August 20, 2007

And I would have stayed up with you all night/Had I known how to save a life.*

Today I made my way up to London, dredging myself through the station and up the wide streets of the suburbs. Autumn is definitely on its way – summer completely passed us by, and I had to pull my sweater close around me to keep the chill off. Inside I was warm, content with the contents of a large cup of coffee that had been funded by a lucky find of a crumpled £5 on the floor of Waterloo Station. No one was around who could possibly have dropped it, so it found its way into my pocket.

I went to London to see my therapist.

Based on how completely physically exhausted it made me – I had to take a bath and a nap upon getting home and am still so utterly tired now, to say nothing of the hours of contractions it brought on – I think my therapy days are now on hold until well after the babies arrive.

I needed to talk to him about how things were. About Jeff’s visit, which never got any better, but simply alternated between “The old Jeff we know and love” to “The new Jeff we want to throw over the side of the bridge”. Some moments were good – during one of his tantrums I went and got out a puzzle, which I quietly did at the kitchen table until he joined me, and we didn’t talk about anything serious. Some moments were bad – he was abusive, abrasive, and when my Dad and Stepmom called and asked me to say hi from Grandma and Grandpa from them, Jeff – who heretofore had been calling them his Grandma and Grandpa – coldly informed me that they weren’t his grandparents.

The worst of it came during the puzzle, actually. He was being kind of a dick but I ignored it and just tried to be even keel. We talked about the eye surgery his dad had when he was an infant – Angus was born with a wonky eye and it had to be operated on, so although he has vision in both eyes he has no depth perception and he cannot catch things if you throw them at him, because he cannot track them. Jeff too had surgery as an infant – he had a stomach problem that necessitated surgery. We talked about this surgery, and then Jeff said, looking out the window, “Dad’s surgery wasn’t serious. My surgery was serious. I could have died.” He stared off into the distance, and continued. “I wish I had died then. Everything would be easier.”

Whoa.

WHOA.

I went about it calmly, but inside I wanted to call all hands on deck. “Well,” I said snapping a puzzle piece into place in a voice as calm and soothing as a nutcase like me can muster. “It’s true you could have died when you were a baby. But you survived and I’m very glad you did. I know your dad is, too. We would miss you terribly if anything happened to you.”

He looked at me.

I donÂ’t know if I reached him.

When they left, we were emotionally spent. I feel like such a shit for admitting it, but I was kind of glad to see him go, simply because the chaos that surrounded him was unbearable. Sunday we did absolutely nothing, and we needed that recovery time. Angus, I know, is deeply upset by his son's confusion and upset. It's eating him. I can hear it from here. I have many faults. He has many faults. One thing he cannot be faulted with, however, is not being a loving father - when the kids are here he's often so happy it's amazing.

I mention the puzzle surgery conversation to my therapist. “I worry,” I say softly. “I thought that way, too. I thought that way, and look what happened to me.”

“He could turn out the same as you did,” my therapist agreed. “What he said was very serious and indicative of a lot of confusion that’s in his mind. But there is every chance that he could wind up differently, that he doesn’t have to stay in the same pattern.”

I find this hard to believe. It doesn’t compute. When moms go on the poison warpath, the relationships with the dads disappear. Mine did. Angus’ did. In fact, although I love my father massively and he’s a huge part of my life, Angus’ (and his brothers’) relationship with their dad never recovered. They aren’t close, and truly, that ship has sailed. In my mind, it all gets a thousand times worse from here, with Jeff heading towards addictions and obsessions, suicide attempts and self-abuse the likes of which no one can comprehend. He’s already struggling – he has a nervous tick and it’s gotten worse over the past month. His mood swings are powerful. His anger is fierce. Now he believes life would be better without him. I want to stop this, I want to fix it, I know this path and I don't want anyone else to walk it.

“You can’t fix this, Helen,” my therapist says kindly. “You need to provide support to Angus and you need to trust in life, that life will handle things differently.”

“I can’t sit back and watch someone turn out like me,” I reply. “That’s the worst case scenario.”

“Angus’ ex is hurting, and Jeff is going to need a scapegoat for his mother’s pain. The best person for that, I’m afraid, is you. You will probably need to be the bad guy for a while, and let him understand someday that you are not a bad person.”

This I understand. Jeff needs to believe in the infallibility of his parents. He needs to believe that they love and adore him and would never hurt him, because believing otherwise makes for an unstable place. I support this completely. It hurts like hell, but I support it. I hate feeling like the bad person, I hate the lies, the untruths, the drama...but if it helps, if it prevents Jeff from veering down the path I was on, then I'll do it. It's about a father and son. That's all it needs to be about. Comments on Thursday supported being ourselves, being consistent, being a refuge, and that's exactly what we're going to do.

“Only one person can save Jeff,” he continues. “That person is Angus. You and Angus need to provide a calm, consistent household. If Jeff crosses the line, he needs to be punished.”

“If we punish him, he’ll stop coming,” I tell him. It’s true. Jeff is incredibly stubborn like that-it happened once before, we didn't see him for months.

“It's true, he might stop coming to visit,” he replies. “But he needs to think of your home as a place with rules. He will need those rules someday. He needs your home to be a place of rules, of normalcy, and of complete emotional calm and support. In turn, you need to support Angus completely as he works to help his son.”

And this I will do.

I will step back and try to stop fighting the fight. There is no fight. The only thing I can do is love the people involved and to see if I can follow some simple advice - "trust in life".

Whatever that means.

I tell him that Jeff was the cheerleader in my life for the babies. I needed his joy and his excitement, his love for two babies heÂ’d not met yet. He was an uncomplicated kindness to the two most contentious little beings to ever enter my world.

My therapist knows everything there is to know about my past and present, or at least all of the parts that I myself remember. Besides Angus, he's the only person to really see how I don't always have it together, how I fail often and spectacularly, how more than anything I want any little people in my life - whether they're biologically mine or illogically mine - to be safe from any storm.

He smiles kindly at me. "Men have a harder time understanding the depth of emotion a mother has for her child. It's something that we can't understand, as we don't carry the baby. It doesn't mean that fathers don't love their babies, and it doesn't mean that babies who are not always eagerly awaited don't become adored children. It just means that the relationship between a child and a mother - especially in the beginning - is a relationship that already exists, while the fathers take a bit of time to build the relationship. You as the mother have a symbiosis. You, to some extent, know each other. It sounds like Angus is a good father, and he will almost certainly be a good father to the two new babies."

He goes on. "As far as anyone else in your life is concerned, this is the time when you need to start blocking them out and preparing for the babies. Not blocking them out to the point of exclusion, but once the babies arrive most people find it very difficult, if not impossible, to not love them. You may find that people will change their negative views of the babies when they get here."

"I really hope so. It's all so hard, I can't bear knowing that they're coming with all this resentment aimed at them. It's like they don't stand a chance," I reply.

"They do stand a chance," he said. "I hear in you an absolute love and desire to protect them. Jeff needs only one person to save him - Angus. And the babies, at least in the very beginning, need one person to love them. That person is you."

And just like that, the noise drowns away a bit. The anger the Lemonheads have caused people all over Angus' side of the family and my side of the family fades away. It doesn't block Jeff out and remove my worries for him, but I cling to the hope that he'll love them once they're here, that what he faces at home melts a bit to the promised love, support and normalcy we're going to try to give.

And I will be there for the Lemonheads, and I will keep them safe.

For the forseeable future, Angus and I are two parents fighting to protect the children that we love, and I will support him in every way I can.

There's no one else in the world I'd rather try to fight alongside than him.

And now, I think we'll move on.

-H.

*Song lyrics from The Fray's "How to Save a Life".

PS-I got a lovely box from a wonderful benefactor. Amazon didn't have any note of the sender on it so I have no idea who sent the lovely gifts, but I got two fantastic Gro-bags and two perfect books, which I am so happy about. Thank you so much for the gifts. if you meant to remain anonymous then just know how fabulous your timing was and how special the gifts are to me (and once they're here, to the Lemonheads). If you want to let me know who you are, I'd love to send you a thank-you card.

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August 17, 2007

That Bloody Woman Has Cost Us a Wii, and I Want to Invoice Her For It

One of the projects I am running has a team of engineers installing equipment in a very dark physical location. I imagine what it's like to be in their space sometimes, and when I imagine it, I can feel it all. The spark of the drill as they lay it on the stone. The sound of their work boots grating on the metal ladder. The intensity of the work that they do, and the pitch black in which they do it.

That darkness, that's what I've been feeling.

Jeff has been poisoned by his mother.

It was a house of cards all day. Jeff would alternate between clearly being very uncomfortable with me to being his usual self around me. He changed from being gung ho on his last visit to no, he most definitely did not want to see Harry Potter in the theatre with me. Even though I bunked off work to watch TV with him, he still struggled. It was fragile all day, with Jeff reacting negatively to things with a swift response, to a jutting lip with all the hallmarks of "Oh no, why can't I?" written all over it. I bought him a computer game last week, it should arrive tomorrow. His reaction was complete disdain and dismissal, when ordinarily a computer game would be brilliant fun and he'd give me chapter and verse of how fun it actually was. I feel like a complete idiot for even trying.

It all went horribly wrong this afternoon. Jeff had dragged out the Nintendo GameCube and was playing on it, when as a joke Angus stood in front of the screen. Jeff's reaction was to throw the controller across the room and go into a right temper tantrum. We tolerated it for a while, but when he banged up the stairs and slammed the door upstairs, it was all too much for Angus.

The house of cards came tumbling down.

Angus went tearing up the stairs and a blistering argument could be heard. Melissa came flying downstairs and she and Gorby and I shut ourselves in the study to continue the Helen purge as I blitzed the bookcases of their wares, all bound for charity. Melissa and I have been getting on very, very well since our heart to heart talk in Scotland, which I'll tell you about later. It seems to have resolved something between us, and now we sit easily in each others' lives.

We whispered back and forth in the study. She wanted to know what was going on. I told her I was worried that maybe her mother had been feeling very hurt, and perhaps Jeff had absorbed a lot of it and it was affecting him negatively. We talked about the tickets we've booked for them to fly out in September, and how we all thought Jeff was going to refuse to come visit.

Melissa, Gorby and I stayed in the study all afternoon.

Angus and Jeff came to some kind of happy conclusion and they disappeared to the shops for a long while, during which Melissa and I watched a film (Babel. Very weird. Very, very weird.) When they returned we were the proud owners of a Nintendo Wii (perfectly fine with me, although I do want to invoice the Swunt for it) and two much better moods were had by the menfolk. Jeff was clinging to Angus in every way, and it felt like he didn't really want to talk to either Melissa or I. Jeff did speak to me though, and even told me he'd bought me my favorite fruit smoothie mix. I had high hopes.

But it was clear that there was some fragility to it all, some wisp of walking a tenacious tightrope. There were signs that cracks were still larger than the Grand Canyon - he wouldn't meet my eyes when I offered him a chest of drawers that we have for his things. I feel very definitely that he doesn't want to be around me.

Jeff and I have been friends for some time now, as Melissa and her father have always been extremely close and the introduction of me was hard for her. Jeff was the one on the motor bike with me in the Cook Islands. He and I spent all our time together in Mexico. We laugh like idiots to episodes of The Simpsons. He drives me crazy sometimes and he's so sensitive that you get headaches watching what you say to him, but I care about him. He's become a large part of what I know.

Angus curled up beside me in bed and told me, finally, of some of the talks that were had earlier.

And it's for that reason that at 2 am - despite being bone-weary tired, despite needing more rest than I ever have needed in my life before - that I can't sleep.

Jeff won't tell Angus exactly what's going on, but Angus has done some basic 1+1=2. What basically seems to have occurred is in the past week that Melissa has been here, the Swunt has really gone for it. It appears I have been painted as the worst kind of human being imaginable - dangerous, cruel, home-wrecking, devastating, evil, what have you. I am the epitome of bad, and it seems a lot of emphasis has been put on the "she's dangerous and crazy" side of me. A lot of damage was done to Angus as well, but as his father and with their history, he's weathering it pretty well.

And Jeff's struggling with it, but it seems like he's buying it.

It makes me want to go to bed and not come back out for a long, long while.

Jeff said that Angus could fix all this, but he wouldn't like the suggestion Jeff has for fixing it. Angus did more digging, and it is strongly suggested that perhaps what Jeff was alluding to is that we need to get rid of the babies.

Perhaps more than him fearing me, that hurts the most.

Jeff has always been the biggest fan of the Lemonheads since he found out about them. He talked about them the most, and he even talked to them the most, using my stomach as his microphone. He's the only one to talk to them, apart from me. He was so keen on them it lifted me up each and every time he visited.

But not anymore. Regardless of if Angus' assumption about getting rid of the babies is right or not, it's very definite that the Lemonheads are viewed with distinct darkness on Jeff's part. Now, thanks to the damage, he's on the same list as I feel everyone else is on-the Lemonheads are a problem. They're something to dread. They're the wreckers of all that was good. Angus' family fear them for the upset they cause to his ex. My dad gets in trouble with my estranged family for caring too much about his unborn grandbabies, and I'm always conscious of that and of how wrong it seems to be for him to love them. Now Jeff views them as something bad and actually took real exception to giving up his room for them temporarily (until his room is done in the extension), a complete change from his previous stance. It makes me feel like I am sinking, and sinking fast.

Angus has spent the day telling Jeff how much he loves him and always will, no matter what. How nothing changes emotionally in this house, there will simply be two more people here. How I'm not dangerous or crazy but just quirky and different, but that I care about Jeff and Melissa a lot. This will be a mantra he will repeat all Friday and Saturday, until they leave. Angus and Jeff are running errands tomorrow while I take Melissa to the movies. Angus is working as All Hands on Deck trying to salvage his son's soul, and I will lie low and simply support from the background.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hug Angus close and tell him I'm so sorry, so sorry for all of it, so sorry for him and for Jeff and for Melissa. I've ruined everything and I'm so sorry.

