Christmas, fuckawesome isn't it? For me it used to be a bit of a stress, mainly to do with money but on the whole very enjoyable. Three years ago, in January the boy decided all he wanted for the upcoming Christmas was a Lego Death Star. So one was bought and the weekend prior to Christmas while he was at his dads I spent a very enjoyable two days constructing it. And before you say I ruined the boy's fun, I had checked, he wanted Santa to deliver it already built. The look on his face on that particular Christmas morning is etched in my memory as one of the highlights of my life.
This year has been a bit of a roller coaster to say the least. The boy now lives hundreds of miles away with his dad, his dad's girlfriend and her two daughters. The boy was given the choice of where he wanted to spend Christmas on the understanding that next year it would be opposite. So he picked his dads. Oh, did I mention that his birthday is on Christmas eve? So this year for the first time EVER I won't see the boy on his birthday or Christmas day. I am meeting his dad at a service station half way between us on Boxing day and will see the the boy in the flesh for the first time since October. I write this very matter of fact, but the truth is the lead up to Christmas has been very tricky. I can't even say out loud that the boy won't be here without crying and everything reminds me of his absence. For instance, previously I have known what he wanted because of the slow drip, day in, day out mother and son conversations we used to have to and from school. I knew what he was in to, which current craze was cool. Now, when I speak to him on the phone and ask him what he wants, he doesn't really know because he's getting everything at his dads.
So in order to get through the last couple of weeks, I have needed a distraction, a small project if you will to kee my mind focused. So, because we don't have much spare cash floating about at the minute I decided to bake friends and family's Christmas presents. The kitchen has been filled with tin upon tin of biscuits, brownies, pickled pears and home made Gentlman's Relish (no not that you rude bastards, and my dad likes it). Then, a tiny devious plan came to mind. What if I obtained by deception the addresses of my very favourite people on twitter and sent them a little something? Like I said, this year has been a bit of a roller coaster and sometimes it has been the kind words of twitter friends that have got me through the tough times, or a funny blog or the realisation that other people have been through much worse shit than me.
So from this very grumpy miserable mammy, I raise a glass to you all and say not bah humbug, but a very Merry Christmas from me, The Other Half, The Boy, The Baby and The Bloody Dog.
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Sunday, 30 October 2011
God mam, I'm bored
For those of you in the know, my nine year old son has recently moved down south with his dad and he was back this week for half term. I COULD NOT WAIT. I thought that we would have a lovely chilled out week, the nine year old could meet his baby half brother for the first time and we could spend the week catching up. After all, I hadn't seen him in six weeks so we would have loads to talk about. Now I am fully aware that I have a naive streak so wide it verges on stupidity but I genuinely thought that this would be enough of a plan.
When he arrived on the Friday it was late and he was knackered so we had a quick ten minute catch up then everyone headed off for bed. Saturday was great, my son's friend from two doors up called for him and they spent most of the day either on their bikes or playing with action figures and it was lovely seeing my son with a bit more confidence and talking to his friend about his new school and all the things he'd been up to. My son met his baby brother and wasn't totally disinterested so I classed that as a success. Sunday was my birthday and there was a carvery lunch with some extended family followed by a nap for me. The nap was the best part of my birthday, that's how much I miss getting a full night's kip. My boy and my other half are never short of things to talk about, mainly to do with computer games or what super power they would rather have, so I was not missed in the slightest while I caught up on some much needed rest.
The other half was back to work on Monday, good I thought, quality time for just me and my boy (plus baby but he sleeps a lot). But every conversation I started was met with a one word answer while the boy lounged on the sofa looking for episodes of The Middle to watch. He would ask what we were doing today, what we were doing for the rest of the week and the best I could come up with was seeing his mate, going to a play centre and catching up with relatives who had also desperately missed him. None of which, frankly seemed to fill him with joy. Still, we had a nice enough day and Tuesday was much the same. Wednesday was play centre day, a whole day out with not only the joys of Funtastic, but lunch, a new computer game and a new top. But when I said I wanted to go in a shop, I got what can only be described as a bad look off the boy which said 'oh my god mam, why do we have to go here? This is soooooo boring.' at which point I got a little bit cross and pointed out that we had done everything he wanted to do, so surely he could manage five minutes in a shop for me.
My mother in law calls round most mornings to see her grandson and it also gives me a chance to get things done while she looks after the baby. One of the mornings she called round, my boy had given her one word answers to all her questions and on top of that had turned the telly up as much to say, 'be quiet woman I'm trying to watch this ten year old episode of The Simpsons.' Words were said about his rudeness and in my head I wanted to rant at him and say sorry that he seemed to be having such a crap week, but where had my lovely boy gone? Who was this boy I'd been sent that was full of attitude and no manners? Why was it I could hear him Face Time his dad every night but in the six weeks he'd been away he had only ever called me once? What was it about me he found so dull? It made me angry and sad in equal measure.
I of course didn't say anything to my boy, for that is the stuff Jeremy Kyle shows are made of. On the Friday we met up with another of my friends and her daughter. Her daughter and my son are the same age and although don't see each other very often at all these days, when they do they get on well. So they were having a whale of a time while I spilled my guts to my friend. She put things in perspective for me and made me realise part of the problem was my sleep depravation, which made every tiny incident seem much bigger as well as the fact that my boy was behaving like millions of other children in the half term holidays, ie like a brat.
This did get me thinking though, will the boy always be totally bored when he comes to visit? From what I have managed to gather he hangs about with a large group of older children when he's down south and even I can see how this would be more fun than just having the one friend he does up here. Will we grow further apart with me endlessly trying to include my boy in a family he's just not that bothered about?
The boy set off with my mam on the long journey back this morning. So far I haven't cried, but I know I will. My boy was upset when he hugged me goodbye but I have a horrible feeling that it was because he was going to miss me (a bit) and not his Up North life.
When he arrived on the Friday it was late and he was knackered so we had a quick ten minute catch up then everyone headed off for bed. Saturday was great, my son's friend from two doors up called for him and they spent most of the day either on their bikes or playing with action figures and it was lovely seeing my son with a bit more confidence and talking to his friend about his new school and all the things he'd been up to. My son met his baby brother and wasn't totally disinterested so I classed that as a success. Sunday was my birthday and there was a carvery lunch with some extended family followed by a nap for me. The nap was the best part of my birthday, that's how much I miss getting a full night's kip. My boy and my other half are never short of things to talk about, mainly to do with computer games or what super power they would rather have, so I was not missed in the slightest while I caught up on some much needed rest.
The other half was back to work on Monday, good I thought, quality time for just me and my boy (plus baby but he sleeps a lot). But every conversation I started was met with a one word answer while the boy lounged on the sofa looking for episodes of The Middle to watch. He would ask what we were doing today, what we were doing for the rest of the week and the best I could come up with was seeing his mate, going to a play centre and catching up with relatives who had also desperately missed him. None of which, frankly seemed to fill him with joy. Still, we had a nice enough day and Tuesday was much the same. Wednesday was play centre day, a whole day out with not only the joys of Funtastic, but lunch, a new computer game and a new top. But when I said I wanted to go in a shop, I got what can only be described as a bad look off the boy which said 'oh my god mam, why do we have to go here? This is soooooo boring.' at which point I got a little bit cross and pointed out that we had done everything he wanted to do, so surely he could manage five minutes in a shop for me.
My mother in law calls round most mornings to see her grandson and it also gives me a chance to get things done while she looks after the baby. One of the mornings she called round, my boy had given her one word answers to all her questions and on top of that had turned the telly up as much to say, 'be quiet woman I'm trying to watch this ten year old episode of The Simpsons.' Words were said about his rudeness and in my head I wanted to rant at him and say sorry that he seemed to be having such a crap week, but where had my lovely boy gone? Who was this boy I'd been sent that was full of attitude and no manners? Why was it I could hear him Face Time his dad every night but in the six weeks he'd been away he had only ever called me once? What was it about me he found so dull? It made me angry and sad in equal measure.
I of course didn't say anything to my boy, for that is the stuff Jeremy Kyle shows are made of. On the Friday we met up with another of my friends and her daughter. Her daughter and my son are the same age and although don't see each other very often at all these days, when they do they get on well. So they were having a whale of a time while I spilled my guts to my friend. She put things in perspective for me and made me realise part of the problem was my sleep depravation, which made every tiny incident seem much bigger as well as the fact that my boy was behaving like millions of other children in the half term holidays, ie like a brat.
This did get me thinking though, will the boy always be totally bored when he comes to visit? From what I have managed to gather he hangs about with a large group of older children when he's down south and even I can see how this would be more fun than just having the one friend he does up here. Will we grow further apart with me endlessly trying to include my boy in a family he's just not that bothered about?
The boy set off with my mam on the long journey back this morning. So far I haven't cried, but I know I will. My boy was upset when he hugged me goodbye but I have a horrible feeling that it was because he was going to miss me (a bit) and not his Up North life.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Ranty stuff.
So this is the thing. Me and the other half have been together for three and a half years, and we've managed to fit a surprising amount in to that. Together with the usual couple anniversaries, our time together has been punctuated by a variety of holidays. Not all of them together I hasten to add, that would be all too normal. In our first year the other half had already booked a holiday with the lads in Malta and was going to a mates wedding in Cyprus. Just after a year together we went to Madera together. He proposed over the tanoy on the plane on the way out and it was a good job I said yes otherwise that would of made for an awkward week. A year later we got wed. A low key affair at the registry office and a do at the rugby club at the end of our street. Lots of drinking and dancing followed by a honeymoon in Egypt which was lovely, even when we became volcano refugees and had to stay for an extra four days.
Life continued, I got pregnant, The other half's best mate announced he was getting married in Malta (what is it with bloody Malta?) which left us with a small dilemma. We are not blessed with tons of money as a couple, we both work in very averagely paid jobs, and we have the usual outgoings that lots of couples have - two car loans, I've got a loan, credit cards along with all the usual monthly expenses. So the other half was worried about the cost of going to Malta with a baby on the way, also I would be too heavily pregnant to fly so this would be another holiday we hadn't been on together. The other half pondered it for a good long while and in the end came to the conclusion that he might regret not going to his best friends wedding so saved hard, stuck to a tiny budget and ended up feeling a bit aggrieved at having to use up his annual leave and spend his cash going on a holiday that he wouldn't of chosen.
My turn to go on holiday without the other half. My nine year old has moved down south with his dad and to make the most of our time together before he went, me and my mam took him on holiday to Scotland. The other half had to save the rest of his leave for parental leave which meant he couldn't come. So with just three weeks until my due date we headed off (I waddled) to the middle of nowhere in the wilds of the highlands. The boy had a fantastic time doing lots of activities with my mam while I was to official photographer. We made it back in one piece and just to complete our separate holiday record, I took my son to my dads house at the seaside for a long weekend while the other half had to stay to look after the dog.
When I got back from the seaside, myself and the other half made a pact never to go on holiday separately again. Not that we were planning any holidays, my idea of hell is travelling to abroad with a tiny baby in tow. We had a vague idea that in a couple of years we could get some kind of last minute deal somewhere hot when loans were paid off and the baby was old enough to enjoy paddling in the sea.
Now to the ranty crux of the matter. The other half has a sister who has just announced that her and her chap are getting married. Now guess the location of where they plan to marry. No, not Malta, Florida. Fucking Florida. All be it in two years, but even so that will mean us attempting to save two hundred pounds a month for two years to be able to afford to go. *blood boils* I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING GO TO FUCKING FLORIDA. There, I've said it. I hate people who get married abroad and assume that everyone is perfectly happy using up their precious annual leave and vast quantities of their own money to go on a holiday not of their choosing. The baby will be a toddler in two years time and when I think of taking him on a long haul flight the word that springs to mind is torture.
When the other half's sister left having made her announcement I could visibly see my lovely husband's shoulders take on the weight of the world as he tried to fathom how he could afford to go to his sister's wedding. In the end we've had to say we can't go. Short of taking out a loan to pay for it which would be downright stupid, we just can't afford it. Don't get me wrong, if they want to get married at Disneyland and have several Disney characters at their wedding, then I'm very pleased for them, just don't put family in the position of trying to work out how they can pay to attend.
When I am queen of the world* the first law I will pass is as follows:
Those who plan nuptials in far flung places must pay for the travel and accommodation of guests.
* its only a matter of time.
Life continued, I got pregnant, The other half's best mate announced he was getting married in Malta (what is it with bloody Malta?) which left us with a small dilemma. We are not blessed with tons of money as a couple, we both work in very averagely paid jobs, and we have the usual outgoings that lots of couples have - two car loans, I've got a loan, credit cards along with all the usual monthly expenses. So the other half was worried about the cost of going to Malta with a baby on the way, also I would be too heavily pregnant to fly so this would be another holiday we hadn't been on together. The other half pondered it for a good long while and in the end came to the conclusion that he might regret not going to his best friends wedding so saved hard, stuck to a tiny budget and ended up feeling a bit aggrieved at having to use up his annual leave and spend his cash going on a holiday that he wouldn't of chosen.
My turn to go on holiday without the other half. My nine year old has moved down south with his dad and to make the most of our time together before he went, me and my mam took him on holiday to Scotland. The other half had to save the rest of his leave for parental leave which meant he couldn't come. So with just three weeks until my due date we headed off (I waddled) to the middle of nowhere in the wilds of the highlands. The boy had a fantastic time doing lots of activities with my mam while I was to official photographer. We made it back in one piece and just to complete our separate holiday record, I took my son to my dads house at the seaside for a long weekend while the other half had to stay to look after the dog.
When I got back from the seaside, myself and the other half made a pact never to go on holiday separately again. Not that we were planning any holidays, my idea of hell is travelling to abroad with a tiny baby in tow. We had a vague idea that in a couple of years we could get some kind of last minute deal somewhere hot when loans were paid off and the baby was old enough to enjoy paddling in the sea.
Now to the ranty crux of the matter. The other half has a sister who has just announced that her and her chap are getting married. Now guess the location of where they plan to marry. No, not Malta, Florida. Fucking Florida. All be it in two years, but even so that will mean us attempting to save two hundred pounds a month for two years to be able to afford to go. *blood boils* I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING GO TO FUCKING FLORIDA. There, I've said it. I hate people who get married abroad and assume that everyone is perfectly happy using up their precious annual leave and vast quantities of their own money to go on a holiday not of their choosing. The baby will be a toddler in two years time and when I think of taking him on a long haul flight the word that springs to mind is torture.
When the other half's sister left having made her announcement I could visibly see my lovely husband's shoulders take on the weight of the world as he tried to fathom how he could afford to go to his sister's wedding. In the end we've had to say we can't go. Short of taking out a loan to pay for it which would be downright stupid, we just can't afford it. Don't get me wrong, if they want to get married at Disneyland and have several Disney characters at their wedding, then I'm very pleased for them, just don't put family in the position of trying to work out how they can pay to attend.
When I am queen of the world* the first law I will pass is as follows:
Those who plan nuptials in far flung places must pay for the travel and accommodation of guests.
* its only a matter of time.
Monday, 17 October 2011
Ooooh, that smarts a bit.
