July 19, 2007

I've Left the Key in Your Mailbox, and There's Extra Fish Food in the Cupboard

And now, without further adieu (what does that mean, really? Without further goodbye would be the literal translation, but isn't that pretty rude? That's like No I will NOT say excuse me before I leave the table, thank you very much!) we're off. To Scotland. Again.

Because we like it there.

Actually, Gorby's off to his exclusive bed and breakfast, Angus and I have a one night stopover in the Lake District before picking up his kids Friday morning at the Glasgow Airport (which should be interesting as you're not allowed to drive up to the airport still) then we head back up to the Hebrides and the Isle of Mull, because we loved it so much.

Melissa and I are both hoping to get a copy of the Harry Potter book while we're up there. We're both glad we're out of GSM, TV and internet range because neither of us want a Muppet to come along and spoil it for us (in high school we had to read A Separate Peace. I'll never forget opening the front page of my school-issued book and seeing the words "Finny DIES!" written in black marker on it from some joker who felt the need to let me know the ending. Thanks, needledick. Am sure you're working as a gas station attendant somewhere now, and you've earned that, mate. From that moment on I've hated spoilers.)

We've agreed to not tell each other a single thing about it. Although I read faster than she does, I get car sick if I read in the car and she doesn't, so she'll likely finish it before I will. We've also agreed that we will signal to one another that we are done with the book by using stock James Bond 007 phrases, which then we will know means we can discuss the book.

Complicated, but fun.

So a few days in Mull. Then a day in the Scottish Lowlands. Then a day visiting Angus' dad and his stepmom, who always completely exhaust me. Then back home in time to visit the midwife and set off the situation known as Operation Duck and Cover, in which Angus informs his ex about the babies.

Good times, my friends, good times.

As a special treat, a guest poster will be here while I'm swatting mosquitos swanning around the Highlands. Ilyka Damen, who some of you may have read, stopped blogging a month ago and I've missed her horribly since then. Seriously. Like, as in "miss Target" kind of miss so that should tell you what kind of longing has been occurring. The girl comes up with posts that amaze me and make me tremble with envy at her wit. She's graciously agreed to pick up the old blogging pen and come in, so she'll be posting here. She's not just a great writer but she's also a good friend - I love her and I hope you love her, too.

See you on Friday next week.

-H.

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July 18, 2007

The Missing Piece

Dog? Check.

House? Check.

Two Cars? Check.

2.5 Kids? Overshot that one, but Check.

Now what's missing...hm....what could it be...

If you said "Husband", well, ok maybe you have a point there.

If you said "white picket fence" though, you've caught what I was throwing at you.

(I know you might have come here for something angsty or something about the Lemonheads. Trust me, I have both. You might be angst or Lemonheaded out though, so I got your back on that one.)

Our house has been firmly enclosed by a massive hedge all the way around it, front and back. This has taken years of careful pruning and loving, loads of professional gardening assistance, and dedication to its survivial by the previous owners.

It only took Angus and I one year to kill off part of it.

We like to think of ourselves as not so much horticulturally incompetent, more like licensed to take our green thumbs and shove them up our asses.

The hedge in front of the house rotted and died. The massive drought last year didn't help. It caught some weird bush disease (and it's just not going to get old, that line. "Bush disease". Heh.) and then withered and died. We thought we killed if off but the neighbors tell us the previous owners accidentally set fire to it before they left, so the blame's not all ours.

Like any project we do, it takes a while to get around to it. Once we do get around to it, it is done to Angus specifications, which usually means it's done right, if not quite at Helen Speed. To be fair, Angus has been severely restricted by the hideous rain we're constantly having, so the slow progress is more down to the rain than any deliberation on our parts.

But one day, Angus decided he and Jeff were going to rid the world of the diseased hedges all along the front boundary of our property.


Yucky hedges

So they dug them up.


Angus and Jeff Digging


All of them. Stumps and all. And I wood-chipped them all and pretended I was in Fargo.


Hedges Gone


This of course slightly unnerved our neighbors, who wondered what the maniacs were doing digging up hedges that had been there for donkey's years and then feeding them to a wood chipper. In the rain. With an open view of all the neighbors. We assured them that in time-honored American tradition we were putting up a giant fuck-off metal gate, complete with CCTV cameras, intercoms, and wild dogs aimed at ushering intruders away (we're still working on that one with Gorby. Any day now he'll be a wild dog. Annnnnny day now.)

They realized we were messing with them, but they were glad to see the unhealthy hedges gone.

You awake still?

Angus started making a fence. From scratch. One that didn't use any screws, in fact, but is held together by old-fashioned mortice and tenon joints that are so strong you could have an entire rugby team swinging on them and they wouldn't break off. Seriously.

He did each section by hand.


Starter fence


And it kept going.


Growing fence


In the meantime, I seriously took down the pond foliage, reducing it to a massive pile of woodchips, which I used to fill the empty pond with. But I didn't just attack the pond. I removed the hedges from the entire front of the house so that more light comes in to the study now, we're not so boxed in.


Nice tidy front


Never let it be said that a woman packing twins can't dig up some hedges.

Nearly done here with the Great Fence Experiment of 2007.

But the fence kept growing and growing, as Angus then made pickets for it (which he used brads to hold them into place with. No old-fashioned joints there, but he did get the big compressor out, so that day everyone had an orgasm.)


Picket Angus


And then in a bold move, once the fence was painted cream (and the tops of them routed off in a neat pattern, which he's reinforced with a dark green color), he decided the trees by the side of the house were offending him terribly. So on Saturday he chopped them down (despite my protestations to just "take a bit off the top") and I dutifully woodchipped them all. The woodchipper and I are great mates now. We speak the same lingo.

And now we have a front garden we love.


Finito


And there's the wild dog in the picture there, chasing his tennis ball. You know. As wild dogs do.

It's nearly done-we have to take some hedges that were too big to chip to the tip and we are planting red climber roses along the wooden fence (so that attractive soil-looking front view will disappear). But we love it, and most of all we love how you can see every corner of the house.

We are so cheesy it hurts.

-H.


PS-Angus just came by and said "Oh God. A blog post about the fence. People must be so bored." If so, I apologize. But seriously - that fence? It's hot.

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July 17, 2007

To Big D, With Love From Helen

Scoldy wrote something the other day that got me reminiscing (do you know Scoldy? Shouldn't you know Scoldy?)

Scoldy is someone who's spent a lot of time in Dallas, much like I have. I have nothing against Dallas, really-people who read here come from there, I came from there, and a cool chick that lets me freak out on her plate still lives there. But lately I find when people ask me where I'm from, out of the handbasket full of locations I've lived in I come up with a simple, unexpected answer.

"I come from Seattle," I say.

And I flinch like a cheating whore.

Dallas...Dallas is so long ago it seems like another lifetime. In terms of the way I think of my life, it is a different lifetime. It's a whole other person who lived there, it's not really me. Not really.

The thoughts of Dallas came up in my mind when I read Scoldy's post and thought about Dallas’ dialing codes. Stupid, I know, but we work in telecom and have to think about these kinds of things. I remember living in one area code and having to dial another just to talk to my then-boyfriend, Kim. Then they introduced another area code and the whole thing was blown to hell. I’m not sure if I’m proud or not, but I successfully had all three area codes as my phone number for a period of time. Apparently, my grandpa in Kansas showed my stepmother his address book, and the entries for me took up the entire “C” section and most of the “D” section of his book (my maiden name starts with a “C”). I moved so much he would just cross out my old address and write in the new place.

I lived in Arlington (north and south), Dallas (Lower Greenville and Oak Cliff), and Richardson. I moved a lot within those areas. I moved so much that I knew the roads of Dallas like the back of my hand, I could find my way out of any traffic jam anywhere because I knew all the side roads and shortcuts.
Most of the shortcuts have been lost to the foggy archives of my shoddy memory.

But thereÂ’s a lot that I remember.

Dallas was an easy place to live for the most part. It was as part of me as the lines and etchings on the bottom of my feet. The heat springs to mind first, Christ that incredible heat. I remember being nearly dizzy from it. YouÂ’d park your car as close to a sliver of shade as you could find, and youÂ’d run from air conditioned spot to air conditioned spot. The heat sapped you of your energy during the day and at night youÂ’d sit outside, batting at the insects, wondering at what point your skin would just let go of it all.

The bluebonnets were what made Dallas. For a period of time as brief as a sneeze the sides of the Interstate would be covered in a carpet of violent purple. They bluebonnets wouldnÂ’t last long but everyone and their dog would be taking pictures in them despite warnings that trampling the collections of state flower would get you ticketed.

I remember the traffic. The worst traffic IÂ’ve ever seen in my life was actually in Atlanta (with the worst driving actually in Italy) but Dallas liked to give Atlanta traffic jams a run for the money. I-20, I-30, the 635 and the worst offender, 75 Central ExpresswayÂ…god the traffic. Roads were always being dug up and improved in the worst sense of the word. It got so IÂ’d go into work by 7, the sun already hard and hot on the sizzling blacktop, just to avoid the crush of traffic. I was a different driver then. All that aggression and offensive driving has melted off me in a haze of commuting via train, driving lessons, and good old-fashioned aging. I was reckless then, in my youth. Life was for living and driving was for anger. ItÂ’s all passed me by now.

In Dallas I had Deep Ellum, the hopping throbbing alternate scene to West End and Lower Greenville. I remember dancing at the Blind Lemon and standing on a rooftop bar seeing a crumpled Mercedes under a Parisian bridge on the TV. It was Diana’s death and all of us – buzzing on our Zimas and Dos Equiis, the Shiners and our Bacardi Breezers – didn’t believe it was real. West End was for the tourists and business travelers, whom I’d sometimes take there for a “slice of Dallas”. Lower Greenville was where I called home for a while, then it was a place I couldn’t bear. One of my tattoos is from Lower Greenville, the one that hurt the most.

I often wonder what wouldÂ’ve happened had I bought the house there that I was looking at. Then I figure: Probably nothing different than what has happened. IÂ’m where IÂ’m supposed to be.

The sights of Dallas were all familiar – Mansion on Turtle Creek. The Book Depository and the grassy knoll, both of which I visited mere days before I moved away. The hurtling slides of what was Wet ‘N Wild (Jesus, what a horrible name) before Six Flags bought the water park. The old Rangers stadium and then the new one, which always looked aggressive to me. That weird glass skyscraper that turned gold in the sun, a yellow-y pink outside of the sun. The keyhole building in downtown Dallas. The Cowboys stadium with its partial roof. Reunion Tower, where I once dined.

I remember the food in Dallas, too. In college three of my closest female friends would meet every Friday at the El ChicoÂ’s in Arlington to drink margaritas the size of melons and gorge on fajitas. The food wasnÂ’t spectacular but itÂ’s what we did. I have lost contact with most of the women, despite them trying to anchor me in their gravity, but as usual I spun out of control and eased myself out of their lives.

Jason’s Deli was for Saturday lunch – the mufalattas, the baked potatoes the size of a rabbit, loaded with cheese – and you weren’t hungry the rest of the day. Sunday mornings I would go out to Einstein Brothers and bring back a bagel made just the way I liked it, which varied from week to week. I’d pay $1.50 in quarters into the nearby machine to buy the Dallas Morning News, which I’d read the many sections of in bed with my bagel and my orange juice, excluding the business and finance ones, and I’d meticulously check the news about the Stars.

Ah, the Stars. I used to watch the games. I used to watch the players practice at Las Colinas. I used to know every single stat to every single one of them. Now I donÂ’t even know most of the players. Your priorities change, even if you still carry a torch for the little team that could. I will always love the Stars.

I went to college at UTA. I finished high school in Arlington. Never having fitted in, I took a load of classes during the day and wound up graduating a semester early. It suited me.

I was never a Texan.

I couldnÂ’t have been-it just didnÂ’t compute with me. I remember how fond Kim was of me but IÂ’ll never understand why. The me that permeates my memories of back then was a raw, naked individual prone to rage and displays of pique. I was a hollow shell of uncontrollable emotions. I was nothing inside. I had no status and no concept of status in a town whose every definition is based on what youÂ’re wearing, what youÂ’re driving, and where you live.

At the end of my time in Dallas I was finally finding peace. I had a fun little girl car that suited me perfectly and that I loved (a VW Cabrio, which I still miss horribly and wish IÂ’d kept). I had a little house in a dodgy little suburb (Oak Cliff), but everything in that house was mine. I had a bouncy dog and a room full of hockey kit and an old-fashioned gas heater in the bathroom that was all mine. I had my routines and I followed them religiously.

Sometimes I feel a pang of sadness that the Lemonheads will never know Dallas, the place where Mommy came from will be a puzzle and a wisp of smoke to them, nothing more than a name and a grainy 1980’s TV show. It’s impossible to tell them that I paid my bills to TU Electric, Southwestern Bell, and Texaco. It won’t matter to them that I was at the Stars playoff game in ‘98, the one they narrowly won, the one which pushed for Game 7, and it was so awesome that the entire stadium screamed and cried and we broke the lights above us from hitting them so hard and when we left the entire crowd was singing and dancing and laughing. It means nothing to them that we would go Kroger-ing for the Thanksgiving food, that iFratelli’s had one of the best pizzas, and that The Parks was the mall to go to for serious shopping, even if it meant braving the I-20.