I want to get in touch with the Swunt and tell her - You're his mother. Always, you always will be. You have his undying love and loyalty, and that's how it should be. I am not a threat to his affection for you. I will never try to take your kids from you. Of course you worry I may try to replace you, if Angus ever left me I'd worry about that with our kids, but I promise you I respect and support you as their mother. I am so sorry that you hurt, I really am. We show you nothing but respect in front of the kids in this house, we would never degrade you before them. We don't have to like each other, but we don't have to hurt your kids due to our issues. You are his mother and his heart, I will never, ever try to take that away from you. BUT YOU HAVE TO STOP POISONING YOUR CHILDREN, YOU ANGRY, HURTING BITCH.

We're now on reassurance mode to try to make sure that Angus doesn't lose his son. The relationship between Angus and Jeff is much better after their talk (and the Nintendo Wii doesn't hurt, either), but it's clear Jeff is very uncomfortable around me. I would sit down with Jeff and try to talk to him, but he's someone that you have to approach as slowly as you would a spooked horse. Things go into him and they go deep, you have to tread carefully and he has to be in the right frame of mind. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have never met anyone as sensitive (or as stubborn) as he is. It's because of his sensitivity that I think his mother's actions are so heinous.

This is not about me. This is about a 10 year-old boy and his feelings. I don't want this for him. I don't want this for Angus. I don't want this for any of us.

I cried myself nearly to sleep before giving up on slumber and coming here to write it all out. I don't even want to write about it, I'm sure you're as sick of reading it as I am of living it, but all I can do is toss and turn and long for the kind of emotional freedom I can only get in a pill form, but sleeping tablets and tranquilizers are out so all I can do is sit here in the dark and hope a little boy can look into his heart and hold on to his father, because his father will save him if he only lets him.

-H.

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August 16, 2007

The Destructor

Things keep getting destroyed around me.

I have been going through a bit of a thing lately. I find I’m going up and down more than I’d like to be, and one element of the down is my need to purge. Not purge as in “traditional visit to the toilet to control my weight”, I’m not in that frame of mind. But purge as in throw away, eliminate, rid.

We had an argument a month or so ago, and the result saw me head for the garage and hit my storage hard. Into the recycling bin went many things from my past. I didnÂ’t want them anymore. I donÂ’t need them anymore. All I kept were photos and my wedding dress. The wedding dress-a size 8, I was surprised to note-is packed with my veil and a few other bits and pieces. IÂ’m not very sentimental about it, but thought maybe someday Melissa or one of the Lemonheads might want to use it, so itÂ’s kept in my closet upstairs, quietly hiding.

The 150 year-old rocking chair that I brought over from Sweden started falling apart. We tried to fix it, but to no avail. The chair was so riddled with woodworm that the entire chair needed to be re-built, a job that the rocker wasnÂ’t worth. One of the rockers split. Then one of the braces. Then one of the back braces. Angus kept telling me the rocker had to go, that it couldnÂ’t be fixed, that itÂ’s fit only for the fireplace, but I resisted-I absolutely love the chair.

That night we argued I pulled the chair out of the garage and set it on the back porch.

I left it there.

I needed it to sit outside and fall apart.

The rain got to it immediately, and the water pried apart the already weakened structure. Within days the entire structure of the rocker came apart. Still it sits outside, as daily I check on the ruin that has become of a fucking rocking chair that I loved so much.

I guess it’s like Fight Club – I needed to destroy something beautiful.

Other parts of my past are going, too. With a shortage of space and, once the babies arrive, a tightening of belts, some changes had to be made. WeÂ’re assembled a massive pile for ebay, which we took photos of the other night and will list shortly. Some of the items include my Buffy the Vampire Slayer box sets (all but Season 1, which I canÂ’t find). Some electronics that need to go. And my dive bag full of the first dive kit I ever owned. I was a poor, broke student when I bought the set and used it to get certified. I dove with the kit in Lake Travis one hot sunny days. The octopus went to Belize with Kim and I. ItÂ’s outdated and I donÂ’t travel with it anymore, instead I rent kit where I go. ThatÂ’ll suffice for me now. The kit has to go.

And last but not least, my entire ice hockey kit bag and kit is going. I painstakingly bought each piece one at a time, as I had little money. I wore the kit when I played as goalie on KimÂ’s team. Inside the hockey bag I found my hockey jersey from KimÂ’s team, the Comets. I was flushed full of memories, all of them tasting like metallic ice on the tip of my tongue. The smell of athletic tape filled my nose. I recognized all of my kit, even though I havenÂ’t worn any of it in 8 years.

And it needs to go.

ThereÂ’s no ice hockey in our area, the hockey bag is enormous andÂ…wellÂ…that Helen is gone. ItÂ’s time.

Jeff arrived yesterday evening. Angus and I were worried that he’d been “gotten to” by the Swunt, as he’s been on his own with her for a week now. Once Jeff walked into the house, he descended into a sea of silence. It appeared our fears were correct.

Discussions with him yesterday were hard work. When Angus and Melissa went to get the takeaway curry last night I sat and tried to talk to Jeff. I asked him if he’d like to see Harry Potter with me. His response? “Whatever.” I asked him if he was looking forward to going skiing over New Year’s, something we’ve been planning. We’re going to fly in to Seattle to visit my Dad again, then off to Canada with the 4 kids.

He looks at me. “I don’t want to go right after Christmas. I always get one big present in Sweden, and lots of little ones. I want time to play with them.”

I look at him. This is new. “Well, we were thinking of going directly after Christmas. What if you brought your presents with you and you can play with them there?”

“I want at least a week with my things before we go to the States,” he replied.

UmÂ…ok.

And this, amongst other things, indicated to both Angus and I that things are not ok in the House of Mirth.

And we donÂ’t know the best way of handling things. Previously, Jeff has been really keen on the Lemonheads and talked about them constantly. A box of amazing and beautiful baby clothes arrived yesterday from the fabulous Donna, and while Melissa and I went through them, exclaiming and thrilled, Jeff was clearly uncomfortable, so we stopped looking at the clothes until later when we were alone. The babies are now a relatively contentious issue. Again. As they have been since their inception.

Angus and I discuss our options-we want to make him comfortable and happy, but we know there’s only so much we can do, and only so much time. We will do everything we can, inlcuding extra reassurance and extra attention, which is a bit of a teeter totter as then we have to be careful we don't alienate Melissa, even though we did explain that maybe he needed some extra attention just now. Angus is very sure that the next step will be reduced visits from Jeff, as suggested by the ex. The impact the Swunt is having on Jeff is massive and I can understand why – she’s his mother. He trusts her. Angus and I discuss trying to go back to court for custody, but there are a few issues with that-for starters, we don’t stand a chance in a Swedish court. If we involve English courts, it will be a long drawn out process while the courts battle it out, and we worry that the damage will be worse on the children if they get confronted by custody battles. Jeff is doing slightly better today and is a little more upbeat, I think some sleep helped, but it’s such a fucking tightrope that I feel like I can never get the balance right.

What drives me most wild is that while Angus’ ex goes around using her children as pawns in her anger, Angus’ family is running around worrying about her happiness and wringing their hands, saying “Poor woman.” We continue to not comment about the ex in front of the kids, but I want to grab her by the shoulders and tell her that the damage she is doing cannot be undone, and it cannot be forgiven. I’m sure she wants to do worse to me.

I continue to feel like my desire to add to our family means I have destroyed another one.

Yesterday my beautiful new Le Creuset pan arrived. IÂ’d ordered it months ago, an almond colored cast iron pan. It finally arrived yesterday morning, and as I love cooking I was excited as hell, so I got the pot ready and washed it. Le Cresuet costs a fortune but the pots last foreverÂ…unless you have wet hands and you drop it on the stone floor.

Then it gets destroyed.

I was bereft. My new pot ruined and I'd never even used it. I'd waited for ages to buy it until I saw it on sale, and I knew it was the best price I could ever find. And now? Nothing. And I don't have credit card purchase protection either, so it's well and truly lost (lesson learned on that one, too.)

After the day that had been had, I went up and took a bath. It seemed like the best option, really, to just remove myself for a little while. I had problems sleeping all night and random bits of baby came poking out of my stomach all night and continues today. I wish I knew how to fix things, but I just donÂ’t. I canÂ’t fix rocking chairs. I canÂ’t fix hockey pasts. And I canÂ’t fix kids, no matter how much I want to.

-H.

PS-many huge thanks for the sci fi help. I put together a list of the suggestions that I’d had before we went to bed for Melissa, and so far she’s narrowed it down to ones she’s really interested in. They include “Under Plum Lake", the Pullman “His Dark Materials” series, Ursula LeGuin's "Earthsea Trilogy", Jonathan Stroud's "Bartimaeus" triology and “Doomsday Book”. I’ll get the suggestions that came in last night (Zimmer Bradley was a good suggestion, I remember reading her myself) and see what she thinks about those. Thanks a lot, I really owe you all for the suggestions-hopefully it helps you to know that you made her day as she discovered huge amounts of books that will make her happy.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:27 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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August 15, 2007

The Averages

Beach Girl recently sent me a few articles on names. Now, I find names to be very, very interesting, and not just because IÂ’m baking two buns in the oven. Names (to me) are a characteristic of a person, theyÂ’re a catch-all for the bits that are going on beneath the surface.

Ironically there are some names where the patterns repeat themselves, at least in my world. AngusÂ’ exÂ’s name is one name that I genuinely associate with people that make life hard, because IÂ’ve known three women with that name and all three of them whipped me. Maybe itÂ’s a name pattern thing. Every woman I know named Angus' ex's name (and variants thereof) has had a touch of evil to her. Every "Donna" I've known has been very nurturing. Every "Sara/Sarah" I've ever known is strong and independent, even if they can't see it themselves. Every "Michael" I've dated - and there have been a few - have been trainwrecks of relationships, but perhaps it's the combo of "Helen"+"Michael" that made the relationships so tragic, perhaps Michaels are ok with, for example, Ellens. Maybe there's some deeper science to it all, who the hell knows.

I think we all know of a name urban legend as well-while I was working in a hospital many years ago, I was told by one of the midwives of a woman who delivered her daughter and then chose a name for her based on a word she saw on a medical form. Despite the midwives desperately urging her not to make the perilous mistake of naming her kid this, the woman went ahead with it, and thus right now somewhere in Texas is a girl with the unfortunate name of Chlamydia.

The Lemonheads get called all kinds of things. While I call them The Lemonheads, Melissa and Jeff call them Wayne and Krusty (although Jeff has lately started to insist itÂ’s Wayne and Krustina as Wayne is clearly not a female name, and presumably Krustina is. Things just get weirder in my life on a daily basis.) AngusÂ’ Mum calls them Mack and Mabel. My dad calls them Pebbles and Bam-Bam. They go by many names, none of them what theyÂ’re going to be called when theyÂ’re born, but that's ok. In my heart, they'll always be the Lemonheads.

As far as the babies go we absolutely have no idea what to name them, so any questions to me about naming them isnÂ’t prying to find out what theyÂ’ll be called, as we havenÂ’t a clue what the names will be. We also think you need to see the kids before you give them the ultimate label for life. We sat down with Melissa and Jeff in April while we were in Mexico and came up with a list. There are maybe 30-40 names for boys and girls on that list, and much paring down needs to be done (I would, for example, rather not give birth than name our child Wayne. IÂ’m just saying.)

Whatever we decide to name them, the babies will be called something else on this blog. I donÂ’t do real names on this site. Helen, Angus, Melissa, and Jeff are all pseudonyms, as are all the names of any people I talk about-neighbors, Angus' family colleagues, etc. The only names that are real on this blog are Gorby, Maggie, and Mumin, because I think chances of anyone in our lives Googling them are slim and my furry companions have little interest in vanity Googling themselves. The only other real name on this blog is KimÂ’s because he died, and because he changed his name when he was an adult anyway.

IÂ’m fiercely private in real life, actually.

Although nothing I write about is untrue, specifics that could help people twig who I am are changed-the name of our house, for one. I donÂ’t like details getting out.

But IÂ’ll lay a few real details on the line for you today, anyway.

Trends lately are for baby names to be unusual and unique. Looking at the list of most popular baby names today reads to me like a car catalog. I apologize in advance if I offend anyone, but some names just don't make sense to me. The name "Braeden" sounds like it should have "Hyundai" before it. The same goes for "Aaralyn", it makes me think "Can I buy a consonant, please?" I just don't get modern naming, really. And choosing alliteration for naming (I'm looking at you, Kate Hudson, the four P children on Desperate Housewives, and don't even get me started on the crazy Duggar "J"s.) is wrong on so many levels. Equally, Angus is very not keen on naming kids after parents, so there won't be any Angus II or Angus Juniors in our house.

As far as names go Angus and I are both huge, huge fans of what you might call the average, everyday, ordinary names. Maybe itÂ’s because we both have unusual first names in real life that makes us crave normalcy-my real first name is generally a boyÂ’s name (and I have met more men with my name than women), and Angus' real first name is very Scottish. While chances are youÂ’ve heard of our names before, chances are even greater that you donÂ’t personally know anyone with these names. Our real first names are on the long side, and both of our last names are long as well. In addition, my name can be spelled a few ways and AngusÂ’ real name can be spelled one of 400,000 ways. The way his is spelled, thanks to his Mum, is very unusual, and it's generally always misspelled on mail we receive. Perhaps because of our unusual and long first names, weÂ’re fans of short, simple, old-fashioned names. Mary works for us. PeteÂ’s ok. Elizabeth is nice (but a bit too long, we think, cursed as we are with the long last names.) We wonÂ’t win any points for originality but we wonÂ’t condemn our kids to a lifetime of spelling their name out for people, something we have to do.