Some of you may of noticed me bashing on about being pregnant, well that came to an abrupt end on the ninth of September and in the spirit of over sharing I thought I would blog the birth - a One Born Every Minute in written (typed) form if you will.
Firstly, I have to explain that I was fed up of being pregnant by thirty eight weeks and had tried just about every suggestion thrown at me to bring on labour. Fresh pineapple? Yes I had eaten a ton of the stuff and ended up with mouth ulcers for my trouble. Raspberry leaf tea? I had drank my own weight of the vile liquid. Sex? Yes we'd even given that a go despite my other half's insistence that the baby was 'too close' Long walks? Yes, up hill and down dale on a daily basis. Bouncing about on a physio ball? Every morning for an hour whilst watching an episode of The Killing. The only thing that had been suggested to me that I hadn't yet tried was 'nipple stimulation' apparently this can release the same hormones that start labour but you have to do it for at least an hour.
Secondly, I think I should give you an idea of how I thought this giving birth lark would go. I thought I would start having contractions at home which I would be able to manage with some paracetamol and breathing/relaxation techniques. When the contractions got a bit stronger I
would maybe have a bath and when they got stronger still we would go up to the hospital where I would plonk myself in a birthing pool and with a bit of gas and air push this baby out without even breaking in to a sweat. Some tea and toast and I'd be home in time for Coronation Street.
So on the morning of the ninth I sat on the physio ball for an hour of bouncing while watching The Killing but with some added nipple tweaking thrown in for good measure. Fifty five minutes
in and I went pop. I looked down and couldn't believe it, the physio ball, my slippers and a good bit of the carpet were soaked. I was actually grinning my head off at this point. I was so convinced I'd end up being so overdue that I'd have to be induced I almost couldn't believe my waters had gone. I got up off the ball and took off the pyjama bottoms and put the first thing I could find between my legs to stem the dripping. The first thing happened to be a
massive bath towel. So I'm waddling round getting my phone to call the other half while eyeing up the stain on the carpet wondering if Vanish carpet cleaner is up to the job. I call the other half and say the code word 'sploosh' 'really? You're not joking?' 'No, I'm stood in the kitchen with a towel between my legs and my waters have just broke everywhere.' The other half
was clearly delighted as he is the most impatient man in the known universe and the last two weeks had killed him more that they had me. 'Don't bother coming home though' says I 'my contractions haven't started and I'm not even dressed.' 'Are you at least going to phone the hospital?' Asks the ever concerned other half. 'Well, I wasn't going to bother, nothing's happening just yet.' 'I think you should just to let them know to expect you later.' Massive sigh. 'Okay then I'll ring them now and let you know what they say.' Getting off the phone from my other half I notice a text from my neighbour 'hi pet do u wnt 2 com for a cuppa' my reply was 'my waters just broke.' By which I meant I'm terribly sorry but I'm a bit indisposed at the moment what with the fact I'm leaking everywhere and not dressed I will have to come round for a cup of tea at another time. But my friend thought I meant JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MY WATERS HAVE GONE WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO? So while I'm calmly on the phone to the hospital my friend bursts in through the front door thinking she is going to find me in some state of panic. 'Are you okay? What's happening? She sees me on the phone 'oh, you're okay.' She looked supremely disappointed at finding me in one piece and not in need of her amateur midwife
skills. 'I'll leave you to it then shall I?' And with that she was back out the the door and I was left alone telling a midwife at the hospital how my morning had gone and being told to come up to the delivery suite to be monitored and if my contractions hadn't started I could go back home again.
So I decided I needed to shower and put some make up on before I went to the hospital. I called the other half and told him he needed to come home - even I didn't think I should drive myself. By about 11am I was finally ready to leave the house and as I sat in the car I began thinking ooh, that's a bit uncomfortable and when the other half saw me brace myself and grab the dashboard he just said 'we won't be coming home without a baby.'
At the hospital we managed to go to the wrong ward - anti natal, delivery suite, they're all the same aren't they? No, apparently not. They wired me up to the monitor and as the lovely midwife was taking my details she could see my toes curl 'oh, are you having a pain? Good, we could have this baby soon.' They monitored me for twenty minutes and by the end of it, just lying on the bed was deeply uncomfortable and as soon as I was allowed I assumed a strange kneeling on the floor leaning over a birthing ball position. Contractions were coming thick and fast and my breathing and relaxation techniques weren't really doing the trick so in a rather pathetic voice I asked the other half if he could please see if I could have some paracetamol and gas and air. (Paracetamol?) Now last time I had gas and air I was convinced it wasn't working and ended up throwing the mouthpiece at my mam in disgust. This time however it was amazing. I was properly off my tits and for a short time it helped a lot with the pain. But all too soon, the gas and air wasn't helping in any way other than the breathing keeping me focused. My contractions were really close together and without a break in-between I couldn't regroup and prepare for the next one. At one point I begged the midwife for an epidural. My begging went like this. 'Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have an epidural? The midwife very calmly and in a lovely soothing voice told me I was doing very well and that I didn't need an epidural, it could slow things down and cause complications. 'I do! I really need one!' So she checked my progress (stuck her hand up my flue and measured with her fingers how open my cervix was) Somewhat triumphantly she pulled her hand out and said that I was five centimetres already and as things were going so quickly - it was about two o clock by now - I should just carry on. I was a little bit proud of myself for being five centimetres already so with renewed vigour I breathed in the gas and air.
My enthusiasm for just using gas and air lasted about five minutes before the other half was sent out to get me some Pethidine. My lovely midwife's shift had finished, so another lovely midwife came in with an injection loaded with beautiful painkiller that she jabbed unceremoniously into my left thigh. It took about half an hour to work and then after that I'll be honest it's a little bit of a blur. Apparently I would shush my other half if he had the temerity to talk to the midwife when she came in the room and in my seven hour playlist on the I pad I would occasionally insist on a song being skipped for no reason other than it was offending my ears at that point in time. After another couple of hours my contractions changed a bit. They would still start off with the fucking awful my-insides-are-being-ripped-out pain but in the middle there would be the urge to push. My midwife noticed and asked if I needed to push, from my fog of painkiller I mumbled that yes, sometimes I did. She told me just to breath through it and she would check me in an hour to see if I was fully dilated. Now, if you really, really need a poo no one advises you to breath through it, and keep that poo in for as long as possible do they? In the same vein, it seemed nonsense and totally against what my body was telling me not to push when I got the urge. So every now and again my other half would notice me holding my breath and my face going bright red and he would tell me to 'breath. Stop holding your breath.'
After the Pethidine I took to lying on my side on the bed and after about six or seven of these sneaky pushes, something felt a bit odd "down there" I had a feel and to my shock found myself saying 'quick, get the midwife, I'm crowning.' My other half with a very confused face left the room to find our midwife. Now this shocked me because when I had my nine year old, the stinging hideousness associated with the pushing part of labour has remained etched in my brain forever and described by me and a friend in conversation as if acid has been thrown on your bits. This time, it was a bit stingy but nothing like the first time so to have managed to push a baby's head right down with frankly not much effort left me a bit startled. The midwife came in the room, had a little look and said 'oh yes, we're having a baby.' I had clambered up on to my knees and with one more push, the head was out. Then everything stopped. No more contractions and nothing to push against. I kept turning to the midwife and apologising, 'I'm really sorry the urge has gone' After a full five minutes I got one more contraction and out popped a baby at 17:12hrs with The Prodigy's No Good playing in the background.
In a film, they would shout cut, and all would end happily there without any mention of the messy gubbins that comes after. Not me, oh no. Normally, closely following a baby comes a placenta. My placenta however was a bit reluctant to leave my body and after half an hour of a midwife's gentle tugging a doctor was called in, massive injections were given in to the umbilical cord and a hand was shoved up me to try and scoop it out. On the first attempt this horrible version of a magician's trick didn't work, but after another fifteen minutes and a massive intake of gas and air the doctor finally managed to pull it out a la a rabbit out of a hat.
And there, I will leave it. Logan James is fantastic. He was 8lb 6oz when born and five weeks later he's 11lb 4oz. I won't mention, piles, bleeding or achey, leaky boobs. I'll save those delights for another time.
Firstly, I have to explain that I was fed up of being pregnant by thirty eight weeks and had tried just about every suggestion thrown at me to bring on labour. Fresh pineapple? Yes I had eaten a ton of the stuff and ended up with mouth ulcers for my trouble. Raspberry leaf tea? I had drank my own weight of the vile liquid. Sex? Yes we'd even given that a go despite my other half's insistence that the baby was 'too close' Long walks? Yes, up hill and down dale on a daily basis. Bouncing about on a physio ball? Every morning for an hour whilst watching an episode of The Killing. The only thing that had been suggested to me that I hadn't yet tried was 'nipple stimulation' apparently this can release the same hormones that start labour but you have to do it for at least an hour.
Secondly, I think I should give you an idea of how I thought this giving birth lark would go. I thought I would start having contractions at home which I would be able to manage with some paracetamol and breathing/relaxation techniques. When the contractions got a bit stronger I
would maybe have a bath and when they got stronger still we would go up to the hospital where I would plonk myself in a birthing pool and with a bit of gas and air push this baby out without even breaking in to a sweat. Some tea and toast and I'd be home in time for Coronation Street.
So on the morning of the ninth I sat on the physio ball for an hour of bouncing while watching The Killing but with some added nipple tweaking thrown in for good measure. Fifty five minutes
in and I went pop. I looked down and couldn't believe it, the physio ball, my slippers and a good bit of the carpet were soaked. I was actually grinning my head off at this point. I was so convinced I'd end up being so overdue that I'd have to be induced I almost couldn't believe my waters had gone. I got up off the ball and took off the pyjama bottoms and put the first thing I could find between my legs to stem the dripping. The first thing happened to be a
massive bath towel. So I'm waddling round getting my phone to call the other half while eyeing up the stain on the carpet wondering if Vanish carpet cleaner is up to the job. I call the other half and say the code word 'sploosh' 'really? You're not joking?' 'No, I'm stood in the kitchen with a towel between my legs and my waters have just broke everywhere.' The other half
was clearly delighted as he is the most impatient man in the known universe and the last two weeks had killed him more that they had me. 'Don't bother coming home though' says I 'my contractions haven't started and I'm not even dressed.' 'Are you at least going to phone the hospital?' Asks the ever concerned other half. 'Well, I wasn't going to bother, nothing's happening just yet.' 'I think you should just to let them know to expect you later.' Massive sigh. 'Okay then I'll ring them now and let you know what they say.' Getting off the phone from my other half I notice a text from my neighbour 'hi pet do u wnt 2 com for a cuppa' my reply was 'my waters just broke.' By which I meant I'm terribly sorry but I'm a bit indisposed at the moment what with the fact I'm leaking everywhere and not dressed I will have to come round for a cup of tea at another time. But my friend thought I meant JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MY WATERS HAVE GONE WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO? So while I'm calmly on the phone to the hospital my friend bursts in through the front door thinking she is going to find me in some state of panic. 'Are you okay? What's happening? She sees me on the phone 'oh, you're okay.' She looked supremely disappointed at finding me in one piece and not in need of her amateur midwife
skills. 'I'll leave you to it then shall I?' And with that she was back out the the door and I was left alone telling a midwife at the hospital how my morning had gone and being told to come up to the delivery suite to be monitored and if my contractions hadn't started I could go back home again.
So I decided I needed to shower and put some make up on before I went to the hospital. I called the other half and told him he needed to come home - even I didn't think I should drive myself. By about 11am I was finally ready to leave the house and as I sat in the car I began thinking ooh, that's a bit uncomfortable and when the other half saw me brace myself and grab the dashboard he just said 'we won't be coming home without a baby.'
At the hospital we managed to go to the wrong ward - anti natal, delivery suite, they're all the same aren't they? No, apparently not. They wired me up to the monitor and as the lovely midwife was taking my details she could see my toes curl 'oh, are you having a pain? Good, we could have this baby soon.' They monitored me for twenty minutes and by the end of it, just lying on the bed was deeply uncomfortable and as soon as I was allowed I assumed a strange kneeling on the floor leaning over a birthing ball position. Contractions were coming thick and fast and my breathing and relaxation techniques weren't really doing the trick so in a rather pathetic voice I asked the other half if he could please see if I could have some paracetamol and gas and air. (Paracetamol?) Now last time I had gas and air I was convinced it wasn't working and ended up throwing the mouthpiece at my mam in disgust. This time however it was amazing. I was properly off my tits and for a short time it helped a lot with the pain. But all too soon, the gas and air wasn't helping in any way other than the breathing keeping me focused. My contractions were really close together and without a break in-between I couldn't regroup and prepare for the next one. At one point I begged the midwife for an epidural. My begging went like this. 'Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have an epidural? The midwife very calmly and in a lovely soothing voice told me I was doing very well and that I didn't need an epidural, it could slow things down and cause complications. 'I do! I really need one!' So she checked my progress (stuck her hand up my flue and measured with her fingers how open my cervix was) Somewhat triumphantly she pulled her hand out and said that I was five centimetres already and as things were going so quickly - it was about two o clock by now - I should just carry on. I was a little bit proud of myself for being five centimetres already so with renewed vigour I breathed in the gas and air.
My enthusiasm for just using gas and air lasted about five minutes before the other half was sent out to get me some Pethidine. My lovely midwife's shift had finished, so another lovely midwife came in with an injection loaded with beautiful painkiller that she jabbed unceremoniously into my left thigh. It took about half an hour to work and then after that I'll be honest it's a little bit of a blur. Apparently I would shush my other half if he had the temerity to talk to the midwife when she came in the room and in my seven hour playlist on the I pad I would occasionally insist on a song being skipped for no reason other than it was offending my ears at that point in time. After another couple of hours my contractions changed a bit. They would still start off with the fucking awful my-insides-are-being-ripped-out pain but in the middle there would be the urge to push. My midwife noticed and asked if I needed to push, from my fog of painkiller I mumbled that yes, sometimes I did. She told me just to breath through it and she would check me in an hour to see if I was fully dilated. Now, if you really, really need a poo no one advises you to breath through it, and keep that poo in for as long as possible do they? In the same vein, it seemed nonsense and totally against what my body was telling me not to push when I got the urge. So every now and again my other half would notice me holding my breath and my face going bright red and he would tell me to 'breath. Stop holding your breath.'
After the Pethidine I took to lying on my side on the bed and after about six or seven of these sneaky pushes, something felt a bit odd "down there" I had a feel and to my shock found myself saying 'quick, get the midwife, I'm crowning.' My other half with a very confused face left the room to find our midwife. Now this shocked me because when I had my nine year old, the stinging hideousness associated with the pushing part of labour has remained etched in my brain forever and described by me and a friend in conversation as if acid has been thrown on your bits. This time, it was a bit stingy but nothing like the first time so to have managed to push a baby's head right down with frankly not much effort left me a bit startled. The midwife came in the room, had a little look and said 'oh yes, we're having a baby.' I had clambered up on to my knees and with one more push, the head was out. Then everything stopped. No more contractions and nothing to push against. I kept turning to the midwife and apologising, 'I'm really sorry the urge has gone' After a full five minutes I got one more contraction and out popped a baby at 17:12hrs with The Prodigy's No Good playing in the background.
