desire to be in charge of people. I don't like telling people what to do. Not only that, but if I'm pretty honest, I didn't really want the responsibility. ( I'm rubbish with numbers and don't like having to kiss the asses of random members of the public with mild personality disorders just to "keep the customer happy".)

Being left alone with a baby is like the ultimate managerial position. The customer is almost ALWAYS unhappy, needs constant supervision, will call you after hours for assistance and you can absolutely, positively NEVER lose your temper with them. Mr DD and I have successfully managed to tag team the Prawn since her arrival without either of us going spare, but after an evening spent trying to keep the screaming at bay solo,(a new phase of screaming! Awesome!) I'm feeling pretty frazzled and sleep deprived. The Prawn, of course, is sleeping happily on our bed making congested rhinoceros noises. Little bugger.

Right. I need a cup of tea.

I Am Either Stupid or Batshit Crazy

Tomorrow, Mr. DD, unbelivably, after all of the sleep deprived nights, is going to run the London Marathon. It's his second time; he felt woefully unprepared for his first attempt and hit the metaphorical "wall" at around 16 miles. He still finished, though, and I know /I/ definitely couldn't have, so it wasn't so bad. This year, he's trained harder, is fitter and is determined to get a time beginning with a 4.

The atmosphere in the city on marathon day is hugely exciting and really positive. The sheer volume of people is amazing. Everybody cheers for everybody. Runners who aren't dressed up like Spiderman, giant rhinocerous or Cornish pasties have their names written on their shirts so that everyone can shout for them. A huge proportion of the runners are raising money for one worthy cause or another (Mr. DD is running for a local children's hospice-at-home charity that he's been involved with for about 6 years now) so there's a lot of good will sloshing around, knocking over spectators and BBC camera people. I went the last time and had planned to stay at home this year with the Prawn and watch on telly.

But I think we're going to go to cheer Daddy on in person. This is where batshit crazy comes in.

St. James Park, which leads to Buckingham Palace (at the finish line) is a large and lovely expanse of green in the city of London. While it will be full of people, there will undoubtedly be space under some shady trees for me to set up camp. I will be packed as if going on holiday, brimming over with all manner of baby equipment- buggy, carseat, ready made formula, breast pump (I've got my Hooter Hider, so no having to get my baps out in the middle of a royal park) extra clothes for her, diapers, wipes, the rain shield for the buggy and plenty of blankets. Oh yeah, and probably like a sandwich for myself or something. And then I'll stay put while the rest of the family traipses around the city, trying to catch glimpses of Mr. DD. We'll just be waiting for him at the finish line.

Now tell me, is this a truly awful idea? We've taken her out a LOT over the past few weeks- even down to the Excel Centre in London for Mr. DD to register. She's a good traveller. If I spent the day at home, chances are she'll spend the day shouting. If I take her to London, chances are, she'll spend the day sleeping and I'll get the fresh air I so richly deserve. (I've not been out of the flat in 2 days.) It's not going to be cold, (23 C. Rather too warm for the runners!) so I'm not worried about her freezing and I can always take clothes off of her if it's too hot. (Under the trees, it shouldn't be.) There are public loos in St. James Park, too, so that's me taken care of.

So, ladies, am I making a big fuckoff mistake or do you think this could work?

A Whole Month of Prawn

While I often have location envy when it comes to where we live, at this time of year, we have some pretty spectacular scenery in the local woods in the form of Bluebells. They aren't what would be called Bluebells Stateside- we have those over here too, and they're known as Grape Hyacinths. These little flowers grow wild on forest floors, making for a spectacular display yearly in late April or early May.

Mr. DD and I took the Prawn up to the local bluebell woods to celebrate her 1 month birthday. The popularity of the bluebells often means large crowds despite the relative seclusion of the location, but since we went on a weekday afternoon, we almost had the whole place to ourselves. It was lovely and quiet, despite the incongrous presence of a lone ice cream man in the parking area across the street. Did we get ice cream? Hell yes, we did. Never look a gift ice cream van in the mouth.

We celebrated this evening with a chocolate cake in honor of the Prawn, who spent most of the time asleep on my mother-in-law's lap. Milestones for the first few years are more of an excuse for grown ups to have a party than anything else. I imagine that around about the age of 2 or 3, one has to start actually start having parties FOR the children and grown-ups regretably have to stop drinking to make sure that no one gets hurt or sets fire to anything.

So, a whole month of the Prawn. Long may she reign.

Thoughts in the Early Morning

So, it's just past 6 am.

Everyone warns you about the sleepless nights. However, it's hard to fully wrap your brain around the fact that it doesn't matter how badly YOU need something, because now there is something else that needs something MORE. (Or, in some cases, doesn't need anything, but will still make Tyrannosaurus noises at 3 am nonetheless.)

It's funny that things that seem cute and endearing during daylight hours take on a sinister angle once it gets dark. You can't help but think, "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Of course, my daughter hasn't yet developed the cognitive capacity to thwart my authority, but after the 15th time she's kicked the covers off her feet, woken herself up and started grizzling, I get a sinking feeling regarding her potential for evil during toddler and teenage years.

Mr. DD shares nighttime duties. (Although this week, he's trying to get as much sleep as possible due to the fact that he's running the London Marathon next Sunday. I'll be surprised if he wakes up in his hotel room on time to make it to the start line.) Due to my obviously black heart and inadequate breast milk supply we supplement with formula, making it easy for him to join in the feeding fun. He, however, escapes moo-cow duties with the super sucker, which I believe is rapidly giving me a bad case of RSI. ( I do have an electric pump as well, but at night, the noise is too jarring.) Pumping is a drag, but when you have a baby who is as contrary when it comes to breastfeeding as the Prawn, it's the only way to go. After a few weeks of her gleefully destroying my nipples at every opportunity, I gave up and started expressing, which I found easier at any rate, because I could be sure that a) my supply was adequate and b) how much she was eating in one sitting. (125 ml. Little oinker.) Supplementing was something that made me feel guilty for about 15 minutes, but after her last health visit when we discovered she'd put on 2 pounds, the guilt rapidly diminished. She's still getting the good stuff 3 or 4 times a day and she's not yelling any more just due to her being hungry. I can't feel guilty for feeding my child.