In contrast, both of us have completely average middle names, but they’re names neither of us like. In a stroke of honesty, I’ll go ahead and whip them out (because we never, ever use them. Ever.) My real middle name is Christina. I hate it. I’ve always hated it. Apologies to anyone named Christina, but the name just doesn’t suit me. I used to hate my first name, too, but it's grown on me and I like it now, but my hatred for my middle name has been life-long. Angus’ real-life middle name is Mark (or as I like to point out, it's pronounced over here as "Mahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhk"). He’s not so keen on that one, either. Our names mean “follower of Christ” and “warlike”, respectively, neither of which are true. Now if "Christina" meant "follower of cheese products" and "Mark" meant "lover of lightbulbs", we'd be getting somewhere. But we hold great stock in middle names as well.

“Melissa” and “Jeff” are names that I just pulled out of the air-we have no real association with the names and they're nothing like the kids' real names. In real life both of them have completely average first names as well, only Melissa’s first name is a common Swedish name and pretty much completely unheard of outside of Northern Europe. As they have one English and one Swedish parent they were given an English name and a Swedish name, so that they could choose if they wanted to be called by one of them over the other later in life, depending on where they lived.

The babies, equipped as they will be with one English parent and one American parent, would have the same only the names, theyÂ’re not so different.
Angus loves girls’ names that start with K, so that’s getting analysis. Angus’ family has long had a bit of a thing going with Scottish names, so we’ve been looking at Scottish names as we both like them. But we’re not sticklers on this one-we’re anxious to have names that suit the babies and suit something being “new”.

We have a bit of a tradition in my mother’s line-for as far back as I can see, the second girl born gets the middle name “Marie”. I know this goes back at least four generations, maybe more, but it’s something that’s done. But while I have no problem with the name Marie and am absolutely not against passing names down in families, I do have a problem with traditions and cycles not being broken with regards to patterns I see with this pattern in particular, so even though – in this generation, that is – our girl will be the second girl born, there’s no way in hell her middle name is going to be Marie. We may like the name, but we’re anxious for everything to be different.

We might be taking superstition too far.

IÂ’m ok with that.

In general, names are important to me. I want the names to be right. Strangely, Jeff said a name in the car last month as we wound our way through Scotland, and it twigged with me on a major level. I just thought: "That's it. That's the name for our daughter." In my head, despite my protestations that we not only need to see the baby first and that the name doesn't start with a K, I've been thinking of her as that name ever since. Maybe it sticks, maybe it doesn't.

But I have to admit-it's pretty fun thinking of the possibilities.

-H.

PS-Sci-fi fans! I need your help! 15 year-old Melissa is a huge, huge fan of Tolkein, and she's now read every one of his she can get her hands on including his "new" one, the Children of Hurin one. I'd like to get her some more books, but not sure how to proceed. She's read all of the Narnia books, Harry Potter books, Wrinkle in Time books, and as she tends to lean towards liking sci fi/fantasy more than any other genre, I'm now wondering where to go from here. Any tips?

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August 14, 2007

Almost 29 Weeks of Lemony Goodness

Today we trooped to the hospital for our 28 week scan (even though I'm 29 weeks tomorrow. Somehow, we got off track by a week. I blame society.) and to meet our consultant and the one who will deliver the twins, the one we call Dr. Charisma, the IVF doctor who, peering at me above the sheet of my be-draped pink taco declared that we should put back two embryos based on my history and the overwhelmingly averageness that were the two embryos, that twins in this situation were extremely unlikely. I have some choice words for Dr. Charisma. Don't get me wrong-he's an excellent doctor and I have no doubts about his qualifications, he's just not the kind of guy you'd go rushing up to for a hug. At all. Ever.

Anyway, we're late to the appointment as we always are, and by the time we get in to the hospital the antenatal room is one giant swelling of progesterone. There are so many heavily pregnant women in there that I wonder if Angus is going to get knocked up. We wait for ages-this never bodes well, Angus is many things but he is not a Patient Waitee-and then we head in for the scan.

We spent the entire morning at the hospital.

Angus is pretty pleased about that.

So the Lemonheads-they're doing just fine. These days the sonographer doesn't have to do much searching for the babies, they're large enough that they show up right away. Both babies are measuring over 1200 grams, which is just over 2.5 pounds. So they're small. Still within normal limits, but small.

First up-Twin 1. Twin 1 is head down and raring to go. Twin 1 is the little hooligan that kicks the shit out of me on a regular basis. I had understood that Twin 1 was the little girl, but I got that one wrong (not surprisingly, as neither of us can understand any ultrasound we ever see.) Twin 1 is on my left hand side, and it's the boy. The sonographer said that without a doubt Twin 1 is a boy, and even pointed out his man bits. Neither Angus nor I had any idea whatsoever what we were looking at, so either our son is going to be under-endowed or we're just hopeless at all this (I know without a doubt that we're hopeless at this, so I'll go with that one.) He's a big boy, though, with a large head and very, very long legs. All the better to kick me with, I guess.

Here he is-it's a profile shot of his head, with a little elbow in the air next to his noggin.


28wTwin 1a.jpg


The sonographer then checked out Twin 2, who is the quieter baby, the CVS baby, and apparently is the little girl (the sonographer is very sure about that, too, and showed us the baby's lady bits as well. We didn't see anything. You might now be seeing a pattern here when it comes to Angus, me, and ultrasounds). The technician looked at me and asked me if I was having trouble breathing. I confirmed that why yes, I do spend my time breathing like a bulldog and debating a possible professional career in telephonic heavy breathing pranks. Truthfully, the breathing is getting so bad the only way I can breathe is either standing up or at a small incline-sitting for any period of time means I can't draw my breath, and I try to avoid the phone as I get too breathless and wind up sounding like my great-grandpa, who had Black Lung. The reason? The little girl, in breech position, has her head and upper torso nestled across both of my lungs, pressing hard. Her bum is squashing the ureter from my right kidney and her legs are extended, bouncing on the bottom of my cavernous uterus.

Oh yeah. She's going to be a handful.

Here's apparently a picture of her. She's pretty camera shy (and always has been) and like her parents prefers likes to sleep on her stomach. The sonographer printed these out and handed them to us proudly. Apparently, these are pictures of her face, which we were dutifully grateful about.

We don't see anything that resembles anything in the pictures.

It looks like I'll be giving birth to a Rorschach Test.

If you can see it, let me know.


28wTwin 2a.jpg


She also has very long legs, although she's a lot smaller than her brother.

The rest of the visit went ok-Dr. Charisma was out so we met with his stand-in, who discussed the position the babies are in. Right now, he said, a vaginal birth is still possible as the first baby is head down, which would mean they could turn the other baby in utero and deliver her. This, to me, sounds awfully squicky and all kinds of levels of painful. True, I'm planning on being on every possible drug known to man when I go into labor, but it doesn't mean I want hands stuffed in me pulling out the plastic bags of gizzard, neck and kidneys. We'll cross that bridge when we get there-while I like the recovery time of a vaginal birth better than a C-section, I'd also like to not imagine my hooch getting stretched to the size of a Hungry Man TV dinner.

He also discussed due dates with us and even said that if the babies are ok, it's not uncommon to take the pregnancy to 39 weeks. Sitting there, I had to fight with every ounce of willpower I had not to burst into tears and shout "Not in THIS cargo hold, buddy!" Dr. Charisma says we'll deliver latest 37 weeks. I'm going with that one. While it's much, much better than the threat of 32 weeks we face with my infections, the idea of not being able to breathe like this for another 10 weeks is something I'd rather not think about without a stiff drink in my hand. Not to mention that twins have a higher risk of stillbirth after week 37 as they just completely run out of room in there. Also not tempting. I hear all the time "The longer you keep them in, the healthier they'll be," which is true and I know it, but at the same time when you're pissing razorblades and can't draw enough air, you start to think: 36 weeks works. Maybe we can't even try for 35 weeks.

Kidney infection/UTI are still under monitoring, and I'm on antibiotics for another 12 days. At this point you'll be able to slice open my veins and pour my blood on the moldy bread in order to clear it up. Only that's icky. On so many levels.

We go back in 3 weeks for another scan, and then we begin the hardcore monitoring for the rest of the pregnancy.

In the meantime, Melissa's still here, Jeff arrives tomorrow (with a newfound sense of stress as it appears the Swunt may have gotten to him, so it's a bit touch and go right now) and not a fucking thing has been done on the nursery.

We're so organized.

-H.

PS-many huge thanks to the Physics Geek, who gave the babies and I this book and this DVD. Both are hugely appreciated, as the book will help me figure out a pattern for them, and the DVD, well...I'm a well-known sucker for Christmas. Thank you, Geek. I love them both.

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August 10, 2007

Bodily Functions

I was reading in bed last night, curled on my side with my very attractive nursing pillow propping my shoulders up (nursing pillows are shaped like horseshoes and have a secondary feature which makes them rock-they go between the legs to try to keep you laying on your side. Somehow I wind up on my back anyway (insert joke here) but in general it's a good thing. Plus? Best. Reading. Pillow. Ever.) when I felt moisture on my arm. Wearily, I reached up to my face. If there's water flowing, chances are it's coming from my nose. I've suffered a whole lifetime of bloody noses anyway, pregnancy has simply made them worse (along with the tinnitus and back ache. Fun times, my friend. Fun times.) Only my nose was dry. I wasn't having a nosebleed. So I look up at the ceilling figuring we have a leak somewhere, only that's dry, too. I put my book down and start investigating.

I find where the water's coming from.

It's coming from my breasts.

My reaction was swift: HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I'M LACTATING.

That's right-my colostrum has come in.

Now, you might think that a pregnant chick finding a milk bar around her ribcage is a normal thing and, well, you'd be pretty well-versed on biology. But here's the thing - many, many years ago I had a radical breast reduction. They took my enormous fun bags from a DD to a B cup in one day. I was in the hospital for days, in bandages for weeks, I had hundreds of stitches and I lost 2/3 of my breasts. I had my nipples removed, re-sized (they were the size of teacups prior to the surgery. I know, that's so hot, isn't it?) and sewn back on. I have Frankennipples.

Frankennipples which I was told would never, ever produce milk ever because not only were the majority of the milk glands gone, but the nipples had been surgically removed. My little nubbins were re-sized on a stainless steel tray and then put back on (I know this, I even have a slight puckering on one of them where they pulled the stitches too tight). My Porsche-driving plastic surgeon breezily informed me that Hades would enjoy a light dusting of snowfall before I'd ever have breastmilk flowing from these babies.

So...what? The nipples sought company? They spontaneously grew ducts to the handful of milk glands I have left?

I have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, where I'll ask if I am, indeed, a big heifer who's got her own dairy substitute coming out of the boobage or if I just have some kind of infection. I'm kinda' doubting I have an infection because 1) the breasts feel fine and 2) both of my breasts are leaking (admittedly one more than the other). But I'm shocked beyond compare-it's like finding out that you've spent your life walking on two legs because you were told you would never fly, and then discovering one evening that those things on your back, they're wings after all, so you have a choice of walking or flying after all.

Whose body is this?

I have to confess here that while I absolutely accept, understand and agree that breastfeeding is the best choice for baby and the healthiest option for both mom and baby, it's something I've never been a fan of. This is not me judging other women here, I think women that breastfeed are following their own personal choice and I applaud them. I also think people that get uptight about breastfeeding mothers in public are ridiculous-breasts are indeed a sexual object but they are also a nurturing object. Breastfeeding falls under that "nurturing" side of things, let's pack up the prudism here. I personally have never wanted to breastfeed, and I have spent nearly half my life believing that I couldn't, anyway, so nothing to dwell on.

But now maybe there is something to dwell on.

I discussed it with Angus last night-he's of the "it's best for baby" frame of mind, which makes me feel like one very rotten mom indeed. It is best for baby. But I don't want to do it. Truthfully, I doubt very much I'll be able to, anyway-I'm sure the limited amount of glands I have left won't feed one baby, let alone two.

But the real reason why I don't want to do it is because of the stress-I read so many things and hear from so many moms about the discomfort and stress that breastfeeding brings. I've seen blogs of heartbroken moms who can't understand why they don't make enough milk/make too much milk/get impacted ducts/get crusty nipples/have to spend their free time pumping/you name it. The stress seems to be absolutely enormous.

And I am already stressed to maximum fucking limits, even before I read this. Now, the pressure feels enormous.

Anyway, it's one of many things I'm handling here.

Yesterday I just didn't feel well. I felt off all day long and I never figured out why. The kidney infection rages on, despite the antibiotics I'm on. I don't know if or when the infection will ever leave but it's draining me horribly. I am trying to get renal scans booked and Foggy recommended stenting, which sounds horrible but at this point if it'll help I say we go for it.

From all the infection fun I lost 3 kilos (6.6 pounds), and although I've put on half a kilo since the hospital, I'm in my third trimester now, which for twins means that any weight gain I have now will be water weight. My stomach is squished and compacted so I can't eat much. The average recommended weight gain for twins is about 45 pounds. I've gained a grand total of 22 pounds. If the babies weren't so active all the time, I'd be more worried, but I'm definitely baking future athletes in there. Currently, my intestines are being used for football practice.

I cannot sleep. I get uncomfortable easily and I have to run to the toilet and squeeze whatever drops of horrible wee I can get from my battered bladder and ureter. I have looked longingly at the sleeping tablets in our bathroom cabinet and thought Well, I need to get the kids used to a Valley of the Dolls lifestyle sooner or later anyway. But I won't take sleeping tablets (no really, I won't-I may be desperate for sleep but it's not good for the babies and I'd rather not be Postcards From the Edge) and instead I just toss and turn. I am so tired you wouldn't believe it. That, and I get contractions. Contractions hurt. I am not a fan of the contractions.

So I'm tired and moody - last night had a round of me nearly wailing to Angus about how fucking unattractive and huge I feel. He was very sweet and told me that I am still very attractive and that yes, I am large, but the hugeness will disappear. I know there's a limit to how much of me wigging out he can take, though, so I need to try to handle things.

I'm sorry if I seem really complain-y on my blog lately. I'm not ungrateful that I get to be a mother, I'm really not, and I do truly love the two passengers I've not met yet. I confess I did think pregnancy would be easier than this, though. I knew that birthing part was hard and that there was great discomfort in the end, but I hadn't understood the exhaustion, the aching, the pains, the kicking, and above all the kidney infections. I thought pregnancy would be warm and glowy, a touchy-feely extravaganza and something where I would feel one with Angus and one with nature, the discomfort coming only during the last few weeks and during that messy birthing business.