But maybe thatÂ’s ok.

I mentioned something to Angus this weekend that I wish the twins would have as they grow up (but wonÂ’t have, for various reasons.)

He smiled at me. “Some things have to be a trade-off.”

HeÂ’s right.

We can start over again with the Mariners and the Seahawks. How the utilities are paid is pointless, just as it was pointless to me when I was a kid. Victoria is just some chick who’ll have a Secret, Jason’s Deli is just a name, and the heat – that amazing heat – is something they’ll find on holidays we will go on to Malaysia, Thailand, or the Caribbean. They won’t have fields of bluebonnets but they will have bluebells, and the bells can give the bonnets a run for their money.

Dallas and I got what we needed from each other. WeÂ’re cool. WeÂ’re even. It was never home and never will be. Should everything all go to hell I will never go back to Dallas again, even though as I write this I canÂ’t really tell where I would go. Speeding through the rail lines of Southwest Trains I know that this, this is home. This is where it all comes together. Living in Dallas was easy and living in England is often hard but I have never felt so calmly home in my life as I do here in our little corner of England.

But thanks, Big D.

I look back on Dallas as it starts to fade in my memory. Already parts of it are going, being replaced by things my RAM has space for (I canÂ’t remember the name of that other Mexican restaurant I loved. What was the name of that vet I used to use? And what was the shortcut off of Brown, the one that took me to Lower Greenville? Does anyone even remember TaylorÂ’s, the bookstore I used to work for, or has it passed from memory, too?)

Dallas to me will always be a memory of bright white hot sun bouncing off the road and dashboard in front of me. The sun visor is pulled down and the shadow bounces along the upper bridge of my nose. The pavement is shimmering in waves of heat and itÂ’s all covered with the dazzling sunlight, and I donÂ’t know where IÂ’m driving to but I donÂ’t need to know, itÂ’s just part of the journey.

-H.

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July 16, 2007

Reverend Tag Team

We had a Christening to go to yesterday, one for Sam and Jane (Angus' brother and his Fillipina wife) and their new son (Angus' nephew). Jane is very Catholic and their other child, 5 year-old Jilly, was baptized and goes to church and is looking at First Communion coming in a few years' time. I remember my First Communion myself - I got to carry the sandalwood oil. The rest is just a blur of Jesus references and white organza.

We had to be there for 1215 which meant leaving by 1115. In typical Angus style, at 1115 he still hadn't showered and was outside painting the fence and chatting with the neighbor. When he finally came in I was climbing the ceiling, dressed up in my black silk dress that showed a prominent baby bulge, and he tried to chat to me while cleaning the paintbrush.

"You're really winding me up. Go. Shower. Now." I said through clenched teeth. If you men are unfamiliar with the clenched teeth routine, lemme just say this: It means if you don't cooperate with me, you're looking at a return to the bachelor day tradition of eating your meals by the kitchen sink until we forgive you. Message received, Angus made his way to the shower. We left with just enough time to get there.

As he was driving, I thought about it.

"So like, say Jesus gets into a smiting mode while we are at the Christening," I start. We play what-if games a lot, usually instigated by over-active imagination me. "I'd totally be safe while the rest of you are going to hell."

"How's that?" he asks.

"Because we're in a Catholic Church and I'm pregnant. If that's not a get out of jail free card from Jesus then I don't know what is."

"Oh right. You mean you're pregnant in a Catholic church with our little bastard children that are going to hell? That kind of pregnant?" he asks.

He might have a point - I'm not exactly pure as the driven snow or anything. The divorces alone would be enough to get me a "Go to Excommunication. go directly to Excommunication. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.". I consider this, then come up with an ok counter-argument. "Well they're not born yet so they can't be judged yet. Even Adam would admit they'd be spared."

Ah, Adam. The one I've started to call The Reverend in my head. "Reverend" as I think of him as the new Moral Majority now that the old leader of the Moral Majority has gone to hell himself. I was ready to face the Reverend until Angus told me he was off on some sponsored walk for charity, so I'd have to save my fight for another day.

And damn I'd been looking forward to one, too.

We get to the church, where I find out one of the other guests is pregnant, too. I tug on Angus' shirt. "Her too. She'd be smite free like I would. The rest of you, well, I think you're screwed, but that's just me."

We go into the church and sit down. The entire rest of the family is there along with a half-dozen Fillipina women, all of whom come rushing over to touch my stomach. I can't really explain why but I didn't mind them all touching me despite my current "Get your fucking hands off me" crusade. Maybe it's because I know it's cultural for them, the women there all have several kids of their own and take turns passing babies around at the many barbecues Sam and Jane have.

The priest comes out and we couldn't believe it...he was wearing Jesus sandals. The priest was wearing Jesus sandals. Angus' mother was aghast (I can't see a church of England minister pulling off the same stunt) but I liked the guy, especially when he went up to Angus' Mum and told her that her segment of the reading should be accompanied by a tap dance, it was up to her to improvise it. A priest with a sense of humor, then-not something I'd ever come across before in my Catholic days. The Lemonheads - who had been quiet all morning - liked him, too, because as soon as he started talking they started moving.

The service was short, luckily - as I'm getting larger that whole "Please be seated/please stand up" bit is getting harder and harder. The service was overwhelmingly Catholic and every other word was "Jesus", which I guess is the case in a baptism (I haven't been to many of them but am assuming there's a general pattern.) Angus had to do a reading too, of Psalm 23 ("The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want"). I'd dared him to go up there and start it and then after "I shall not want" to look up at the congregation and say "Ah, screw it-ya'll know this one, let's skip to the next bit."

He declined.

I then dared him to read it like that rap song - "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" - the one from that movie with Michelle Pfeiffer, who played the teacher with too much eyeliner on. He wasn't familiar with either the movie or the rap song, and he declined that one, too. But he did look very serious and officious during his part.


Angus reading


(Not seen in the picture: The Jesus sandals.)

I also started to work the over-active imagination on that "Do you renounce Satan and all his works?" part. I started wondering what kind of works Satan would do. Maybe he was more into acryclics than performance art, and who are we to judge his interpretations?

The service over we head over to Sam and Jane's for a barbecue. Their barbecues are famous for incredible quantites of food that come out at weird times. Last year they had spring rolls, noodles, and every variety of dead animal that can possibly be thrown onto a barbecue grill (Sam has three grills, all of which he keeps going at the same time). Then came 6 desserts. And then, because they'd timed things wrong, out came a massive mound of Bombay Potato, which is just what you want after 13 pork chops, 2 helpings of cake and untold quantities of alcohol. But their get-togethers are a load of fun and they are great hosts, so we were looking forward to it.

Usually the group splits into three - Sam's friends from university all huddle together. Angus' family huddles together. The Fillipinas are in the living room on the karaoke machine together (they always try to get others to join, but my singing voice is not great so out of consideration for the other guests, I always decline.) At this barbecue the Fillipinas skipped the karaoke, but they were my favorite women there because they kept beaming, rubbing my stomach and telling me how small I was for 6 months with twins.

We all change out of our nice dresses and suits and then get down to the business of barbecue. The newly baptized baby gets passed around a lot and he's a cute cheeky little thing and always welcome. He graces Angus' lap for a long time and it tugs at my heart. Gorby is trotting around the garden - there are children around and he loves kids. Even more, he loves kids who eat because they always drop things, which he happily vacuums up.

Angus' mum starts in early.

"Helen, has Angus told the ex about the babies yet?" she asks directly.

I freeze.

Oh God.

"No, Angus and the kids are managing it. She'll be told while they're here next week," I say politely.

"Oh dear, I do think that's awful. She'll be on her own then," Angus' Mum tuts.

"Yes she will. The children felt that would help her have some time to think things through, lest she try to take things out on them. She's done that before, you know." I say. I don't like being in this position at all.

"Yes, but she'll have no one to comfort her, it's such a shame," murmurs Angus' Mum.

Sweet Mary Fuck. While I'm sorry that she'll feel bad - actually I honestly am, I don't like her to feel bad because feeling bad sucks, and also because she'll just dump it on Angus' family and kids - I could really, really do without being made to feel bad about the Lemonheads again.

I sigh heavily. I wonder why Angus' Mum feels I am someone to share the ex's burdens with. I remember once Jeff was flying over to see us on the unaccompanied minor service. Angus was unreachable and the flight was delayed so instead of phoning me, Angus' ex phoned his mum. Mum called me. She explained that the poor ex, she couldn't just hang around the airport with her then 9 year-old son, she had a birthday party to go to! It was so sad for her to be late for a birthday party! The poor woman!

I was aghast. As far as I'm concerned, if a flight is late you fucking wait with your kid. You can be late for a birthday party in order to be with your kid. Hell, you crawl across frozen tundra for your kid if the situation dictates it. I'm sure the phone receiver iced up in her hand as his mum realized that I was the last person in the world to have sympathy for the ex on this one - Angus and I have waited loads of times with the kids for flights running late, it's what you do. His mum got off the phone then.

I look up at Angus, who's watching his mum and I. I raise an eyebrow. He makes a slashing motion to his mum, the international signal for "enough". She sees the motion and purses her lips together, but changes the subject.

She gets right on my nerves twice more.

Once was when she was playing Jenga and I accidentally jogged the table. "Do you mind?" she asked frostily. I apologized - it was an accident, honest - but I could've done without her tone. I suppose by then I'd really fucked her off, though. She'd had one other go at us before then.

"Wasn't the Christening lovely?" she'd asked.

Sure. Jesus sandals, bathing a kid's head, and a whole lot of prayin'. It was ok as Christenings go. "Yes, it was all right," I replied.

"Now you can use both Jilly's Christening outfit and the new baby's outfit for your Christening," she says. Oh this path again. I know this path.

"We're not having a Christening," Angus states firmly.

If anything, today further convinced us. The very, very religious ceremony was just honestly not our kind of thing. Why would we have our family and friends join round for something that is not important to us? It's important to them, and I understand that, but in my mind Angus and I arranging a baptism is like a hypocrisy, to me it mocks the seriousness and gravity with which those in our family place in the ceremony. I think it's rude for Angus and I - two non-religions people - to go impose ourselves on a tradition we don't believe in.

"But shouldn't you be thinking about the well-being of the children?" she asks.

Believe me. It's all we think about.

"We do. And we believe it should be their choice. If they want to be baptised when they're older they can be. We will support them fully at any juncture. But we don't believe this should be imposed on them, the choice should be theirs." I state calmly.

"It's important that the children have a name," she counters. Ah yes. That whole "the child actually gets named at the baptism, not on the birth certificate" shtick. As far as we are concerned, the name that goes on the birth certificate is the name. To us a baptism is just a religious hedging of the bets.

There is more commotion over this one. Angus finally draws a line under it. I feel really worn out, and the babies aren't even born yet. I can't wait to see what parenting lectures I'm going to get.

I realize that the Reverend may be away but there's a sub for him anytime he needs it.

It's clear to me. I'm the heathen who's corrupting his son and his two upcoming babies while not being sympathetic enough to the needs of his ex. I drive us home, Angus having enjoyed one-third of a bottle of good Polish vodka with his brother and a Polish guest and Gorby, passed clean out in the back of the car, snoring, with a full stomach and dreams of children running around. It had been a long day.

Still, I have my get out of jail free card. It's signed by Jesus. That's got to be worth something.


-H.

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July 14, 2007

Results

When Angus and I first started IVF here in the UK it was under something called the egg share program. Egg share is maybe hard to understand, but the gist of it is this-in the EU (unlike the U.S.) it's illegal to buy eggs from a woman, so if you're a woman who, for whatever reason, can't use your own eggs, you have a long damn wait on the national registry to get access to donor eggs. When you get the call that you've been matched with someone based on physical characteristics, you go through an IVF cycle yourself and take half the donor's eggs and then you hope and pray.

Angus and I had two reasons for doing this - the first is honestly the fact that if I donated half of the eggs I created during an IVF cycle, my IVF cycle would be free. It sounds horrible and materialistic, but it's true. IVF isn't cheap. The woman who I'd be donating eggs to would basically pay the cost of my cycle and her cycle. The division of the eggs would be even, except in the case of an odd number of eggs I'd get the spare. They would not divide them based on quality, just an even split.

The other reason we donated is because, based on my past experience, I produce a serious bumper crop of eggs when on hormone stimulation. Sharing half my eggs seemed so logical, I could help another woman, try to have a baby ourselves, and manage to pay only the bureaucratic costs. I confess to the vanity of being so happy that I could help another woman. I admit that knowing I was going to be able to assist someone was something that kept me focussed.

On our first IVF cycle together here I produced 19 eggs. That's considered a large amount by our clinic, which is extremely conservative and careful about managing egg numbers. My 19 eggs were split - the other woman got 9 eggs, I got 10 eggs.