In a film, they would shout cut, and all would end happily there without any mention of the messy gubbins that comes after. Not me, oh no. Normally, closely following a baby comes a placenta. My placenta however was a bit reluctant to leave my body and after half an hour of a midwife's gentle tugging a doctor was called in, massive injections were given in to the umbilical cord and a hand was shoved up me to try and scoop it out. On the first attempt this horrible version of a magician's trick didn't work, but after another fifteen minutes and a massive intake of gas and air the doctor finally managed to pull it out a la a rabbit out of a hat.
And there, I will leave it. Logan James is fantastic. He was 8lb 6oz when born and five weeks later he's 11lb 4oz. I won't mention, piles, bleeding or achey, leaky boobs. I'll save those delights for another time.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
A book review....of sorts
I read a book recently, this in itself is not unusual but what was out of the ordinary was that it made me think quite a bit afterwards. The book in question was Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman and although she made a lot of valid points about what it is to be a feminist, the part I kept going back to is that of pubes. In the book it is suggested that we should be all proud of our pubes and grow magnificent bushes and not bother with the very modern phenomenon of waxing let alone vajazzling. I will lay my cards on the table, I get waxed. Everything. I used to do a DIY job with Veet cream, but one chemical burn too many in my intimate area meant I left my very personal grooming in the capable hands of one of my good friends at the local beauty salon.
When I read How to be a Woman, it made me think, why do I feel the need to inflict this pain on myself? To let someone spread hot wax on my genital area, stick a strip of cotton on to the hot wax then pull it off, bringing all the hair in that area with it would be considered a torturous thing by some. I've been doing it for years now and I book the next appointment automatically. Then I remembered. My pubes are ugly in the extreme. They are not curly, thick and lustrous in a very 1970's porn film style. (If they were, I would ROCK that look) What they are, if left to their own devices is like spider legs or mouse whiskers. Sparse, straight and with no respect for a bikini line.
While I'm on the subject of my foof and the related area, the last time I was at the midwife's she wrote in my notes '2/5'. 'Two fifths?' I questioned 'What does that mean?' So the midwife explained that having examined me she could only feel two fifths of the baby's head, the rest being in my pelvis. I relayed this to my husband later on when he came home from work over our tea of lasagna (the lasagna isn't important).
Later still, while in bed we embarked on a bit of sexy time. After a very valiant effort on both our parts - fighting back heartburn while giving a rather excellent blow job anyone? My husband owned up to the fact that he couldn't carry on because the baby was 'too close'
So now I have a new reason as to why I cant wait for the baby to arrive to add to my ever increasing list. See if you can spot the new one.
- I'll be able to pick things up off the floor again
- Bad back and hips will get better
- I won't need to piss every five minutes
- Heartburn will become a thing of the past
- Hello again to pate and soft cheese
- ALCOHOL
- A return to some hot and dirty sex - fucking get in (so to speak)
When I read How to be a Woman, it made me think, why do I feel the need to inflict this pain on myself? To let someone spread hot wax on my genital area, stick a strip of cotton on to the hot wax then pull it off, bringing all the hair in that area with it would be considered a torturous thing by some. I've been doing it for years now and I book the next appointment automatically. Then I remembered. My pubes are ugly in the extreme. They are not curly, thick and lustrous in a very 1970's porn film style. (If they were, I would ROCK that look) What they are, if left to their own devices is like spider legs or mouse whiskers. Sparse, straight and with no respect for a bikini line.
While I'm on the subject of my foof and the related area, the last time I was at the midwife's she wrote in my notes '2/5'. 'Two fifths?' I questioned 'What does that mean?' So the midwife explained that having examined me she could only feel two fifths of the baby's head, the rest being in my pelvis. I relayed this to my husband later on when he came home from work over our tea of lasagna (the lasagna isn't important).
Later still, while in bed we embarked on a bit of sexy time. After a very valiant effort on both our parts - fighting back heartburn while giving a rather excellent blow job anyone? My husband owned up to the fact that he couldn't carry on because the baby was 'too close'
So now I have a new reason as to why I cant wait for the baby to arrive to add to my ever increasing list. See if you can spot the new one.
- I'll be able to pick things up off the floor again
- Bad back and hips will get better
- I won't need to piss every five minutes
- Heartburn will become a thing of the past
- Hello again to pate and soft cheese
- ALCOHOL
- A return to some hot and dirty sex - fucking get in (so to speak)
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Summer holidays.
Crying is a funny thing isn't it? You feel certain emotions and your eyes leak all over the place. If its particularly good cry there will be snot and hiccups involved as well. Some people never cry, others can turn tears on and off like a tap and use them as a weapon. For me, whether I like it or not, they just tag along with certain emotions - extreme happiness, sadness, fear, and frustration and without so much as a warning, along come the tears.
Two weeks ago my boy's school broke up for the summer holidays and myself and his dad were waiting at the gate for him to come out. For my son, it was more than just his last day of term, it was his last day ever at this school as he moves down south with his dad at the end of the summer and will start a new school there. (see previous post) As he came across the playground there was a big group of boys around him patting him on the back, wishing him good luck and telling him they were going to miss him. I could see by my son that he wanted to cry but he held it together until all his friends were gone and he was just with me and his dad. Then he had a bit of a cry before pulling himself together and getting on with the rest of his day, which for him was going off down south with his dad for the first three weeks of the summer break.
Whenever my boy goes away, the first few days for me are a bit rough. I miss him like you would miss your right arm. This time it was amplified because firstly I am treating his holiday as a practise run for when he moves away and secondly I couldn't get the image of him walking across the playground for the last time out of my head and it would break my heart all over again. At random moments it would replay in my mind, if you saw me walking the dog, you may of been wondering why I was gurning and it would be because I would be desperately trying to stop the tears coming out of my eyes. I developed a coping mechanism, I would think about my boy being away and having finished school in the shower and have a good old sob there so it was all out of my system.
As the days passed my teary moments became much less, which was good because there is nothing worse than being sat in work looking like your goldfish has just died. Many millions of years ago, I was a student nurse and I learnt about the five stages of grieving, now eye leakage isn't an actual stage, but acceptance is and every time my boy goes away I feel like I go through a mini grieving process that is something like this:
-Sadness
-More sadness
-Lost and lonely
-Getting back in to a routine
-Acceptance
Feeling much better I decided I was at acceptance and all was better with the world and my tear ducts could have a well deserved rest.
This weekend, my husband an I did something we very rarely do, we ventured beyond our small town and headed for the big city that is Carlisle for a day out. No grand plans beyond Homebase, Shanghai Shanghai and a mooch round the shops. My other half hates DIY and gets a bit tetchy when hungry so things got a bit tense in Homebase as we discussed a variety of green shades for the baby's room. Decisions were made quickly* and paint was bought so that we could head to the all you can eat chinese buffet mecca that is Shanghai Shanghai. I did in fact eat all I could. I apparently did it all wrong by having too many noodles. 'Noodles are your bulk items. You should leave those and just have the meat stuff.' 'But I like the noodles.' 'You wont be able to fit as much in.' Which I promptly proved to be incorrect by finishing off my not one, but two plates that had been heavily laden with carbohydrates with eleven pineapple fritters. A new record for me.
We wandered into the city** centre and generally pottered around. I spent too much money on make up but the thought of it made me giddy with happiness, proving that not very deep down I am a shallow girl who likes shoes, handbags and pretty, shiny, new make-up that will make me BEAUTIFUL I tell you. We browsed Waterstones, me looking for Grace Dent's book How To Leave Twitter and as it turned out the other half was looking at a complete and illustrated guide to all the weapons used in Star Wars, apparently a very good reference guide he tells me. I ended up in the children's section and was picking out things my boy would like. See with his dad its all about computer games and films, with me it's all about the books. From The Big Hungry Caterpillar and Spot the Dog, through to the Gruffalo and The Tiger Who Came to Tea we have progressed to Roald Dahl, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Charlie Higson's series about zombies. And while I was looking at a Harry Potter Cludo set it suddenly hit me. What if I lose track of what the boy does and doesn't like? What if I end up like one of those embarrassing parents who don't get their kids? You know, when you buy them something, thinking they'll love it and they look at it with a bemused expression on their face, smile, say thank you, put the item down and NEVER look at it again. Rationally, I know this is remote, but as I stood in the bookshop, the sadness of my boy moving away threatened to floor me. I gurned a bit, took some deep breaths, moved out of the children's section and ended up looking at Manga comics. I didn't tell my other half a Cludo set had knocked the wind out of my sails, I asked him to tell me about the laser rifle he was reading about instead and as we headed out in to the sunshine I remembered something about the stages of grieving, which is that they are not linear and you can move backwards and forwards from stage to stage. I just have to accept that things will come out of nowhere that will push me back to sadness and that I will cope and get through it, because it is just a stage, and move on.
* Perhaps too quickly as we seem to have ended up with lime geen and a shade of yellow brighter than the sun for an accent wall.
** Carlisle is like the smallest city in the world. It's city centre is probably smaller than your high street. In fact it feels odd calling it a city. Hang on.......*Googles 'is Carlisle a city?'* Yes, it is a city. Still feels odd calling it that though.
Two weeks ago my boy's school broke up for the summer holidays and myself and his dad were waiting at the gate for him to come out. For my son, it was more than just his last day of term, it was his last day ever at this school as he moves down south with his dad at the end of the summer and will start a new school there. (see previous post) As he came across the playground there was a big group of boys around him patting him on the back, wishing him good luck and telling him they were going to miss him. I could see by my son that he wanted to cry but he held it together until all his friends were gone and he was just with me and his dad. Then he had a bit of a cry before pulling himself together and getting on with the rest of his day, which for him was going off down south with his dad for the first three weeks of the summer break.
Whenever my boy goes away, the first few days for me are a bit rough. I miss him like you would miss your right arm. This time it was amplified because firstly I am treating his holiday as a practise run for when he moves away and secondly I couldn't get the image of him walking across the playground for the last time out of my head and it would break my heart all over again. At random moments it would replay in my mind, if you saw me walking the dog, you may of been wondering why I was gurning and it would be because I would be desperately trying to stop the tears coming out of my eyes. I developed a coping mechanism, I would think about my boy being away and having finished school in the shower and have a good old sob there so it was all out of my system.
As the days passed my teary moments became much less, which was good because there is nothing worse than being sat in work looking like your goldfish has just died. Many millions of years ago, I was a student nurse and I learnt about the five stages of grieving, now eye leakage isn't an actual stage, but acceptance is and every time my boy goes away I feel like I go through a mini grieving process that is something like this:
-Sadness
-More sadness
-Lost and lonely
-Getting back in to a routine
-Acceptance
Feeling much better I decided I was at acceptance and all was better with the world and my tear ducts could have a well deserved rest.
This weekend, my husband an I did something we very rarely do, we ventured beyond our small town and headed for the big city that is Carlisle for a day out. No grand plans beyond Homebase, Shanghai Shanghai and a mooch round the shops. My other half hates DIY and gets a bit tetchy when hungry so things got a bit tense in Homebase as we discussed a variety of green shades for the baby's room. Decisions were made quickly* and paint was bought so that we could head to the all you can eat chinese buffet mecca that is Shanghai Shanghai. I did in fact eat all I could. I apparently did it all wrong by having too many noodles. 'Noodles are your bulk items. You should leave those and just have the meat stuff.' 'But I like the noodles.' 'You wont be able to fit as much in.' Which I promptly proved to be incorrect by finishing off my not one, but two plates that had been heavily laden with carbohydrates with eleven pineapple fritters. A new record for me.
We wandered into the city** centre and generally pottered around. I spent too much money on make up but the thought of it made me giddy with happiness, proving that not very deep down I am a shallow girl who likes shoes, handbags and pretty, shiny, new make-up that will make me BEAUTIFUL I tell you. We browsed Waterstones, me looking for Grace Dent's book How To Leave Twitter and as it turned out the other half was looking at a complete and illustrated guide to all the weapons used in Star Wars, apparently a very good reference guide he tells me. I ended up in the children's section and was picking out things my boy would like. See with his dad its all about computer games and films, with me it's all about the books. From The Big Hungry Caterpillar and Spot the Dog, through to the Gruffalo and The Tiger Who Came to Tea we have progressed to Roald Dahl, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Charlie Higson's series about zombies. And while I was looking at a Harry Potter Cludo set it suddenly hit me. What if I lose track of what the boy does and doesn't like? What if I end up like one of those embarrassing parents who don't get their kids? You know, when you buy them something, thinking they'll love it and they look at it with a bemused expression on their face, smile, say thank you, put the item down and NEVER look at it again. Rationally, I know this is remote, but as I stood in the bookshop, the sadness of my boy moving away threatened to floor me. I gurned a bit, took some deep breaths, moved out of the children's section and ended up looking at Manga comics. I didn't tell my other half a Cludo set had knocked the wind out of my sails, I asked him to tell me about the laser rifle he was reading about instead and as we headed out in to the sunshine I remembered something about the stages of grieving, which is that they are not linear and you can move backwards and forwards from stage to stage. I just have to accept that things will come out of nowhere that will push me back to sadness and that I will cope and get through it, because it is just a stage, and move on.
* Perhaps too quickly as we seem to have ended up with lime geen and a shade of yellow brighter than the sun for an accent wall.
** Carlisle is like the smallest city in the world. It's city centre is probably smaller than your high street. In fact it feels odd calling it a city. Hang on.......*Googles 'is Carlisle a city?'* Yes, it is a city. Still feels odd calling it that though.
Friday, 22 July 2011
Say cheese
I have never been a fan of family photos. You know the ones, you're at your grandma's birthday dinner or your uncle's retirement bash and all of a sudden the party stops while EVERYONE gets a camera out and takes a million versions of the same picture. Actually, let me rephrase that, I never had an opinion on family photos other than irritation until my son was born and annoyance level was raised a few notches.
Tiny children seem to have a threshold for being sociable so when my boy was little I would graciously bow out of any family party when I could see the grumpiness levels rising in him. And as I would announce mine and his departure the same thing would ALWAYS happen. 'Oh, we'll just take some pictures before you go' would reverberate round the room as people reached for their cameras. 'No wankers' I would be furiously thinking, 'I have a child who is tired/hungry and I am knackered and we want to go home. This could of been done hours ago.' Outwardly I would do the nearest I could manage to a smile* and there would be endless repetitions of similar poses with different groups of people while the boy would become increasingly agitated and I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Obviously as the boy got older this was much less of a problem but it was too late, the damage was done and my hatred for having my picture taken and indeed of taking pictures was pretty much set in stone.
But fast forward several years and things change. Just over a year ago I managed a whole hour of posing - well, it was my wedding and with the boy moving down south in a month or so suddenly everything is a Kodak moment. It was his sports day on Wednesday and there I was proud as punch in the front row like some paparazzi taking endless shots of him and his team.
I shall digress slightly and offer you my opinions on sports days. I remember the excitement of taking part as a child and if only the olympics were based on egg and spoon races or obsticle courses I think the event would be a lot more fun. But as a parent, especially a parent of a child that is not athletically gifted they are torturous, heart breaking affairs. My boy dropped his bouncy egg off the spoon just before the finish line and ended up being last. He wasn't that bothered but I could feel the tears welling up and I wanted to stand up and shout 'WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT A POXY RACE?' I obviously didn't but the worst thing was it wasn't even just my son I got upset on behalf of. Any overweight, clumsy, or uncoordinated child coming last by a mile and I felt terrible. Sports days should be banned under the Geneva Convention.