I'll pause a moment here and wait for you experienced mothers and fathers to wipe the tears of laughter from your eyes.

In short-I have absolutely no control over my body right now. It's as mystifying as the reponse "Nothing," that men give when you ask them what they're thinking. It's all really fun here.

But at least I have backup if I run out of milk for my coffee.

-H.

PS-many huge thanks to Sophie, who sent an amazing mobile for the babies' wall. I love it, thank you so much.

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August 09, 2007

My Dirty Little Secret

It's a bright sunny day outside (finally!) and Melissa's curled up on the couch, watching the end of Braveheart. Angus is upstairs doing some work, but my email is being uncooperative and the VPN isn't letting me log in for long.

And I am not feeling very well at all today.

Something else has been eating me up inside as well, and I haven't really found a good way of saying what it is, so I'm just going to blurt it all out in a Ramona the Pest kind of way and let what happens happen.

For a long, long time I've had problems with secrets. I've made no secret here that, surprisingly, I'm a very private person in my real life. People in my real life have no idea about any of my past, really, and very little insight into any details of who I am. I like it like that. I've never been fond of people getting too close to me, of people learning the ins and outs of what makes me tick. It's too personal, it's too near. I wallow in my secrets.

As time (and therapy) have progressed, I stripped myself of one of my former pasttimes, which was lying to people. I'd make something up before I'd let someone get to know me, I was always conscious of the act at the time but I was never able to stop myself. These days I don't lie to people. I don't volunteer information, but I'm happy to listen to people talk about themselves, my colleagues. My "real life" friends and acquaintances and Angus' family would probably tell you I'm a good listener, but if pressed they'd maybe admit they don't know so much about me.

And I'm ok with that.

One thing I've learned about myself is that I had no boundaries. None at all. The every detail and splash of my life was something I had to reveal to my family. And by family, I mean mother and sister. My sister is someone I don't think twice about anymore, she's not a part of my life at all now and never, ever will be again. My mother, on the other hand, is a presence I'm trying to reckon with.

In my family secrets were not ok. The details had to be attended to. My mother had to know, she had to know everything. Once I moved out if I didn't speak to her on the phone every few days the angry phone calls would start. Opinions were issued on everything. If I did not listen to opinions, it would be bad.

And it never occurred to me to be any different, that people had to have space. My mother, she was a good mother in many areas, she raised us and sacrificed and did the best she could and above all, she loved us. But she also made a lot of mistakes, as mothers do, as people do. I made mistakes, too, I know that, but some part of me tugs and whispers that I was the kid in this. I couldn't have known better.

I never had any secrets.

I was never allowed to have any secrets but the family's. You never talked about what was going on with the family, not with anyone, not ever. I still remember when I kicked off seeing a therapist, my mother admonishing me that I was never to talk about her. That all of the things that I was so fucked up about had to do with my adult life, nothing came from my childhood. That it didn't matter how profoundly broken I felt I was, every crack and split came from me alone, and in talking about me I was never, ever to talk about her or the family.

I was so screwed up that after attempting suicide, I wouldn't talk about my past unless my therapist could prove to me that he wasn't tape recording our conversations and sending them to my mother. I made him swear to me that he wasn't emailing her every single thing I said. Once I even checked behind pictures hung on the wall. I fell way on the other side of the batshit crazy fence, I took paranoia to a whole new level.

But I had a reason, see.

I was never allowed to have any secrets from my mother in my life.

I had to tell her everything.

My diary was read.

On at least one occasion, a letter I was posting to a friend was opened and read. In it, I talked about the family. I got some things in it wrong, but it didn't matter-I had broken the code of silence. I got the shit knocked out of me for that one.

I learned my lesson though.

I became a vault, a walled garden, something welded shut so tightly you couldn't have pried things out of me if you tried. Things went in and never went out again. I became a habitual liar, all the while hoping someone would call me on my shit, hoping someone would see through it all and make me sit down and try to string a sequence of anything remotely coherent out of me. My 8mm memory flapped and hid behind moldy walls and my soul stunk of mildew. If I didn't make any secrets I wouldn't have to know that I couldn't have any. I never talked about my feelings because it would come back to haunt me, my thoughts were mistakes I would pay for again and again and again.

You can't keep things from her.

It's not ok.

And it's all just the way it was, you see. This is how life was. I had no secrets and I had no voice and I got everything wrong all the time.

But once I started having secrets and not telling her everything, it all blew up. Someone told me that I didn't need her approval on everything. I told someone that she shouted at me on the phone and told me how disappointed she was in me not telling her everything. This person replied, "Why didn't you tell her how disappointed you are in her?" And it was a shock-I couldn't talk like that. It would be bad. I would pay. I couldn't say that...could I? Well...why couldn't I?

And so I did.

We don't talk now, but she's out there. She's still circling my life, reading it, trying to manage the ticking bomb that is me. I love her very much and I always will, but she can't know everything about me always, that's not how life works. I can't run my every option by her for her say, I can't be an open book when I've had to be one all my life. I don't want to make her out to be an ogre but right now I feel so hugely, incredibly angry that it's spilling over into my real life. Combine my anger with my hormones and my incredible, huge fears that I will make the same mistakes raising my children as mothers before me made, and it's spilling out the seams.

When I started a new blog to write about my infertility, I tried to be anonymous. I tried to hide. I naively thought I'd be able to be free, although a part of me always knew she'd find me.

And she did.

She and my sister both did. They had to know, you see. They had to keep tabs, they had to judge. They had to be included, even when I was clear that absolutely no one in my real life, apart from Angus, would have access to that site. They couldn't let me have my diary to myself, they couldn't let me write an unopened letter. I'm now hyper-conscious of the fact that they're reading, I want to write everything out but I can't because they're here. It's even affecting how I write about my pregnancy and what happens afterwards-I may want to post baby pictures, but it makes me angry to know that they get included in the baby pictures when I don't feel comfortable with it.

And the ridiculous thing is, I write anonymously. No one knows my family. No one knows who they are or what they look like or where they live. They could be anyone. I am no one. But still I am bound and gagged.

Quiet words from quiet people have told me more about some things that have transpired in the background, things which outrage me so severely that my anger is becoming too great a ball for me to handle. These things are so massive and monstrous I can't even believe they're real, but they are. These sins are bigger than childhood diaries being read and sealed letters being opeend. They took the lines you crossed and made whole earthquakes out of the latest.

And now I do have a secret, which I am blowing out of the water today.

I'm not a good person. I'm really not. If you knew how I currently feel you'd think I was a bad person, too. Because I'm so violently, viciously angry with the latest invasion of privacy that I want to make my mother cry. Good, decent people don't want to make their mother cry. I want to hurt her feelings like she's hurt mine. I want her to know that I think I'm owed an apology this time. For all the times before, for all the invasions and fuck-ups and mistakes, I don't care about those, I'll deal with that myself. But now, finally, I've had enough. I've made mistakes and I get reminded of them but I apologized for them again and again, to the point where Angus tells me I'm the most apologetic person he knows.

But not this time.

She went too far.

The site being found and the things I have learnt since then...it's too much for me.

I love you very much, mom and I always will. You're not a bad person. But I'm not either. And I can let you in my life but I need to have a say in how far you get to go. I have to have boundaries. I have to have privacy.

I don't forgive you, which is ironic since you're not asking forgiveness and for as long as I've known you, you've never once said you're sorry to me, not once. I'm sure there's plenty you don't forgive me about. I'm the bad child. I always was and always will be.

This is in the public space because it's too big for me to hold inside anymore, and since we're not talking anyway and I know you're reading here, this should find you. Not like it will make any difference. It's all my fault you think, and maybe it is. Maybe everything is all my fault. I'm the perennial bad guy and it fits and it's ok, but I'm sick of it all, so sick it makes my heart bleed.

Enough.

-H.

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August 08, 2007

Macaroni and Cheese Theory

As I've blogged before I have a completely pointless Bachelor's Degree in anthropology. I loved my courses but there's nothing less useful in the real world than the ability to recite the names and reigns of all of the Egyptian pharoahs or the origins of the australopithecines. Cool to study and it means you can go to class in your boxer shorts and be considered bohemian, but not so practical if you want to make enough money to eat.

I've long been interested in biological anthropology (termed "the study of the monkeys", it always makes me think of going to the zoo and watching them swing on a tire swing) and the link to human behavior. To this point, my papers and my research tended to be along the lines of biological imperatives and human socialization, or "why we can blame genetics for how we act", which is always a fun game and often involves the use of hand puppets. In other words, I was the poster child for "get a life".

Stay with me here-I do have a point.

One of the studies that I loved doing, besides gender studies, is the understanding of monogamy and romantic emotion in humans. You could argue that this is also tied with gender and I would tend to agree with you, but I find it very, very interesting that the whole notion of romance, sex, love, and marriage is perhaps an evolved form of our australopithecine ancestors picking lice off of each other. Besides, I hate lice, so anything that gets the little bastards off the planet is ok with me.

I recently bought a book by an author named Dan Savage called The Commitment. I bought it because I had read Savage's The Kid and loved it, I had never heard of him but it appears he's a sex advice columnist in the States, and he makes me laugh, which I sorely need these days. The Kid was about Savage and his boyfriend adopting a child and about the angles of gays adopting (which I am pro.) The Commitment is about gay marriage (which I am also pro), the debate about gay marriage, and if he and his boyfriend should get married.

This post isn't to debate views on gay rights, gay adoption or gay marriage.

This post is about the chapter I read last night.

This post is about monogamy.

In all of my pencil-chewing library studies in college, the one clear thing I kept seeing was that human beings are not by nature monogamous. It's not in the best interest of the species, actually-the males shouldn't spread so much as spray their seed in order to ensure their lines survive, and the females should choose the fittest of the species to try to ensure survivaly. But all of this is if we really were acting like the monkeys, and I'd like to think that although we share 99% of the same DNA as the bonobo, we don't need to go about flinging our feces and acting like them.

Monogamy is a social construct that we have placed on ourselves by really fun things like religion, society, tradition, and our neighbors frowning upon not being monogamous. Human beings, like our good buddies the monkeys, are actually programmed for one thing-reproduction. We're biologically coded to spend time making baby Us so that the baby Us can inherit the world and actually continue in it. Of course, in our modern iPod, airplane flying, overpopulated, no more Yangtze River Dolphin society, we don't really need to breed to survive. Now the only thing we need to survive is a high thread count sheet and the ability for the weatherman to tell us what's going to be outside our window in the morning.

The studies I did also used to state that monogamy is harder for men than women. In general, I would agree with that, but use it in an argument with me of why you tripped and your dick fell into someone else and chances are I'm going to come unglued in a very big way. I may agree with your biological imperative to spread your little soldiers, but there's such a thing as willpower, buddy. Try it on. I also actually think that women sometimes need a physical representation of "Wow, I find you hot" to make them feel good. It's not just men that feel the need to get physical, only men sleeping around are "just being men". Women sleeping around are "whores". Show me a guy who's slept with 100 women and I'll show you an NBA star who is idolized. Show me a woman who's slept with 100 men and I'll show you their porn star credentials. It's a nice double-standard.

The reason I agree with the idea that men find monogamy harder is simple - in general studies, men find the idea of their partner having sex with someone else to be more disturbing than the idea of their partner falling in love with someone else. For men, the "biological imperative" is stronger in that, from the monkey point of view, they need to know the progeny that springs forth from the loins of their beloved is their own. That, and I think men get more obsessed with the "Was he better than me?" worry than women do.

With women, it's the opposite-we tend to get more wildly upset if our boys fall in love than get pissed out of their heads and shag someone. This is not to say that we're not upset if you sleep with someone else, but there are degrees of hurt. True, this isn't for everyone. But overall, the idea of our partner betraying us on a one-off is much harder to take than knowing our partner betrayed us due to some perceived emotional deficiency that may have been brewing in our relationship. Both types of cheating hurt like hell. Maybe one of them is much harder to live with than the other.

But I actually feel the way the study says.

Say Angus were to sleep with another woman. Let's pretend he had a work do in another city and he and his workmates went drinking (which is what happens when one has work dos in over cities) and he picked up a chick in a drunken state of mind and slept with her. The next morning, in that typical Catholic-like fit of remorse (which feels a lot like a hangover and is, in fact, often combined with one) he calls me and apologetically tells me the whole thing. Sordid details to emerge at a later time, because at that time in the morning I'd have a hard time hearing about the ins and outs of the evening (no pun intended). Then, once he arrived home shame-faced and we sat across the kitchen table while he poured his heart and soul out and begged forgiveness, well...depending on the circumstances, he'd probably get it (but talk about the making up that would be needed). Not because I feel it's his "biological imperative" to sleep around, but because he came clean. Because I've been on those business trips where the booze is flowing and someone's making your ego feel good. Because I do actually know that sometimes when cheating happens, it's not because of the person that you love not being there, it's in spite of it. I'm not excusing the cads of the world out there, and I'm not saying it's ok, but I am saying that I understand how the circumstances can be.

That, and because of my Macaroni and Cheese Theory.

While I love macaroni and cheese with all of my heart and soul, I don't want it every day for the rest of my life. Along the same lines, I think that the idea of having sex with the same person for the rest of your life makes one think "Hmmmm....I wonder where I can get some fish and chips around here." You may love macaroni and cheese, but it doesn't mean it's all you want from now until death you do part. Whenever I find people that say "No way. I love macaroni and cheese. It's never even once crossed my mind ever to think of anything else, not once. Never. Uh-uh. Where's my fork?" I think: Either you're not being honest with yourself, or you don't get out much.