I never knew a single detail about the other woman. I had to answer a long questionnaire about myself which would be filed with the government, the hospital, and a copy for the other woman, which she would get on the occasion that she achieved what's sentimentally known as a "viable pregnancy". Summing yourself up on a few pages of questionnaire is a pretty fucking scary thing when you're faced with it, and to this day I cant remember everything I said on it. I was terrified. When any children she had turned 18, they would be allowed by law to seek out their "birth mother". As far as I was concerned, I was not the birth mother. I would be happy to meet any offspring I helped create, but I had no doubt I was not their mother. The person who sang them to sleep and cleaned skinned knees and went on holiday with them was their mother.

On that first cycle, after splitting my eggs and then working on getting ours to fertilize, I mentally signed off my thoughts of the other woman. I had thought of her constantly prior to that - there was another woman in the UK doing some of the same drug treatments I was doing to get ready. There was another woman who probably thought about me a lot. There was another woman depending on me.

On that first cycle, neither of us got pregnant.

On the resulting frozen embryo transer, I was the only one who got pregnant, which I later miscarried.

The other woman had received 9 of my eggs and never achieved a positive pregnancy, and I can't tell you how bad I felt about that. She must've felt great - 9 eggs is a nice amount to work with in a country that tries for only 8-12 eggs per woman per cycle. She must've got her hopes up. She must've believed. 9 eggs later and it was all over.

In January we started on our next (and last, as in the UK you can only do two donor cycles of eggs) donor cycle. This time my body didn't respond as well to the drugs. It was an extremely stressful cycle even though I took great care of my body in preparation. In the end I only got 8 eggs, most of them not very good quality.

I felt terrible.

Another woman had her hopes pinned on the donor again, and all I came up with were 8 eggs of crappy quality. She got 4 and I got 4. 4...what an underwhelming number to pay nearly £6000 for. Of my 4, only 2 fertilized. We put both back in as the doctor explained they weren't great quality, it was incredibly unlikely they'd both take.

Fast forward and I'm now pregnant with the Lemonheads. Against huge odds those two average quality embryos made it. Unbelievable.

We decided to not find out about the other woman's success yet. I took it too hard last time, it really ate at me that I let someone down. My guilt from my previous failed cycle was enormous, it absolutely tore at me.

But something started to swing in me this week. Maybe it's knowing that we hit 24 weeks, that the midwife visit this week showed both myself and the twins in perfect health, maybe it's knowing that we're hitting survivability should the babies decide to come early. I don't know what it was, but I realized on Friday that I was ready to find out about the other woman, that it was ok to know now.

We called the clinic.

We got the word back.

The other woman never got pregnant using my eggs.

And once again I feel absolutely terrible for crashing someone's dreams. The logical part of my head tells me that I shouldn't feel bad, my eggs gave someone a chance and that's all that matters. But the illogical side of me knows how it feels to curl up in a fetal position and sob over a failed cycle.

I've been thinking about it a lot since then. Somewhere is a woman I send my heartfelt love and apologies to. Somewhere is someone that I want to hug and tell her how I did take care of myself, how I did wish for more for her.

I'm not a very touchy-feely person with regards to my stomach, I find I really only rub my growing bump when the Lemonheads are getting too active, as there's something about rubbing their kicks that makes them calm down. But this morning I sat on the couch and just rubbed the outside surface of my stomach in response to their little movements. I felt the small mound of a head on one side of me, and I smoothed my hand against it until they moved away. In whatever way I could I told them I loved them and that I'm glad they made it.

And for a little while the Lemonheads and I will mourn the dreams of another woman and hope she gets her chance soon to know what it's like to have someone inside you that you've never met but already love.

-H.

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July 13, 2007

A Typical Evening In Our House

Angus got a new toy.

See, since weÂ’re building an extension (or the architect and builders are, anyway), weÂ’re planning on doing a lot of the finishing work ourselves. For this, we will need tools. And I actually support him buying tools, because not only will they get used (and they do get used), but heÂ’s like a kid in a candy shop when heÂ’s around his man toys. I may fail to get excited about a table saw but if it floats his boat then whatever.

I went into the study the other day to find Angus slavishly poring over the new Toolstation catalog, with Post-It tabs at the ready to mark things he wanted. He pointed out something which looked not unlike a propane tank to my untrained eye. He was practically leaping out of his chair about it.

“What is that, baby?” I ask calmly.

“It’ll solve all our problems! It’s just what we need! It’s a compressor and it does absolutely everything!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed? So it’ll do the dishes?” I ask, arching my eyebrow. I feel that’s the benchmark of “I am dubious”, the arching of the eyebrow.

“Yes! It will!”

“I mean wash them, not blow the fuck out of them,” I reply.

“It’s just what we need! I’m going to have to get it!” he giggles.

“OK babe,” I shrug, smiling. “Do you need a tissue to clean up your mess from the catalog, or will you just wipe it on your boxers?”

“Ha bloody ha.”

The compressor showed up two days later. I was in London and Angus sent me a stern text that I was not to play with his new toys. When I entered the kitchen it looked like a tool and die factory had exploded all over the kitchen table. There was no way in hell I was going to play with his toys. I didn't even know what most of it was.

When he came home it was like a party atmosphere with the compressor.

“Look! I can hook a nail gun to it!” Damn. That was actually my idea for a Christmas present for him, now that’s out. Nothing says “romance” like something that can shoot a 4 inch spike out the nozzle at high speeds, after all. “It can dust! It can blow up balloons! It can spray paint! It does everything!”

Indeed. While he played with his toys I caved in to the Lemonheads demand for MSG. IÂ’ve never been a huge fan of Chinese food, but something about sweet and sour prawns was screaming my name. I got some take-away Chinese for us for dinner, and although IÂ’m good about not eating bad foods this meal was about as bad as it gets-springrolls, crispy seafood rolls, and sweet and sour prawns. It could only have gotten worse if IÂ’d actually taken our plates and battered them and fried them, too.

When I got there with our Chinese, something was up. The dog was glued to the underside of the table, whimpering. Angus looked chagrined. “You know how Gorby loves power tools?” he asked. I do – Gorby LOVES power tools. From a cordless drill to a table saw, he loves the noise and mess they make. We have to lock him inside the house sometimes he gets so over-excited about tools. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t like the compressor so much,” Angus says sheepishly.

This is a surprise. We both bet that Gorby would go absolutely mental over the new tool, and in a good way. We ate our dinner and then Angus turned on the compressor. Sure enough, Gorby disappeared into the living room in a haze of grey and white fur. Angus shut the kitchen door to work the tool (he actually had to – it was raining outside so he couldn’t go out and there was concern a part on it wasn’t working, which would necessitate immediate return to factory.) Gorby and I were in the living room with the doors shut, the dog hiding well behind the couch, whining. At the sudden sound of a valve backfiring, Gorby tried to jump up on the couch and bury under me.

This was wearing on me. It was a pattern – compressor humming, dog whistling, valve going off, dog dashing behind the couch despite comforting from me.

Finally, there was a blast of outtake air that was so loud that Gorby wouldÂ’ve tried to go up the chimney had the fire guard not been there.

“ENOUGH WITH THE TOY!” I shout.

Angus emerges from his compressor space and apologizes to Gorby. “I’m sorry, boy, it’s all done now.”

We chill out and watch version 1 of The Alastair Campbell Diaries while allowing the fried food to wrap itself around our arteries. I realize my right breast is itching terribly as I lounge on the couch. Fuck, I think. I have PUPPP. I delicately peel back my T-shirt (by "delicately" I of course mean "rip up my T-shirt with the grace of a frat boy at Ft. Lauderdale") and see, instead of said hateful rash, I have a bug bite.

I look up at Angus. "I have a bug bite on my boob."

He looks at me and shrugs.

I frown. "I need sympathy." I don't really need sympathy, it's just something we do.

"Oh! OK. Um...sorry about the bug bite."

I nod, satisfied.

We finish our TV program, love on Gorby once more to make sure he's feeling secure (he is, he has a very short memory) and then head up to bed. Once there, I find three more bug bites. I turn to Angus, who is reading his magazine in bed.

"I have four bug bites," I state.

"Oh," he replies, disinterested, folding up his magazine and switching off the light.

"Sympathy, please."

"I already gave you sympathy!"

"That was for ONE bug bite. I now have FOUR."

He sighs deeply and spoons me.

"My thoughts are with you at this difficult time."

This. This is why I'm with him. Because he buys compressors and knows just what to say.

-H.


PS-Zane could not make the meeting, so he sent a sub. Luckily said sub is someone I have worked with before and whom (according to Angus) is “sweet on me”. I’ll take a sweet on me over a showdown anytime, but I know it’s just a matter of time before Zane and I stare down over a table. Sorry, meant to blog yesterday but was exhausted after a long day of soul-sucking meetings.

PPS-Surprisingly I saw a large chunk that I had written a long post about on someone else’s blog, word for word. And I know it was mine because I’d done some edits to it that showed up on the other site. When I quote others or use something from an email, I credit them (even if I just use their initials or a shout out to them in case they want to maintain anonymity). I have seen people copy whole posts of mine and paste them, but they do usually tell people where the found the info, which I’m absolutely fine with-on the few occasions it looked like someone nicked whole posts of mine, I got pretty fucked off. Quote me? Link me? Borrow whole passages? No problem as long as you mention where you found it, because otherwise it pisses me off when people steal and makes me feel cheap and dirty and used, and not in the good “Friday night boot-knocking” kind of way, more like the "I wrote your term paper and you stiffed me on the payment" kind of way.

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July 11, 2007

Crash, as Filmed by Robert Altman

Yesterday was directed like a Robert Altman film. One continuous shot as the trippy dippy lead character (me) went about her daily grind. Maybe you can picture it-panning from the warehouse where the scene dressings are stored, as I walk along a path dodging golf carts. Script boys run between sets and in the background is someone dressed like Big Bird.

Instead, my daily grind yesterday was set in London, and quite a few things happened yesterday in the typical non-descript way that my life seems to happen.

I took the train in to London, hopped an overcrowded tube, and headed to my therapist. The tube was heaving with morning rush hour traffic, which is always a scenario I don't like because I just don't like crowds. I sigh heavily and sway from hand to hand as I stand in the aisle. I wonder if I pick my feet up if I'll remain standing, so packed is the train.

Then? The Robert Altman camera pans to a middle-aged man who is reading his paper as he sits on a seat nearby. He looks at me. He takes in my protruding gut. He kindly offers me his seat. I wearily accept with enormous gratitude. It's a first for me, a man giving me his seat. It's also a first for me, a woman accepting the seat. As I keep growing, hopefully it won't be the last.

My therapist meeting was good. The walk down the tree-lined residential avenue is always calming. The weather wasn't brilliant, but the intrepid me was not getting rained on and that's all that matters. More unusually my session had a unique point to it - we have spent so long trying to get me to connect to my feelings that now we're trying to get me to disidentify with them in order to strip the negative out. He had me do an exercise which I was cynical about at first but in the end, it worked.

Score one for the home team.

I like my therapist but lately I've had a hard time. Not because I am dealing with difficult emotional stuff, but because by the time I reach his place my coffee has kicked in. Big time. And for the past few weeks, I've found as soon as I enter his loft space (the house he lives in accommodates all kind of hippy granola types - massseuses, acupuncturists, therapists) I have to go the toilet. Like, big go. As in what Angus calls a "spidoosh". I'm not trying to overshare or anything here, but I absolutely cannot do big business in my therapists' toilet. That's just wrong. What if he heard? I'd need more therapy. GOD.

So every week I suffer because every week I forget about the trauma and order a coffee on the way to meet him.

I have only myself to blame.

Robert Altman films my twitchiness with aplomb.

I made my way to a work building, where I had a meeting. Then another meeting. Then another building for another meeting. I get an email from Angus which is the draft email he's going to send to his ex to break the news about the babies, and could he have my comments? We do this often-send sensitive personal emails to each other to review, to see if one of us can see a potentially bad wording of something in order to make things more delicately handled. I have a few comments, which I send back.

We're getting ready to tell her next week.

Let the nightmare begin.

On my way to another tube station to go to another meeting (keep up here, Robert Altman is still working the one take angle here) I see a sale at Space NK. I do massive busines as I buy a load of Christmas presents for people. I know it's only July
, but my Christmas season is going to be pretty busy and - I can imagine - not very mobile.

I feel really homesick for Melissa then. I send her a text message. She replies. Then we talk on the phone for a long while. Our talk is about her horse camp, how she's doing, what she misses, and about Harry Potter. I had to duck off the call to go to a meeting, but I was on a high from talking to her all afternoon.

The camera pans over to me in another meeting room. We sit there and discuss technical architecture, using so many acronyms it sounds like we're speaking code. We work. We develop. Then, we plan ahead for a larger technical meeting we're having on Thursday.

One of the guys in the room, a vendor who works for us whom I know extremely well, mentions they have a new systems designer. Said systems designer is very good. Said systems designer works for Company X, the Swedish company I lost my job from years ago.