It's hard to believe that she's been with us for nearly a month now. Although I feel my brain leaking out of my ears as I speak, I know our experience with her so far could have been much worse. She DOES sleep, although not when we want her to just yet. She's not overly fretful. She travels well. (One of my big fears was being cooped up in the house for months on end, but she happily sleeps in her buggy or car seat while we take advantage of the brilliant weather and have lunch al fresco in a pub garden or visit friends.) And she smiles. (No, it's totally not just wind.) All in all, not to bad. But I certainly have a huge amount of respect for SAHMs who's partners AREN'T home during the day. How you ladies get anything accomplished is beyond me.

The Prawn is draped over me on the living room couch at the moment. Come 7.30, I may wake Marathon Man so that I can have a quick snooze before the day begins in earnest.

Living with Muppets

My parents, who left yesterday to go back home, (to a great weeping and gnashing of teeth on this side of the ocean) brought with them a recording of a Sesame Street album that I spent many, many hours listening to as a child. I bought it on ebay last year with the idea that the Prawn could also benefit from it’s wholesome goodness. Although the Prawn slept through it’s first playing, I’m sure that she will also spend many happy hours enjoying songs like Old MacDonald, On Top of Old Smoky and John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmitt. It's strange to think the recording was made the year that I was born and now my daughter will be listening to it too.

The album opens with the long suffering and dreadfully anal retentive Bert taking a leisurely bath when his perpetually orange, hetero life-mate Ernie bursts through the door of the bathroom with his piano and the entire population of the Sesame Street ‘hood in order to have a singalong. Along the way, the shindig aquires any number of monsters, a motorcycle, a big bird and finally, in the coup de gras, the University of Michigan marching band. Rather a tall order to cope with when you’re sitting naked in a tub of rapidly cooling water. (in so far as muppets are capable of being naked, at any rate.)

Am I right in thinking that if Ernie was anyone’s real life roommate, it’d be only about a week before they started to seriously consider putting rat poison in his breakfast cereal?

After the Storm

So.

Motherhood.

It’s obviously taken me some time to getting around to blogging again. Mainly because typing one handed is somewhat laborious. The Prawn is not so amenable to being put down unless in a deep state of unconsciousness. When I have visions of never again being able to get anything accomplished, I must remind myself that she is only two weeks old and does not grasp complex concepts like laundry, paying bills and other people eating. I miss eating.

But unconscious is just the way we like her at the moment. Awake generally means shouting, but at the moment, as her American grandparents are here, there are two extra sets of arms to hold her every minute of the day, so it means lots more peace and quiet. It’s strange how quickly you can forget what things were like WITHOUT a baby once one moves into your house- our flat is really rather peaceful.

It’s obviously taken some adjusting. Mr. DD and I are having to learn to take turns doing everything. “Here, hold this,” has become the most uttered phrase in the house over the past two weeks. We miss eachother, to be honest- after almost 12 year together as constant companions, getting used to life as a threesome is a little bit of a rude awakening. The sleeplessness, I expected. The crying, the diapers, none of it a surprise. But missing my husband when he’s sitting in the same room…that was a bit of a shock.

I was expecting to have something eminently profound to say about the state of parenthood after infertility, but I’ve been struggling to find any profundity in my everyday life at the moment. My daughter is beautiful. I love her extremely long toes at the end of her tiny feet. I love the way her head smells after we shampoo her hair. I wake up in the night whenever she makes one of those alarming baby noises that makes it sound like they’re choking on half a club sandwich. (Damn those noises. They suck.) But I think that my feelings right now are pretty basic and fairly common. Fear of screwing up, especially when left on my own. Joy that she’s finally arrived and that she’s safe and healthy. Sorrow for the life that we had before. And just the general dose of screwed-uppedness that most new mothers find themselves facing. I’d feel vaguely silly trying to shed any new light on early motherhood. The best I can manage in the way of insight is to say, “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s going to get easier. I suspect this because everyone tells me so. And, like 70 different people with children under the age of 2 aren’t all likely to be wrong. It’s just hard to believe that all will be well while we are currently doing our best walking dead impression and the colicky Prawn is squealing bloody murder in my earhole.

To be continued.

Oh, the Birth Story

It’s traditional, in the blogsphere, following the birth of a child to write down the sequence of events that comprise your personal “birth story”. Presumably, this is for the future benefit of your offspring who may or may not be interested in the degree of rectal tearing you experienced. It’s also cathartic to share your experience with others so that they know what a freaking superwoman you were despite the fact that you spent 75% of the time crying like a little girl.

In the weeks before birth, midwives encourage you to write down your “birth plan”; a sheet of instructions, detailing what you’d like in the way of pain relief, how many people you’d like in the delivery room, whether or not you’d like to stand on your head for the actual delivery, etc. Dutifully, I wrote down a two page missive that basically boiled down to the following: “I’d like to do the whole thing drug free, deliver in a birthing pool and have my husband cut the cord. Oh yeah, and PLEASE DON’T CUT ME OPEN.”

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.

You may have been able to infer some of my experience from my embedded reporting from inside the antenatal ward, but here’s the shortened version, minus the bits I’m still trying to forget about. And yeah. There were some of those bits.

Sunday- We arrive at 11 on the antenatal ward and are promptly left to our own devices by the severely overstretched staff. Around 2, I receive my first dose of Prostin, a compound that is meant to open the cervix. Due to the fact that there seems to be some sort of baby gridlock occurring down in the L&D department, I do NOT receive a second dose lest I actually go into true labor. I discover that contractions are NOT any fun around 2 in the morning, after Mr. DD was forced to go home. These bouts of painful internal gymnastics have no discernable effect whatsoever in the moving-the-Prawn-along stakes.

Monday- By morning, the contractions have entirely worn off and I receive one of approximately 57 painful pelvic examinations by a doctor with fingers like cucumbers who is less than gentle. (You know why health authorities have to beg women to come in for bi-annual pap smears? Cause it’s just no fun having someone all up in your bid’ness. Especially someone who has no bid’ness of their own.) At 9, I get my second dose of Prostin which does pretty much more of the same; lots of contractions that bend me in half and do nothing but irritate the Prawn as it is disturbing her beauty sleep. Mr. DD brings me sustenance; Cadbury’s Eclairs, Ritz Crackers and Lucozade Sport drinks. That night, I discover the joys of Pefiden- a lovely little drug that doesn’t actually take away pain, but makes it possible to wallow in your own brain fog in the moments in between.