Anyway, How gutted was I when I checked my camera's memory and couldn't find any of the sports day pictures? I know I am a technical fucktard but how can I get wrong point and press? Somehow I fucking managed. I have however made up for it with several million pictures of the boy and dog, the boy with my mam, the boy eating, the boy standing. You get the idea, now I'm the irritating wanker with the camera.
*grimace. (an ugly twisted expression of a person's face)
Tiny children seem to have a threshold for being sociable so when my boy was little I would graciously bow out of any family party when I could see the grumpiness levels rising in him. And as I would announce mine and his departure the same thing would ALWAYS happen. 'Oh, we'll just take some pictures before you go' would reverberate round the room as people reached for their cameras. 'No wankers' I would be furiously thinking, 'I have a child who is tired/hungry and I am knackered and we want to go home. This could of been done hours ago.' Outwardly I would do the nearest I could manage to a smile* and there would be endless repetitions of similar poses with different groups of people while the boy would become increasingly agitated and I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Obviously as the boy got older this was much less of a problem but it was too late, the damage was done and my hatred for having my picture taken and indeed of taking pictures was pretty much set in stone.
But fast forward several years and things change. Just over a year ago I managed a whole hour of posing - well, it was my wedding and with the boy moving down south in a month or so suddenly everything is a Kodak moment. It was his sports day on Wednesday and there I was proud as punch in the front row like some paparazzi taking endless shots of him and his team.
I shall digress slightly and offer you my opinions on sports days. I remember the excitement of taking part as a child and if only the olympics were based on egg and spoon races or obsticle courses I think the event would be a lot more fun. But as a parent, especially a parent of a child that is not athletically gifted they are torturous, heart breaking affairs. My boy dropped his bouncy egg off the spoon just before the finish line and ended up being last. He wasn't that bothered but I could feel the tears welling up and I wanted to stand up and shout 'WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT A POXY RACE?' I obviously didn't but the worst thing was it wasn't even just my son I got upset on behalf of. Any overweight, clumsy, or uncoordinated child coming last by a mile and I felt terrible. Sports days should be banned under the Geneva Convention.
Anyway, How gutted was I when I checked my camera's memory and couldn't find any of the sports day pictures? I know I am a technical fucktard but how can I get wrong point and press? Somehow I fucking managed. I have however made up for it with several million pictures of the boy and dog, the boy with my mam, the boy eating, the boy standing. You get the idea, now I'm the irritating wanker with the camera.
*grimace. (an ugly twisted expression of a person's face)
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Not funny or rude, but a bit sad.
I haven't posted anything in a while, and here's why.
As well as being about eight weeks away from having a new bundle of joy/screaming poo maker, I already have a nine year old son Simon* from a previous relationship. He is all the words that mam's regularly trot out about their offspring, beautiful (although he won't thank me for that, he would prefer handsome) clever, kind, thoughtful, polite and generally a whole heap of fun to be around.
When me and his dad split up six years ago, there was much in the press about how boys were going off the rails and it was thought that this was due to a lack of male role models in their lives. Determined this wouldn't happen to my boy, me and his dad agreed on an equal access arrangement, which has worked well.
So for three years I was by myself, then I met my other half and Simon coped well with a new man about. In fact as I sit and type this they are playing some Call of Duty game and discussing which is the best weapon to have.
Now Simon's dad is not from Ooop North, he is from Daaahn South but when we split up he did an honorable thing and rather than move back to his friends and family he has stuck it out up here to be close to his son. But just as I have moved on and found happiness again, so has my ex and I am very happy for him that he has. The only tiny fly in the ointment is that his new partner is also from the south and understandably my ex would like to start a life with her and her two children. For the past year or so my ex has travelled down south most weekends taking Simon with him every other weekend. This is where it gets really tricky, because Simon has decided he would like to move down south with his dad.
When this idea was first mooted I was of course against the very idea. He is my son and the idea of me not seeing him on a more or less daily basis makes my heart feel like it is being ripped apart. In fact because me and my ex couldn't agree, my ex ended up applying for custody of Simon (our custody arrangements have always been voluntary and agreed between ourselves) so that he could move away with him. It got to a few days before the court date when Simon told me he didn't want to move with his dad and wanted everything to stay as it was. My ex withdrew his application and although my solicitor was convinced I would of won, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I didn't realise how much stress I'd been under until it stopped.
Fast forward six whole weeks and Simon came to me saying he had changed his mind and wanted to move with his dad. Now I can't really explain how as a mother this made me feel. Hurt is not the right word and I don't want to speculate on a blog why my son wants to spend more time with his dad but there is a mean, horrible part of me that thinks if six years ago when we'd split up I had only let Simon see his dad every other weekend none of this would be happening.
Things got nasty for a while. I was straight back to my solicitor all ready to go back to court and fight tooth and nail to keep my son with me, all the while the stress building up again to the point I couldn't sleep for worrying, I wasn't eating and and then I would worry about the effects of the stress on the baby. When I talked to Simon he was consistently and calmly saying he wanted to live with his dad so in the end I met my ex and told him I wouldn't stand in the way of Simon moving down south with him so long as we could agree on access. So I will see my son every half term holiday and half of the longer holidays with the odd weekend in between.
This has easily been the hardest thing I've had to do ever. Just sitting here and thinking about not picking Simon up from school on a daily basis brings tears to my eyes and if I think about it too much, I actually physically crumble in to tiny, tiny pieces.
My other half has been endlessly supportive. From the outside looking in, people might think that he would be delighted that Simon wants to move away so then he gets me and our baby all to himself but nothing could be further from the truth. My other half has worked hard to get to know and build up a loving relationship with Simon and we both had visions of us being a terribly modern family with the baby having a big brother to look over him and were already thinking of days out and holidays that would cater for siblings with a nine year age gap. Not that these days out and holidays won't happen now, but they wont just happen on a whim, they will be meticulously planned and include a 240 mile trip to pick Simon up.
I obviously worry that Simon thinks he's been pushed out by the impending arrival of his sibling so I've explained to him just how important a part of our family he is and he says he understands but I still worry.
The state of affairs now as it turns out, could be seen by some as ironic. As we count down to the arrival of our baby, I am also counting down to the departure of my son. My ex wants to be moved down south by the start of the autumn term and the baby is due on the fourth of September. Simon has two more weeks of school, is away for the first three weeks of the summer holidays with his dad then we have him for the last three weeks. A holiday has been planned with my mam and dad and it's as if we are planning to stock up on time spent with Simon because we know these stores are going to be depleted.
Some friends have not been entirely sympathetic with my situation and think I should fight on regardless of what Simon wants. And don't get me wrong, this has been a tempting option. But in my heart I feel it is better that I support Simon with what must of been a very difficult decision for him to make, and ensure that he knows how much he is loved and that if he ever changes his mind, he is always welcome here in what I consider to be his home.
This has been an entirely selfish post. It's as if until I write this, I can't write anything else. I have a very funny story I want to share about my big hot boobs (they are both these things) and I feel the urge to write about how feeling a baby move inside you is not always pleasant, but they have had to wait.
*Oh, Simon is not his real name, if I used his real name I probably wouldn't of got past the first paragraph without being a gibbering wreck.
As well as being about eight weeks away from having a new bundle of joy/screaming poo maker, I already have a nine year old son Simon* from a previous relationship. He is all the words that mam's regularly trot out about their offspring, beautiful (although he won't thank me for that, he would prefer handsome) clever, kind, thoughtful, polite and generally a whole heap of fun to be around.
When me and his dad split up six years ago, there was much in the press about how boys were going off the rails and it was thought that this was due to a lack of male role models in their lives. Determined this wouldn't happen to my boy, me and his dad agreed on an equal access arrangement, which has worked well.
So for three years I was by myself, then I met my other half and Simon coped well with a new man about. In fact as I sit and type this they are playing some Call of Duty game and discussing which is the best weapon to have.
Now Simon's dad is not from Ooop North, he is from Daaahn South but when we split up he did an honorable thing and rather than move back to his friends and family he has stuck it out up here to be close to his son. But just as I have moved on and found happiness again, so has my ex and I am very happy for him that he has. The only tiny fly in the ointment is that his new partner is also from the south and understandably my ex would like to start a life with her and her two children. For the past year or so my ex has travelled down south most weekends taking Simon with him every other weekend. This is where it gets really tricky, because Simon has decided he would like to move down south with his dad.
When this idea was first mooted I was of course against the very idea. He is my son and the idea of me not seeing him on a more or less daily basis makes my heart feel like it is being ripped apart. In fact because me and my ex couldn't agree, my ex ended up applying for custody of Simon (our custody arrangements have always been voluntary and agreed between ourselves) so that he could move away with him. It got to a few days before the court date when Simon told me he didn't want to move with his dad and wanted everything to stay as it was. My ex withdrew his application and although my solicitor was convinced I would of won, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I didn't realise how much stress I'd been under until it stopped.
Fast forward six whole weeks and Simon came to me saying he had changed his mind and wanted to move with his dad. Now I can't really explain how as a mother this made me feel. Hurt is not the right word and I don't want to speculate on a blog why my son wants to spend more time with his dad but there is a mean, horrible part of me that thinks if six years ago when we'd split up I had only let Simon see his dad every other weekend none of this would be happening.
Things got nasty for a while. I was straight back to my solicitor all ready to go back to court and fight tooth and nail to keep my son with me, all the while the stress building up again to the point I couldn't sleep for worrying, I wasn't eating and and then I would worry about the effects of the stress on the baby. When I talked to Simon he was consistently and calmly saying he wanted to live with his dad so in the end I met my ex and told him I wouldn't stand in the way of Simon moving down south with him so long as we could agree on access. So I will see my son every half term holiday and half of the longer holidays with the odd weekend in between.
This has easily been the hardest thing I've had to do ever. Just sitting here and thinking about not picking Simon up from school on a daily basis brings tears to my eyes and if I think about it too much, I actually physically crumble in to tiny, tiny pieces.
My other half has been endlessly supportive. From the outside looking in, people might think that he would be delighted that Simon wants to move away so then he gets me and our baby all to himself but nothing could be further from the truth. My other half has worked hard to get to know and build up a loving relationship with Simon and we both had visions of us being a terribly modern family with the baby having a big brother to look over him and were already thinking of days out and holidays that would cater for siblings with a nine year age gap. Not that these days out and holidays won't happen now, but they wont just happen on a whim, they will be meticulously planned and include a 240 mile trip to pick Simon up.
I obviously worry that Simon thinks he's been pushed out by the impending arrival of his sibling so I've explained to him just how important a part of our family he is and he says he understands but I still worry.
The state of affairs now as it turns out, could be seen by some as ironic. As we count down to the arrival of our baby, I am also counting down to the departure of my son. My ex wants to be moved down south by the start of the autumn term and the baby is due on the fourth of September. Simon has two more weeks of school, is away for the first three weeks of the summer holidays with his dad then we have him for the last three weeks. A holiday has been planned with my mam and dad and it's as if we are planning to stock up on time spent with Simon because we know these stores are going to be depleted.
Some friends have not been entirely sympathetic with my situation and think I should fight on regardless of what Simon wants. And don't get me wrong, this has been a tempting option. But in my heart I feel it is better that I support Simon with what must of been a very difficult decision for him to make, and ensure that he knows how much he is loved and that if he ever changes his mind, he is always welcome here in what I consider to be his home.
This has been an entirely selfish post. It's as if until I write this, I can't write anything else. I have a very funny story I want to share about my big hot boobs (they are both these things) and I feel the urge to write about how feeling a baby move inside you is not always pleasant, but they have had to wait.
*Oh, Simon is not his real name, if I used his real name I probably wouldn't of got past the first paragraph without being a gibbering wreck.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Toilets
I never thought I'd say this, but the thing I miss the most about my old office is the toilets. You could guarantee that every morning they would be sparkling clean, the locks worked, there was always toilet roll and there was an actual toilet seat, fully attached on each toilet.
Now I was under the misguided, naive impression that these were fairly standard expectations for a workplace toilet, but apparently I am very fucking wrong. In the five months I have been at my new office I have been immensely dissatisfied with the three toilets at the end of the corridor I work on. If I didn't have a baby pressing on my bladder I would happily walk the three flights of stairs to the clean, hardly touched toilets on the top floor but this is not an option.
So, I send out a plea to women of my workplace. STOP BEING DIRTY BITCHES.
Specifically:
- If your time really is too precious to waste standing at the hand dryer, don't dry your hands with half a roll of toilet paper then put it all in the toilet to block it up. There is a bin, try using that.
- Tampax and Tampax wrappers go in the special bin next to the toilet. Not the floor and not unflushed in the toilet.
- Really basic this one. If you use the toilet, flush it
- However it is that you manage to piss on the seat and floor, wipe it up.
And Mr Caretaker man, I may of mentioned this once or twice, but women like a lock on the door, so please fix cubicle three and they also like a toilet seat that is fully affixed to the toilet, not hanging by a thread. That is cubicle one I am referring to. They have been in the same shit state for five months, please, please, pretty please do something.
Mrs Cleaner lady, I can understand how, upon seeing the state of the bogs on a Monday morning it could make you feel depressed to your very core, but you get a similar plea. Please, please, pretty please clean them.
Now I was under the misguided, naive impression that these were fairly standard expectations for a workplace toilet, but apparently I am very fucking wrong. In the five months I have been at my new office I have been immensely dissatisfied with the three toilets at the end of the corridor I work on. If I didn't have a baby pressing on my bladder I would happily walk the three flights of stairs to the clean, hardly touched toilets on the top floor but this is not an option.
So, I send out a plea to women of my workplace. STOP BEING DIRTY BITCHES.
Specifically:
- If your time really is too precious to waste standing at the hand dryer, don't dry your hands with half a roll of toilet paper then put it all in the toilet to block it up. There is a bin, try using that.
- Tampax and Tampax wrappers go in the special bin next to the toilet. Not the floor and not unflushed in the toilet.
- Really basic this one. If you use the toilet, flush it
- However it is that you manage to piss on the seat and floor, wipe it up.
And Mr Caretaker man, I may of mentioned this once or twice, but women like a lock on the door, so please fix cubicle three and they also like a toilet seat that is fully affixed to the toilet, not hanging by a thread. That is cubicle one I am referring to. They have been in the same shit state for five months, please, please, pretty please do something.
Mrs Cleaner lady, I can understand how, upon seeing the state of the bogs on a Monday morning it could make you feel depressed to your very core, but you get a similar plea. Please, please, pretty please clean them.
Tricky days and pretty girls.