"Really?" I ask, chewing my Granny Smith apple. My feet are propped up on a chair. The guys don't mind, they offer gentle teasing about my state but do things like hand me the rubbish bin to throw my goods away in so I don't have to get up. "Anyone I know?"

"It's a guy named...." my colleague starts, flipping through his notebook to get the name. "Ah! Here it is. His name is Zane."

I stop chewing. The apple feels like a heavy mush in my stomach and a hot wash has just lurched over me. "Zane?" I ask, swallowing heavily. "What's his last name?"

"Zane...Michaelson. That's it. Zane Michaelson."

And since I'm such an excellent poker player and can totally keep my emotions to myself, this is followed with: "Oh, so I see you know him, Helen?"

I nod and smile.

I do indeed know him.

He's my ex-husband's best friend.

"I used to work with him," I explain. Which I did. We never got on, really, we kind of tolerated each other for my ex's benefit. It seems like high school it was so long ago, but there you have it. In certain lines of business, it all comes back again.

Robert Altman busily films the scene, which he titles in his head "Crash", unaware that the title has already been taken.

I get to meet up with Zane tomorrow then. I haven't seen him in 4 years, not since I got let go from Company X, not since my ex and I divorced and I took up with Angus. And now I'll be across the table from him, the customer, the pariah, the cuckolder...and the pregnant one. I don't know how much my ex - who is still living and working in China - knows. I did send him an email telling him of Mumin's death and he sent a reply that was actually nice and polite. We don't talk because we don't need to, but that doesn't mean I'd want him to get hurt. If he would. Maybe I'm being presumptuous there, too, maybe he's so over me I'm not even a memory. I can't imagine he doesn't know I'm with Angus, as telecoms is more gossip-y than Sweet Valley High.

Angus had to meet and work with people who knew both him and his ex. He never had any really uncomfortable conversations about it, as the people he worked with were pretty conservative and very English about the handling (tiptoe, be delicate, don't mention the war!). Zane, on the other hand, is about as subtle as acid reflux. It will be uncomfortable. I'm looking forward to it like I'm looking forward to childbirth. Scratch that - I'm more looking forward to childbirth than I am meeting Zane.

Angus hugs me later that evening. "It had to happen," he tells me sympathetically.

Robert Altman circles us, standing in the kitchen with his camera.

"I know," I reply. "It did." And it did have to happen. Telecom is incestuous. It was inevitable that I run into this situation, I had to bust my Facing People From the Divorce cherry at some point. In some ways, I can even imagine I may even be in the same space as my ex again (although while he's in China, this is pretty unlikely seeing as he was never a fan of the UK and I'm unlikely to find myself in Guangzhou anytime soon).

Everything is always so complicated.

Even Robert Altman agrees and he should know, he's been following me all fucking day.

-H.

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July 10, 2007

Rules of Pregnancy

A cool mum-to-be I know sent me the following email, which I think was appropriate enough to include here:


Rules of Pregnancy


1. The appropriate response to a couple telling you they are having a baby is "Congratulations" with enthusiasm. Any other response makes you a jerk.

2. Through the wonders of science, we now know that babies are made ONLY by the mother and father- not grandparents or other family. Unless the baby is in your uterus or you are the man that helped put it there, you may not ever use the phrase "my baby"

3. On the same note, unless you made the baby as defined in #2, the pregnancy, birth and the raising of the child are not about you. You do not have input. No one wants to hear your opinion unless they ask for it.

4. The body of a pregnant woman should be treated the same as any other body. You would not randomly touch someones stomach if they were not pregnant, nor would you inquire into the condition of their uterus, cervix or how they plan to use their breasts. Pregnancy does not remove all traces of privacy from a woman.

5. Likewise, no woman wants to hear comments on her weight- ever. A pregnant woman does not find it flattering that you think she is about to pop, must be having twins, looks swollen or has gained weight in her face. Telling her she looks too small only makes her worry that she is somehow starving her baby. making such comments invite her to critique your physical appearance and you may not act offended. The only acceptable comment on appearance is "You look fabulous!"

6. Most of us have picked up on the fact that summer is hot. We are hot every summer when we are not pregnant. We donÂ’t need you to point out that we will be miserably hot before the baby comes.

7. There is a reason that tickets to Labor & Delivery are not yet sold on Ticketmaster. Childbirth is actually not a public event. It may sound crazy, but some women really do not relish the idea of their mother, mother-in-law or a host of other family members seeing their bare butt or genitals. Also, some people simply feel like the birth of their child is a private and emotional moment to be shared only by the parents.

8. Like everything else in life, unless you receive an invitation, you are not invited. This includes doctor appointments, ultrasounds, labor, delivery, the hospital and the parents home. you do not decide if you will be there for the birth or if you will move in with the new parents to "help out". if your assistance is desired, rest assured that you will be asked for it.

9. If you are asked to help after the birth, this means you should clean up the house, help with cooking meals, and generally stay out of the way. Holding the baby more than the parents, interfering with breastfeeding and sleeping schedules and making a woman who is still leaking fluid from various locations lift a finger in housework is not helping.

10. The only people entitled to time with the baby are the parents. Whether they choose to have you at the hospital for the birth or ask you to wait 3 weeks to visit, appreciate that you are being given the privilege of seeing their child. Complaining or showing disappointment only encourages the parents to include you less.


OK, let's talk about numbers 4 and 5, shall we?

About the weight - I've had a few people comment on my size now. I'm at that stage where I am very obviously pregnant now. I'm not in that ambiguous "does she need to lay off the chocolate Pop-Tarts or not?" stage, no one will confuse me with someone who went to a Harlem Globetrotters game and swallowed the game ball. I'm pregnant. It shows. There are all kinds of opinions about how much weight a woman should gain or not. I'm 6 months in and have gained 20 pounds. When I read that the average twin pregnancy should include 50 pounds of weight gain, I nearly wept. No, scratch that. I did weep. When I met my movie buddy Lloyd, he laughed at me and said I was enormous and should clearly only gain 5 pounds, no one needs to gain 50 pounds.

I refrained from smacking Lloyd as hard as I could and telling him that until he carried something the size of a bowling ball around his two intestines, he should keep his fucking mouth shut.

I did not share my popcorn with him, however.

I get loads of comments. I'm actually not that big I don't think, other women having twins - and some of women with just 1 baby - look bigger than I do, maybe because I'm a taller chick with a ribcage that Pavarotti would admire, so I can pack away a lot of baby in here. People insist on commenting on my size, and it really pisses me off. I'm pregnant, capisce? Don't go around telling me how big I am, I don't go up to you and tell you to ensure you don't have a monobrow, do I? Angus made the fatal error of calling me to the phone the other day with the term of endearment "Fat Girl". He was joking, of course. But clue drama of Faye Dunaway style and you'll understand my reaction to being called that term (he apologized and promised to not call me that again, which is good because I'd hate to ratchet my diva dial all the way up on high already.)

If you see a pregnant chick, just tell her she looks good. Even if she looks like shit. Lie, people. Just lie.

About number 4 - I can't reiterate it enough: Don't rub a pregnant woman's stomach without asking her first. Just don't do it. We are not Buddha. We are not a genie, we cannot grant you 3 wishes. We are not Care Bears who will make your very bestest wish come true. We are carrying babies and feeling a bit self-conscious about it in general, thanks. I get it that people want to "be one with the energy" or to be a part of it, but it's patronizing in the extreme. So far, I have had my stomach rubbed by seven people. Seven. In a very uncomfortable moment, I had to meet with an external company and one of my bosses came in to the meeting and joined. He introduced himself and me. Then he - I still can't believe this myself - told the table that I'm a top project manager who always delivers what he tells me to, even going above and beyond the call of duty, and to emphasize his point he patted my stomach.

I sat there with a frozen expression on my face. You'd think I was being pleasant. Inside, I'd turned into a verbal Rambo.

I'm sure some women don't mind it, there are women that no doubt feel ok or even connected about people touching them. I don't like people touching my stomach when I'm not knocked up (I need a sec to suck it in, after all), why would I be ok about emphasizing the point that I can no longer see my beaver? If women love you to touch their pregnant stomachs, I'm sure they'll tell you. They may even be the ones with the shirt saying "Bun in the Oven", with that big arrow pointing towards their crotch.

Some of the stomach touchers - like Jeff, who not only touches my stomach but thinks that my navel is a loudspeaker through which he should talk in order to be broadcast into the Lemonheads comfy 1970's-style den - are on the ok list for touching me. Angus would have full clearance to touch my stomach, only he's more likely to rub his hand across the stovetop seconds after sizzling up some fajitas. Another person who's ok for touching me is this guy:


Dad Helen and Gorby

My Dad, who phoned on Thursday and told me that the airline he works for asked him to pilot in a flight to London for an overnight stay, and could he come see us?

Of course he could. We were ecstatic, including Granddog Gorby, who thinks my dad is the best thing since sliced dog biscuits. So my dad came, had dinner and stayed overnight with us, and yes he touched my stomach, but he's one of the few with a hall pass.

But he did comment on how big I'm getting, which necessitated an ass-kicking.

-H.

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July 09, 2007

Fear

We think the nationality issue has been sorted now - thanks to those who offered links and advice, we read them religiously, and although we're still looking for official comment from Border and Immigration Control, we're much calmer about the issue that the babies will be American and British at birth. We're also pleased we don't have to get married at Basingstoke! The marriage issue has been put to rest, much to the displeasure of both of our families, but both of us really feel that the stress levels are high enough as it is, adding a wedding into the mix right now isn't going to help. We will get married. Just not yet.

I know I've been writing a lot lately about stress, issues, and conflicted feelings. Lately things have been coming in waves of primary colors, raw and wild stresses and fears that are as vivid as my hormone-induced pregnancy dreams. I don't mean for this spot to become a beehive of vulnerability, it's just I'm in an area that I have never been in before, an area I thought maybe I would never be in.

For years now, I've had few real fears. I guess when you meet with the action end of a bottle you stop being afraid of a lot of things, they just don't scare you anymore. Death doesn't scare me. Heights don't scare me. Snakes and creepy crawlies - while not my favorite things in the world - don't paralyze me with fear. I can say that I have a lot of things that concern me, but for so long I had nothing I was truly, completely, and utterly afraid of. Nothing stabbed me in the heart with cold hard terror. There was nothing that was a fate worse than death, because death itself wasn't a benchmark of alarm, and because death was, in some ways, a better answer to the life of unmitigated destruction I was forcing myself to live.

Until now.

Work with my nice couch man has been ongoing and will keep going until the babies are born, then I imagine some kind of scale down will have to happen. He's gotten me out of hopping out of myself. I am no longer feeling absolutely nothing at events that I should feel something at. I do not try to be anyone else, and I don't tell people lies so that they won't get to know me. I am the nearest thing to Me that I have ever been.

And he's helping me deal with the next round.

I always seem to have rounds. Only this one is a round which makes my mouth run dry. It makes me short of breath with panic. It makes me feel like going prostrate with agony and defeat, and that's something for me. I'm the little engine that could. I can take the defeat, the shit, the challenges. But suddenly, I am overwhelmed by something bigger than I am.

We're working as fast as we can.

I look back at the life I've lived as though I'm a war veteran standing on the edge of a very large cliff. From the view of the cliff, I can see it all. My childhood, where I was locked inside of eyes that didn't fit, where the embarassment and inadequacies first set in. My teens, where I ruthlessly seized the path of not belonging, and made it my mission to further making myself as distant as possible. My early adult years, where it was obvious to all and sundry just how detached I was, just how much was invisible from the surface. My late 20's, where I started to implode. The many, many hours I spent on a couch, trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

I look down over my cliff and the sea smells of dysfunction, as screaming taunts, addictions, nightmares, emotional and physical violence, and that whine of the TV at 5 am as it plays only humming white noise churn below me. I am none of those people now, but they are all in me, and I am trying to reconcile them and move on. I survived it all, but even more than that, I survived myself. I did a far better job of enforcing the nightmares than anyone I ever loved could ever have done.

And now I feel kicking. It's gentle but insistent. It comes in the mornings, it comes in the late evenings, it comes when I am still. There is no noise in my head but there's noise in the ever-growing curve of my abdomen.

I have dreams that I am a warrior, battle-weary and scarred, trying to get three children out of a war-torn country. I am told, in typical Freudian bullshit fashion, that two of the children in my dream are the Lemonheads. The other child I am trying to save is me. I don't know what to make of this, but then I often don't know what to make of anything.

The battle to get over how broken I was is largely over. We have some smaller pieces to work on, but I am in my here and now. I am proud of the work I've done. I am proud that I survived myself. I wouldn't wish being broken on anyone, but if you make it through and can look back, then you are the strongest person I know.

I do not fear death. I do not fear love. But I do have a fear now, and it is scarier than anything I have ever felt. It punches me in the gut and takes my breath away. If I don't protect the babies as I should have been protected, I will have failed them. I will have failed myself. If I don't take heed and take a different path, then I will ruin them. If I don't save them from what I know is out there, then I will be no better than the monsters I tried to run from. It's not just all up to me, it's not all just tilting at windmills. I will conquer it, because there is no alternative.

My fear was unexpected.