Tuesday- By this time, I’m starting to get pissed off with my daily routine of contractions that did nothing. I mean, really, enough already with this labor shit, this baby is LONG overdue so WHY THE HELL HAS MY UTERUS NOT GOTTEN THE MEMO?

Around about 5pm, I am FINALLY wheeled down to L&D to get the party started courtesy of water breakage and Oxytocin drip. After being informed by the friendly (but somewhat clumsy in the field of putting in a hand peg, as you can see) midwife in the delivery suite that I was going to be there awhile before anything started happening, I consented to one of many things that I was dead set against; an epidural. But after the initial bout of heebie jeebies about having a needle inserted into my spine, once it started working, I was ready to put on a little pleated skirt and wave pom poms in hearty support of Team Numbness.

However, by about 9am, it was obvious that every attempt to flush out the Prawn had failed and the dreaded words “c-section” were uttered. Definitely not the outcome I was hoping for. I am NOT good with surgery. “Can you put me out?” I asked.

“No, we don’t like to do that. The anaesthetic isn’t good for the baby. You’re going to have to be awake.”

Needless to say that I could have used a cup of tea or something before the knives were sharpened, but literally 10 minutes after having the news broken to me, I found myself strapped down to a table with a large screen in front of my face, my husband in scrubs sitting next to my head, looking stricken and some masked strangers doing dire things out of my line of sight.

And then.

I heard her before I saw her. A gurgly cry.

They told me she was a girl. They handed her to Mr. DD, who showed her to me. He cried. I would have too, but someone was yanking on my diaphragm and it seemed a poor idea to try to use it. I heard the nurses saying what a beautiful baby she was.

While blissful numbness had kept all sensations from below my waist from troubling me up until this point, rather suddenly, I regained some of it, unfortunately, while a large hole in my lower abdomen was being sewed together. I informed my tormentors of this fact by yelling, repeatedly, “I CAN FEEL THAT!!!” until the anaesthesiologist mercifully administered a general anaesthetic and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

Here is where I need to process. Two more days on the wards followed that I would sincerely like to forget about. In the old days, following a birth, the hospital had a nursery where babies went at night so that exhausted mothers could get some much needed rest. Nowadays, “rooming in” is all the craze, but whoever decided that women who have just experienced major, traumatic surgery should also have to spend the night looking after a newborn DESPITE the fact that they are, in fact, unable to get out of bed due to various medical apparatus attached to them AND surrounded by other women with newborns, should be repeatedly kicked in the head and then set on fire.

At any rate, I put my foot down and insisted on a Friday discharge rather than a Saturday one and blessedly left with the Rock Star and the Prawn to start our lives at a family back at our cozy little flat.

So, the Prawn? She IS beautiful. We’re getting to know eachother.

Intoducing....

Please pardon the rather long delay in giving the world a glimpse of our most beautimus little Prawn. I've spent the last few days wolfing painkillers and iron tablets and having a living rugby ball attached to one boob or the other. It feels as if someone has fought a war in my midsection using calvalry, spears and war elephants. So many thanks to all of you lovely ladies for your messages of support.

But here she is. Totally worth it.

A Prawn Is Born!

Wren Ivy Rose, born 10:29am by cesarean section after heroic Rockmama labour endeavors failed to convince The Prawn that there was life outside the womb. The big-eyed, cooing bundle weighed in at 8lbs 10.5oz. Mother and baby both doing wonderfully.

Pictures to follow once Daddio here has regained the ability to see in straight lines. Need. Sleep.

Monday Update

Posted c/o bluetooth tomfoolery with Mr DD's phone and rockmama's laptop:

March 18

5.34 pm

I usually start travelogues before heading off on holiday rather than while being, for all intents and purposes, confined to barracks. But I suppose having a baby is a little like going on an extended, life long trip, so I figure I can use the same approach.

Why it didn’t occur to me that I’d be rooming on a ward, I have no idea. I’d been spoiled by my last trip to hospital, paid for by my private health insurance. The rooms there were rather more like posh hotel rooms, albeit occupied with crash carts, which most posh hotels HAVE, but not necessarily en suite. Not only that, but my window looked out on a beautifully landscaped courtyard peppered with flowers.

Arriving on the antenatal ward today was a vaguely rude awakening as I was ushered into a dimly lit ward containing 3 other women in various stages of gestation.

A hospital ward is like the crappiest ever sleepover- The college roommates that you didn’t choose or even get to fill in a form stating likes/dislikes for. Wards are a mish mash of strangers, all dealing with contagious and embarrassing problems best dealt with in private, but forced to deal with them instead from behind the relatively ineffective privacy of ugly curtains. (The ones surrounding my particular personal space portray local scenes from the Aylesbury Vale including the statue of Lord Buckingham, the lions in front of the court house and the “blue leanie”, a building that was once the home of a financial management company that rather famously went broke and lost a lot of people’s pensions.)

My ward mates consist of a 40 something second time mother in for what I believe was an ECV, (the procedure used to turn a breech baby in utero) a young first time mother who’s spent most of the day looking like she was thinking of ways to kill herself and, perhaps, most abrasively, a VERY young mother on her fourth child from a third father. Yes, she’s exactly who you think she is. Yes, she has Sky television and takes holidays to Majorca on my dime. And if she doesn’t stop playing with her noisy “virtual pet” in the next five minutes, I’m going to throw it and her out the fucking window.

I didn’t quite know WHAT to expect upon my arrival, but within 40 minutes or so (a record pace, I feel) I was seen by a midwife, covered in goo and strapped to a machine that monitored the Prawn’s vitals. Since my particular ward room is at the end of a dark hallway, midwives tend to forget about us, so I was pleased that I had the forethought to use the loo BEFORE being strapped down.

For those of you who would rather NOT read this next bit, look away NOW. (There will be rather a lot of bits like this. There is little dignity in childbirth.)

The fun thing about labor induction is that the first stage involves a Prostoglandin pessary, and everyone knows where THAT goes. Unfortunately, this also involves an internal examination, which brought involuntary tears to my eyes and made me yelp. Curse these stupid curtains, it’s not really the done thing to yell blasphemies on a Mothering Sunday on a labor ward, but sometimes there’s very little you can do.