Wednesday should of been a piece of piss. I had a 28 week midwife appointment in the morning, then I had to wait in for a gas man in the afternoon. A day off work and everything. The midwife appointment started not so well as it was two new women who I'd never met before one of which although qualified hadn't done any anti natal care for years. After the usual chit chat, blood pressure check, check my pee - which was 'lovely and clear' in case you were wondering I was asked 'have you been getting lots of movement?' to which I replied 'usually yes, but last night and this morning not so much' 'oh well, I'm sure everything's fine, but just pop up on the bed and we'll have a listen' And listen they did. First Mrs Out of Practice had a go, and she did get a heartbeat but every few beats it would miss one so Mrs Proper Midwife had a go and got the same thing. 'I'm sure everything is fine and that he's just moving about a lot (er, did no one hear me when I said I haven't felt him move?) which is why we're not getting a continuous heartbeat, but we'll just arrange a scan to be on the safe side'
I should of known better to expect Wednesday to be so easy. My plan for lounging/snoozing all afternoon was shot. I had to be at the hospital for two o clock and arrange for the boy to be picked up from school in case I wasn't back in time. (Thank you gobby neighbour for stepping in to the breach.) But firstly I had to phone the other half and in my head this is how the conversation went:
'Hi honey, nothing to worry about, just come from the midwife's appointment and everything's fine but they are just a little bit worried because he's not moving so much and when they monitored his heartbeat he skipped a couple of beats.'
Apparently, what I actually said was:
'Hi, I've got to go for a scan at two o clock because he's not moving very much.
'YOU WHAT?'
'Oh, they got a heartbeat, but he kept missing one every now and again, the scan's just to make sure everything's okay.'
'THEY GOT A HEARTBEAT? YOU COULD OF MENTIONED THAT FIRST WOMAN, MY ARSE WAS PROPERLY NIPPING.'
'Did I not mention it first? I'm sure I said there was nothing to worry about.'
'NO. NO YOU DIDN'T. YOU ARE TERRIBLE AT GIVING IMPORTANT NEWS*'
*tiny voice* 'Sorry.'
I get off the phone feeling awful for being shit at giving any kind of news and worried because I still haven't felt a good wiggle from bump. And in a crisis you turn to your friends right? Off I waddle to my good friends at the local beauty salon.
Now I don't know about you, but when I was at school girls were divided into very definite cliques. at the top of the popularity pile were the pretty girls. You know the ones I mean, they always had the most fashionable take on a uniform, super short skirts, blouses indecently unbuttoned and ties with a fat knot and worn loose. They were always caked in make up and were good at sports. They walked around with their poodle perms and their pulled up socks like they owned the school. I was not one of those girls. I was the girl in braces, glasses and Doc Martins with band names scrawled across my exercise books getting bullied by those girls. This has left me with a very tainted world view of pretty girls which goes along the lines of that they all think far too much of themselves and generally look down at normal folk in much the same way I look at dog shit on the pavement.
Back to the local beauty salon. Sian and Clare who work there have become my very good friends over the course of the last three years. Sian did our wedding photos and a rather fantastic job she did too. She has seen me in some very compromising positions - well how else do you get waxed in your private down below bits - and we've shared nights out and nights in together. Last year when I was going slightly mad working in an office by myself I visited them on a daily basis and they kept me sane. And they are both beautiful. Not just in the conventional pretty girl way but inside and out beautiful. They are not bitches like the girls at school and they are female friends like I've never had before. I went to see them on Wednesday and they were as always fantastic and when I was worrying myself sick about the scan, they reassured me that everything would be fine. We chatted for a long while until I remembered I should be at home waiting for the gas man.
There was no sign of having missed the gas man visit when I got home, I was fully expecting one of their snotty notes through the door 'We tried to call at a pre arranged time for your annual service, but you weren't home. YOU CHEEKY BITCH. HOW DARE YOU NOT BE IN WHEN I CALL AT SOME POINT BETWEEN 12 AND 5**'
I did get to lounge for about ten minutes before the dog reminded me he needed a walk. He does this by pacing up and down then sticking his face in yours and whining so you can smell his hideous stinky fish breath. One waddle around the field later and it was time for the scan. I still hadn't felt any good wiggles from the bump so by now I was properly, properly concerned and with the mantra 'sometimes bad things happen' rolling around in my head like the most fuck awful ear worm ever it was with some trepidation that we set off. The other half had managed to get out of work and as we drove to the hospital he reminded me yet again of my terrible news giving skills. YES, I KNOW. I GET THE MESSAGE, I'M SHIT AT GIVING NEWS. Is what I was thinking, but I just sat clutching my anti natal notes, eyes wide with fear and eventually he realised I was more concerned about the impending scan than my information passing skills.
The fact that I am writing about this a mere four days after the event means you all know that there is a happy ending. The scan was fine, more than fine. Junior is safe and well and just being a bit lazy like his dad. It has left me with an occasional 'sometimes bad things happen' running through my head. But relief is a fantastic sensation.
* I told my other half that I was pregnant whilst cooking tea one night. There was no preamble, no gentle build up, no sitting on the sofa with a stiff drink at the ready. We were stood by the cooker and while I stirred some chilli I said 'I'm pregnant'. This has NEVER been forgiven.
** I made that last bit up.
Oh, we made it back in time for the gas man so no dying of carbon monoxide poisoning for us.
I should of known better to expect Wednesday to be so easy. My plan for lounging/snoozing all afternoon was shot. I had to be at the hospital for two o clock and arrange for the boy to be picked up from school in case I wasn't back in time. (Thank you gobby neighbour for stepping in to the breach.) But firstly I had to phone the other half and in my head this is how the conversation went:
'Hi honey, nothing to worry about, just come from the midwife's appointment and everything's fine but they are just a little bit worried because he's not moving so much and when they monitored his heartbeat he skipped a couple of beats.'
Apparently, what I actually said was:
'Hi, I've got to go for a scan at two o clock because he's not moving very much.
'YOU WHAT?'
'Oh, they got a heartbeat, but he kept missing one every now and again, the scan's just to make sure everything's okay.'
'THEY GOT A HEARTBEAT? YOU COULD OF MENTIONED THAT FIRST WOMAN, MY ARSE WAS PROPERLY NIPPING.'
'Did I not mention it first? I'm sure I said there was nothing to worry about.'
'NO. NO YOU DIDN'T. YOU ARE TERRIBLE AT GIVING IMPORTANT NEWS*'
*tiny voice* 'Sorry.'
I get off the phone feeling awful for being shit at giving any kind of news and worried because I still haven't felt a good wiggle from bump. And in a crisis you turn to your friends right? Off I waddle to my good friends at the local beauty salon.
Now I don't know about you, but when I was at school girls were divided into very definite cliques. at the top of the popularity pile were the pretty girls. You know the ones I mean, they always had the most fashionable take on a uniform, super short skirts, blouses indecently unbuttoned and ties with a fat knot and worn loose. They were always caked in make up and were good at sports. They walked around with their poodle perms and their pulled up socks like they owned the school. I was not one of those girls. I was the girl in braces, glasses and Doc Martins with band names scrawled across my exercise books getting bullied by those girls. This has left me with a very tainted world view of pretty girls which goes along the lines of that they all think far too much of themselves and generally look down at normal folk in much the same way I look at dog shit on the pavement.
Back to the local beauty salon. Sian and Clare who work there have become my very good friends over the course of the last three years. Sian did our wedding photos and a rather fantastic job she did too. She has seen me in some very compromising positions - well how else do you get waxed in your private down below bits - and we've shared nights out and nights in together. Last year when I was going slightly mad working in an office by myself I visited them on a daily basis and they kept me sane. And they are both beautiful. Not just in the conventional pretty girl way but inside and out beautiful. They are not bitches like the girls at school and they are female friends like I've never had before. I went to see them on Wednesday and they were as always fantastic and when I was worrying myself sick about the scan, they reassured me that everything would be fine. We chatted for a long while until I remembered I should be at home waiting for the gas man.
There was no sign of having missed the gas man visit when I got home, I was fully expecting one of their snotty notes through the door 'We tried to call at a pre arranged time for your annual service, but you weren't home. YOU CHEEKY BITCH. HOW DARE YOU NOT BE IN WHEN I CALL AT SOME POINT BETWEEN 12 AND 5**'
I did get to lounge for about ten minutes before the dog reminded me he needed a walk. He does this by pacing up and down then sticking his face in yours and whining so you can smell his hideous stinky fish breath. One waddle around the field later and it was time for the scan. I still hadn't felt any good wiggles from the bump so by now I was properly, properly concerned and with the mantra 'sometimes bad things happen' rolling around in my head like the most fuck awful ear worm ever it was with some trepidation that we set off. The other half had managed to get out of work and as we drove to the hospital he reminded me yet again of my terrible news giving skills. YES, I KNOW. I GET THE MESSAGE, I'M SHIT AT GIVING NEWS. Is what I was thinking, but I just sat clutching my anti natal notes, eyes wide with fear and eventually he realised I was more concerned about the impending scan than my information passing skills.
The fact that I am writing about this a mere four days after the event means you all know that there is a happy ending. The scan was fine, more than fine. Junior is safe and well and just being a bit lazy like his dad. It has left me with an occasional 'sometimes bad things happen' running through my head. But relief is a fantastic sensation.
* I told my other half that I was pregnant whilst cooking tea one night. There was no preamble, no gentle build up, no sitting on the sofa with a stiff drink at the ready. We were stood by the cooker and while I stirred some chilli I said 'I'm pregnant'. This has NEVER been forgiven.
** I made that last bit up.
Oh, we made it back in time for the gas man so no dying of carbon monoxide poisoning for us.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Exercise is bad for you. FACT.
Sometimes all of real life is too much to share in a blog. Money worries coupled with arguments with an ex over the welfare of your son can result in life being a bit too....well, lifey to write about. So I'll stick to the more fun topic of my hips.
Hips are useful joints used in all kinds of fun activities such as walking and sitting. 27 million years ago before bump I was quite the gym bunny. I did all the usual stuff, circuits, spinning, box circuit, oh not step classes though, the dog is more co ordinated than me. But my most favourite thing was running. Not massive distances, between five and ten kilometres, sometimes outside but mainly on a treadmill. Don't get me wrong, I can see how most sane people would find this deathly dull but for me the steady rhythm with loud, loud music in my ears just made me feel good. Then one day about two years ago whilst in the middle of such a run I began thinking hmmm, that is an odd niggly pain in my right hip, I'll just ignore it. Which proved to be quite successful until I increased the speed and found the simple action of putting one leg in front of the other nigh on impossible. Cutting that run short, I let myself rest a week and tried again. Very frustratingly the same thing happened again and this time when I stopped running my right foot seemed to prefer being turned outwards in some type of ballet dancer position and I was only capable of a shuffling hobble. Off to the doctor I limped and I was diagnosed with Trochanteric bursitis. Here's the science bit:
Bursitis is the inflammation of one or more bursae (small sacks) of synovial fluid in the body. When bursitis occurs movement relying on the inflamed bursa becomes difficult and painful. Moreover movement of tendons and muscles over the inflamed bursa aggravates its inflammation, perpetuating the problem. (thank you Wikapedia)
You can get it in other joints, housemaid's knee anyone? and it is caused by repetitive movement and excessive pressure. Doesn't running include repetitive movement? This is not good.
Back to the doctors, I was prescribed some super strong painkillers, and sent off to the physiotherapists. My lovely physio gave me some acupuncture for a few weeks before teaching me exercises to strengthen my core and muscles supporting my hip. Everything is about your core apparently. After a month or so I was good as new and I started exercising again. A few months in and the bursitis started again.
Very boringly this pattern has been on repeat for the past two years with two further referrals to physiotherapy and one MRI scan to 'rule out anything more suspicious' Now that my centre of balance has moved to a new and interesting place, it has caused a flare up that has in turn caused tendonitis in a tendon going into my bum (which does have a fancy Latin name, I've just forgotten it) and terrible back ache. When I first went back to the doctors about this flare up, she patronisingly told me that it was the normal aches and pains of pregnancy. Two days later my leg gave way under me and if I had not been right next to a desk at work that I lent on to take my weight, I would of rather embarrassingly collapsed to the floor. Back to the doctors I went again, to see a different more competent doctor who referred me for yet more physio. BUT this time it was not my lovely physio lady, it was another woman who I'm sure is very good, but giving me a couple of exercises to do on a gym ball is not the way to fix this. I gave it my very best shot but I have to admit, I cancelled my last appointment because the hour out of my working day it took just to see her for just five minutes, and then of her not doing much did make me question whether it was a good use of her and much more importantly, my time.
This left me in an uncomfortable/sore/painful/agonising position. As pregnancy has gone on the back ache and hip pain has got to the point where it makes me cry or withdraw in to myself because the pain seems to fill my head so much I'm incapable of talking. Or hilariously leave me unable to stand up off the toilet. I had to shout for the other half to help me. I know we're married but who expects to have to help their thirty five year old wife to pull her knickers up when she's totally sober? So the other half took matters into his own hands and got the details of a woman who does remedial massage and uses something called the Johnstones technique* and forced me to make an appointment. I'll be honest, I was unwilling because of the cost but two appointments in and I'm impressed. My back pain is much better, the hip not so much, but I am optimistic that it is only a matter of time before this improves as well. The massage lady says that at some point I will have to learn to walk again because I'm doing it all wrong. Maybe by the time the as yet unborn baby takes his first faltering steps, I'll have mastered it.
*I have no clue what this is other than it involves rocking movements in with the massage.
Hips are useful joints used in all kinds of fun activities such as walking and sitting. 27 million years ago before bump I was quite the gym bunny. I did all the usual stuff, circuits, spinning, box circuit, oh not step classes though, the dog is more co ordinated than me. But my most favourite thing was running. Not massive distances, between five and ten kilometres, sometimes outside but mainly on a treadmill. Don't get me wrong, I can see how most sane people would find this deathly dull but for me the steady rhythm with loud, loud music in my ears just made me feel good. Then one day about two years ago whilst in the middle of such a run I began thinking hmmm, that is an odd niggly pain in my right hip, I'll just ignore it. Which proved to be quite successful until I increased the speed and found the simple action of putting one leg in front of the other nigh on impossible. Cutting that run short, I let myself rest a week and tried again. Very frustratingly the same thing happened again and this time when I stopped running my right foot seemed to prefer being turned outwards in some type of ballet dancer position and I was only capable of a shuffling hobble. Off to the doctor I limped and I was diagnosed with Trochanteric bursitis. Here's the science bit:
Bursitis is the inflammation of one or more bursae (small sacks) of synovial fluid in the body. When bursitis occurs movement relying on the inflamed bursa becomes difficult and painful. Moreover movement of tendons and muscles over the inflamed bursa aggravates its inflammation, perpetuating the problem. (thank you Wikapedia)
You can get it in other joints, housemaid's knee anyone? and it is caused by repetitive movement and excessive pressure. Doesn't running include repetitive movement? This is not good.
Back to the doctors, I was prescribed some super strong painkillers, and sent off to the physiotherapists. My lovely physio gave me some acupuncture for a few weeks before teaching me exercises to strengthen my core and muscles supporting my hip. Everything is about your core apparently. After a month or so I was good as new and I started exercising again. A few months in and the bursitis started again.