My fear is honest, and terrifying.

My fear is simple.

My biggest fear in the world is that my babies will turn out like me.

-H.

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July 06, 2007

The Logistics of Loving a Foreigner

Throughout all the baby talks, decisions, arguments, stresses, and choices, one thing has been 100% crystal clear to Angus and I - the babies, when they are born, will immediately be registered as American citizens by myself and British citizens by him. This is a point of non-negotiation for both of us. Our children will be dual citizens from Day One (ok, well, really more like Day Five, as we need to get home from the hospital first).

It's not that we worry there'll be an international incident regarding them or anything, but we are both keen to have our children be a mixed part of both of our lives. It's not ok for me to not register them as Americans, because that's where I'm from, that's what I am. It's not ok to not register them as British citizens, because that's who Angus is, that's where we live (and there's the side issue of the babies needing visas, etc.)

I did check with the American Embassy about the rules on this. For children born outside of wedlock to a U.S. citizen mother and non-U.S. citizen father, they absolutely can be American citizens as long as I have lived in the U.S. for 5 years after the age of 14 (it seems a strange rule, but I comply. I have official college transcripts to prove it.) So I need to turn up with the babies at the Embassy with my passport and birth certificate, as well as proof I lived in the States for 5 years after age 14 (if they even ask for it, I have a feeling once I open my trap it'll be clear I am, indeed, a Yankee Doodle Dandy), and voila-the babies get American passports and are Americans.

I checked on this.

I was worried about it.

My fears were assuaged.

Turns out I should maybe have checked on the British side of things, too.

Silly me - I honestly thought American citizenship rules would be more difficult than British ones. Seriously. Not because I'm having a go at America, but immigration in the States is so complex, I thought American citizens born abroad thrown into the mix would make it harder.

It turns out, as Angus and I aren't married, the babies cannot be British citizens from birth. Believe it or not, it's only because the British citizen in this instance is, according to Border and Immigration Control, "not relevant". Citizenship apparently passes matrilineally in this country, the fact that the father is British does not matter a jot. We can apply for British citizenship on the babies' behalf after they become Americans, but it's not a guarantee that they will get it, which I feel is really, really fucked up.

All this could be solved if we had gotten married.

I'm here on a work visa, not a fiancée visa, which means (we think) I'd have to apply to the Home Office for permission to get married because I'm not in the UK with indefinite leave to remain (I would have gotten that by March next year, only they changed the fucking rules last year and so I have to go through the hassle and stress of trying to renew my work visa for one more year before I can get indefinite leave to remain. This, because immigrants are BAD. Even immigrants like myself, who pays 40% of my salary in taxes and owns a home. We're all bad.) If I apply for a fiancée visa, I have to leave the country while it's being considered, and not only is that going to be difficult with regards to work ("Hey! Hope you don't mind, but I have to fuck off for a while as I'm being considered for a fiancee visa! See you soon!") but it'd mean our little family of four would be apart for a while.

God, the drama.

Add on to the fact that while Angus and I do want to get married and will get married, neither of us want to do it now, as it means we've loads of paperwork to do, a month of preparations, and then - how neat! - I can get married while 7 months pregnant and the size of a small island nation! I'm so happy! This is totally what I had in mind, struggling to get the paperwork in and avoiding getting married in a designated "U.K. Immigration Restricted Office", which in our case means Basingstoke, which is a town that's rather like the asshole of the U.K. We could go to the States, but something about flying at 7+ months pregnant kind of makes me wary of that idea.

All this, and I'd be seriously pregnant.

Shotgun wedding. Just what I'd always envisaged for myself.

You can take the girl out of the Deep South, but you can't take the Deep South out of the girl.

(I am not judging shotgun weddings. If you got married because there was some knocked-upness going on, then I promise you I am not having a go. I'm just talking about how I saw my future.)

So last night there we were, severely depressed. Neither of us want to HAVE to get married. And while I'm completely happy with an elopement on a beach somewhere, Angus is dead certain - a wedding for us will be an event with friends and family. I woke up at 4 am and tossed and turned for hours, my mind a riot - how would we get a cake? How would we get a first dance - there are two babies in the way? How would we get invitations in time? We didn't budget this in, what impact will this have on the nursery fund we're saving? For the love of God, how enormous am I going to be at my own wedding? I saw it now, me showing the photo album to the babies in the future: Here's Mommy and Daddy. Yes I know, we're looking pained. And Daddy looks hungover. And - what's that? Oh no, sweetheart, that's not a flower girl. Those are Mommy's pregnant cankles.

Wedding stuff seriously stresses me out. Not only is it very complicated by the fact that I may have to get permission from this country to get married (which is so fucking patronizing, but it's yet another fact I need to check on), but I just don't want to get married while pregnant. And we don't want the stress right now. And this isn't how we wanted it to be, either of us. But ensuring the babies are citizens of both countries is hugely important to us.

God. Once Adam finds out about this it'll be hell. Adam is already in line for an ear-bending next weekend, not only from myself but from Angus, Angus' other brother, and his brother's wife (the Filipina). We are all sick and tired of his crappy comments adding to the feeding frenzy that us foreign brides may spirit off the English babies. He's going to be told in no uncertain terms that he needs to think before he speaks, that the implications of his words are huge. I keep thinking he's assuming I'm going to go all Not Without My Daughter on them, except in our case it'll be Not Without My Daughter and Son. And this is the U.K, not Iran. And I'm no Sally Field. So, really, nothing like Not Without My Daughter, but you get my meaning.

So this morning we started phoning offices as soon as they opened. Angus got on to Border and Immigration Control, and I was ready to start ringing the Home Office. Border and Immigration Control say that the law has actually changed as of July last year, all their websites are out of date, and the babies born out of wedlock to British fathers can be British from the beginning, too. Angus has asked for it in writing.

It might be ok.

Until we get something in writing, we keep nervously feeling the metal edge of a 12-guage in our backs.

-H.

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July 05, 2007

Some Say Love, It Is a Flower. I Say It's Five Ounces of Vegetable Oil.

Last night the boy really pulled out all the stops.

I got home and was greeted by the dog, who generally finds it's his main purpose in life to:

1) Hate the postman
2) Bark at thunder
3) Greet anyone entering the house (us, friends, burglars) with a wag of the tail before retiring back to his bed in the kitchen

I met Angus in his study and shared with him my American purchase of the day - a chocolate chip cookie from a place at Waterloo. Said place make killer cookies. They're so buttery the paper bag gets see-through with butter grease stains, but I figured the Lemonheads, they needed some exposure to empty calories American fare.

Angus, grinning, told me what was in stock for me that night.

He'd bought me soy burgers (he had real dead animal burgers in the freezer, he makes his own recipe in huge batches. He goes so far as to use chopped steak and blue cheese, none of this ground chuck business for his burgers.) He'd bought white hamburger buns, something which is generally against his principles. He serves his burgers on sliced baguettes, not on something he referrs to as "packaged sawdust". He had corn on the cob, mushrooms, and potatoes, all for the grill. He had apple pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert.

But his coup de resistance? The point where he earned more boyfriend points than it's possible to spend in a lifetime? The moment when I knew how much he loved me?

He bought me a package of processed cheese slices for my burger. Like the Kraft ones, the ones that are an unnaturally bright orange, the ones individually wrapped in plastic that's impossible to get off the corners of the cheese slices correctly. We have a fridge full of French cheeses, we have a huge lump of English cheddar...and my boy went and bought me cheese slices because he says that's how American 4th of July cheeseburgers are supposed to be.

Nothing says "I love you" like processed cheese product. Nothing.

We sat under the canopy of a tree while he barbecued our dinner. Despite the chill and the rain, he insisted we grill. "This is what you do on the 4th of July," he explained. "You grill. So we are." It was very cozy and companionshippy, and I was so grateful. We ate our mushrooms. We had our corn on the cob (I'm a weird one when it comes to corn on the cob. I love the stuff, but I won't eat it off the cob. I have to cut it off the cob. I don't like scraping my teeth against something that feels like an unsoaked sponge. I have issues, I know.) He made me my soy burger with a huge smear of bright yellow mustard. "They didn't have any French's mustard at the shop," Angus explained apologetically as he spread Coleman's on the upper bun. He put a huge dab of salsa on my burger. And I got not one but two of my fake cheese slices.

The food was excellent, including my packaged cheese product. I have 14 slices left and I'll be damned if I'm not going to eat every single one of them (look alive, Lemonheads. This is Mommy's home turf, right here.) I don't want processed cheese food every day, but dammit he bought it for me for our American 4th of July and I'm going to eat it.

That's love, people.

After dinner Angus warmed up the apple pie (which was really tarte tartin but beggars can't be choosers and it tasted great). He dolloped two enormous scoops of vanilla ice cream on top and handed me the plate with a fluorish.

"Voila!" he grinned. "Apple pie a la....a la...apple pie a la dipshit!" he cried.

"I think you mean apple pie a la mode," I fill in for him.

"That's the one, I couldn't remember the name of it."

We went to bed early tucked in a cozy embrace. I fell asleep right away - my purchase of a Widgey saving my hips and back from agony - and we slept through the night, waking only to throw Maggie out of the room when she started to be a pain (Maggie has extra privileges these days. She's not coping well.)

This morning we both woke up feeling a little...on. Slight nudgings from the other party, dragging fingers up and down soft backs, it was all happening before he had to leave for a meeting. As we really got going, Angus pulled the sheet back and there, in all its glory, was my very pregnant body. Wrapped around the Widgey. Because nothing says hot stuff like a pregnant chick spooning an enormous nursing pillow.

Angus looked at the pillow.

It's covered in blue gingham. It's not exactly a turn on. I imagine that in men's minds it's similar to trying to give Dorothy one while Auntie Em was in the other room.

"Er..." I said. I hastily shoved it off the bed.

Smiling, Angus crawled up to me. Suddenly, he looked stricken with pain. "Leg cramp," he gasped through badly clenched teeth. He shook his leg wildly up and down, trying to get the cramp out. While he did that, I had to adjust myself as the sudden loss of my Dorothy-like dildo meant my hips and my nearly 6 months pregnant stomach weren't aligned, and it was painful.

I wondered if this is how sex will be when we're in our 80's.

We got there in the end (and it was good!). The beginning drama didn't affect us and instead I think a little reality proves that if you can get through all that and still desire each other, then maybe there's a spark there that'll last you for years to come.

Besides, he bought me processed cheese slices.

In some countries that must mean we're married.

-H.

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July 04, 2007

My Fellow Americans

Although I left America 8 years ago, there are some days where I get a bit warped around the edges, where I am not quite the color I should be - I fade a bit, and get a little more introspective (as if that's possible). I think about my home country a lot on some days, and on those days I get a bit opaque. My edges are faint.

Today is one of those days that I often feel just a little bit pale on.

It's not as hard on me as Thanksgiving is, that Thursday is generally very hard on me, but it's a day that I feel just a bit...off.

Today most of the people I lived amongst have the day off. It's a day where you wake up and stretch, maybe have a morning round of loving. You open the curtains to the sunshine, think about everything you need to do today, and turn the TV on. The stores are all closed. Your neighbors are all home.

Your day may be filled with the smell of coals turning red in metal-tubbed grills. Hot dogs, hamburgers, ribs...the smell of mustard and ketchup fills the air, along with barbecue sauce, corn on the cob, and pie. Watermelon is chilling in a cooler. Bottles of beer are sweating on the tabletop, their labels bubbled with moisture. Maybe a pitcher or two of some lucious drink involving blenders, ice, and sheer mess are lounging about.

Your day may have the sound of rawhide meeting a bat as a line drive causes the fans to stand up and cheer at the stadium. If you're in the neighborhood, you hear the guy next door laughing, and the sound of sprinklers - and children running through them - is the hum and throb of the daily background noise. Tonight, somewhat sticky, somewhat humid, you'll maybe sit down and watch the fireworks explode overhead. You'll "Oooh!" and "Aaaah!" as appropriate, because that's what you do when the bangs occur overhead.

And these are things that I miss.

Stupid, really.

I may not necessarily miss much, but I do miss Nabisco products. I miss TV in the evening. I miss a grocery store full of so many things I will never need or use, but at least they're there, hanging out and waiting. Cookies? Check. Double stuff cookies? Check. Double stuff cookies dipped in frosting? Check. I wouldn't touch the things, I think they sound revolting. But it comforts me to know they're there. I miss Target and Boston Market and Jason's Deli. I miss Pop Tarts not being a strange thing to eat for breakfast. I miss being able to open my mouth and not having to think about which vernacular I use.

But these things are slight things I miss. They pass. I look at what I have in my life here and it is decision I made, and don't regret.

But on the 4th of July, like Thanksgiving, I miss home.

Maybe I'm romanticising things, about how your days will be, about how it all pans out. Maybe barbecues and sprinklers and baseball games are a thing of the past, much like Trick-or-Treating and Easter bunny baskets. Maybe I've just not moved on.