So far, I’m of the opinion that although HAVING a baby won’t necessarily be boring, WAITING to have one is bloody tedious. I’ve spent the day silently chastising the Prawn for his/her laziness and forcing us to drag him/her out kicking and screaming as well as gently cajoling him/her with promises of sweets and Playstations. Neither approach seems to be working all that well, but the Prostin, I’m pleased to say, seems to be doing what it’s supposed to and has lead to unmistakable tightenings in the depths. Nothing too painful yet, but a sign of things to come.

Mr DD has been performing his duties admirably- shuttling bits and pieces around, picking up things I’ve forgotten and couldn’t possibly spend the night in the hospital without (Cadbury’s Eclairs, Ritz crackers and my laptop) and of course, the mandatory hand holding and joke cracking, to keep me sane.

11.17pm

The ward is deathly quiet at this hour. My one remaining wardmate (the first time mother) is snoring peacefully after being given a dose of codine. The other two were discharged and I must say that I was more than happy to see the back of the Tamagotchi-wielding chavette the next curtain over.

So, yeah. Labor.

Due to the fact that roughly every pregnant woman in the Aylesbury Vale chose this afternoon to drop their sprogs, my induction, which began this afternoon, was put on hold. For several hours, I was fairly convinced that the second Prostin pessary was NOT going to be necessary, as I was turning various shades of red trying to breathe through fairly steady contractions. However, not wishing to have ANOTHER woman in serious labor on their hands, my second dose of Prostin was put off, so I find myself sitting here in the dark with rapidly waning contractions, having to start the whole process all over tomorrow. Very frustrating. I sent Mr. DD home to get some sleep, although the rather lovely midwife one duty was more than happy to let him stay past visiting hours. I would prefer to have him awake during the actual delivery.

I myself am also going to attempt to get some shut eye before the Prawn makes his or her big entrance.


March 19th

8.45am

It’s hard to get any true sleep on a hospital ward, unless, of course, you are drugged, which, let’s face it, is the best way to be in a hospital. My wardmate, the other first time mum, sounds rather like she is in urgent need of some of said medication. I think she’s pretty much praying for a c-section at this point in time. (I would too if I’d been in labor for 48 hours) I feel like I ought to try to be of some comfort as it’s outside visiting hours, but I think she might be beyond the tea and sympathy stage.

I got a fair amount of sleep, for which I am grateful. It would not have happened without Armando, my trusty body pillow that Mr DD graciously brought me from home. I’m not entirely sure that you’re supposed to bring outside bedding into a hospital, but I was damned if I was going to spend the night propped up by 16 dozen sticky, hospital issue pillows, crinkling quietly to themselves and requiring rearrangement every time I shifted slightly.

There seem to be a massive army of midwives occupying the ward at the moment, however, it still seems to take a short ice age to get one of them to notice you. I spent an hour longer strapped to the Prawn Detector this morning than was actually necessary. Although I am quite happy to sit and listen to my offspring’s heartbeat, I am aware that it is actually a little grating for others in the vicinity.

Again, those squeamish individuals might want to look away NOW.

My second internal exam was not much more of a party than the first. I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that I am only dialated 1 cm. For those unfamiliar with the concept of cervical dialation, for a baby to be born, the cervix must be dialated 10 cm. Anyone who has spent the night being woken by strong back contractions will be understandably disappointed to find that this was all for naught and that you are no closer to your goal than before. It also doesn’t help to have midwives constantly telling you what a big baby you’re expecting. And how it’s facing the wrong direction. Yes, I am aware of the size of the baby, thank you. It has been parked squarely on my bladder for the last 9 months. The spectre of a caesarean section looms rather menacingly in my immediate future.

Although I did not expect to, I actually am rather envious of my wardmate now that the midwife has announced that she is, in fact dilated to 7 cm and ready to go down to the delivery suite. However, it drives home the point how much further I have to go and how much more pain I have to look forward to. My only hope is that I proceed far quicker than my unfortunate wardmate.

Now, if I can just attract someone’s attention so that I can get unstrapped from this unholy apparatus to take a shower….

Further update from Mr DD:

Our heroine has now had (or was about to have) a THIRD pessary imported into the opening of PrawnLair in an attempt to lure him/her out. Things seem to be intensifying somewhat. Rockmama was last seen grimacing whilst bouncing up and down on one of those exercise ball things. Having been sent home once again to get some sleep, it's now 11:25pm and I'm getting text messages that would seem to point towards a potentially early return to the hospital.

Catching mitt at the ready.

Prawnmas Eve

So. The last night before going in for the induction.

Freaking out a little. Excited. Absolutely shitting myself. That's how it's supposed to go, right?

I just want to thank all of you ladies for your support on this journey. It's meant a lot to have it, especially from those of you who are still on the journey. Through my fear about what's to come, there is, of course, the memory of what Mr. DD and I have been through over the past 3 years to get to this point and my gratitude is overwhelming. It's my huge hope that I get to share your joy with you as well.

Fear not, I shall return soon with stories from the trenches.

Wish me luck.

Prawn Day + 8

Oh yeah. STILL pregnant.

I tried a new tack this morning. Loud music. The “Branch Davidian” tactic, if you will. My “Rawk” mix on iTunes consists of a fair amount of crunchy guitar and big hair, so it was my hope that the Prawn would either surrender and come out with his/her hands up or think, “Those are some banging tunes! I’m going to get me some of that!” Sadly, neither AC/DC, Skid Row, Metallica nor Led Zeppelin seem to have had any effect whatsoever. It is beginning to become clear that the Prawn is probably not going to arrive of his/her own volition.

Sunday at 11, I’m scheduled to check into Stoke Mandeville to begin induction. It’s not really the birth that I had hoped for, to be honest, but I have my concerns about the size of the Prawn and the longer this goes on, the less chance that our over-zealous, cut-happy medical system will allow me to go the natural route rather than opt to perform a sunroof exit. Although I’ve heard the virtues of the later extolled by those who’s children have weighed in at over 8 pounds, being anesthetised, catheterized, cut open and prone for days after the birth of my first child doesn’t particularly appeal. Of course, I’m not totally against the procedure if it becomes necessary, but I’m hoping that it won’t come to that.

Sigh. If “Poison’ by Alice Cooper can’t get the Prawn out, I don’t know what will.

Prawn Day + 4

So, a few weeks ago, I posted this, right?