Very boringly this pattern has been on repeat for the past two years with two further referrals to physiotherapy and one MRI scan to 'rule out anything more suspicious' Now that my centre of balance has moved to a new and interesting place, it has caused a flare up that has in turn caused tendonitis in a tendon going into my bum (which does have a fancy Latin name, I've just forgotten it) and terrible back ache. When I first went back to the doctors about this flare up, she patronisingly told me that it was the normal aches and pains of pregnancy. Two days later my leg gave way under me and if I had not been right next to a desk at work that I lent on to take my weight, I would of rather embarrassingly collapsed to the floor. Back to the doctors I went again, to see a different more competent doctor who referred me for yet more physio. BUT this time it was not my lovely physio lady, it was another woman who I'm sure is very good, but giving me a couple of exercises to do on a gym ball is not the way to fix this. I gave it my very best shot but I have to admit, I cancelled my last appointment because the hour out of my working day it took just to see her for just five minutes, and then of her not doing much did make me question whether it was a good use of her and much more importantly, my time.
This left me in an uncomfortable/sore/painful/agonising position. As pregnancy has gone on the back ache and hip pain has got to the point where it makes me cry or withdraw in to myself because the pain seems to fill my head so much I'm incapable of talking. Or hilariously leave me unable to stand up off the toilet. I had to shout for the other half to help me. I know we're married but who expects to have to help their thirty five year old wife to pull her knickers up when she's totally sober? So the other half took matters into his own hands and got the details of a woman who does remedial massage and uses something called the Johnstones technique* and forced me to make an appointment. I'll be honest, I was unwilling because of the cost but two appointments in and I'm impressed. My back pain is much better, the hip not so much, but I am optimistic that it is only a matter of time before this improves as well. The massage lady says that at some point I will have to learn to walk again because I'm doing it all wrong. Maybe by the time the as yet unborn baby takes his first faltering steps, I'll have mastered it.
*I have no clue what this is other than it involves rocking movements in with the massage.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Mam, don't read this one
I am quite a shy person and when me and the other half first got together I didn't have the necessary confidence to pull off a good blow job. Or skill come to think about it. From my limited experience, you got a cock, and sucked. No apparently this is not the case. I can only speak for my other half, but after some rather frank conversations what is much better is licking up and down and if the balls don't get any attention then I really needn't bother. There is still sucking at some point, but it is mixed in with so much more, slowly circling the balls with my tongue, massaging the balls with my fingers, licking up and don't the shaft, sucking slowly, sucking fast, maybe tickle his bum hole. It all goes on now. What turns him on most though I think is when it's all a bit porn star with me rubbing his cock against my face or my boobs are pressed up against his leg and my bum is up in the air. It seems to do the job anyway.
I tried to go all porn star the other day, but it doesn't really work the same way when a bump gets in the way and trying to press your tits up againt him in a sexy way is just uncomfortable. It was like some really bad porn film where the female has been instructed by the director to be as clumsy as possible and to huff and puff herself in to any new position. On the plus side, I can swallow again now. In the first three months when EVERYTHING made me nauseous, that wasn't happening.
Have I over shared? Possibly.
I tried to go all porn star the other day, but it doesn't really work the same way when a bump gets in the way and trying to press your tits up againt him in a sexy way is just uncomfortable. It was like some really bad porn film where the female has been instructed by the director to be as clumsy as possible and to huff and puff herself in to any new position. On the plus side, I can swallow again now. In the first three months when EVERYTHING made me nauseous, that wasn't happening.
Have I over shared? Possibly.
In-Laws
I have lovely in-laws. Proper lovely. I worked with my mother-in-law for a few years before me and her son got together and they have been nothing but supportive of me and my other half's relationship. When you read about all these evil mother-in-law's it seems refreshing that mine is so nice. This is how great they are. When we got our dog, my other half worked split shifts, I work office hours so between us we could look after the dog. The other half got a new job which was also office hours and the dog was going to be home alone and in stepped the in laws. My father-in-law picks him up and walks him in the morning, takes the dog back to their house where my MIL walks him later on before they return him to our house. For this I am eternally grateful. The dog isn't. Jack uses every opportunity at the in law's house to steal food. Anything left out and unattended for even half a second is stolen and eaten. It must drive them insane. But still they pick the hound up, day in day out.
My bump is their first grand child, and it is fair to say they are a little bit excited about it. They already have more equipment than we do. A changing station, a crib, a swing thing that seems to take up all their living room floor space and a pram. The crib is some type of family heirloom in which my other half, his sister and cousins have all slept in. It was offered to us to have at our house but me in my usual subtle, sensitive way went
'What do I want with a crib?'
'You can have it in your room when the baby's tiny'
'The baby's not going to sleep in our bedroom. It's going to sleep in his own room in his cot.'
'But all the babies in the family have slept in it.'
'That's why I don't want it.'
Yes, I know I'm a cow bag. So now they have the crib and are already on standby for full on babysitting duties. Hahaha, they have no idea how much I will abuse them.
My bump is their first grand child, and it is fair to say they are a little bit excited about it. They already have more equipment than we do. A changing station, a crib, a swing thing that seems to take up all their living room floor space and a pram. The crib is some type of family heirloom in which my other half, his sister and cousins have all slept in. It was offered to us to have at our house but me in my usual subtle, sensitive way went
'What do I want with a crib?'
'You can have it in your room when the baby's tiny'
'The baby's not going to sleep in our bedroom. It's going to sleep in his own room in his cot.'
'But all the babies in the family have slept in it.'
'That's why I don't want it.'
Yes, I know I'm a cow bag. So now they have the crib and are already on standby for full on babysitting duties. Hahaha, they have no idea how much I will abuse them.
Genetics
My beautiful nine year old boy is the spitting image of his dad. I see me in his mannerisms but in actual looks, it's all his dad...except around the nose, that's me as well. As a baby I would push him around in his buggy and EVERYONE would say, doesn't he look like his dad. I have never got a look in.
This time round what with my different cravings and what not, I was convinced I was having a girl. CONVINCED. So imagine my shock at the twenty week scan when a little winkie was pointed out to us on the screen. Now obviously in the grand scheme of things I don't really care whether it's a boy or girl, so long as they're healthy, that goes without saying. BUT. I have been hoodwinked, tricked, had the wool pulled over my eyes by my own body. Why let me think I'm carrying a girl if there is a little boy in there? I had stupid visions of colouring in, baking and a massive doll's house (I never had a dolls house) and now I'm stuck with football and rugby and noise.
None of this bothers me as much as my next secret thought. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. I am now relegated to incubator. There I said it. I'm going to push out this baby and he will be the spitting image of his dad, and history (all be it with different dad's) will repeat itself. I will love and care for a son who everyone says is the spitting image of his dad and I won't have a look in AGAIN.
BLOODY HELL.
This time round what with my different cravings and what not, I was convinced I was having a girl. CONVINCED. So imagine my shock at the twenty week scan when a little winkie was pointed out to us on the screen. Now obviously in the grand scheme of things I don't really care whether it's a boy or girl, so long as they're healthy, that goes without saying. BUT. I have been hoodwinked, tricked, had the wool pulled over my eyes by my own body. Why let me think I'm carrying a girl if there is a little boy in there? I had stupid visions of colouring in, baking and a massive doll's house (I never had a dolls house) and now I'm stuck with football and rugby and noise.
None of this bothers me as much as my next secret thought. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. I am now relegated to incubator. There I said it. I'm going to push out this baby and he will be the spitting image of his dad, and history (all be it with different dad's) will repeat itself. I will love and care for a son who everyone says is the spitting image of his dad and I won't have a look in AGAIN.
BLOODY HELL.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Sandwiches
I was innocently asked the other day whilst at work what my favourite sandwich was. I was asked via text, and my initial reply was, I need time to think, I'll get back to you.
Several hours later I sent a reply. The reply took several texts and went in to some detail so I thought I would share:
1. In first place, by some way due to it's rarity is a roast chicken sandwich. You may scoff at this being a rare event, but the circumstances have to be exactly right for the sandwich to be perfect. Firstly, the bread has to be some kind of soft wholemeal, a polish bloomer would be perfect. Each slice of bread needs to be evenly coated with room temperature butter. Not Clover or I Can't Believe it's Not Butter or Flora, but proper real butter. Now for the chicken. About six hours prior to wanting your sandwich you need to take a whole raw chicken, shove a lemon up its bum, smother it in butter, salt and pepper generously, place on a roasting tray and bung in the oven on a medium high heat until cooked. Now feel free to use some of this chicken for a roast dinner or something, but come tea time the leftovers are going on that bread. And for all you health and safety freaks, yes I have left the chicken carcass out on the side, but I have covered it in tin foil and put it out of reach of the dog. So place some chicken breast and thigh meat on one slice of bread, season, and on the other slice of bread all you need is a thin scraping of mayonnaise on top of the butter. Put this on top of the chicken, cut in quarters - yes I'm 35 and still quarter my sandwiches, you want to make something of it? And ta dah! Perfect. Now I know there will be weirdo's out there who are muttering about shredded iceberg lettuce or slices of tomato but NO, not required.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL SHOP BOUGHT ROAST CHICKEN BE ACCEPTABLE.
2. This was my lunch every day for about a year. (I have been described as somewhat faddy when it comes to food.) Smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Again, there are some tiny rules to this sandwich. The bagel can only be a multi seeded one, it gets cut in half and each half gets a good coating of full fat cream cheese. then on one half there needs to be some thinly sliced cucumber, and a pile of watercress. Then thin stripes of smoked salmon on top of this with a squeeze of fresh lemon and lots of black pepper. The other half of cream cheesed bagel goes on top and there you have it.
3. Tuna, sweetcorn and mayonnaise. The proportions never vary. For one tin of tuna (well drained and placed in a bowl) you need half a small tin of Green Giant sweetcorn. I am yet to find any tinned sweetcorn as nice. Then a good few tablespoons of mayonnaise - full fat of course and stir well. The ingredient that makes this is a good shake of malt vinegar, mix again and taste. It will be perfect. This filling should go on a granary seeded bread that has been evenly buttered. They have to be cut into triangle quarters.
I especially love a travelled sandwich. Any of the above wrapped in cling film and left on my desk at work all morning makes them extra delicious.
Now it turns out the reason I was asked what was my favourite sandwich was because my other half wanted to suprise me by making a picnic for us. When he finally got my reply, the roast chicken was way too much of a challenge, but I did get some very excellent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, along with little nibbley pastries and a cream cake.
Having re read the above, it would appear that:
a) I have an extreme dislike of low fat foods.
b) I am a sandwich nazi.
c) I have far too much time on my hands at work.
Several hours later I sent a reply. The reply took several texts and went in to some detail so I thought I would share:
1. In first place, by some way due to it's rarity is a roast chicken sandwich. You may scoff at this being a rare event, but the circumstances have to be exactly right for the sandwich to be perfect. Firstly, the bread has to be some kind of soft wholemeal, a polish bloomer would be perfect. Each slice of bread needs to be evenly coated with room temperature butter. Not Clover or I Can't Believe it's Not Butter or Flora, but proper real butter. Now for the chicken. About six hours prior to wanting your sandwich you need to take a whole raw chicken, shove a lemon up its bum, smother it in butter, salt and pepper generously, place on a roasting tray and bung in the oven on a medium high heat until cooked. Now feel free to use some of this chicken for a roast dinner or something, but come tea time the leftovers are going on that bread. And for all you health and safety freaks, yes I have left the chicken carcass out on the side, but I have covered it in tin foil and put it out of reach of the dog. So place some chicken breast and thigh meat on one slice of bread, season, and on the other slice of bread all you need is a thin scraping of mayonnaise on top of the butter. Put this on top of the chicken, cut in quarters - yes I'm 35 and still quarter my sandwiches, you want to make something of it? And ta dah! Perfect. Now I know there will be weirdo's out there who are muttering about shredded iceberg lettuce or slices of tomato but NO, not required.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL SHOP BOUGHT ROAST CHICKEN BE ACCEPTABLE.
2. This was my lunch every day for about a year. (I have been described as somewhat faddy when it comes to food.) Smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Again, there are some tiny rules to this sandwich. The bagel can only be a multi seeded one, it gets cut in half and each half gets a good coating of full fat cream cheese. then on one half there needs to be some thinly sliced cucumber, and a pile of watercress. Then thin stripes of smoked salmon on top of this with a squeeze of fresh lemon and lots of black pepper. The other half of cream cheesed bagel goes on top and there you have it.
3. Tuna, sweetcorn and mayonnaise. The proportions never vary. For one tin of tuna (well drained and placed in a bowl) you need half a small tin of Green Giant sweetcorn. I am yet to find any tinned sweetcorn as nice. Then a good few tablespoons of mayonnaise - full fat of course and stir well. The ingredient that makes this is a good shake of malt vinegar, mix again and taste. It will be perfect. This filling should go on a granary seeded bread that has been evenly buttered. They have to be cut into triangle quarters.
I especially love a travelled sandwich. Any of the above wrapped in cling film and left on my desk at work all morning makes them extra delicious.
Now it turns out the reason I was asked what was my favourite sandwich was because my other half wanted to suprise me by making a picnic for us. When he finally got my reply, the roast chicken was way too much of a challenge, but I did get some very excellent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, along with little nibbley pastries and a cream cake.
Having re read the above, it would appear that:
a) I have an extreme dislike of low fat foods.
b) I am a sandwich nazi.
c) I have far too much time on my hands at work.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Bad Day Thursday
This week has been marked by various people wandering in to the office where I work and saying 'ooh aren't you big? How long have you got to go now?' So because I'm a nice person and not a grumpy moo I have the same conversation over and over and over again. But by Wednesday it was starting to grate ever so slightly and I may of announced to the office that I was going to fashion a sign to hang on the side of my desk with the amount of weeks I had left and yes, I knew I was big written on it.
Thursday morning started well, pay slips were in and that was going to put a big smile on my face because I am owed four months worth of mileage which equates to about four hundred pounds. Not a fortune but would pay for the pram that's on order and the car tax on the car that had to be bought when I was told I had to move offices. I am going off track a little here but in October last year, our organisation took a long hard look at itself and decided to save money by making lots of lovely people redundant and closing the office where I worked and moving me to an office in a town eight miles away. Not the commute of the century I agree but the office where I did work was half a mile from my house and the boy's school, so I walked everywhere and had no requirement for a big smelly car. As part of the moving offices thing I get paid mileage for a year. It covers petrol, but not the monthly car repayments so I'm worse off. This sounds like a big old whinge, and I could of been one of those people that was made redundant so I know I'm lucky I'm just giving a bit of back story to the mileage.
Back to Thursday morning, I open my payslip, and is there an extra four hundred pounds? No, is there fuck. I am not a happy bunny. I phone payroll, 'No, we've got no trace of your claim, your car's not even registered on the system.'
'But I submitted them in time, there was a bit of a backlog so there was eleven forms in all and I definitely passed them to John* to counter sign.'
'I'm really sorry, they're not even in our to do pile, lots of things got delayed because of all the bank holidays at the end of May but they're not here. Double check with John that he doesn't still have them, then phone us back'
So off I go upstairs to the middle management floor where to find John and ransack his office if need be to find my forms. But John like a lot of other middle management people is looking a bit Brokeback Mountain today. He is sporting a check shirt and jeans instead of his usual ill fitting suit.
'Hi I submitted some mileage forms at the end of last month, but I haven't been paid.'