My day today is heading into London for a meeting. I'll be listening to Southwest Trains announcements and my iPod. Lunch will come from a sandwich shop, although my lovely Angus has promised me a BBQ for dinner, even if the rain starts pissing down (which it will. It's neverending. We had a party planned for Saturday but we've canned it as the weather is supposed to be foul this weekend.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm very glad to be here, and am very glad to have the company of Maggie, Gorby, and my lovely boy, who has changed the desktop picture on our home PC to one of an American flag for the day. He's generally very sensitive and caring on the days I feel homesick and I am so grateful. Now if I can just get him to quit playing his new favorite radio station he's convinced that Americans listen to - it's KWBY, which he found on the web. It's a radio station for gaw cowboys. Yes, you read that right. He and Gorby like to dance to the music while I cringe and hope he'll turn the racket off.

But even though I'm very glad to be here, it doesn't mean I don't miss something that was a part of me for 25 years.

Happy 4th of July, then. Have a beer and light a sparkler for me. Have fun today.

-H.

PS-strange, I hadn't realized it-in the past few weeks I had my 1,000th blog post and my 16,000th comment. Angus pointed this out to me this morning as we're in the process of moving my blog from everydaystranger.mu.nu to a new server (so if you come in to the site via that URL be advised it'll be turned off in the next few weeks). I promise to give out the new URL once it's moved (although I'll still accessible via http://everydaystranger.net and http://everydaystranger.eu), but I'm not quitting and I'll still be Helen of Everyday Stranger (Helen of Troy was already taken).

I'll be sans KWBY, though, that's for sure.

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July 03, 2007

Scotland the Brave

Slight diversion while I try to get my head round the baby suggestions yesterday-a lot of them were very good, many of the products I can't get here but am looking at alternates, and although I can't find Boppys here, I bought myself a poseur Boppy wanna-be today, mostly because my hips are screaming in agony during the night as the weight of my stomach throws everything out of whack.

So, like...how about a Scotland recap?

'Cause I'm sure you're sick of clicking here and finding how stressed out I am. My stress might be osmotic, so soon you'll be stressed, as instead of moving over water my stress moves over pixels. It could happen.

Getting to Scotland from here is reasonably simple and incredibly cheap if you plan it in advance. Both Angus and I are huge, huge fans of the sleeper train from ScotRail, and if you check their page they have a little tiny link to something called Bargain Berths. If you play around with the dates, you can book an overnight sleeper train on the Bargain Berth for £19. Ordinarily, it costs you a few hundred pounds. Totally worth it to go through their exasperating website. The sleeper train is dead easy-get on the train in central London late at night, get off the train first thing in the morning in central Edinburgh/Glasgow/Aberdeen/Inverness wherever the hell you're going in Scotland. I took us to Fort William, as it's close to Oban, where the power station (and point of Angus' birthday present was.) From there, we would take various ferries about the Hebrides and the Isle of Skye.

You also sleep like a baby on the sleeper train. You rock gently with the movements of the train, I absolutely love it. Besides, there's something about waking up to the views of the Highlands on the train.


A view from the sleeper train


And even more spectacular was this, which we saw this from our seats on the train while downing our breakfast:


Waking up in the morning to a view like this is quite ok


When we got off the train at Fort William, we picked up the hire car and drove to Oban, then out and about Loch Awe to Cruachan Power Station. We had a tour of the station by the most Scottish Scotsman I've ever met. I do ok with the Scotch accent, but I struggled with this guy, even wondering for a while why the tour guide kept talking about Lahore. What does a large city in Pakistan have to do with this power station? I wondered, as they bussed us into the mountain. I then cottoned to that "Lahore" was close to his pronounciation of "Loch Awe".

My Gaelic sucks.

We stayed overnight in a completely unremarkable B&B, remarkable only for The Most Uncomfortable Bed in The History of Medieval Beds. We had springs coming out of the bed, seriously. It was the one and only time either of us could think of a crappy hotel we'd ever stayed in Scotland in, and it will be the last.

We took the ferry then to the Isle of Mull, one of the Inner Hebrides.


Caledonian MacBrayne


On the way we passed one of my summer homes.


My summer home


I wish, anyway.

The ferry was crowded and I was feeling a bit....naughty. I'm one of those pregnant women with a slightly insatiable horniness going on, so I decided to splurge on something that women do and men usually love.

I slid off my knickers in the ladies room and then quietly handed them to Angus when I rejoined him on the upper deck of the crowded ferry.

No lads, riddle me this-what's the correct thing you should reply when your randy lady slides her knickers into your coat pocket? Is it:

A) God you are the hottest thing on two legs.
B) You look after your own knickers, I don't want them.
C) Oh look - there's a Larus canus! Hang on!

There's a correct answer here, and it would be A. Not B. Which is what I got. But the boy did redeem himself by being very on and paying lots of attention to me in the car.

We drove around Mull, including the main village of Tobermory, which is a very cute, charming village known apparently because there's some kids show character here named Tobermory.


Tobermory


We spent the day on Mull, which was an amazing and beautiful place. We toured the Mull Highland Museum, which was very angry about the Clearances (as they should be, it was a dark time). But they kept saying the Highlanders would be back to claim the land someday, to which I thought: What Highlanders? The Clearances took place centuries ago, and continued for generations. Who is there to find to come back? There is evidence of the Clearances everywhere.


A sad victim of the Clearances


It was hotter than hell and we slept with the window open, which we later learned was a mistake.


Welcome to Midge Hell


The next morning it was warm but spookily misty.


Misty Scottish morning

And Mull was just as beautiful as you imagine Scotland will be.


Stunner


All parts, even the sheep's ass.


Yes, you!


We left Mull via ferry.


Cute boy on a ferry


We drove along Glenfinnan forest. We got stopped by traffic wardens, who were diverting traffic around a film crew filming in Glenfinnan forest. We didn't know it at the time, but apparently it was production on the next Harry Potter film.

So close, and yet so far.

We took a ferry to the Isle of Skye, where we drove to the north of the island and stayed in an old baronial home. The innkeeper there told us that next weekend the hotel was booked with a number of "Hollywood types". Our second run in with the movies, we were intrigued and asked more.

"Oh I can't tell you who's staying here," the proprietress said demurely. But she did tell us the name of the film.

We drove to Portree, where over lunch I got out my Blackberry and googled the film.

"OH MY GOD!" I shrieked. I can be so American. "Do you know who is in that film?" I asked Angus.

He looked blank.

He really only know Jack Nicholson, every other Hollywood name seems to pass him by.

"It's McDreamy! McDREAMY! He's on this island! He's going to be in that hotel!"

Angus continued to look non-plussed.

"I liked him from Can't Buy Me Love! Who can say that? I had true fan love, and even tolerated his crap film!"

Most of Portree was roped off for more filming, which is of his new film Made of Honor.

We never saw McDreamy.

That's ok.

I'll still have Can't Buy Me Love.

We spent the day in Skye, then headed back to the mainland.


Me again


On our last day we saw that famous viaduct, which I have fond memories of.


Hogwarts Express


It was a wonderful trip. I am so glad we went, it was relaxing, warm, wonderful, and we felt like a couple, which we both needed.

Someday, maybe I'll get to live in Scotland.

I think that'd be a little slice of heaven.

-H.

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July 02, 2007

Delaying My Application for Mother of the Year

Thanks for the many comments on Friday. I may (regularly) feel like I'm losing my mind, and it's nice to know that if I do, I'll be taking a lot of you down with me.

So I've been emailing back and forth with Statia about a few things, and one of her emails started off innocuously enough, but it quickly denegrated into a "Bitch please, don't you know anything about parenting?" kind of email.

But it was not judgemental from her perspective.

It was me judging me.

(She wouldn't send me a judgey email like that, although she would be one of the few to be forgiven if she started an email with "You Dumb Whore". If she disapproved of something I think she'd try to quietly talk me in to an alternate method. This is why I love her. That, and because if I get an email from a friend with a picture of a really ugly baby I can send it to her and we'll talk about the fact that the baby, it's pretty ugly, and we won't be all shocked and convinced that the other person is going to hell. Which we both are, but that's beside the point.)

Statia's email simply listed a few baby things she wondered if I could get over there, because she recommends them highly.

I didn't know a single product on that list.

Not one.

Hence my Bitch, please admonitions to myself.

I was frantically Googling names of things that sounded, to me, like the name of a new band of Muppets. Itzbeen? Baby Papasan? Boppy? What the fuck, can I get a Grown-Up Name for 200, Alex? And when I looked them up they were great products, things that sounded fantastic.

And I feel really, really unprepared for all of this.

I hit 23 weeks of pregnancy this week. This is a big time, mostly because should I go into early labor (knock on wood I won't), the babies start to have a chance of surviving it. In three weeks' time, at 26 weeks, they'll be in bad shape for a while but have a high chance of survival and a low chance of motor development problems. My pregnancy has been racing by, and I'm hoping it keeps racing over the next few weeks, because once I hit 27 weeks or so, I'll be breathing easier.

But what this means is I'm entering the home stretch soon. Me and my 8.5 kilos worth of babies, uterus, and the inside paraphernalia that goes with babies (umbilical cord, blood volume, beer hat with dual straws) are all going to be meeting up shortly.

And I'm not ready.

Not a bit.

Angus and I decided not to go to antenatal classes because:

1) Angus has done all this before and knows how to do all the various baby things.

2) Neither of us could handle going and being with all the crunchy-granola mummies and their tummy-rubbing hubbies.

3) Neither of us could handle going and being with the twins' group of crunchy-granola mummies and their tummy-rubbing hubbies, especially since a number of them are likely to be from the same IVF clinic we went to.

4) I've seen a preview of the classes, and it's all about the natural labor, the breastfeeding, and the birthing pools. Twins rule the birthing pool out (which Helen would have ruled out anyway. I am not Flipper, goddammit. I do not birth in a pool.) Natural labor is out - I want drugs, and lots of them. Moreover as a twins' mom I have an 80% chance of a C-section anyway, so I'm just resigning myself to that being the likelihood. And I can't breastfeed as I had the radical breast reduction years ago and have no milk ducts. So I'd be in there feeling like the worst mommy in the world. All I need to do now is ensure their closets have lots of wire hangers and I'll be all set.

We have a wishlist, which I'll be posting shortly. It was a fraught thing, this wishlist, not only because there are so many choices (which bouncy chair do I want? This woman's baby hated it! This woman's baby loved it! What will my babies think? What if one hates it and one loves it?) but also because Angus falls along the lines of the Amish way of raising babies - they get a crib, car seat, stroller (pram), sleeper suits, bottles, diapers, and some wooden blocks. Everything else is a gimmick. I was told I don't need a diaper bag, the babies don't need many toys, and the bathtub I bought was unpopular as "you just hold them in the bath".

Now, I'm not big on lots of things, either. The idea of a load of baby things - most of which I have no experience of and don't even know if we'll be using - is overwhelming. I do have some lines drawn in the sand - I bought one baby swing and need to buy another, because I heard that the swings can at least buy you time to brush your teeth, to have a cup of coffee, or to weep silently in the hallway, all of which I imagine I'll need. I do also insist on a baby changing table because although Angus maintains you can change the baby on the floor, I'm looking at C-section Land, which means stitches, no bending, and general hell for about 6 weeks. He's agreed to those things, and he's also agreed we can have a glider chair. I was prepared to offer copious amounts of oral sex in exchange for my victories.

But when I look at baby catalogs, baby websites, baby stores, I get overwhelmed. Why do baby clothes come in such confusing sizes - over here we have early baby, tiny baby, newborn, and 0-3 months - what the fuck? Aren't they mostly the same thing? What size will my babies be? And for how long? Twins are smaller than singletons, but how much smaller? What the hell do I need? What don't I need? Is it really the austere path that Angus wants, or is the overwhelming path that his sister-in-law went (all brand new, all posh names, and one of everything, please) the way to go?

I'm hoping it's somewhere in between. I have a feeling I won't know until I get there, although once I'm there it's not like I'll be getting out of the house all the time, not with two infant babies. It's probably a good thing that he's sure we won't need much stuff, because my panic levels are rising and I'm sure I'd make some stupid purchases to try to help ease the angst.

And while we're on what I need and don't need, will I seriously need the entire fucking life raft of things they suggest I'll need when I go into the hospital to give birth? Seriously, the list reads like a "What to bring on a U.N. mission into Gambia" protocol. What the hell do mothers really need in the hospital? And I just found out last week that after giving birth, I'll be put into a gigantic room with three other new mothers...and our babies. Yes, that's right - unless your baby needs special care (SBCU or special baby care unit), there is no nursery here. It's called a crash course in motherhood right there, it'll be me, the twins (hoping they're not in the SBCU), three mothers, and their new babies, all in one giant room. Welcome to motherhood. You don't even get to eat the hospital pudding in peace.

Screw getting any rest in the hospital. It sounds like I'll be aching to go home and get some sleep.

I'm feeling a bit faint about everything, and I don't think it's the hormones.

As far as pregnancy goes, I shouldn't say this but...it's not like I thought it would be. I mean, it's hard to imagine how it's going to be if you've never had kids and suddenly you're baking a bun in the oven, let alone two, but it's not how I imagined it. The biggest thing that I didn't see coming?