For the same reason it's hard to see yourself gaining weight or developing new lines on your face, it is equally difficult to see the progression of a bump. I didn't personally think that it was POSSIBLE for me to get much bigger than illustrated in this photo. However, I was entirely wrong. Through the magic of Skype, my mother captured another photo of The Belly during our weekly chat last night.

Whoa, nelly.


I've started getting "those looks" from people in the street. The "are you sure you should be out walking around like that?" looks. The "are you sure you're not carrying twins?" looks. " The "surely you should be ensconced in a bed eating bon bons somewhere, patiently awaiting the arrival of your offspring and not troubling the public with your freakish appearance." looks. And don't get me started on stepping into an elevator. People will plaster themselves against the far wall just in case I go off like a ton of C4.

The Prawn is now 4 days late. I have developed a case of PEP, (although, in the US, I believe it's called PUPPS) which is an agonizing rash that spreads up stretch marks, making the sufferer wish that they could quit their jobs and devote themselves to scratching full time. (Luckily for me, I bite my nails, so I can't do much damage.) This makes it difficult to sleep and wear clothes, both of which things I find unfortunately necessary at present.

I keep telling the Prawn to come out. That it's a beautiful English Spring day and it'd be a shame if they missed it. That I've got milk and cookies. That I'll let him/her throw up on me to their heart's content. But to no avail.

Prawn watch continues....

Prawncon 3

So, today is officially The Day of the Prawn. However, someone obviously neglected to inform him/her.

According to statistics, only 5% of babies are born on their actual due date. Mr. DD was also horrified to discover that there are actually a fairly high percentage that are born in the 44th week of pregnancy. That’s an extra MONTH of being knocked up. Gah.

The Prawn, however, will not be allowed to linger that long in Chateau de Womb. Although I’m having my blood pressure checked every other day now, the consultant at the hospital was happy enough to let me go for 10 days past my due date, just to see if things could get a natural jump start. So, should the Prawn still be fashionably late, I have an induction booked for the 18th of March; ironically, British Mother’s Day. I’m not hugely keen on the idea of induction, but neither am I keen on waddling, shortness of breath, swollen feet and doing shots of antacid.

In the meantime, I shall be giving some old wives remedies a try- hot chillis and curries, raspberry leaf tea, Evening Primrose Oil, shagging, walking around a lot….although I shall be stopping short of Castor Oil, which is the digestive equivalent of pouring Mr. Muscle down a drain. While I am anxious to meet my offspring, I would rather not have to spend several hours in the can with debilitating intestinal spasms before doing so. (That’s how Castor Oil works, apparently. It’s hoped that the uterus will see all of the gleeful cramping of the digestive system and go, “Oo! Oo! Me too!” Nuts to that.)

So, we’ll have to see what the next week brings!

Milestone

Although there is little time remaining in what feels like an epic pregnancy, there turns out to be time for at least one more milestone- the first unnecessary trip to L&D.

My blood pressure over the past few weeks, while not dangerously high, has been steadily creeping up, accompanied by my extremities doing their best hot-air balloon impressions. At my last hospital-based midwife appointment, I was told that if I should experience any sudden swelling, I shouldn’t fool around, but head straight to L&D. Of course, Sunday morning, I awoke to find that both of my feet AND my hands were pufftastically large, so, after not a lot of soul searching, Mr. DD and I headed to the hospital, with everything packed in the trunk of the car, but fully expecting to be sent straight home.

Sunday afternoon was boasting some truly craptacular weather-cold rain and wind, namely, so by the time we made it inside, I was rather grumpy due to the fact that the cuffs of my jeans and socks were soaked right through. (Is anyone with me on the wet socks thing? Besides wet underwear, probably the least fun piece of clothing to endure a soaking.) After being shown to a bed in the observation room, I was reluctant to actually put my legs up on it for fear of mussing up the nice white sheets with my muddy jean cuffs and socks. Mr. DD, however, reminded me that of all the things that probably got on the sheets in the space of a week, mud was probably not going to be the worst of them.

Although Sundays are usually a quiet day on the wards, the place was packed. Maybe all the talk of a full moon’s effect on hospital admissions wasn’t as much a load of bupkis as I believed it to be, but almost every delivery room on the ward had it’s doors tightly closed, and the midwives, while very friendly, seemed to be spending a lot of time going from room to room looking for pieces of equipment that one would expect to be standard in EVERY delivery suite, like, for instance, thermometers and cotton balls. “Things must be pretty bad with the NHS if there aren’t enough thermometers to go around.” I observed.

At any rate, after being examined, poked, prodded, asked to pee in the obligatory too small cup and had waited the obligatory 3 hours during which various people poked their heads round the door, I was first told I was going to be kept in for observation and then, half an hour later, that I would be released. (My guess is, that due to the extremely full nature of L&D, the registrar didn’t want someone unnecessary cluttering up a bed.) This was actually okay by me, as I was damned if I was going to be spending the night in the hospital without my husband and my comfy bed if I WASN’T having a baby. Especially in a room as dreary as the “triage” which boasted little more entertainment other than profoundly grey walls and professional wall clock watching. My blood test obviously came back negative for pre-eclampsia, so I was released back into the soggy world with instructions to keep my feet up and come back Wednesday for more pokings and proddings.

The Prawn’s official due date is Thursday. Further updates as events warrant.

Just an Update

It’s been quiet around Prawn central for the last week or so. I feel the need to express this only because I imagine that not writing for some time around when one is expecting a baby makes people think that there are better reasons for your silence. However, my excuse is that there’s been bugger all to talk about.

The waiting game at the end of pregnancy is kind of a crappy one. You feel like you can’t really make any plans, but you’re reluctant to completely shut yourself off from any and all social occasions because god knows when the next time you’ll have a chance to talk to grown-ups without having to worry about whether or not you’ve got baby sick on your shirt. However, the desire to socialize outside your own home is hampered by the fact that you are now the size of an aircraft carrier.