I think it's human nature to wonder about other people. Whether or not you act on it has to do with your social constructs (I'm married and cheating is wrong), your values (God/society tells me cheating is wrong), your relationship (nothing is worth hurting my partner) and even opportunity (working as a groundskeeper in this monastery sure sucks). But naughty thoughts, well, there's no stopping those. I love Angus madly and I think he's the best lover ever, but I'd be lying if I said I never fantastized about someone else and never wondered what someone new would be like in bed. But I talk to him about these things and together we keep it honest. I'm not excusing people that do have affairs because they have a responsibility to their partners, and that responsibility entails being honest, discussing things, and keeping their johnson in their shorts/their legs closed if that's what they know is important to their partners.

But that's "just" sex. And I'm not saying that finding out he'd slept with someone else wouldn't bother me at all because it certainly would. But what would bother me much, much more was finding out he had a strong emotional and romantic attachment to someone else. If he was going out of his way to send kind or loving emails, texts, or gifts I'd really come unhinged. Why? Because the way I see it is this-sleeping with someone is a fuck up. All it takes is alcohol and a sudden dearth of willpower. Romancing someone takes effort. You have to want to spend time with someone to work that hard. You have to want another person to feel good. Feeling good takes time whereas an orgasm takes 15 seconds. It's all about the investment case here. And forgive me for being very female and bitchy about this one, but as far as I see it, I should be enough of a needy, loving, worthy woman that I take up all the resources for romance. You should be so busy ensuring I get the loving emails, texts, and sentiments that you don't have the time or the inclination to give them to someone else.

Maybe that's selfish.

I'm ok with that.

Dan Savage states in this chapter that he and his boyfriend have a way of working to handle "extracurricular activities", which rang a bell because Angus and I have exactly the same thing. We're grown-ups with a complicated relationship history, and we knew going into this that we'd have to be honest with each other or we'd face the same problems our relationships had in the past. We both agree that monogamy is a hard goddamn game to play, and that at points in our lives there will be opportunities. Because we're pretty matter of fact about it, we agreed our own way of working, whereby we would handle situations as they came up. We tend to be brutally honest when it comes to some areas of our lives. This is one of them. We both love macaroni and cheese, but an all-you-can-eat Alaskan snow crab buffet can be pretty fucking tempting.

It doesn't hurt my feelings if Angus were to tell me that someone fancies him. In fact, I think it's kinda' cute and makes me think: Someone finds him hot and I own him, how cool is that? It also doesn't hurt my feelings if he tells me he saw a hot chick today, because he's not saying he doesn't find me hot, he's saying he found another person attractive, too (although with me currently feeling like something that winds up washed up and beached on shorelines, he should tread carefully in this area just now.)

One area where I am a stickler (and Angus is a stickler in return) is this-if Angus ever did act on an opportunity, I'd better know about it. Pronto. Because I've been the Chick Who Was Cheated On by previous partners (three times, actually, although I can only prove two times.) In those situations, I didn't want to know about the affairs, I turned a blind eye. But in those situations, I also didn't love and invest as much into the relationship as I have done here. There is no room for looking the other way and covering up in my relationship with Angus. Things get dealt with, or they fester and ooze. This would extend to if he ever did sleep with someone.

Being cheated on hurts like a sonofabitch. I've been cheated on. I've also cheated as a knee-jerk response to being messed around with, which honestly makes me no better. If you've been cheated on you also know how unbearable it can feel. Relationships have rules and those rules need to be followed, or else people can get hurt in ways that one cannot imagine. I'm not excusing partners that fuck up or saying that it's ok that they do this. I'm just saying that in some situations I can understand some of the background to how it happens, which is not the same thing as saying "Sure, go and follow your biological male imperative! Wheeee! Isn't it fun? Go ahead and sleep with a beautiful thin 20-something with a flat navel-ringed stomach and a bedroom routine that makes Jenna Jameson look like an amateur! I don't mind, it's your genetic coding talking here!"

Relax-I'm writing about this only because I read a chapter about it last night, not because it's something I'm facing in my real life. Angus isn't about to go sleep with someone on a business trip. Or he'd better not do because I'm one of those pregnant chicks that drew the "very horny" straw which means I want some all the time, although with various health issues we haven't been having any. That and I'm currently feeling so insecure I make Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction look like a pillar of stability, so I currently need so much reassurance I imagine Angus is too tired to even swivel his head 90 degrees to look at someone else.

But monogamy, it makes me think. Maybe your relationship works differently, maybe I'm too cyncial, I dunno. I just understand when I read the sentiment "Monogamy is hard". Because for some it is.

And now I want macaroni and cheese.

-H.

PS-first, we're in the flood zone (but we didn't get flooded.) Now, we're in the surveillance zone for foot and mouth. It's literally in our backyard, as one of the farms on our lane is sealed off. Last year we had draught. This year floods. Now cattle are being slaughtered. I'm wondering if I should take a hint here.

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August 07, 2007

Worrywart

Some mornings you wake up and things just go wrong from the moment you sit up in bed. Maybe itÂ’s something obvious, like you leave the house wearing two different shoes. Maybe you accidentally use your lipliner as your eyeliner (something I confess I did, which explains why someone asked me if I had pink eye). But most of the time, itÂ’s something a little less noticeable, itÂ’s a bad day just because itÂ’s your time to have a bad day.

Here in my world, itÂ’s a bad day today.

There’s no clear cut reason why it’s a bad day, although it doesn’t help that I spilled coffee on my dress and it won’t wash off, leaving me too look like I drizzled some kind of oil down the front of my dress. It doesn’t help that I grabbed the wrong tank top to wear under the dress, and I grabbed one that keeps rolling itself up over my stomach like a scrunchy 1980’s tube sock. It also doesn’t help that I had Kafka dreams all night and woke up feeling absolutely shattered, like I hadn’t slept a wink even though I got a good 7.5 hours worth. It further doesn’t help that I’m bloody furious with someone, which I’ll go into later, but it’s eating up (too much) energy, energy that I don’t really have to spare. Above all, it doesn’t help that I feel my body is letting me down – I’ve been one of those “model Clydesdale horse” pregnant chicks, one in which I’ve been perfectly healthy and looking at whipping out two full-term healthy babies, only to suddenly find that I’m on a very short leash as my body, it obstinately refuses to cooperate.

Mostly, itÂ’s a bad day because the logistics of the world are whipping me.

My visa application went in on Saturday. I still donÂ’t have a diploma but I sent in my academic transcript (signed, sealed, notarized). I donÂ’t have a letter from my university (although IÂ’m still pursuing it) confirming I was taught in English, but in a flash of either inspiration or desperation, I found a report card from my high school years, reflecting courses I was taught in English (and the failing grade I got in honors AP physics. Hey - no oneÂ’s perfect.) All I can do is hope.

I had to head to London to attend a few meetings, and there are no words to describe how tired I am, how stupidly fragile I feel. I feel like IÂ’m on the verge of tears, that any minute now IÂ’m going to topple over the other side. ThereÂ’s nothing specific thatÂ’s set me off, I just feel like an incredible wimp today. IÂ’m a Wimpy Burger. You can pay me Wednesday for a hamburger today.

I was supposed to go to the U.S. Embassy today because my social security card is registered under my maiden name and IÂ’m concerned that I need it in my current name to register the babies as American citizens. Turns out the Embassy closes well before I can get there today, and anyway they cannot change my social security info without my passport which the Home Office has (not to mention I canÂ’t get into the Embassy anyway-I have my phone, my laptop and my Blackberry with me, none of which are allowed in the Embassy. Nice.) But IÂ’m still lacking info from my marriage in Sweden, so I canÂ’t change the name and number anyway.

Between my visa, my kidneys, my pure and total exhaustion and now the social security issues, I had a minor meltdown.

It necessitated in me calling Angus and him talking me back from the ledge.

And it’s all ridiculous – social security may have nothing to do with anything right now, it’s just one of those things I realized in my visa work that I never bothered with, and I’m in my “get the little quacking things all in a row” right now. The visa doesn’t expire for months, enough time to bribe/beg/steal a letter from UTA, as well as get a replacement diploma. It’s not like I’m getting chucked out of the country tomorrow, it’s just easier to file for my visa without dependants.

I’m just clean out of resources. Things that never really bother me, which I usually shrug about and say “Eh…no big deal.”, well, they are bothering me. I can’t handle a lot today. I feel under-equipped. My mind is swamped – babies! Melissa and Jeff! Angus! Work! Visa! Family! Kidneys! Money! House extension! Garden! Logistics! Making sure everyone’s happy! Is everyone happy? Why aren’t they happy? All of these things and more, and not necessarily in the order I listed. I’m blowing a gasket over little things, which is ridiculous – I tend to be a lot lower key. I need to dial it down. I need to…but I can’t. It’s like everything’s come to a head, and it’s doing it today.

Maybe I just need a night of Kafka-free sleep.

Maybe I just need to stop bloody worrying and let things be.

That must be it.

Que sera sera, baby.

-H.

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August 06, 2007

I Had to Walk Uphills Both Ways in the Snow

I had a post ready to go today about the extension (betcha' you're glad I didn't have that one ready yet) but the weekend threw me a curveball.

Saturday night - less than 36 hours after completing my prescribed round of antibiotics - a new infection came back and took me down. I was hit with it all - screaming kidney back pain, bleeding, pleading to god on the toilet - along with new symptoms like ferocious diarrhea, nausea and heavy fatigue (I emerged from the bathroom at one point and wearily announced to Angus: "This house? It's clean." He didn't get it. Obscure reference maybe.)

I stayed in the bath for hours Saturday night as the midwives had recommended bathing because it soothes the insides and actually encourages said compromised insides to wee. So I did. I'm a 33 year-old woman who kept peeing in the bathtub. I was hurting so much that I'm not even remotely embarassed, although suffice to say both myself and the bathtub had a good scrubbing down afterwards.

I went back on antibiotics and am doing better.

I headed into the doctor's office today, where I am on a new regime of antibiotics - this time for 10 days - to fight the infection. The doctor says this is most likely a new infection as all of the antibiotics we threw at the last kidney infection/cystitis would have killed it off.

They told me I would be prone to infections the rest of this pregnancy.

I didn't know they meant that I would be prone to infections within 36 hours of being off of antibiotics from the last infection.

I can't stay on antibiotics for the next 8 weeks, it's not good for me and not so good for the Lemonheads, plus at some point I risk building up a resistance to the antibiotic, at which point I'm fucked. I have to stay on treatment for the infections as I'm at high risk of pre-term labor and septicemia, and kidney infections are the Big Momma of bad news. I also worry about kidney stones coming back, as there's nothing in the whole wide world worse than kidney stones-apparently the top 3 most painful things a person can have is 1) childbirth, 2) kidney stones, and 3) slipped discs. I'm all about the overachieving, but I'm hoping 2007 isn't going to be the year I go all out.

What this all boils down to is this - Melissa arrives tomorrow and we'd planned a trip to Ikea this coming weekend with her to buy picture frames and a few odds and ends. We'll also be buying a crib after all.

Because now even though the babies' estimated due date is the 31st of October, I was told that with twins I'll only make it to 36 weeks, which is the week beginning the 1st of October. But with these kinds of infections I'll be lucky to make it very far at all into September. We're basically looking at the Lemonheads arriving soon. I'm pushing for 32 weeks. Let's try to get to 32 weeks.

They say the third trimester is hard.

They're not kidding.

We haven't really discussed if we'd tell the kids they were IVF babies or not, but it's not really important to either of us that they be told one way or another. I'm sure they'll stumble across paperwork at some point and have some questions, so we may be honest, I dunno. I certainly would never use it against them in a court of "you made my life a living hell". I don't plan on using anything* against them in that way because I've seen what that kind of guilt can do to a person. I may mention that carrying them totalled one of my kidneys temporarily, but I'd never point fingers (even though it's our son that's causing this. I can see I'm going to need to childproof the house from birth for him.)

Sorry about the bitching but I'm not very happy about the latest developments.

-H.

* Except for one instance-the restless leg syndrome has gotten so bad I broke down and bought a bunch of bananas this weekend, which I have been eating. Apparently, they are high in potassium and that battles RLS. I can say it does indeed seem to help, and I blend them into smoothies. But of all foods in the world, one of my most hated foods is bananas. I am eating bananas because of the Lemonheads. So yes, they will be told this one-"Mama loves you so much she ate bananas for you. BANANAS! Now stop complaining about having to watch Adventures in Babysitting, because Mummy wants to relive her youth for a moment."

PS-Many huge, huge thanks to two women who I consider sister-types. To Margi, who along with her family sent the Lemonheads this rattle and this Rainforest Bouncer, which made me cry (in a good way). And to Caltechgirl, who with ZTZCheese sent a box (pics of the contents uploaded here, here, here and here). I love it all, the Lemonheads love it all, and you both made me squeal and cry. Thank you-I love you both.

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August 03, 2007

Bullet Me This

It's one of those awful Friday bullet point days, which you probably hate but I'm not doing "stream of consciousness" very well today, so...um...sorry.


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My visa application is doing my head in, for two big reasons:

1) I cannot find my college diploma anywhere, and unfortunately I kinda' need to send it in. You would think it'd be easy to find, seeing as in typical Texas style the diploma is roughly the size of a small houseboat. I tore the house apart yesterday and am going for it again today. The good news is I do have a sealed official academic transcript proving I graduated and which may or may not suffice, but the fact I can't find my diploma-it's not in the handy box I have, the one under the bed of those documents I will need for a long time still-is whipping me.

2) There are specific visa requirements to "prove" I speak English, and wouldn't you know it, I cannot fulfill one of them.

Seriously.

The Home Office need an official letter from my university stating that my courses and my degree were taught to me in English. This, despite the fact that my degree is from the States, because I still need the letter as the HSMP guidelines dictate "they need this evidence regardless of whether or not the main language from your home country is English."

I complain about this to Angus.

"I got my degree from the University of Texas at Arlington! What the fuck language do they expect I was taught in?" I moan.

"Spanish?" he asks.

"I don't think they teach any courses other than Spanish language and literature courses in Spanish," I reply. "Anyway, I don't speak Spanish. I was too busy learning Russian to try to impress a guy."