God...this is hard to say....

Um....I'm not exactly in love with all the kicking that goes on inside.

I read comments and blog posts from other women who find it the very essence of the miracle of pregnancy. Most women seem to miss that single aspect of childbearing most once they've given birth, it's a connection that I think women acutely grieve once it's severed. And maybe I will miss it, too. Someday.

Don't get me wrong, I love knowing that they're alive and well in there, I really do. It's reassuring and comforting to know that they're moving around and are large enough to feel. I find it interesting to observe when they're active and when they're not - they went mad during the busy, noisy action scenes from the new Fantastic 4 movie I took Jeff to see (does that mean they like the noise? Hate it? Not sure.) They also went mad at the steam whistle from the train in Scotland. These observations amuse me and make me smile.

But it's not comfortable, this kicking. They're only almost 23 weeks, I have 13 more weeks of this to go, and the kicking, it's already cumbersome. What happens when they get larger, I wonder? One of the babies regularly nails my lungs, the other one takes my bladder to task, and I find myself doing that age-old motion of rubbing my stomach, like all pregnant women do, only I'm doing it to see if they'll calm down.

Shouldn't I be over the moon at the kicking? Shouldn't I find it symbolic and wonderful and a feeling to be cherished forever? Why am I not more enchanted with it? I absolutely love knowing that they're ok and healthy, that's for sure, but am I missing something with the whole "one with the movements of my unborn child" shtick?

Does this mean I'm going to be one of those mothers that doesn't bond well? If I don't feel like standing naked under a full moon rubbing my growing mound in joyous celebratory wonder and we're only to the kicking stage, does that mean I'll be one of those women in a shabby bathroom extinguishing the butt end of my cigarette in their forumla before shaking it up and serving it to them (and no I don't smoke, and never have done, I'm just saying)? When they're 4 years old and we're out of shredded wheat, will I just roll my eyes and offer up a bowl of torn-up egg carton pieces with a dash of Budweiser to add an element of sog? When my son is 18 years old, will I tell him that screw university, truly the only career option he has is to pursue a bit part in a travelling murder mystery troupe?

Yeah. So much to think about over here.

If anyone needs me, I'll be curled up in a fetal position at Babys 'R Us.

-H.

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June 29, 2007

I Needed the Calcium Anyway

France was good. But Calais, she is not a beautiful place (apologies if I'm offending anyone from Calais.) Calais is simply a port town where the boats and the Eurotunnel come in, and it's swimming with French people fed up with dealing with the English who've come there to buy alcohol. Angus, Jeff and I hit a shopping center where we stocked up on our favorites - good mustard, olive oil, chocolates, cheese (we went running into the cheese aisle, weeping with joy and love), and my favorite, a candy I call Dragonballs.

Then we hit the liquor store.

Hard.


Thirsty?


We bought 78 bottles of wine, 52 bottles of beer, and a bottle of very good single malt whiskey (Ballachulish, for those who like the nectar of life.)

Then we hopped a train home and unpacked it all. We went to bed and yesterday, despite our attempts to change his flight so he could stay longer, Jeff flew home (Scandinavian Airlines sucks. Has to be said.) We waved goodbye as he was escorted to the plane (he's underage so when he flies alone he takes the unaccompanied minor service, complete with the embarrassing neck pouch he has to wear) and now the house is quiet. We have a lot to do - work got neglected, emails need to be answered, the house looks like Martha Stewart's biggest fucking nightmare, and the project that Angus and Jeff have been working on - ripping out the diseased hedges in the front and building a fence - is only partly done because there's only so much you can do in the rain.

A lot has been going on. I realized the other night that I'm actually not doing too well - my hair continues to come out in chunks in the shower, to the point now where I'm actually worried I am losing too much hair. I've been downing Tums like the bottle may have a golden ticket to the Wonka factory in it. I thought it was all part of being the Lemonheads' personal transportation, but with the appearance of ass bleed the other night it appears that actually, my body is telling me it's pretty fucking stressed out.

I downloaded th Editors new album, and now I'm sitting in my study (the next room to be terrorized by Angus and Helen's Great Renovation Project of 2007) and think about everything I'm thinking and feeling.

It's all a little too big, even for someone whose shoulders are as broad as mine.

I've had a lot churning around inside of me, things that perpetrate the enormous mistakes I made when I was younger, as well as the mistakes that were made against me. I don't mean that in a "sobbing on Oprah's couch blaming my inability to hold down a job based on my father's alcoholism" kind of way, but mistakes in my life are common, and some of them are my own and some of them aren't. But I'm someone that doesn't like thinking about the past, I'd rather the past was just a bit of white noise while I change the channel to understand what's going on now. This applies to everything, from walking to school as a 6 year-old to loving Kim to those hot humid Texas summers where I looked up at the sky and wondered where it all went from here. All of those things are uncomfortable and lightly mocking. My mistakes tremble on the ground before me like hot coals.

The things bothering me are hot and varied. The incident with Melissa weighs on my mind, but it's safely on the "we can fix this" list. I think she and I can fix this, we just need to talk. I do also think a small part of it is adolescent hormones and turmoil, but I'm not dismissing the seriousness of her feelings because of that.

One of my current stresses is that Angus' ex is causing us huge issues. Her behavior and statements are well and truly out of control now. The night before Melissa had to go home last week, she got a message from her mother that she should take a cab from the airport, let herself inside the house, and her mother would see her in the morning. Her mother had a last minute trip to another country, so Melissa would be home alone.

All night long.

At age 14.

And this is much, much too uncomfortable for me. I remember being home alone at age 14 all night long. I would sit up in the living room and watch the same Betamax tape again and again and again. I would watch the door. I would listen for my sister, asleep in the other room. And I would wait. I hated it, and I'm not trying to project myself into Melissa's life, but I've got this to say - I'm not a mother. I don't know the first thing how hard it is to be a mother. I can't imagine being a divorced mother of two hoping to find something to raise you up out of the mundane sadness of needing something just for yourself.

But you don't leave your 14 year-old home alone all night long.

Ever.

And I may not be a mother but I call bullshit on that happening.

We couldn't change her flight, so off Melissa went. Angus phoned her constantly, to the point where Melissa was getting annoyed with the phone calls and she was just fine anyway, completely unphased by the whole thing. Angus was angry and upset that if there was an emergency, both of her parents were not only not nearby, they were both out of the goddamn country. And yes, we agree that there may be things occurring in the furute where an overnight alone may happen, but for God's sake arrange for some adult friend to come stay over or something.

Don't leave a kid alone all night, in the dark, wondering.

The ex has done a number of things lately to really fuck me off, but I won't go into them here. I really don't want her attacked on this blog, because it only tears Angus up, so I'm trying to be as neutral as possible.

We're all - Angus, his kids, and Angus' mother, brothers, and sisters-in-law, who all have contact with the ex-wife - tiptoeing around the ex right now because she hasn't been told about the babies yet. Angus has been discussing regularly with Melissa and Jeff as to when and how to tell her. He consults them because they're the ones who have to live with her. He consults with them because he wants to be sensitive to their needs and feelings. He consults with them because her reaction to our engagement was extremely negative, as you can imagine.

And when she finds out about the babies, we all have no doubt that it will be incredibly ugly.

But all three of them have agreed that she'll be told in the next few weeks. They've picked a specific damage-limitation time that is best for them. Angus will tell her himself, and then will be there for everyone in a supportive capacity. I think we're all pretty stressed out about it-Melissa, Jeff and Angus don't want to see her hurt. Angus and I worry about how she'll take it out on the kids and his family. And I worry that once more, the Lemonheads are something associated with great unhappiness.

Angus got a mail from his brother Adam two days ago that has further sent me into orbit. I like his brother, I really do, even when he's being a dick and telling me my unbaptized children will go to hell if they die. He's done this before, emailed and stepped in and tried to intervene on behalf of the family. He did it again, but this time he's wound me up no end.

In his email he pressured Angus to tell the ex now. Like, NOW. He further went on to say that he thinks the ex-wife will make it difficult for Angus to see Melissa and Jeff when she finds out, and that they have regular contact with her and get told all the details of the dramas in her life. Also? She may not be so cooperative in helping Angus with things like "doing the dirty laundry when the kids come back from visiting you".

THAT. That was the straw. That was the sentence.

I accept he has ultra-conservative views about marriage and the baptism of our babies. I accept that he and his wife have contact with the evil ex and don't defend Angus when she goes on an embellished rampage (she loves to bang on about money, and how she has none. Angus pays a huge sum of child support, plus buys clothes and extras for both the kids AND the ex-she sends over grocery requests every time they come over and he buys them for her and sends them back. If she's so upset about money, maybe she shouldn't have done things like buy a horse, spent a month's salary on a pedigree puppy, or, oh, I dunno, quit her job?) I accept that his family would love to know the details of the split-up from Angus, who (like me in my real life) is a very private person and doesn't talk about the details. I even accept that I am still painted as the Bride of Satan and Angus is, by extension, Satan.

But in saying that I would ever send his kids home with a suitcase of dirty clothes?

That's the fucking step too far.

It's not such a big deal, that statement. Dirty laundry, what a tiny thing to hit out on. But it's a monkier for the bigger picture, which is this: I'm not as good a mother as Angus' ex.

I know they think it. I know it. And it's not a competition or anything, but for Christ's sake, can you give a girl a chance here?

Lemme' clue you in on something here, Adam-NOT ONCE have Melissa and Jeff gone home with dirty clothes. They always return with their clothes freshly laundered and smelling like sun-fucking-dappled pools. Always. Have they shown up here with dirty clothes? You betcha'. More than once something they unpacked went straight into the washing machine (but I just think kids find laundry really boring and unimportant, I chalk it up to a kid thing, not a bad parenting thing.)

I may not be great at dusting. I may procrastinate at ironing clothes until the pile is registering for its own island status. But never, ever have those kids gone without care, love, and housekeeping while they've been here. And I will never leave my 14 year-old kid home alone all night.

I can accept that his family may view me as the flighty, mentally ill, unreliable soul that the ex wife paints me as, someone incapable of looking after Angus' children. And I do worry that I'm not being a good stepmother and that I won't be a good mother. If I wasn't worried, wouldn't that be a bad sign? Didn't Mommy Dearest run around thinking she was the bomb when it came to motherhood? Does that mean I should go get the toothbrushes and the wire hangers, will I be a good mother then?

You can call me a home wrecker.

You can label me as someone with psychological issues.

But don't you ever tell me that Angus' kids aren't looked after when they're here.

Angus very calmly and clearly spelled a lot of things out for his brother in a reply email, including defending our care of the children and the throw-away dirty laundry remark. He thanked him for his concern, but told him that he and his kids - the ones who are the biggest involved parties - are handling how to tell the ex-wife about the babies.

But this, along with many other enormous stresses, hangs over my head. When she finds out it's going to be very, very bad. I do actually wish that she didn't feel bad, but we all know it's coming.

Until it happens, I have Tums.

Tums, and my outrageous burning anger that will be addressed with Adam when I see him next weekend.

-H.

PS-if you do comment, please don't attack Angus' ex-wife. She is the mother of his kids, and attacks on her do give him conflict and I understand that. I discussed this post with him beforehand and he's ok with me posting it, so let's not pile on and have a go.

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June 27, 2007

Booze Cruise

So between the rain, the new prime minister we're getting today who is the very definition of "charisma bypass", the fact that the lawn is so long I'm sure that any moment now an antelope or two will come springing out by the hammock, and the 4th of July party we're having next weekend (on the 7th of July, as you do when you don't live in your home country anymore and you can't inconvenience everyone to come over for a BBQ on a work day), Angus, Jeff and I are bunking off on a booze cruise today.

Although technically we're taking the Euro Tunnel so it's not a cruise, it's a train. What does that make it - a rum run? Locomotive loot? Something equally trite?

I know it's trite and everyone does it, but we're off to France for an afternoon to buy alcohol and do a grocery run. Alcohol in France costs a fraction of what it does over here thanks to our good friend The Tax, and so we make one France run a year and the alcohol tends to last us for about 10-12 months. We're out of alcohol. It is time. Plus, it's an interesting diversion for the day, it gets us out of the way of the rain that's coming and we get to buy fabulous French Emmenthal, which makes my heart go pitter patter*.

So apologies for the short post, but computer time will continue to be limited until the little guy goes home tomorrow, and I've got some long ones coming after that.

-H.

* Yes I am allowed to eat Emmenthal. It's considered a safe one.

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June 26, 2007

Revelations

Last summer, it was the record heatwave and draught.

This summer it's record rainfall (yesterday most of England got a month's rainfall in one day) and flooding, and it's not stopping any time soon. The depression and blues over the cold, dark dampness is overwhelming.

What's next? Locusts?

-H.