I’ve been increasingly frustrated with the level of my care in the past few weeks. While I’m not one for fooling around with medicine when it’s not necessary, (and at this point, it’s just a waiting game, really) it would be nice not to feel like my local NHS authority was being run by The Three Stooges. Two of my last three appointments have been cancelled due to both area midwives being out on call (one cancelled because “you’re the only one on the schedule today and we don’t want to drag one of the midwives in just for you.”) and the one today had to be rescheduled at the last minute due to the fact that my surgery made me an appointment with the midwife from a neighbouring country rather than the one from mine. And even THEN, I didn’t see MY midwife, but rather another who was rather abrupt with me when she discovered that my blood pressure was high. (Yes, surly Jamacian midwife, I’ve been pushing my blood pressure up just to annoy you.) At any rate, yet ANOTHER midwife will show up at my house tomorrow to take my blood pressure to see if I need to be admitted to hospital. All fun and games. It’s hard to enjoy the anticipation leading up to the birth when one gets the distinct feeling that one’s health care providers couldn’t organize their way out of a paper bag.

I’m hoping the blood pressure thing is nothing to worry about- any hint of “high risk” about the delivery and I don’t get my water birth.

An amusing anecdote, however- the midwife I saw today asked me how many movements I had, directly after doing the dip stick test on my wee.

Why medical professionals can’t just ask you, “So, you been pooping recently?” I don’t know, but as I was fairly sure that’s what she meant I told her once a day if I was lucky, once every other day if I wasn’t.

She looked very alarmed.

“You should be having at least 10 movements a day.”

I was about to come back with, “Lady, if I was having 10 movements a day, I’d be on the phone to you asking what the hell was the MATTER with me and how I could get it to STOP!” when I realized that she was talking about how often I felt the BABY move.

Alarm averted. The Prawn is a serious wiggler.

The waiting game continues.

Bump

This has got to be the oddest picture taken of me during the last 8 months or so.

The internet is just so darned magical when it comes to communication these days. Skype, in particular, is just about the coolest thing ever when you live across the ocean from most of your family. So, once a week, my folks and I have a little video chat. This week, my mother took this picture of her computer screen with my big old bump on it. (You just just see her down in the left hand corner.)

I am become destroyer of worlds, devourer of puddings. Fear the bump.

Waiting to Evict the Prawn from the Big Mother House

So, it’s official- the Prawn is now considered to be fully cooked. (37 w, 4d) Any time that he or she elects to stay inside is just “browning the crust,” as Mr. DD puts it.

It’s slightly alarming to think that this whole circus could kick off at any minute. While I know that labour isn’t exactly like someone waiting around the corner to go “BOO!”, I’m still kind of walking around looking behind all the doorframes, if you know what I mean. From what I’ve been told, labour is rather more like an annoying person with a sharp stick who starts poking you gently at first, but becomes increasingly malevolent.

While, after 3 years and two miscarriages, I’m hugely thankful for this giant, uncomfortable bump in my midsection, it is becoming harder to function from day to day. I dare not complain overmuch- I’ve had a blessedly comfortable pregnancy up until around about a week ago when it suddenly occurred to me that it was no longer possible to put on my own socks, stand up from a sitting position on the floor without assistance or not kill things with my flatulence. (Seriously, man, I used to be able to get away with a sneaky, silent, non-deadly toot. Now even I have to leave the room.) Although I know that the time is coming rapidly that I will not be able to spend much time in my unbelievably comfortable new bed, at least I will not be winded any just from the effort of putting my head down on the pillow.

The nursery is mostly finished. Whether we have everything that we need or not remains to be seen. (Like I said, we’re totally clueless and pretty much just dumped everything in the cart that looked like it would be useful) The crib is mostly set up, all of the Prawn art is in place, the changing table is ready and my parents and aunt have generously decided to buy us a rocking chair for Prawn-related feeding activities.

I am vaguely concerned about our choice of wardrobe for the Prawn- looking at the size of my belly and at the size of the newborn clothes that we’ve picked up, I am slightly worried that this child will look like a sumo wrestler stuffed into a schoolgirl’s uniform, so it’s conceivable that we might have to stop off on the way home from the hospital with a completely naked baby to get clothes that do not strangle him/her. “For infants up to 10 lbs” my ass.

There are 2 baby books, sitting mostly unopened on the coffee table and one in my bedside drawer, where I locked it after becoming afraid of it about 3 chapters in. (The New Contented Little Baby Book, by Gina Ford, just so that you know.) People have said that parents fall into two camps with Ford; they either think she’s the Mother of God or the Sister of Satan. Me personally, I think her strict regiment probably works EXTREMELY well for some children, (Mr. DD’s cousin recommended it to me with unbridled praise- not surprising, as she got her first son to sleep through at 6 weeks and will be using the same regimen with her newest one.) but there are probably many MANY more that it DOESN’T work for, leading to feelings of failure on the part of parents. (Ford seems to feel that if it doesn’t work for your child, you’re obviously not doing it right.) Ford has a few good points that I’ve taken to heart, but the truth is, I just don’t like her personally that much. (Using your lawyers to threaten the shut down a useful mothering forum because someone on it said something mean about you is a little childish, in my opinion. Not sure someone like that has the authority to tell me how to wipe my own ass, let alone raise a child)

The other two bits of lit are the standard What To Expect in the First Year and What to Expect When You’re Breastfeeding…And What if you Can’t? Both seem reasonable tomes of parenting knowledge that we should probably have lying around for those three o’clock in the morning questions like,

“My child is levitating above her crib, there appears to be ectoplasm dripping down the walls, a high pitched wailing and the smell of sulphur. Is this normal?”

(To which the answer would probably be, “It’s nothing to worry about. 1 in 4 children experiences demonic possession in their first year.”)

So here I sit, feeling the Prawn becoming increasingly pissed off at his or her confinement. Digging heels into my ribs. Bashing head against all and sundry privates. Just generally asking his or herself, “Hey, didn’t this place used to be more like a three bedroom cottage rather than a bedsit? WTF?”

Hopefully this frustration will manifest itself into something useful sooner rather than later.

ParaPrawns Pt.II

As promised, some decoration photos.



The much touted Prawn mobile. I could barely contain myself when we hung it up last night.



Some little paraprawns to adorn the walls!

ParaPrawns

I like to think of myself as a pretty creative gal. I have my own fairly successful silver jewelry business on the side and like to engage in artsy, craftsy type shenanigans of all kinds. (Although I utterly suck at sewing. I can manage a fairly simple square bag with little difficulty and no pattern, but if you asked me to make anything that included arms or legs, I could probably successfully create a thriving industry for mutants.) I am rarely at a loss for design ideas, but occasionally, VERY occasionally, I’ll see a design I just have to swipe for my own personal use. Although I would never DREAM of marketing someone else’s design for gain, if I want it on my very own personal wall, you’d better believe I’m going to have it.