'Well I would of definitely forwarded them to headquarters, I don't even do anything with the forms, have you phoned payroll?'
(Through angry gritted teeth) 'Yes I've phoned them, they haven't got them. They said I should see you.'
'There is a team building day for middle management today and I'm on a course tomorrow but I'll be back in on Tuesday. I've got to go now.'
And off he goes out of his office escorting me with him without a care in the world about my missing four hundred pounds. I at this point am incandescent with rage. But unfortunately rage for me is expressed in the form of tears. So I take myself off to the toilets to calm myself down before heading back to my office.
It takes about twenty minutes before I can face the world again, that's how fucking cross I am with that useless sack of shit known as an Area Finance Manager. And I know it will be him that's lost/misplaced/wiped his arse with them, because he has previous for losing peoples overtime/mileage/expenses forms. I get back to my office and phone payroll again, explain that John claims he's passed everything to headquarters and 'he doesn't even do anything with them anyway' So I ask, can I re submit them and forward them straight to headquarters this bypassing the black hole of forms that is John's office? No, I am told John does do something with the forms and if they arrived at payroll without his authorisation, they would just sent them back. So now the useless sack of shit is lying as well.
Now, everyone in the office has overheard my one sided conversation with payroll and have correctly judged me to be in the foulest of foul moods when I get off the phone. And all do exactly what I need, which is just leave me alone for a bit to get on with some work and calm down. My boss asks me if John has left me in the shit and I explain that me and the other half had plans for the money and they will just have to be put on hold. (To put it into perspective, four hundred pounds is just over a third of my monthly wage and when every penny matters it annoys me that John can be so blaze about it.)
Then Big Gob Lucy* a sometime worker in our office pipes up with 'Ooh, aren't you big? How long have you got to go?' To which most of the office titters knowing my feelings on this question and I do a massive sigh because I CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED. 'What? If you don't want people to ask, you shouldn't get up the duff.'
'Yes, but maybe Lucy it would be nice if occasionally people conversed with me about things other than my pregnancy. How about asking me about my son, or my other half or the weather or anything?'
'Well, why don't you get your roots done? There we go, that's talking about something else.'
I sat in stony silence because Lucy is one of those people who says stuff like 'people have to take me as they find me' or 'I call a spade a spade' and if you ever challenge her and say that she might be offensive or hurtful or insensitive all you ever get is 'that's just the way I am, get used to it'
I obviously vented my fury on twitter, and people made me feel a lot better but the truth is I have wanted to get my hair done for about three months and this was going to be the month I could afford it. So Big Gob hit a bit of a raw nerve. Not that I'd ever let her fucking know. Next time I see her I shall be informing her that dip dyed hair is all the rage and doesn't she fucking know anything?
*Of course they're not their real names, but he is a useless sack of shit and she is a gob on a sturdy, big boned stick.
Thursday morning started well, pay slips were in and that was going to put a big smile on my face because I am owed four months worth of mileage which equates to about four hundred pounds. Not a fortune but would pay for the pram that's on order and the car tax on the car that had to be bought when I was told I had to move offices. I am going off track a little here but in October last year, our organisation took a long hard look at itself and decided to save money by making lots of lovely people redundant and closing the office where I worked and moving me to an office in a town eight miles away. Not the commute of the century I agree but the office where I did work was half a mile from my house and the boy's school, so I walked everywhere and had no requirement for a big smelly car. As part of the moving offices thing I get paid mileage for a year. It covers petrol, but not the monthly car repayments so I'm worse off. This sounds like a big old whinge, and I could of been one of those people that was made redundant so I know I'm lucky I'm just giving a bit of back story to the mileage.
Back to Thursday morning, I open my payslip, and is there an extra four hundred pounds? No, is there fuck. I am not a happy bunny. I phone payroll, 'No, we've got no trace of your claim, your car's not even registered on the system.'
'But I submitted them in time, there was a bit of a backlog so there was eleven forms in all and I definitely passed them to John* to counter sign.'
'I'm really sorry, they're not even in our to do pile, lots of things got delayed because of all the bank holidays at the end of May but they're not here. Double check with John that he doesn't still have them, then phone us back'
So off I go upstairs to the middle management floor where to find John and ransack his office if need be to find my forms. But John like a lot of other middle management people is looking a bit Brokeback Mountain today. He is sporting a check shirt and jeans instead of his usual ill fitting suit.
'Hi I submitted some mileage forms at the end of last month, but I haven't been paid.'
'Well I would of definitely forwarded them to headquarters, I don't even do anything with the forms, have you phoned payroll?'
(Through angry gritted teeth) 'Yes I've phoned them, they haven't got them. They said I should see you.'
'There is a team building day for middle management today and I'm on a course tomorrow but I'll be back in on Tuesday. I've got to go now.'
And off he goes out of his office escorting me with him without a care in the world about my missing four hundred pounds. I at this point am incandescent with rage. But unfortunately rage for me is expressed in the form of tears. So I take myself off to the toilets to calm myself down before heading back to my office.
It takes about twenty minutes before I can face the world again, that's how fucking cross I am with that useless sack of shit known as an Area Finance Manager. And I know it will be him that's lost/misplaced/wiped his arse with them, because he has previous for losing peoples overtime/mileage/expenses forms. I get back to my office and phone payroll again, explain that John claims he's passed everything to headquarters and 'he doesn't even do anything with them anyway' So I ask, can I re submit them and forward them straight to headquarters this bypassing the black hole of forms that is John's office? No, I am told John does do something with the forms and if they arrived at payroll without his authorisation, they would just sent them back. So now the useless sack of shit is lying as well.
Now, everyone in the office has overheard my one sided conversation with payroll and have correctly judged me to be in the foulest of foul moods when I get off the phone. And all do exactly what I need, which is just leave me alone for a bit to get on with some work and calm down. My boss asks me if John has left me in the shit and I explain that me and the other half had plans for the money and they will just have to be put on hold. (To put it into perspective, four hundred pounds is just over a third of my monthly wage and when every penny matters it annoys me that John can be so blaze about it.)
Then Big Gob Lucy* a sometime worker in our office pipes up with 'Ooh, aren't you big? How long have you got to go?' To which most of the office titters knowing my feelings on this question and I do a massive sigh because I CAN'T BE FUCKING ARSED. 'What? If you don't want people to ask, you shouldn't get up the duff.'
'Yes, but maybe Lucy it would be nice if occasionally people conversed with me about things other than my pregnancy. How about asking me about my son, or my other half or the weather or anything?'
'Well, why don't you get your roots done? There we go, that's talking about something else.'
I sat in stony silence because Lucy is one of those people who says stuff like 'people have to take me as they find me' or 'I call a spade a spade' and if you ever challenge her and say that she might be offensive or hurtful or insensitive all you ever get is 'that's just the way I am, get used to it'
I obviously vented my fury on twitter, and people made me feel a lot better but the truth is I have wanted to get my hair done for about three months and this was going to be the month I could afford it. So Big Gob hit a bit of a raw nerve. Not that I'd ever let her fucking know. Next time I see her I shall be informing her that dip dyed hair is all the rage and doesn't she fucking know anything?
*Of course they're not their real names, but he is a useless sack of shit and she is a gob on a sturdy, big boned stick.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Oh Facebook, how I love thee.
I do solemnly swear on the dog's life that when the bump enters this world, I will not be over taken by the Facebook demon that possesses women to endlessly post pictures of their sprogs.
Yes, I understand the love that only a mother can have for their child, but just as your stupid Farmville posts that clutter up my timeline boil my piss, so do your endless pictures and remarks which are only ever in relation to your child.
Keep a photo album, or here's an even more radical thought, stop taking pictures of your child and just enjoy actually being with them.
Yes, I understand the love that only a mother can have for their child, but just as your stupid Farmville posts that clutter up my timeline boil my piss, so do your endless pictures and remarks which are only ever in relation to your child.
Keep a photo album, or here's an even more radical thought, stop taking pictures of your child and just enjoy actually being with them.
I may need sectioning
My moisturising routine has gone FUCKING mental. It goes like this:
- Eye wrinkle cream around eyes
- Spot cream for chin (sometimes)
- Moisturiser for rest of face. (something with factor fifteen sun protection and should be holding back any signs of aging)
- Aqueous cream from ankles to knees and all of arms and shoulders for dry skin.
- Coco Butter cream for thighs, bump and hips to try and stop stretch marks.
I am basically moisturised from ankles to scalp. I've had to factor in extra time in the morning for all this. It's fucking insane. And the first thing I do when I get to work? Put hand cream on before a hard day's typing.
DEAR GOD, HELP ME.
- Eye wrinkle cream around eyes
- Spot cream for chin (sometimes)
- Moisturiser for rest of face. (something with factor fifteen sun protection and should be holding back any signs of aging)
- Aqueous cream from ankles to knees and all of arms and shoulders for dry skin.
- Coco Butter cream for thighs, bump and hips to try and stop stretch marks.
I am basically moisturised from ankles to scalp. I've had to factor in extra time in the morning for all this. It's fucking insane. And the first thing I do when I get to work? Put hand cream on before a hard day's typing.
DEAR GOD, HELP ME.
Who are you again?
If I were to meet you in the street, I would have no idea who you are. This is because you are a stranger reading a blog and I am not some weird psychic person who knows people before she's met them. So far, so fine. But if you were the mum of someone in my son's class who I've seen every morning and afternoon for four years and I bumped in to you in Morrisons I would vaguely recognise you as someone I know from somewhere, have a bland conversation with you and about two hours later remember where I know you from. The same goes for people I went to school with. I will have spent twelve years with you and I'm lucky if I remember your name.
Nine years ago I had a job as a police dispatcher. You know those people who talk over police radios giving the officers jobs to go to? I was one of them. And for ten hours a day I would communicate with people over the radio waves using only their collar numbers to identify them. But if one of those people I'd spent all day talking to walked in to the office, would I remember their name or know who they were at all? No I wouldn't. I would have to wait until they came close enough for me to sneakily glance at their shoulder, type their number in to the computer, then bingo, I had their name. At first I put this down to it being a new job and there being a lot of names to remember. Fast forward two years to a works night out and I spend the evening stood next to my friend with the conversation going a bit like this:
Me 'Who's that?'
Friend 'John Smith'
Me 'Thats no good to me, what's his number?'
Friend (very fucking wearily) '1171'
Me (with cogs in brain finally cranking in to gear) 'Oh yeah, I know him.'
Repeat until I'm too drunk to care.
My memory fails me in other ways. Even if I have managed to commit your name to my grey matter, if I'm put under pressure and say have to introduce you to my boss, I will forget your name and my bosses name.
And it's not just names, it's dates. I always thought that everyone was like this and that it was the natural order of things. You get a bit older and you forget stuff. It turns out that most people can remember important dates in their life, my other half for example knows the exact date seven years ago when he set off travelling round Australia. Or further back when he took his GCSE's. Just on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't have to work forward from birth like I do - If I was born in 19.. then I went to school four years later and was at that school for seven years and then at secondary school for five years, that's when I took my GCSE's. SERIOUSLY. I HAVE TO DO THAT EVERY TIME. To remember which is left and right, I think each time that my granny's upstairs hallway light switch was on the left. EVERY FUCKING TIME.
We live in a small town and every time me and the other half walk up the high street he will recognise at least five people that he knows. Could be from school or wherever, but he knows their name and everything. I AM SOOOO JEALOUS.
I have decided to blame my fuck awful memory on the drugs I did as a student. I've never heard as fucking your memory up forever as a side effect of acid and speed (no not together, that would be silly) but it's all I've got so I'm sticking to it.
I'm also blaming it on the fact that my memory is FULL of song lyrics. Probably the same songs I was listening to when taking drugs. Any Suede, Pulp, Carter USM song or other band of that era for that matter I can recite off by heart. And new songs seem to worm their way in there as well. Real actual useful stuff doesn't stand a chance of staying in my head, there's no room left.
J is my nine year old son, but being terribly modern, my other half is not his dad and the bump will be his first child. Lately there have been a lot of conversations in this house along the lines of 'so when did J first smile/walk/talk?' and to each of these questions the very best I can do is an educated guess. That's not good is it? So this time round not only will I take pictures, I will put dates on the pictures. (But no I will NOT be putting those pictures on Facebook.)
Oh, and if we were ever to meet, could you please wear a namebadge? Super.
Nine years ago I had a job as a police dispatcher. You know those people who talk over police radios giving the officers jobs to go to? I was one of them. And for ten hours a day I would communicate with people over the radio waves using only their collar numbers to identify them. But if one of those people I'd spent all day talking to walked in to the office, would I remember their name or know who they were at all? No I wouldn't. I would have to wait until they came close enough for me to sneakily glance at their shoulder, type their number in to the computer, then bingo, I had their name. At first I put this down to it being a new job and there being a lot of names to remember. Fast forward two years to a works night out and I spend the evening stood next to my friend with the conversation going a bit like this:
Me 'Who's that?'
Friend 'John Smith'
Me 'Thats no good to me, what's his number?'
Friend (very fucking wearily) '1171'
Me (with cogs in brain finally cranking in to gear) 'Oh yeah, I know him.'
Repeat until I'm too drunk to care.
My memory fails me in other ways. Even if I have managed to commit your name to my grey matter, if I'm put under pressure and say have to introduce you to my boss, I will forget your name and my bosses name.
And it's not just names, it's dates. I always thought that everyone was like this and that it was the natural order of things. You get a bit older and you forget stuff. It turns out that most people can remember important dates in their life, my other half for example knows the exact date seven years ago when he set off travelling round Australia. Or further back when he took his GCSE's. Just on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't have to work forward from birth like I do - If I was born in 19.. then I went to school four years later and was at that school for seven years and then at secondary school for five years, that's when I took my GCSE's. SERIOUSLY. I HAVE TO DO THAT EVERY TIME. To remember which is left and right, I think each time that my granny's upstairs hallway light switch was on the left. EVERY FUCKING TIME.
We live in a small town and every time me and the other half walk up the high street he will recognise at least five people that he knows. Could be from school or wherever, but he knows their name and everything. I AM SOOOO JEALOUS.
I have decided to blame my fuck awful memory on the drugs I did as a student. I've never heard as fucking your memory up forever as a side effect of acid and speed (no not together, that would be silly) but it's all I've got so I'm sticking to it.
I'm also blaming it on the fact that my memory is FULL of song lyrics. Probably the same songs I was listening to when taking drugs. Any Suede, Pulp, Carter USM song or other band of that era for that matter I can recite off by heart. And new songs seem to worm their way in there as well. Real actual useful stuff doesn't stand a chance of staying in my head, there's no room left.
J is my nine year old son, but being terribly modern, my other half is not his dad and the bump will be his first child. Lately there have been a lot of conversations in this house along the lines of 'so when did J first smile/walk/talk?' and to each of these questions the very best I can do is an educated guess. That's not good is it? So this time round not only will I take pictures, I will put dates on the pictures. (But no I will NOT be putting those pictures on Facebook.)
Oh, and if we were ever to meet, could you please wear a namebadge? Super.
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Isn't food great?