I call UTA anyway. It's weird calling the registrar's office there, it seems like a million years ago I went there. I ask about ordering a replacement diploma, which is going to be a complicated procedure as I need to go to a bank here and have them draft me a check for $25, for which I get to pay a £20 fee, meaning I'm paying more in fees than the check is worth all because UTA fear the almighty credit card. I then ask if they can write me an official letter stating that my courses and my degree were given to me in English so that I can fulfill my immigrant criteria in England.

This proves too much for the registrar.

"You want whut?" she asks. I'd forgotten that Texas twang, but I slide right back into it.

"I know it's crazy. I'm sorry. I just need an official letter from you stating the university teaches most of it's classes in English."

"But we have foreign language classes."

"Yes, well, except for those."

"I don't think we can write this letter."

I want to slap people. "Why not?"

"Well, we've never done that before."

I take a deep breath. "Let's think outside of the box, shall we? Just because you've never done this before, why should this mean you can't do it?"

"Well....we just can't. Don't ya'll speak English in England?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you?"

So now I'm waiting to speak to a manager there.

I rang the HSMP helpline and finally, after trying for hours, I get through.

"Hi, I'm struggling a bit with this proving I speak English bit," I say hesitantly. "I've got the diploma," - somewhere - "and I was born and raised in the States. What do I need to do?"

"Do you speak English?" asks the HSMP guy.

Oh. My. Christ. No. No I don't speak English. We're actually in the new The Last Starfighter film and I've just stuck a translator on your collar, I speak Neo-Galactican. Good luck, Starfighter!

"Well, considering we are speaking English on this phone call, I'd tick that box as a yes," I reply.

"Where'd you get your diploma?" he asks.

"The University of Texas at Arlington," I reply.

"They don't teach in Spanish there?" he asks.

Yes! Yes maybe they do! Maybe they all run around calling each other Senor and Senora and all celebrate the Day of the Dead and any other fucking stereotype that you think should apply here, ok? Texas is not one big hotbed of Spanish! I know very little Spanish! If you want, I'll take classes to fix that, but otherwise NO-no my classes weren't taught to me in Spanish!

I'm going to write a cover letter for my application asking the caseworker to please feel free to call me and we can discuss my English qualifications. In English. Then maybe I can prove I speak the language.

Que?


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GOD.

Her uterus must be more stretchy than a Slinky.


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You maybe saw the picture a few days ago of Gorby and I attempting to put together a baby swing that I bought off of ebay.


"Do you know how to put this together? Because I don't."


I asked Angus to take a look at it this morning and I timed him. He put it together in under 3 minutes. Honestly.

Gorby keeps eyeing the swing nervously. I think he thinks we have plans for him with the swing. What he doesn't know is that he'll clear the swing fears just fine, but as soon as I get a diaper big enough to fit the dog all hell will break loose.

Just don't tell the RSPCA.


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We got hit by a terrific raft of spam the other day, so email is just now sorting itself out. If you've sent a mail and I haven't replied, I should find it today through the hundreds of offers of Viagra (we have some, thanks) and notifications that I've won the lottery (Angus and I have a running tally to see whose email account gets the most money in these. So far he's winning, but I'm hoping the Nigerian emails I'm getting start kicking up the money count.)


*************************


We have officially entered the third trimester, and all I keep thinking is How the hell did I make it this far?

Maybe you're tired of hearing about the Lemonheads, but they're a big part of my mindset right now. This isn't going to be a Mommy Blog but it is a blog about whatever it is I think or feel needs to come out, and right now, perhaps with health scares, perhaps because we've reached the point where they have odds for survival if they arrive, they're on my mind a fair amount.

Next week is one of those banner weeks-I'll be 28 weeks pregnant then. 28 weeks is one of those theoreticals for twins in that theoretically if you hit 28 weeks the babies have a 90% chance of surviving. The fact that they've had massive doses of steroids to develop their lungs will help those statistics. And yes, it doesn't mean that all babies apply to this, it's a general, but there's some kind of comfort in knowing that should it all go pear-shaped, they may make it. They're incredibly active babies (especially the girl) and I wonder how this translates to when they're born-will they be as active out as they are in?

The reality is we're looking at them arriving in about 8 weeks time.

8 weeks.

That's it.

As far as Angus and I, we're both still sometimes struggling with the absolute enormity of what's coming. We're nervous and scared. But there are small signs that we're beginning to prepare ourselves for what's coming. I know-you're probably thinking "You have 8 weeks to go, you're just now preparing yourselves?" but we're maybe not an ordinary couple. So far we have the twin stroller, two Fisher Price Aquarium swings I bought on ebay, a bathtub, blankets courtesy of Angela and Statia and clothes/diapers courtesy of Statia, April, and my sister-in-law. Maybe that's plenty, I dunno, but the nursery hasn't even been started let alone posture itself as ready. We don't have the crib or the bedding. We've agreed to buy a travel crib to have around just in case they come early, but we'd rather not tempt fate just yet.

A long time ago I bought one of these. Moulin Roty is a French company with the world's softest, most incredible-feeling toys ever . I bought this rabbit, which has remained hidden under the bed with a green pen and various other bits and pieces, and I promised myself that the bunny (called Lola) would get used. And she will, when the babies come. I also promised myself that I would get this one to accompany Lola so that there will be one for each baby. I haven't bought the toy yet but I will, when I feel confident. Each baby will have one. And maybe it's something that will mean something only to me, I don't know, but it feels important to me.

Angus, for his part, has been looking at Angus-like things for the babies. He's figured out how he's going to do the lighting for the nursery. And he's ordered an IP tilt and pan webcam that will go on the babies wall above their crib, so that family members can log in via a very secure, heavily protected site and can see the babies whenever they want.

We have different ways of acceptance.

Yesterday Angus was on Skype to Jill, and he called me as she wanted to see my stomach. I agreed to show it on the webcam on the proviso that no fat jokes were made (you'd be shocked how many fat jokes I get, it really wears me out). She agreed and so I went on camera. Angus smiled and showed me, and he put his hands out and held my stomach. "It's really firm and very neat and tidy, isn't it?" he asked, holding my very round stomach. He was smiling. I'm not a big one for having people touch my stomach, but it's one of the first times he's voluntarily touched my bump since it appeared.

Sitting here in front of millions of lit-up pixels, I cannot tell you how absolutely amazing it felt to have him touch me like that. It made something inside of me glow, and I've been holding the glow all night now. Maybe I'm not as tightly bound inside as I thought I was.

I wouldn't say that we've become completely one with the idea of being parents to two babies, it's not cigars in the waiting room and me prancing around showing off my stomach to all and sundry, he hasn't "come around" and I'm not composing an iterative list of baby names in my head. But maybe we have small things we want for the babies, and those small things may become big things in time, and for now we talk about how to handle things when they arrive and that, for us, is the biggest step yet.


Still Working Towards Acceptance.

-H.

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August 02, 2007

Ordinary Life

Life for me is not all grand, exciting trips around the Scottish Hebrides, black tie dinners, and dramatic hospital recoveries. The black tie dinners have dried up now that I'm on much less prestigious projects - but less prestigious means far less stress and less having to work 6 days a week for 16 hours a day, and that was a change I embrace whole-heartedly. The hospital recovery had damn well better be a one-off. And although we do get to have trips around the Hebrides which I am hideously grateful for, we're now settled in for a summer of being at home.

My life really is generally about the day-to-day logistics-daily life, making dinner, serving my function in life as She Who Must Throw the Gorby Squeaky Toy Because It's a Game He Never Tires Of, and working. Work in itself is ok-my new projects are a bit busy but not stupid busy. I should work harder than I have been in the past few weeks (my colleague called me yesterday asking if I'd completed my technical requirements document. The truth is, I haven't even written the damn thing. I told him it needed proof-reading and I'd send it to him later today. My lie has bought me time enough to whip something up, which doesn't explain why I'm drinking cranberry juice and writing this blog post instead of writing my requirements doc.)

I really tend to lead a pretty normal, day-to-day life. I've been taking a lot of baths as they help ease my aches. My growing stomach doesn't go underwater anymore, not in any way, shape or form. I know how Dolly Parton must feel now when she floats on her back. I light up some vanilla incense. which always makes Angus comment about our 190's love child flower power pad and we resort to calling the bathroom "Helen's Opium Den" for a short while, and if Angus is upstairs, as he has been lately while he rebuilds one of our three computers, then we talk back and forth. I always read a book in the bath, and sometimes chat about it with Angus.

"Hey! Wanna hear a vegetarian joke?" I call from the bathtub, having just read a joke in the book I'm reading.

"Is there such a thing?" he replies.

"Yeah! OK, so here it is! How many vegetarians does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" I call.

"UmmmÂ…two. One to screw it in and the other to talk about their feelings?"

I pause, then bust out laughing. "No, actually, that's not it. Your answer was funnier. The answer is: 'I don't know, but where do you get your protein?'"

Silence.

Crickets.

Then from him: "Lightbulbs are a very serious matter, you know. Nothing to be joked about."

See? Ordinary life. Ordinary life includes getting the house extension going (more on that later, I'm sure you're hanging on with bated breath). It includes drying out from the never-ending rain that has been called our summer. Although we live 30 minutes from some of the flood areas we're on a slightly higher elevation and are nowhere near any water. Because of this we didn't get any flooding at our house but in one corner of the living room we have some hearty water damage as our poor little gutters just couldn't take the onslaught of water. Luckily that will be dealt with in the extension.

Two big logistical issues I'm dealing with are the aforementioned house plans, and my visa extension.

My work visa (an HSMP visa) expires in February, but since we're not going to be travelling for some months now it's a good time to send in my application. That, and I confess-the situation gets more difficult once I have dependants. As I don't currently have dependants, my case is cut and dried, so it's a good time to get it done.

Only wouldn't you know it-the government changed the rules last year (because I'm an immigrant, and as we all know, immigrants are BAD. We're a drain on society. We serve no purpose, even ones like me who are unfortunately in the UK's highest tax bracket, which makes me shudder because seriously-I'm no JK Rowling here. I'm definitely not earning money hand over fist.) Where I should now have something called Unlimited Leave to Remain in March 2008 (also known as permanent residency), I new get the pleasure of having to extend my visa for one more year, meaning I have a 17 page form to fill out (new this year), I have a host of documents to send in (new this year) and I get to pay £350 (also new this year, up from the £100 I paid before.) Plus I have to prove that I speak English, either in the form of sending in proof that I went to a school taught in English or I have to sit an English exam. Angus is keen that I sit the exam, as he says it will waste the government's time and money and he would like nothing more than getting his own back at them, but I'm keen to just get the process done.

So I've printed out the 17 page visa extension application with an eye to getting it off in the post tomorrow, as I have to get some passport sized photos of me to include in the application. I'm a little nervous, mostly because anything this serious makes me nervous, but not overwhelmngly so-I did a quick tally of the points and I qualified again under the HSMP details. It's demoralizing though-I was hoping to finally get to be a human being but really, I'm just an amalgamation of points.

The whole thing is very, very tiring and intrusive. I also have to send in my passport and be without it while my application is being considered, and I know it doesn't seem like a big deal, but my passport has been a major factor in my life for the past 9 years. It's stupid - and I swear I'm not being pretentious here - but I feel naked without it. I'm a foreigner here, and that blue embossed passport is one of my anchors to who I am and where I can go. The questions on the form are detailed and need back-up evidence everywhere you turn. An example of some of the questions:

Name: Helen Adelaide

Age: 33, but I'm told I'm a youthful 33.

Do you own your home: Not yet. You making me an offer here?

Are you employed: Yes. And Satan has not yet come to collect my soul on that count.

Please describe your educational background: I got me some learning. I went to school. I mostly remember my college years no less, and we're talking a haze of estrogen-related rage here, people. OK, so the degree is in anthropology and French. You never specified it had to be a useful degree, not at all.

Do you have any dependants: I have the world's dumbest but most lovable dog and the Angriest Cat Known to Man. Also, Angus is very dependant on me. He can never find his reading glasses, if you get rid of me he'll die in the confines of the hallway, never having found his glasses so unable to read if the lock says "Locked" or "Unlocked". And he's a British citizen! Do you want to contribute to a loss of one of the Queen's own? Huh? DO YOU?

What color is your wee: Not applicable.

Have you ever been convicted of genocide: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

This is serious!: Sorry, I wasn't making light, I just couldn't believe you have that on the form. What, did Milosevic try to get in the country a lot to work as an accountant or something? But no. No I haven't been convicted. Or even tried genocide, actually. But there are a few anthills I knocked out in the front garden, I'm pretty sure that the Antz population are up in arms. Does that count?

Do you fantasize about being in a Harry Potter novel: No, but I confess I nearly fantastized about Harry Potter once I saw those Equus posters, but then I remembered how old he was.

Please submit evidence of financial activity in the UK, such as official bank statements: Actually, most banks (including mine) do online statements, which I choose as I want to save the environment. What, am I going to be penalized because I'm a tree hugger? Is that it? Save the planet, save the world! Wanna' hear a vegetarian joke?

-H.

PS-Some folks have been kindly asking about a wishlist. It's proven to be a logistical nightmare too, so I've simply updated my own wishlist at the top of my webpage, and I think it should be working ok. I am not trying to pimp myself here, honest (although I can be bought. These days all it takes is some Fig Newtons and I'm your girl.)

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:25 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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August 01, 2007

The End

OK, this is the non-spoiler part. This part, above the jump. So no spoilers here, promise.

Melissa and I bought our copies of Harry Potter at the world's tiniest bookshop on the Isle of Mull. Truthfully, we hadn't expected to be able to buy them until we made our way out of the Hebrides, but lo and behold opposite the Isle of Iona there is a tiny bookshop. Said bookshop had Harry Potter-they had, in fact, opened at midnight the night before to sell it, and we got stamped verification of the book number we bought (I got book #55 from Fingal Arts and Crafts, Fionnphort. I think that's kinda' cool.)