This is what I have done in regards to the decorating of the Prawn’s room. A friend of mine introduced me to a very talented design company who I must give 100% credit to for coming up with THE PERFECT PRINT for my nursery wall, the parachuting prawns pictured above. The catch? It was part of a limited edition run and was completely sold out. Well, quite frankly, one cannot mess with perfection and I was damned if I was going to let that fact that I could not BUY this design keep me from adorning my walls with it. So, being the little Photoshopping minx I am, I blew the design up, traced around it and made it printable. I made stencils out of it and have been duplicating the design in several different mediums and colors.

My utter favourite was care of my hugely talented father, who’s woodworking skills have yielded the most lovely baby gift: a parachuting prawn mobile. He has lovingly cut out three perfect prawns with parachutes and two clouds to hang from two cleverly designed mobile attachments and has sent them to me for final painting. I just about cried when I opened the package this morning- they were SO well done; better than I could have possibly hoped for.

I admit it is a vaguely unconventional design for a nursery. Prawns aren’t particularly cuddly. In fact, most crustaceans give me the creeping horrors. Despite growing up in Maryland, famous for it’s crabs, I am still only able to eat crab meat if it bears no resemblance whatsoever to an actual crab. (Let’s face it, they look like giant spiders, you have to boil them alive to eat them on the shell and ANYTHING that still has it’s eyeballs to stare at you with while you’re eating it is just plain ghoulish) Despite this horror of undersea monsters, I adore this design and figure that, if anything, it’ll make the Prawn less likely to ask me to fix him or her Prawn cocktail later in life. (Blergh.) Mr. DD loves the design too, but if you ask me, I think he also likes the idea of our children finding this thing in our attic long after we’re going and going “WTF?”

I hope no one thinks I’m a big, fat thief or anything for skanking this design. Like I said, I would never even consider trying to pass someone else’s work off as my own and would CERTAINLY never try to sell it, but I imagine that the Prawn will probably be called “The Prawn” well after his or her birth, and we liked the idea of being able to celebrate the nickname. Plus, neither of us could live with teddy bears or other fuzztastic baby clichés on the walls.

For Real

Okay, so I’m starting to think that I might actually be having a baby or something.

Mr. DD and I, looking nervously at the calendar, finally bit the bullet and made a trip to the local Babies backwards R Us to pick up…well, whatever the hell it is that babies need. I hate to admit that neither of us have a particularly solid idea and are totally beholden to the evil giant of the baby goods industry to shape our malleable perceptions of what is necessary and what is a load of shit that our kid won’t need in a million years but we better buy anyhow, because OTHERWISE WE ARE BAD PARENTS AND OUR CHILD WILL END UP BLIND, STUPID AND WORKING ON A CHAIN GANG.

Well, we figured a crib is probably a good start, so we got one of those. A changing table also seemed like a fairly good bet, so that went in the trolley too. A complete breastfeeding system from Avent seemed simpler than combing through the shelves for all the individual components, so what’s 129 quid between me and a multi million dollar corporation? (although, to be fair, I did do my homework a bit and it seemed to be the system that was reviewed most favourably by actual, honest to god people who used it.) Baby monitors? Check. Bedding? Erm….yeah, I guess we need that too, but aren’t there like 15 layers or something? What the hell do I know? Just chuck that in there too. The mattress cost almost as much as ours, so it should be comfy, right? A bath set? Why not? INTO THE TROLLEY WITH YOU.

500 pounds later, we felt rather like we’d gotten screwed with our pants on, but at least we felt slightly better knowing that the Prawn wouldn’t be sleeping in one of our new dresser drawers.

To be honest, although the damage to my credit card frightened me, the idea that the Prawn will be here in a matter of weeks was a complete bowel emptier. Although the Prawn is hugely anticipated and very much wanted, I can’t help but ask the question, “What do I know about babies?” Jack, is the precise answer.

I’m an only child and since I lived in the middle of nowhere while growing up, the only kids to baby sit belonged to our next-door neighbors. By the time I was old enough to look after them, they were all well out of diapers. (They are now well out of college, which makes me feel slightly ancient.) So, experience with newborns? 0. Have I ever changed a diaper? Nope. All in all feeling of complete ineptitude? Oh yeah.

Of course, I would be naive to think that I’m the first person to experience this overwhelming feeling of unreadiness for parenthood. People much younger and with far less life experience than me have made perfectly acceptable parents and have managed to make it through the first year without feeding their babies to wolverines or anything, so why should I be worried? Natural, I guess. No matter how old you are, or how desperately wanted the child, becoming fully and wholly responsible for another person’s welfare is a little overwhelming.

Part of it is also wishing that we had slightly more support. One can’t blame a woman for wanting her mother around when her first baby arrives. Mine, unfortunately, is 3000 miles away and my mother-in-law, who in her better days, probably would have been a tremendous help, (she’s a former midwife) has retreated further into a fog of dementia- unlikely to even completely comprehend that the Prawn will be her grandchild, let alone able to dispense advice. Although we have a few friends, it feels very much like Mr. DD and I will be flying solo in terms of support. (I reckon that we’ll be able to win my brother in law around to changing diapers eventually, so that we might be able to go out to dinner once in a blue moon, but it’s going to take some doing.) However, it feels ungrateful to whine. Many, many women go on this journey by themselves, either by choice or by circumstance. I feel hugely blessed to have a partner like my husband.

So, t-minus 4 weeks, 3 days and counting if the Prawn is punctual. Less if he/she is unfashionably early, which I have the feeling he/she will be. Expect more notes from an unready mother…

Selling our Souls to Sweden

So, Mr. DD and I have some sort of mental deficiency when it comes to shopping. As much as I would like to try to blame it on the brand of lighting that they use in the now dreaded showrooms of Ikea, it’s probably more likely that the both of us are total gimps.