I love my food. I'll qualify that slightly, I love my tea. If you're southern or posh, I mean dinner and anyone I've missed out, evening meal. I think about my tea from breakfast onwards. If I'm really organised I will of planned a week's worth of meals before I trawl Tesco for the ingredients. Crucially, I also love cooking. I'm never happier than when I've got the radio on and I'm pottering in the kitchen doing a bit of chopping, frying and stirring in order to create something yummy.
Don't misunderstand me, this is not an application for Masterchef. I do not have dreams of opening a Michelin starred restaurant or even a cafe selling Asian street food. This is not 'my time' and I do not want to begin on some gastronomical journey. It's just that I, like many others get a lot of pleasure from creating something that others enjoy eating.
On my first date with my now husband, he took me to a local restaurant where he said he found it refreshing to eat with a girl who actually enjoyed her food and didn't just push it around her plate or order in accordance to some diet or other. Even better, he wasn't put off by me shovelling three courses into my gob like I hadn't eaten in a week and our third date was me cooking a meal for him. He had mentioned he liked Mexican, so I went all out with home made empanadas for starter and chicken fajitas with a gazillion accompaniments for main course. To be honest I was struggling with a Mexican pudding so I made a chocolate orange tart with ice cream. He seemed to enjoy it all the same.
When we moved in together, cooking for us each evening was the most enjoyable part of the day and I will go as far as using an old cliche and that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.* So now I imagine my other half is disappointed to discover that this pregnant woman is not that interested in food and certainly doesn't want to cook. Meat and in particular chicken is very much a no go area. Chicken to me now is slimy and rancid when raw and when cooked the texture of it makes me want to gag. This is my daily food intake now: Shreddies for breakfast, dull as fuck salad for lunch and either a mushroom risotto or more cereal for tea. Not forgetting several bananas thrown in there for luck. Seriously, that Italian rice based dish containing fungi has been my meal of choice at least ten times in the last two weeks. My other half doesn't like risotto so most nights for him are some kind of from the freezer concoction. Aunt Bessie is my new best friend, she does all sorts, and provides most of my other half's hot meals.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things revert back to normal fairly soon, otherwise Tesco will have to re think its stock levels of frozen meals and mushrooms.
* I also have a sneaking suspicion that the way to a man's heart also involves a fantastic blow job.
Don't misunderstand me, this is not an application for Masterchef. I do not have dreams of opening a Michelin starred restaurant or even a cafe selling Asian street food. This is not 'my time' and I do not want to begin on some gastronomical journey. It's just that I, like many others get a lot of pleasure from creating something that others enjoy eating.
On my first date with my now husband, he took me to a local restaurant where he said he found it refreshing to eat with a girl who actually enjoyed her food and didn't just push it around her plate or order in accordance to some diet or other. Even better, he wasn't put off by me shovelling three courses into my gob like I hadn't eaten in a week and our third date was me cooking a meal for him. He had mentioned he liked Mexican, so I went all out with home made empanadas for starter and chicken fajitas with a gazillion accompaniments for main course. To be honest I was struggling with a Mexican pudding so I made a chocolate orange tart with ice cream. He seemed to enjoy it all the same.
When we moved in together, cooking for us each evening was the most enjoyable part of the day and I will go as far as using an old cliche and that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.* So now I imagine my other half is disappointed to discover that this pregnant woman is not that interested in food and certainly doesn't want to cook. Meat and in particular chicken is very much a no go area. Chicken to me now is slimy and rancid when raw and when cooked the texture of it makes me want to gag. This is my daily food intake now: Shreddies for breakfast, dull as fuck salad for lunch and either a mushroom risotto or more cereal for tea. Not forgetting several bananas thrown in there for luck. Seriously, that Italian rice based dish containing fungi has been my meal of choice at least ten times in the last two weeks. My other half doesn't like risotto so most nights for him are some kind of from the freezer concoction. Aunt Bessie is my new best friend, she does all sorts, and provides most of my other half's hot meals.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things revert back to normal fairly soon, otherwise Tesco will have to re think its stock levels of frozen meals and mushrooms.
* I also have a sneaking suspicion that the way to a man's heart also involves a fantastic blow job.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
I love my midwife
I've got a midwife appointment on Thursday. And, what of it? I hear you wondering. Well my midwife and I didn't get off to the best start. When I booked in (first appointment at about eight weeks) it just so happened that it was with the same midwife I had when I was pregnant with the boy. It was like catching up with an old mate. But she gave me the bad news that she was just covering and normally I'd see a lady called Catherine.*
So, eight weeks later I trot along to meet Catherine with the boy in tow, and wait half an hour before I'm called in, so I'm already a little hacked off before we even start. The first thing that happened was that she called me Alex. Now I understand that that this is the natural shortening of Alexandra but I actually fucking hate it. And I'm really quite irritated by people who presume they can shorten a name without asking. ITS FUCKING RUDE. On the front of my maternity notes there is a bit that says preferred name. In the accompanying box it says Ali. Not because that is my preferred name, my preferred name is my actual name which as previously mentioned is Alexandra. However, because the world is choc-a-block crammed with absolute thick heads who are genetically incapable of saying a name with four syllables I compromise and accept Ali for all those people who cant be arsed ie. EVERYONE.
Ahem. Anyway, back to the lovely Catherine and her irritating the fuck out of me. She took my notes, called me Alex a few more times until I had to explain to her in my most polite manner that I really couldn't stand Alex and could she please call me Alexandra or Ali? 'Oh well, I'll see if I can remember. I'm not promising anything though.' SHE'S NOT PROMISING ANYTHING? NOT PROMISING ANYTHING?** IT'S MY NAME FOR ACTUAL FUCKS SAKE. YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE YOU HAVE TO USE MY NAME YOU BAD MANNERED COW.
So no, not the best start and then she went on to tell me in front of my son all my blood test results. 'So, you haven't got HIV, and syphilis, where are the syphilis results? Oh, here they are, no you haven't got that either.' It's a good job my son is not particularly observant in the hearing department because I didn't want to explain what they were to him. Fuck, he's probably already had a class at school about STI's but I don't want him thinking about me being tested for them. She could of just told me all my test results were negative, or ask the boy to sit outside for a minute. But no, that is too much like common sense.
The rest of the appointment passed with little incident other than some sarcastic comment from her about me wearing 'big girl' jeans already. Now I feel all tense about Thursday, because I really hope that we've just got off on the wrong foot. I don't plan doing this pregnancy malarkey again and I want it to be as stress free as possible and to get on as well with Catherine as I did with gold star midwife number one. But just in case we don't, I've practiced my flounce so I can storm out of her office in style.
* Her real name
**????!!!!!!!
So, eight weeks later I trot along to meet Catherine with the boy in tow, and wait half an hour before I'm called in, so I'm already a little hacked off before we even start. The first thing that happened was that she called me Alex. Now I understand that that this is the natural shortening of Alexandra but I actually fucking hate it. And I'm really quite irritated by people who presume they can shorten a name without asking. ITS FUCKING RUDE. On the front of my maternity notes there is a bit that says preferred name. In the accompanying box it says Ali. Not because that is my preferred name, my preferred name is my actual name which as previously mentioned is Alexandra. However, because the world is choc-a-block crammed with absolute thick heads who are genetically incapable of saying a name with four syllables I compromise and accept Ali for all those people who cant be arsed ie. EVERYONE.
Ahem. Anyway, back to the lovely Catherine and her irritating the fuck out of me. She took my notes, called me Alex a few more times until I had to explain to her in my most polite manner that I really couldn't stand Alex and could she please call me Alexandra or Ali? 'Oh well, I'll see if I can remember. I'm not promising anything though.' SHE'S NOT PROMISING ANYTHING? NOT PROMISING ANYTHING?** IT'S MY NAME FOR ACTUAL FUCKS SAKE. YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE YOU HAVE TO USE MY NAME YOU BAD MANNERED COW.
So no, not the best start and then she went on to tell me in front of my son all my blood test results. 'So, you haven't got HIV, and syphilis, where are the syphilis results? Oh, here they are, no you haven't got that either.' It's a good job my son is not particularly observant in the hearing department because I didn't want to explain what they were to him. Fuck, he's probably already had a class at school about STI's but I don't want him thinking about me being tested for them. She could of just told me all my test results were negative, or ask the boy to sit outside for a minute. But no, that is too much like common sense.
The rest of the appointment passed with little incident other than some sarcastic comment from her about me wearing 'big girl' jeans already. Now I feel all tense about Thursday, because I really hope that we've just got off on the wrong foot. I don't plan doing this pregnancy malarkey again and I want it to be as stress free as possible and to get on as well with Catherine as I did with gold star midwife number one. But just in case we don't, I've practiced my flounce so I can storm out of her office in style.
* Her real name
**????!!!!!!!
Monday, 16 May 2011
Bored now
This blog comes with the following caveat. Of course I'm delighted to be pregnant. Previous miscarriages and early bleeding this time round make me all too aware that I am lucky, very lucky. That being said...
I was asked today if I noticed any difference between the last time I was pregnant and this time. I thought for a milisecond and then replied 'I'm much more bored of it all this time round.' First time mams (me included) get obsessed with the minutiae of every step of the ever growing bump, where as this time round I am basically too busy with a son, husband, dog, house, job blahblahblah. The things I do notice irritate the fuck out of me. Not being able to put your own socks on without a full on contortionist routine. Swigging Gaviscon in a similar fashion to your local drunk in the park with his bottle of cider. NEVER being comfortable sitting down. And now thanks to my good twitter friend Kimberly, I have something called wizard sleeve* to worry about post birth.
I read in my other half's What to Expect When You're Expecting that boredom of being pregnant is a recognised thing. It must be similar to the seven (or maybe five I can never remember) stages of grieving. In pregnancy it would go something like this:
- Shock
- Re test. More shock
- Sickness, nausea and a bit more shock
- Bump appears, oh fuck this is actually happening, excitement
- Bump gets bigger, feel baby move, excitement
- Bump refuses to stop growing, movement restricted in a variety of ways, boredom
- Boredom sets in for the long haul
- Excrutiating pain
- Baby
Right, I'm off to do some pelvic floor exercises (I'm squeezing as I type)
* Horrible saggy fanny
I was asked today if I noticed any difference between the last time I was pregnant and this time. I thought for a milisecond and then replied 'I'm much more bored of it all this time round.' First time mams (me included) get obsessed with the minutiae of every step of the ever growing bump, where as this time round I am basically too busy with a son, husband, dog, house, job blahblahblah. The things I do notice irritate the fuck out of me. Not being able to put your own socks on without a full on contortionist routine. Swigging Gaviscon in a similar fashion to your local drunk in the park with his bottle of cider. NEVER being comfortable sitting down. And now thanks to my good twitter friend Kimberly, I have something called wizard sleeve* to worry about post birth.
I read in my other half's What to Expect When You're Expecting that boredom of being pregnant is a recognised thing. It must be similar to the seven (or maybe five I can never remember) stages of grieving. In pregnancy it would go something like this:
- Shock
- Re test. More shock
- Sickness, nausea and a bit more shock
- Bump appears, oh fuck this is actually happening, excitement
- Bump gets bigger, feel baby move, excitement
- Bump refuses to stop growing, movement restricted in a variety of ways, boredom
- Boredom sets in for the long haul
- Excrutiating pain
- Baby
Right, I'm off to do some pelvic floor exercises (I'm squeezing as I type)
* Horrible saggy fanny
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Swift-Wind-Long-Legs
Back in the days Before Jack - don't worry that will never be abreviated, I thought that lurchers were graceful, sure footed dogs who could run like the wind. Then fate stepped in and a friend with a bitch lurcher said she was having pups and there was one left, were we interested?
Two years on and I have learnt a thing or two about our dog. Firstly he is very handsome. He must be because everyone tells me is. It's the eyes that do it, very pale blue and combined with his grey dappled fur make him stand out in a doggy crowd. Secondly he is very stupid. I know he is stupid because I see examples of it in him every day. I'm not being unkind, but whatever genetics blessed him with in the looks department they stole away in great big handfuls from his cleverness. Thirdly, he is motivated by food and only food. Some dogs if they could speak would say 'lets play fetch' or 'is it time to go for a walk?' our dog would say 'is it food time?' 'Can I have some food?' 'Its walk time, bring some treats.'
I have digressed somewhat. What I have mainly learnt is that yes, Jack can run like the clappers, and when he runs it looks quite a sight. But no he is not graceful, he is irritatingly clumsy with a habbit of walking in to things and knocking things over and just when I think he is being graceful by stretching out his long, lanky limbs in the style of an athlete warming up, he lets out a massive stinky fart.
Two years on and I have learnt a thing or two about our dog. Firstly he is very handsome. He must be because everyone tells me is. It's the eyes that do it, very pale blue and combined with his grey dappled fur make him stand out in a doggy crowd. Secondly he is very stupid. I know he is stupid because I see examples of it in him every day. I'm not being unkind, but whatever genetics blessed him with in the looks department they stole away in great big handfuls from his cleverness. Thirdly, he is motivated by food and only food. Some dogs if they could speak would say 'lets play fetch' or 'is it time to go for a walk?' our dog would say 'is it food time?' 'Can I have some food?' 'Its walk time, bring some treats.'
Cravings
2490871* years ago when I was last pregnant, I craved puddings. Rice pudding, either straight out of the tin or home made baked in the oven with a skin, semolina, sago, tapioca, sponge and custard, banana and custard (healthy option), trifle, bread and butter pudding, jam roly poly. You are probably getting the idea by now. The more stodge the better and dinner was often a pudding followed by a pudding.
Do you want to know what I crave now? I will tell you anyway. Bananas, fresh orange juice and water. Now I'm not talking about these three ingredients being combined in some mental way (boiled orange juice soup with banana croutons any one?) I mean a fresh slightly under ripe banana or two a day, cheap from concentrate orange juice drunk by the litre at room temperature and when not swilling down the OJ I'm knocking back tap water like it's going out of fashion.
This is just plain DULL. Friends are full of tales of eating coal or soil, or not being able to stop themselves sniffing creosote and nail varnish remover. My mam ate pickled red cabbage sandwiches when carrying me. But other than a small phase of cider lollies until they started hurting my teeth I'll carry on eating the fuckdull bananas.
I don't want anything too stupid but the odd hankering after something that the other half has to go out and scour the local shops for isn't asking for too much is it?
Hmmm. I think the pudding craving may of had something to do with the five stone I gained in weight.
*9
Do you want to know what I crave now? I will tell you anyway. Bananas, fresh orange juice and water. Now I'm not talking about these three ingredients being combined in some mental way (boiled orange juice soup with banana croutons any one?) I mean a fresh slightly under ripe banana or two a day, cheap from concentrate orange juice drunk by the litre at room temperature and when not swilling down the OJ I'm knocking back tap water like it's going out of fashion.
This is just plain DULL. Friends are full of tales of eating coal or soil, or not being able to stop themselves sniffing creosote and nail varnish remover. My mam ate pickled red cabbage sandwiches when carrying me. But other than a small phase of cider lollies until they started hurting my teeth I'll carry on eating the fuckdull bananas.
I don't want anything too stupid but the odd hankering after something that the other half has to go out and scour the local shops for isn't asking for too much is it?
Hmmm. I think the pudding craving may of had something to do with the five stone I gained in weight.
*9
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