Melissa started reading immediately but due to the fact that I am a grown-up who gets carsick I had to wait until the evenings. That night Melissa and I read our books and Jeff watched Star Wars movies on DVD. Angus declared us very boring indeed.

Melissa and I agreed from the start-we would not discuss the book until we'd both finished, neither of us would indicate where we were in the book or what was going on, and neither of us would discuss details until done. Angus had other ideas-bored off his rocker with us he'd grill us about the book, despite being one of the "I Can't Stand Harry Potter Club". So Melissa and I got sneaky.

We made shit up.

"What's just happened?" Angus would ask Melissa in the rearview mirror.

"Hermione's turned into a giant!" she said excitedly (relax-this is not a spoiler. This is the stuff we made up to throw Angus.)

"I haven't gotten to that part yet!" I'd reply.

"What part are you at?"

"Harry is teaching Ron and Hagrid Mermish!" I'd lie.

"Mermish? What the hell is that?" Angus would ask.

"Mermaid language," I'd explain.

"Oooh, very complicated," Melissa would intone.

"Isn't the book getting far-fetched now?" Angus would ask, confused.

We did this a lot. Throughout our lies, the following happened: Hermione died, Dumbledore died ("Didn't he die in the last one?" Angus asked. "No, Daddy, he died, was resurrected, then died again," Melissa explained), Hogwarts burnt to the ground, and Ron became a merman (or merperson. Whichever.) It was a fun game.

But then came the point where we both finished the book, and Melissa took it apart piece by piece (actually past the point of interesting in some ways but when you're 15, in a car, and in love with Harry Potter, I think there is no such thing as too much Harry Potter discussion). Which we can do here, below the jump-I have yet to see a site where people are discussing the book, so we can do it here if you'd like as I've read it and Angus (who also reads my blog and comments) could care less about the book.

So warning-don't click on the link "Want more?" if you do not want to know about the book. This also applies to the comments-comments will open up the extended entry. So I am warning you-below are spoilers. Click at your own risk*.

Seriously.

Don't click on the below if you haven't finished the book, as I go into some detail.

*This level of warning means I am free and clear, I have indemnity (at least in the state of Maryland).
more...

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:55 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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July 31, 2007

The Hurricane

I remember seeing a TV show once - I can't remember which one it was - but it was set on a Caribbean island with the threat of an oncoming hurricane. Said hurricane was blustery, tragic, and very dangerous. The islanders, in the move that was either a pure myth or an act of courage, tied themselves to trees in order to face the onslaught of the violent storm.

That's kinda' what our house was like as we got ready to launch Operation Duck and Cover.

Operation Duck and Cover is what I called the point in which the ex-wife (aka, the one I call the Swunt) was informed about the Lemonheads. I think every single one of us knew it was going to be unpopular. It was without a doubt that I knew she would be displeased in one way or another-I know she wanted a large family and Angus didn't (and still doesn't). It's not like I'm tremendously bothered she's upset-while I honestly don't want her to be upset because she's an important part of Melissa and Jeff's life (and she's a person to boot), I do have a feeling that seriously-life goes on, whether we want it to or not, and often the "not" means that adjustments have to be made. It's also a little hard to feel too sympathetic to a woman who takes great apparent joy out of soundly trashing my name and Angus' to anyone who will even remotely listen.

Angus discussed at length with the kids about how to handle things. After my father and stepfather, the kids were the first to learn about the pregnancy when we were all on holiday in Mexico. Their reactions were overall very positive, if in need of a little bit of reinforcement and support, which we give readily. We involve them as much as they want to be involved in the new babies' lives. Jeff in particular is very proactive about the babies and fully plans on adopting his upcoming new baby sister (he says because this way he can "stop a little girl from turning out like his sister". Whatever his reason, I find it very touching.)

Despite the pressure from Angus' Mum and his nosy parker brother, he felt the only input he needed with regards to telling his ex was from his kids, as they're the ones who have to live with the ex. The kids and Angus agreed that the best plan of action was to tell the ex while both kids were over here in Scotland. This so that she could have time to recover and repair her emotions, if need be, and so that neither of them were in the eye of the storm. Jeff in particular is an extremely, incredibly, ferociously sensitive young man. You never know what it is that's upset him but things get into him and they go very deep, to the point where he goes off the rails easily.

Angus drafted an email. He asked for my input. I added some, none of it negative. We then had a draft of an email that we felt was as hurricane proof as our tin shed could be-it outlined that lives move on, that he wants nothing but her happiness and would never want to hurt her, that he will be a father again but no matter what Melissa and Jeff are a huge, incredible priority for him and nothing will change that, and that he cares about his ex's feelings and respects her. We readied.

Then, when they were here, we sent it off.

He got a calm, composed email the next day. The ex wanted more detail. She wanted to know who else knew about the babies. She wanted to know when the babies were expected to be here. She wanted to know where the babies come from.

The "where they come from" fucked me off more than anything. I understood immediately that she thought we were adopting two children from abroad. Angus didn't elaborate on that point as he felt it was none of her goddamn business "where" the babies came from. He told her that the babies were coming the end of October. He told her that the children and his immediate family had been told. He again said he hoped that she wasn't hurt.

Then we heard nothing. We started loosening the knots from our ropes binding us to the palm trees. The hurricane, it seemed, was just a blustery day.

Just as the ropes came unbound, Melissa and Jeff went home, and it turned out the hurricane was over on their side of the water the entire time. Because neither Angus, nor his family, nor I paid for it.

Melissa did.

And days later, she's still under attack.

Apparently it started as soon as she got off the airplane. True, it was an evening flight and the kids were tired so the moods couldn't have been brilliant, but Melissa said things were wrong from minute 1. I was in the hospital then but Angus started getting text messages from her, and things escalated wildly out of control.

The long and short of it is this-Melissa faced the brutal storm of her mother's anger alone. Jeff escaped unscathed, but Melissa's insistence that she supports her father, me, and the Lemonheads has made her life there a living hell. The Swunt is adamant that Angus should have rung her at the earliest stage of my pregnancy and informed her of it in order to "limit the trauma on the children" (her words, not mine). And the truth is, the children aren't traumatized in the least-trust me, we check on this aspect constantly. They're more traumatized by the upcoming extension and chaos that will cause their visits here than they are a new brother and sister. His ex is also furious Angus didn't consult with her on the engagement before doing so.

"Shall I call her to see if I should have decaf or regular coffee tomorrow morning?" Angus asked grimly, on finding this out. "Because I clearly cannot make a single decision without calling her to confirm my choices."

The incredible amount of verbal violence over there has been incessant. Melissa's now off-line at a horse camp with her mother and brother and has no mobile coverage. She and Angus had been talking very regularly and texting often, him trying to calm her down and tell her we are here for her. We spoke briefly while I was in the hospital. She told me how hard it was there, how her mother's constant abuse about the situation was never-ending, that her mother is now re-hashing every sin that Angus may have committed ever and is wielding those like verbal numchucks.

I am still working on this stepmother thing. It's not always easy, but it's part of my job now, and a part I won't give up on. The big part of being a stepmom that I battle with is you have to know what to say and what not to say. Somehow, this is done intuitively. Somehow, this is done by rote, so that you do not cut great swaths across a family.

I do not say: Your mother is a fucking mess. You did nothing wrong. This isn't your fault that I'm pregnant. It's no one's fault but my own, as I am regularly reminded of. I broke this. I broke all of this, everywhere. It's just me. She's being a selfish bitch who's blinded by pain and fury and although she has every right to feel pain and fury she has no right to take it out on you. She doesn't deserve to have you two. She paints your father to be an adultering bastard who left her soul to bleed but the truth is she leeched out his happiness a long time ago and when they split she took every friend and family member he had as her own. Tell her to fuck herself. Repeatedly. And I'll send you that lip gloss I found for you.

But that would be continuing the cycle. That would be yet another on the world's longest list of reasons for therapy, that's the women of my past and the women of her past sitting around the kitchen table, wrecking a 15 year-old for her own chance of being free from the cycles that just never end. I want to cave to the siren call of my vicious rage but I know the result would be disastrous. I wouldn't say these things to Melissa, no matter how angry with her mother I am. I wouldn't do it to her just as I look back at who I was once and wish I could be there for her, too. It all has to end somewhere.

"Babe," I told her softly, fiddling with the tubes on my IV and trying to keep my voice low and even. "Your mother's hurting. I know it's not right that it's being taken out on you, it should be taken out on your daddy and me, and it's misplaced anger. I once had parents who were often on the warpath with each other, so do you want some advice? If you can, just listen to her being upset without taking it all in. DonÂ’t let it get to you. Don't feel you need to fight for your daddy or me, because we know how you feel. She needs to get some things out of her and maybe she just needs to know you're there to listen because she loves you and she's hurting. Just let her vent, and even if you don't agree with it, don't let it hurt you. Do you want to try that?"

"I can try that," she said. "Maybe that will help."

I have no idea if it's helped or not. We won't hear from them for another two days. The last words we heard were that things were still bad.

A hurricane I can face. The winds, they don't bother Angus or me. We've been through it all before and will undoubtedly face it again-the babies will be born. We'll get married at some point. Melissa and Jeff will get married to their own partners at some point. The Swunt and I will have to face each other (at which point I will be tranquilized. And I will have starved myself to a size 6, so help me God, before that woman and I are face to face over a white wedding cake.) We can take a lot. But what we can't take is knowing that the kids are facing grief that they don't deserve, I cannot accept a child getting pain for something they didn't do. I get it that the ex is hurt. I know. I do feel bad. But more than that, I feel a white hot rage that she would take it out on her kids like that, and all I want to do is damage control, which is hard to do when you're on bed rest and they're at horse camp facing a category 5.

-H.

PS-Yup, I did finish Harry Potter. Finished the day before the hospital admission, in fact. More to come on that, too.

PPS-As ever, if you have something negative to say about the ex, please try to keep it constructive. While I'd like nothing more than a bitch session at a bar, it won't help Angus, who's the one trying to manage the situation.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:35 AM | Comments (33) | Add Comment
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July 30, 2007

Exhausted

I'd been struggling. Really struggling, like uphill salmon in the stream struggling. I'm prone to panic and depression lately as I try to figure out what's what. I'm over the moon that I'm going to be a mother but the overwhelmingness that is twins and the impact of twins has been taking its toll-financial worries, emotional worries, worries from a pure space perspective...it's all exhausting. Plus we had Operation Duck and Cover last week (more on that soon, but suffice to say that no matter how bad I thought it would be, the response far exceeded my negative expectations.) No matter where I turned it was darkness about the babies. Everywhere.

Even with me.

I had a minor meltdown Wednesday afternoon after the midwife appointment, when I couldn't answer basic questions. I have no idea how much to feed a baby. I don't know how to burp a baby. I don't know how to settle a baby and I don't know how to handle months of no sleep and if one more fucking person cracks a joke about how having twins means never sleeping agan I swear to God I'm going to hurt them in a very profound and permanent way. I was so overwhelmed I was drowning. The midwife pronounced the babies and I healthy and in good shape. Angus and I had a heated discussion, mostly because I'm in that "nesting" stage and not a damn thing has been done about their nursery, nor is there any sign of doing so, and it was such a priority in my head it was a neon flashing sign screaming "You don't know what you're doing, you dumb bitch!"

I was so tired of feeling so negative about absolutely everything.

A lot has been happening.

So on our return from Scotland on Wednesday (after the midwfie), we decided to take the kids to the movies with Angus' brother and his 5 year-old daughter. When we got to the theatre, I had to go to the bathroom, but unusually for me, when I got there nothing came out. At all. The entire movie passed (The Simpsons Movie, which I recommend) and my bladder felt so full I was going to burst. I rushed to the bathrooms after the film but once again...nothing.

I knew I had a problem then.

I told Angus, who conferred with me as we drove to his brother's house, where we were all due for a curry. We decided to bow out of the curry as Angus and the kids piled into the car and they dropped me off at our hospital, and Angus would feed the kids, settle them into bed, then come back for me.

Only he never got to come back for me. I was admitted on the spot, as by the time I'd gotten to the hospital I was passing blood, blood clots, and in so much pain I couldn't hold still. They checked my cervix and told me that the door, she was shut, and that the Lemonheads weren't currently on their way. But I was admitted because it was a real risk-the doctors were certain I had some kind of infection brewing, and in pregnancy infections can cause pre-term labor. They were so serious about it that I was promptly started on hardcore steroid injections designed to develop the Lemonheads' lungs as fast as possible, because there was a chance they would be coming.

On Wednesday I was 26 weeks pregnant exactly.

The babies are healthy and active, but they're not large. They're long and lean, but don't weight enough to have great odds. Their birth would have been a bad thing.

By 3 am I was settled in the maternity ward, in the antenatal wing. I was on heavy antibiotics. They gave me only paracetamol (Tylenol) to take. I spent most of that night on the toilet screaming in pain, passing blood clots with worrying frequency.

The next morning they took me for a renal scan. The doctors were convinced I had something wrong with my plumbing (wonder how they guessed.) My kidneys are squashed high up in my ribcage now, courtesy of my handbag uterus toting two little tykes. A scan revealed my right kidney was badly affected by hydronephrosis, a condition the doctors feel will clear up as soon as the babies are born and my organs re-settle where they belong. The hydronephrosis has resulted in a severe kidney infection.

Over the next few days, the kidney infection spread to cystitis, because misery loves company and because if it can go wrong, it will.

On Friday it all got much worse.

The ward was very, very busy. Women were going into labor everywhere. I stayed on the IV antibiotics and trudged painfully to the toilet often, hoping and praying I'd get to pee. The antibiotics weren't working fast-the strain of infection I have needed the one antibiotic I'm allergic to, so the alternate antibiotic was taking its sweet time. On the way back from the toilet I had a massive Braxton Hicks contraction.

But the contraction didn't go away.