So, after discovering that we'd FORGOTTEN TO BUY THE BED on our first trip, (not difficult with 3 trolleyloads of flat pack stuff that all kind of look the same) we made another to buy the bed and the mattress and to return a defective chair and some curtains obviously made for the Tallest Windows in the World. As one might expect, although we only received a refund of about £45 pounds in total, we came back out again with about 350 pounds worth of crap. Although we got the bed, would anyone like to place bets on whether or not we picked up the replacement for said returned, defective chair? (hint: DON’T.)

Being not only brain dead, but masochists as well, we dragged ourselves into the Swedish hellstore yet AGAIN on Sunday, (for the “absolutely freaking last time") which, for anyone who’s ever done that before, (we’ve only ever gone on weeknights) you’ll know can severely damage your faith in humanity.

For example: After I disembarked to get some last minute supplies at Asda next door, the Rock Star witnessed an example of karmic justice playing out in the parking lot. A Chinese man was waiting for a parking space when a van load of chavs in a white van cut him up and took the space. Not only did they take the space he’d been waiting about 10 minutes for, but they LAUGHED at him and reached through his car windows to pat him on the head when he remonstrated with them. However, no sooner had this pack of human offal entered the store, when the scorned Chinese fellow returned to let down their tires. Mr DD almost went to help him. He DEFININTELY wished we'd had the time to sit there with some popcorn to watch the show when the owners of the van came back.

At any rate, we picked up most of the items on our list. Although we had some lights to return, the queue was so long, we decided that it was worth the 12 pounds we’d get back NOT to wait in it. We also picked up the missing chair. However, it was the last one in the stack and the box was somewhat damaged, so we had to weigh our options. Do we take it and risk another trip back to return ANOTHER defective item? Our reasoning- if it’s fine, we rock. If we DON’T buy it, we’ll have to come back ANYWAY to get it, so it was worth the risk. (It wasn’t. The chair was utterly smashed when we took it out of the box back at home. Fuck my hat, back we go.)

We have now been there so many times, I have worked out shortcuts through the showroom. This is information that no one should ever have to be burdened with.

Nest Building pt. 2

I’m feeling slightly more human today after having spent most of the weekend covered in paint.

It always boggles my mind, in what little I have seen of property programs, that people can go through a house, wrinkle up their noses, go, “I don’t like the color much,” and seriously be put off buying due to someone else’s love of a shade called Harvest Orange. The flat that Mr. DD and I were first planning on purchasing looked as if it had been lived in by a giant 6 year old girl- every wall was a different shade of childish pastel. (This was not, of course, what put us off the property- a bunch of lying bastard estate agents took care of that.)

The flat that we’ve just now taken possession of was much more liveable right away. Even if we’d had no money for paint, we would have been able to feel alright living there with fairly little assault to aesthetic or dignity. However, Mr. DD and I are not ones for putting up with a half-assed aesthetic for even a few minutes when we could have a whole-assed one, so this weekend was less about moving and more about image enhancement.

We decided this weekend would be all about the living room and the master bedroom- both places we’ll be spending the most time in. The bedroom was my top priority as I felt it was most urgently in need of cosmetic assistance. Mustard yellow, while cheerful, is hard on the brain, so literally 5 minutes after having stepped across the threshold for the first time as homeowners, I had at least 4 square patches of tester on the wall.

Naively, we had hoped not to have to spend more than 150 pounds on paint. However, over the course of 3 days, we managed to drop a whopping 475 between lucky home improvement chains B&Q and Homebase. Not all of this was paint of course. It’s the other stuff you see while you’re looking for paint. Like brushes and masking tape and rollers and pans and bath towels and small tool kits and Britta pitchers and pipe insulation and pretty light fittings and dead bolts and trash bins and oh my god, we just spent 475 POUNDS.

However, spending money is not all we did this weekend. Against all odds, we managed to finish the two largest rooms in the flat with the help of my brother in law, his girlfriend and my father in law.

I spent 2 summers on my college’s paint crew, back in the day, sprucing up properties owned by the college, both off and on campus and was pleased to renew my acquaintance with the feeling of wall paint between my toes. This is a hazard when you are moving a ladder around the outskirts of the room and lose track of where your supplies are in relation to you. You find that you narrowly miss stepping in a full roller pan and while smugly congratulating yourself and heaping abuse on the pan for it’s failure to ensnare you, you find yourself up to your ankle in an open bucket. Luckily, while I managed to avoid full on ankle sinkage in a can of Dulux “Bracken Salts #4”, I did ruin several pair of socks and manage to track base coat across the laminate floors in the rest of the flat. (Yes, I was up a ladder. Everyone can shout at me for that if they like, but the room is done and I’M GLAD.)

I’m hugely pleased with the results, really. Our lovely red wall in the living room makes the space much more cozy and will look quite groovy with a large black and white photo collection on it. The bedroom now no longer looks like you could receive radiation burns from long exposure.

Of course, with the completion of the painting, no new property owned by soon-to-be penniless 30-something parents would be complete without a full compliment of furniture from Ikea. Again, our naiveté lead us to believe that if we turned up there at around 4 knowing what items we wanted, we should be out by 6 and home in plenty of time to spend an evening putting things together.

I think we lost the will to live somewhere around the textiles section of the Marketplace. At around 8.30pm, when we were finally wheeling all of 4 hugely laden trolleys and flat pack carts through the check out with the help of Mr. DD's bandmate, (who's a courier and has a transit van) we were utterly exhausted and I couldn’t help but look at our gargantuan haul with a nameless dread, knowing that my credit card was going to bear the full force of this DIY disaster. (We actually have the cash, and are going to pay it off right away, but the lure of getting 15 pounds worth of Amazon.co.uk gift vouchers with my credit card was too strong. Spend 1200 pounds and get a free paperback. That’s value for money.)

“Oh my god,” I said to Mr. DD's bandmate, “this is going to come out over £2000.”

“You’ve never shopped at Ikea before, have you?” he said, pointing at our small items cart, which was overflowing. “90% of the stuff in that cart is well under 10 pounds.”

And he was right. The bill came to just over 1200 pounds, which was well within the budget we set ourselves, so despite the overwhelming tension headache, I was pleased.

In the end, we fed our helper a generous helping of spaghetti bolognaise for his trouble and managed to assemble a coffee table and two lamps before collapsing, exhausted, into bed. The rest of our vast flat pack haul lies waiting in the bedroom, like a troop of compressed Scandinavian soldiers awaiting deployment.

And so the remodelling continues. More updates from the front line as the war on banality progresses.