I was soon doubled over in pain. I asked a nice midwife for some paracetamol and she said she'd bring me some. Before she could, two more women went into labor, and when the woman next to me started off for her C-section, a midwife passing by took one look at my face and then rushed to my side. By this time I was rolling around the bed in agony, sharp knife-like pains shooting up my back and my stomach one hard massive fist of uterus. I was surrounded by midwives as they swamped me with kit. My blood pressure was 145/100, a number that's extraordinarily high for someone like me who has very low blood pressure. The babies had stopped moving or I couldn't feel them through my steel trap uterus, I wasn't sure, but there was nothing happening in there.

I didn't know it at the time, but they rang down and cleared a bed in the delivery room for me. They were sure I was going into labor. I'm glad they didn't tell me that. I knew that the concern was I was going into labor, which again would have been a disaster, but I didn't know they were that sure I was headed there.

Then they got the monitor out to listen to the heartbeats.

They couldn't find them.

They kept trying. They barked orders for ultrasound kit. They passed looks with each other.

And I felt a kind of agony inside that I've never felt before, not ever. I'm a pessimist to the highest degree. I expect the worst to happen and I generally brace myself for it. But nothing in my whole tiny, insignificant little world, prepared me for the moment when the heartbeats of my children couldn't be heard. There is nothing in my little handbook of life that tells me how to handle that single moment when I learn that my children are gone. And there aren't enough synonyms to tell you how I felt in that moment, a moment which still seems suspended in time, and which will in the darkest of nights come back to me, unbidden, unwanted.

An ultrasound was found, and the babies were picked up. The one on the left - our daughter, the very active baby - had her heartbeat right away. She wasn't moving and was showing a high heartbeat level, but as I was in distress she was reacting to it. It took a minute to find our son's heartbeat on the scan, but soon enough they did.

And even though I was still thrashing on the bed in pain, I didn't care anymore. They were alive. That's all I cared about. It was as complicated and simple as that-they were alive. Nothing else mattered.

It transpired that the ureter between my right kidney and the bladder was now so compacted that stones were forming. The massive pain and symptoms I had weren't the babies coming early but of kidney stones coming. I felt incredibly stupid for the whole drama being caused over some kidney stones.

I've never had kidney stones before and I'd heard they were painful, but seriously? You know what I'd say about kidney stones? I've got one word. Motherfucker. Because that's the only thing that your brain can squeak out when those bad boys appear.

They broke out the party pack of grown-up painkillers, and for the next two days the babies and I slept through a haze of narcotics.

There are many things I will never forget-the kind smile and comforting hand of a midwife as she inserted a catheter on Saturday to help ease me. The feeling of alternating between fever and chill of infection. The resultant kicks the Lemonheads would reward me with when they heard other newborns on the ward. But one thing I'll remember is late Saturday, after Angus had left upon the closing of visiting hours. I hadn't felt the babies in a while, the drugs were making us all too drowsy, and I worried about them because if you don't feel them for a while you imagine the worst, so I got out my iPod.

There's a song I heard by chance when this IVF round started. I heard it and I listened to it constantly, as it's a sweet, calming, pure song that goes in one ear and right out the top of your toe, massaging every nerve in comfort on its way out. I listened to this song through the shots, the surgeries, the positives, the scans, the scares. This song has been with the Lemonheads since before their existence. I got the headphones and placed one beside one baby, one beside the other.

I hit play.

I heard the song myself as I watched the slide move, indicating the song was playing.

I waited.

And waited.

Then I felt it - a flutter from the left. A kick from the right. Mama, we're sleepy.

I smiled as the song ended, then plugged the iPod into my own ears and fell back asleep listening to the song.

My priorities have changed. The nursery no longer matters to me. The babies can have a crib in the study for all I care, maybe it's not painted, maybe nothing matches, maybe nothing looks perfect. It's not important. My "high-risk" pregnancy truly has gone high risk now, as although we're still working to clear my infections the hydronephrosis has me facing huge chances the infections will happen again. With infection comes the risk of pre-term labor. We really are at the point of counting down days, trying to get to a place of greater safety. From here on the babies will get scanned every two weeks as will my kidneys. I'm uncomfortable and in pain, actually. I'm exhausted and my body is in shit shape from fighting infection. I get tired walking from one room to another, and I breathe like a bulldog from the exertion of it all. I'll get better, I'm sure. As the infections finally go away I'll feel better and I will hopefully stop sounding like a pug dog.

And what's important to me is Angus' kids. And the Lemonheads. And above all, Angus himself (who busted me out of there yesterday and is taking care of me at home now). And everything else can wait and take a back seat while I bury my face in the smell of it all and inhale as deeply as I can. My feeling of being overwhelmed has blown over in a storm that consisted of electric beds, pink striped uniforms and needles. Instead I have a steady throb of greatest affection and of hope.

Many huge, huge thanks to Ilyka for being a fantastic guest poster and a great friend. I can never repay you babe. How about a round of applause for her?

Thanks for being great out there. Thanks for the well-wishes. Thanks for the support.

And thanks to the midwives out there, with their kind eyes and gentle hands. I appreciate you.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:34 AM | Comments (36) | Add Comment
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July 27, 2007

In Hospital

That, I'm afraid, is where Helen is right now (as some of you may already know). She's okay, if by "okay" you mean "laid up with hydronephrosis secondary to a kidney infection." The doctors are weighing whether to do surgery to drain the fluid, but first, that infection has got to go.

The twins are fine as of this writing, but obviously this is an unwelcome development.

Helen, get well. We're all pulling for you and the Lemonheads.

UPDATE 29 July 2007: Just had an email from her with two whole words in it, but they were the right words: "I'm home." I'll let Helen take it from here, guys, and thanks so much for not throwing rotten tomatoes at me. You've all been heaps of fun.

Posted by: Ilyka at 09:36 AM | Comments (33) | Add Comment
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July 26, 2007

Two Stories

I don't feel as though I've contributed much during my time here (it would have been nice, for example, had I remembered when I agreed to guest-blog for Helen that I was going to be out of town without internet access for a couple of days during the same time she was absent), but luckily this is the internet and so I found a couple of pieces by others that you might like to read.

They are stories, haunting and somewhat melancholy stories, but beautifully crafted ones, and I don't think either will leave you too bummed out.

The Pond, by Chris Clarke at Creek Running North:

Gregory lived in the tall grass now, but Leah could not find him. She peered between the clumps of big bluestem, called him out into the rocky clearing at the pondÂ’s edge, but he did not answer her. Her right arm buzzed bright with pain, pink and fiery, concentric arcs where red metal had branded her the day before.

She looked for him among the cattails, their fat seed heads burst open and bleeding down. He wasnÂ’t there. There were only the cattail shoots and sedges between them, their stems bespattered with drying duckweed blown up onto them in last nightÂ’s storm.

Emerging Bones, by Theriomorph:

I was dizzy all the time and kept having this problem with all the oxygen in the world disappearing very suddenly and the concomitant sensation of a vacuum around me that imploded my chest and then I couldnÂ’t breathe and everything would go dim and fuzzy except the jagged violence of my own heartbeat which would grow deafening, aggressive, a crashing of horror and rage that dragged my vision down some long tunnel into tiny pinpricks of red, throbbing in irregular beat.

They call these panic attacks, of the Post Traumatic Stress variety.

This happened when I woke up from the dreams of pushing his dirt-encrusted tongue back into his mouth, or giant animals made out of metal crushing him at forestÂ’s edge, or searching for his killer on high hills and because I wasnÂ’t succeeding Shalom was fading from my sight and from the world.

Pop over, see if you like them. Both authors write rings around me, and yet it's impossible for me to hate them, because I am not really a writer; I am a blogger, and a reader, and oh, how I love to read a good story or two.

Posted by: Ilyka at 07:28 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 411 words, total size 3 kb.

Apocalypse Aftermath

I'm not trying to depress anyone, but I think I might actually buy this book, The World without Us, now that I've read the hype in Scientific American and viewed the timeline of what happens to New York City once you vaporize all the people out of it.

I am a fun person to be around! You should invite me to all your parties!

I can't help it. I find this stuff fascinating. Oh, but quick note before anyone gets on me about it: Yes, I'm aware that Scientific American is considered a lightweight science publication; start my boyfriend's physicist brother on the subject sometime if you have all day and nothing better to do. Then, for bonus points, mock him behind his back because oh sure, that lame Scientific American, so lightweight--yet he's written articles for FOX News, of all places, and since when is THAT outfit a respected scientific authority?

Anyway, this will not be a rigorous scientific analysis. Why do I even have to say that? Because it's the internet.

No, I'm really just fascinated by the whole "and then there were none" idea. No more us. I don't know why I'm fascinated by it; shouldn't it wig me out or make me a little depressed? After all, I'm not a nihilist, nor am I a believer in the Rapture. Humanity's destruction is not something I look forward to. I didn't mark it on my calendar with half a page of Strawberry Shortcake stickers and little hearts drawn in red felt-tip, you know?

I don't want humanity to go boom, but on some level I guess I accept that it's going to. We're going to. Nothing lasts forever, although speculation is that fragments of St. Paul's Cathedral could endure for 15,000 years after we check out. The Brooklyn Bridge only gets 300 years of post-humanity survival; the subway system, a whopping two days. Did you know they're continually pumping water out of the subways? It's true--they pump out about 13 million gallons a day. Cut the power to the pumps and WHOOSH, it floods quick.

I always thought of New York City's subway system as an astounding achievement (and it is, I'm not taking anything away from it), but it's also a very fragile thing, like so many other human achievements. And just as we often do with most human achievements, we focus more on how impressive the whole thing is than on how fragile, how temporary, how dependent on our upkeep it really is.

And never even mind New York. What's London going to look like a century after everyone's gone? Rio de Janeiro? Hong Kong? Ooh, I'll bet Hong Kong becomes a real mess. It all becomes a real mess for a long time after, while the earth struggles to clean up after us and rebuild herself. And then, just as the hideous giant cockroaches are forming a symbiotic relationship with irradiated barnacles, the sun expands and blows everything up for permanent.

This stuff used to depress me when I was little. I would get sad. "But I'll miss us," one-half my brain would think. "But you won't be here to miss anything," the other, more reasonable half would counter. "But someone should miss us." "Who? And why?"

That's a good question. Why should anything else on earth miss us? (Besides pets. Let's pretend, for the purposes of not having me start bawling right here at the keyboard, that pets get Rapturized or whatever at exactly the same time we do.)

Yet I think it would be nice if we were missed, or at least noticed, after our departure. Maybe it's irrational of me, but I find it cheering to read that bronze sculptures could last millions of years, maybe ten million. I want to say, "Artists! Commence working in bronze immediately! The giant cockroaches must have reminders of us. Sculpt us wielding mighty cans of Raid, sculpt us with one foot raised and poised to stomp, sculpt us with broom and dustpan, triumphantly dumping into the trash bin dozens of maimed and murdered cockroaches."

I don't mind so much that we go. It's the part where the giant cockroaches take over that bothers me. I just don't like those ugly little bastards to win anything, not even a used-up planet full of plutonium 239.

Posted by: Ilyka at 10:21 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 724 words, total size 5 kb.

July 24, 2007

Where Are You From?

This was an easy question for me to answer as a child the first time we moved. It stayed manageable the second time. By the third time, however, this started happening:

"Where are you from?"

"New Jersey."

"You don't sound like you're from New Jersey."

"Well, that's where I'm from originally. I moved here from San Diego."

It went no better if instead of "New Jersey" I just said "San Diego," if you were about to suggest that.

"Oh, my aunt lives there! Do you know [something I would only know if I'd lived there all my life]?"

"Uh, no. We only lived there the last year and a half or so."

"Oh. Well, where'd you live before that?"

You can see how things got tedious in a hurry, right? more...

Posted by: Ilyka at 09:07 AM | Comments (33) | Add Comment
Post contains 624 words, total size 4 kb.

July 20, 2007

Greetings from Your Very Apologetic Guestblogger

WAIT! Don't click off. At least let me say that I understand why you want to. I do!

I've been starting my Monday-through-Friday mornings with Helen's posts for four years now. Everyday Stranger is one of the few blogs I read where I honestly don't care what its author chooses to write about. I read Everyday Stranger because I like Helen, plain and simple. I like her writing style, I love her intimacy--you know what I'm talking about, don't you? There really is no substitute for Helen.

Hmm. Now I'm starting to depress myself.

I don't comment very much here, except sometimes to gush (over Helen) and sometimes to holler (at people I feel are being mean to Helen). I am good at the hollering. I had an email from a friend a few weeks ago that summed me up perfectly, though my friend was talking about herself: She said, "I come from a yelling family." That's me. I come from a yelling family.

Even the most obstinate descendants of yelling families, however, can burn out, and currently I am burnt out on the yelling. Besides, it's rude to holler at the regulars when one is a guest on another person's weblog. So be of good cheer! I have no plans to holler at anyone unless you insult Helen; and then, look out.

Oh, to hell with me! Let's just declare this a Love Helen Friday, can we? You can leave a comment telling me what YOU enjoy about Everyday Stranger (I know I copped out up there by more or less saying "everything," but I trust you will all do better than that), and that will be really nice for Helen to read when she gets back, right? I mean, I didn't tell her I was going to do anything like this. I just thought it up right now because my melatonin's kicking in (I keep odd hours) and my brain is checking out.

Plus, it'll really burn her enemies. (Oh, why must I always focus on the negativity like this? Do you think it's because I come from a yelling family?)

But I like the idea! I am making it official. It is now Love Helen Friday. Especially for you lurkers! Come out and show the love. Favorite posts you remember, her envy-inducing ability to give good hair, the zany Elf obsession--it's all fair game. I would normally add something here about how you should try not to say anything really gauche like, "Well, for one thing, I sure do love lookin' at her boobies," but I've read enough of the comments here to know that I really only have to worry about one or two of you doing that, and those one or two will probably be meaning it affectionately rather than all creepy-stalker-like; or so I hope.

Love Helen Friday is in effect. GO!

Posted by: Ilyka at 12:01 PM | Comments (49) | Add Comment
Post contains 490 words, total size 3 kb.

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