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June 25, 2007

Hello, My Role Is _______

A lot's been going on over here. Not just the run of the mill, "wow, we've been fiercely arguing about our upcoming babies AND our beloved cat just died", that's just the foreground. In the background we also have garden landscaping we're doing, the architect's extension blueprints have arrived and we are agreeing draft plans, we've our finances to sort out, and it has been raining every goddamn day since early May, to the point now where the depression in our home is mighty and the flowers are literally rotting in their flower pots outside. Add a dose of Maggie entering depression (we're doing all we can to love on her), Gorby punctured his leg and needed care (I worry that any day now the RSPCA will show up and take him and Maggie away, it's just that kind of month) and the fact that Angus' kids have been here for a week (Jeff is still here for this week while Melissa's gone off to horse camp in Sweden now) and it's been a doozy.

So yeah. I've been pretty quiet, but that's only because not only can I not get access to the PC, but also because I'm frankly overwhelmed.

Melissa and Jeff are good kids. I honestly and truly love them a lot, except at 7:00 in the morning when Jeff wakes up at 10,000 mph and the house becomes a haze of noise. Then I love him a little bit less, at least until I've had a cup of coffee. The biggest problem is that they don't really get along, to the point where it makes our teeth grind and one understands why some animals eat their young. When they get into one of their moods they become so incredibly difficult that it makes me want to board a plane to somewhere, anywhere. I hear Kazakhstan is nice this time of year.

Last week we had a wobble in our household. Unusually, it wasn't had by myself or Angus. It was had by Melissa. Last Wednesday the household was up until about 2:00 am as she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Angus handled it and I came and went with water, Tylenol, stuffed animals, and hugs.

Melissa's complaint was this: she doesn't feel part of the household. Or more specifically, she doesn't feel like she has a place where she really belongs. Being half-Swedish and half-English and living mostly in Sweden, with one weekend a month in England, makes it not easy to reconcile where she needs to be. Is she Swedish? Is she English? Is it disloyal to like one more than the other?

Back in Sweden she and Jeff have a room of her own, they have a horse, a rabbit, birds, a dog and schoolfriends. They basically live on the money Angus sends them monthly (see: ex-wife decided to stop working. See also: I'd love to complain about this but feel it's not fair to Angus, who is the one who has to support two households.) which is much more than the requirement by law but means that there's little money for extras. But Melissa says that the home they live in there is like a museum - their mother won't let them touch things, it's not a "lived-in" house. Considering at any given moment Angus and I have a project on, need to vacuum the house, and have a piece of crap furniture we haven't gotten around to replacing yet (long live Ikea), apparently our home is much more "cozy and comfortable". I take that as a compliment. I think it is one.

But the extension isn't built yet, so Melissa's bedroom doubles as a guest room. Jeff's room doubles as Angus' study. There is simply no other alternative to this, and in fact once the extension is done her room will still have to be the guest room. The truth is the guest room has been used about five times in the year we've lived here, we always make it back up for her, but because she's only here one weekend a month and space is at a premium, this is likely the way it's going to have to be.

I heard some of the problem through the walls. Some of Melissa's complaints I understand - she isn't a part of the decision-making when it comes to purchases for the home. I struggle with that one a bit, because I think that while the input of the kids is good, the decision should ultimately be up to the ones who pay the bills. But I see where she's coming from on that one. She wants to hang pictures up and decorate, which we haven't really done as the majority of the house is temporary until the extension is done, but once again I see her point. She wants to know our neighbors and our bosses. A key one is that she wants to see my Dad and stepmom, whom she calls her grandparents now, whom she's not yet met (we're working on that one) but speaks to on email and Skype, and I see those points too-how can you have grandparents you love but have never met?

She's seen how my relationship is with the other half of my family and she's terrified that will happen to her, too.

I can see that she and I need to have a quiet talk coming up.

Some parts I struggle with. She wants to speak better English but doesn't want "Helen's American speech to ruin her English". I try hard not to take that personally, to just understand it's part of what's affecting her - Americans are unpopular with her mother. I am even more so. I can see why she wants to ensure that her speech isn't peppered with Americanisms, even though I'm getting pretty sick and fucking tired of being made fun of for the way I talk, even so-called light banter can get to be too much. She wants to be a part of all of the decorating of the home, but I feel in some ways that since she doesn't live here and is going off to school in three years, that we should have free reign to decorate the house as we're the ones living here. As long as we don't mark off the house with pentograms and chicken heads, it should be ok, and she has creative control over her bedroom (unless she wants to paint it orange. Then I'm going to try to intervene. Any color but orange.)

But one big complaint struck home with me, and I feel pretty mixed up.

One of her complaints is that she's crazy about me and wants me to be a mother to her, but I don't do mother-type things with her.

That one broke my heart.

Mostly because it was true.

It's true, I don't treat her like a daughter. I didn't want to, I didn't want to overstep my bounds. Her parents' divorce was a hard and difficult thing on the kids, something which has had severe impacts on them in large ways - Melissa walks a diplomatic battlefield, Jeff is a hypochondriac - and the idea that anything I could say or do might add to that fills me with terror. Although we hear plenty of bad things that get said about us, both Angus and I never, ever say derogatory things about the ex, even when I am/we are furious about her behavior. I'm not saying this to make us look like saints. I'm saying this because we both know what it's like to be caught in the middle of the ugliest tug-of-war known to man, we don't want to tighten the rope any more than it already is.

I don't treat Melissa like a daughter, even though I love her like one. She is a Daddy's girl through and through, and I didn't want her to think I was coming in and usurping her mother or trying to take away her father, I didn't want her to think of me as a threat or a challenge or some domineering bitch who wrecked a family and then tried to replace her mum. I wanted to be the non-threatening person on the sidelines. I wanted to be the friend.

She sees me not being a mother figure as a sign I won't love her as much as I'll love the twins.

In wanting to not overstep the bounds I undershot the mark and wound up hurting her.

I feel terrible.

Of course I love her. Of course I think of her as a daughter. I want to talk to her about school and boys, I want to tell her to put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher, I want to tell her to not speak to her father like that, please (sometimes when he asks her to stop picking on her brother she says "No!" back to Angus. It drives me fucking crazy when that happens, I'm of the old-fashioned "children do not tell their parents 'no'" party.) I want to watch films with her and lecture her to please tidy up and talk about history with her and travel with her.

Both Angus and I come from step-parent families, and both of us struggled with our step-parents. I was so eager to not make the same mistakes that I made all new ones. I don't phone up the kids to talk to them, and that hurts them. Although I tell them goodnight when they're here, I don't tuck them in like their dad does because I thought it was a special ritual they had only with their dad. I do tend to overdo taking care of meals and such, but I do that regardless of if they're here or not.

She felt left out. The upcoming babies are almost certainly not helping, and we will redouble our efforts to reassure Melissa and Jeff and make them feel secure and well-loved. I know how badly it felt to be so unsettled, to not belong, to feel like a stranger in a strange family and to feel like there was someone else who took emotional precedence. I would do anything to not have Melissa feel that way.

On Thursday I had to go to London for a customer meeting, one I simply couldn't miss. Melissa was taking a lunchtime flight home and I wouldn't be going with Angus to take her to the airport. As I put my things into my briefcase, I looked at her while she surfed the computer.

"I know we need to talk," I say hesitantly. "And we will. When we pick you guys up in Glasgow in a month, you and I will sit down and talk, ok?" And we shall. I'll tell her my background, why there's no chance in hell that what happened to my family will happen with her, and why it seems I am not interested in being a mother to her.

She nods, looking at me.

I smile at her. "I love you, you know. I'm going to miss you."

She reaches out and we hug. "I love you too," she says.

"I haven't answered you on Skype because I thought you wanted to talk to your Daddy only," I say. "How about this-I'd love to talk to you, and if you want to Skype and talk to me, what if you sent me some kind of coded chat message? Like, 'Dogs barking, can't fly without umbrella?' kind of thing? Then I'll know you want to talk to me and I'll be happy to call you."

She brightens. "That'll be cool!"

And I will find some way, with her, to walk that fragile tightrope of treating her like a daughter without disrespecting her mother.

-H.

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June 21, 2007

Seek and Ye Shall Find

IÂ’ve talked about it before, that I went to see a psychic in 1998.

Nine years ago I was in a desperate state. I was working for a stock broking company in Las Colinas, an area between Dallas and Arlington. It was a job I hated beyond hate, but felt I had no where to turn to get out of it. Kim and I had split for the final time. My Rottweiler Alexi had just died. I was paying back massive student loans and making sweet fuck at my horrible soul-sucking job and each month 5 bucks literally meant whether IÂ’d be eating or not. On top of that, I had a drinking problem in which IÂ’d take my favorite magenta plastic cup, fill it with two-thirds vodka and one-third orange sorbet and then proceed to drink myself to the point of spinning oblivion, collapsing on the bed at some point and succumbing to Kafka dreams to the nightly whir of my Texas air conditioning.

This happened nightly.

There wasnÂ’t anything in my life to stay sober for.

Someone I worked with told me about a psychic she saw regularly. I took a yellow post-it with the name and number and made an appointment. After work one day, still dressed in my business suit, I drove to her apartment at our agreed time. I still remember the apartment complex – a mock Tudor sprawl somewhere in Arlington - but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where the apartments were, and I used to know everything about Arlington.

I remember it cost $25 for a one hour session. This was money I barely had to spend on legitimate things like little pieces of plastic that came with a 16.9% APR, let alone on a woman purporting to be a psychic. When I paid her it was in a $20 bill and $5 in quarters, which was my laundromat money for the week. I guess the price of clean clothes was worth the cost of hope.

Besides the money for a few bottles of vodka I had nothing to lose.

IÂ’m a cynic, and since she couldnÂ’t see my face anyway I figured she wasnÂ’t spending her time reading my reactions. I still remember the blind woman and her blind miniature Collie.

She had a short blond bob and was kindly chubby in a “sweet Great-Aunt” kind of way. She had a few candles lit in her very modest apartment. Periodically during the session her little blind dog would get up, walk around, and smack into furniture. The house smelled like herbs and spices and talcum powder.

I wondered what I was doing there.

I remember a lot of what she said still. I donÂ’t know if we make what the psychics say come true because we believe thatÂ’s some kind of path for us, or if thereÂ’s something to what they tell us. What I remember at the time is what came out of her mouth was so far-fetched I could never, ever have believed it could happen. It was a whole world away from me and where I was. She couldnÂ’t possibly have known about the drinking, the loss, the absolute unquestionable need for faith (in something, in anything) that I had. I was slowly killing myself through drinking, despair, and my bulimic purges.

So maybe it was enough that someone came in and told me a story that gave me hope to get out of my situation. Someone told me about something that she said would be happening, and maybe that was what I needed to give me a kick in the ass to do something about my life. And the damn strange thing of it all is that everything she said has – so far – come true.

She told me about lights in the ceiling in a cold building that would lead me to a man with blue eyes. The man with blue eyes would lead to a country on the other side of the water, a country that started with “Sw”. The “Sw” country would lead to a lot of things, some good, some bad. It would lead to me spending the rest of my life with someone, and we would someday live by the water.

There I was, wilting away in Texas, and it was all so surreal it was a dream to me.

But the strange thing is, she was bang on in some parts. I got a job with a consulting agency which paid me 10k more than I was making. I bought a new car and some confidence. I worked hard and worked my way up. The consulting company sent me to a telecom company in Dallas, and then to another one, one which I had never heard of but which the headquarters were based in Sweden.

Sw.

She was right.

Then I went to a hockey game (lights in the ceiling and cold building) which lead to a flirtation with a guy who had blue eyes.

She was right again.

I took a position in the Swedish company. I moved to Sweden.

Even if youÂ’re a cynic, you have to admit that itÂ’s a bit uncanny.

Sweden led to another man but, above all, it led to Angus.

He has the bluest eyes of anyone IÂ’ve ever known.

She told me more – that I had a hard time and some times in my future would get harder. She told me that I was meant to be a writer, that what I had to offer the world would come from words (I’m trying on that one, honest.) She told me someday I would live by the water (still working on that one, too.) She did also tell me I had five guardian angels and that I’d had seriously miserable and uneventful past lives and that this life I am living now would be my last one, but then you can’t win them all.

But here’s the thing that I don’t think I’ve really talked about – she told me that I would have two children. She said that one of them would be very talented in the performing arts and would go far. So imagine my surprise when I found out the local secondary school near our little white house is a performing arts school. She told me that one of the children would cause great worry as a baby, that something was wrong with its heart or something like that, but at birth all would be ok. And we did have worries with one baby, to the point where we had tests, but the baby has a completely normal genetic karyotyping and the anatomy scan yesterday showed no abnormalities at all.

Stop reading now if you don’t want to know, but the rest is beyond the jump – I didn’t blog about it yesterday as I wanted to tell my dad and stepmother about the results before my mother and sister read about it on the blog and decided to tell him for me, as they have very crudely done with other things. We're going ahead with the results as it's not like I can keep it a secret for 15 more weeks, it's much too big for that.
more...

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June 20, 2007

An Update of the Citrus Variety

We had a scan today that's called our "anatomy scan". Melissa and Jeff went with us to the hospital. Jeff is being tremendously cool about the babies (they both are actually, but Jeff is really going the distance.) He's making a fort in the back garden that will be just for him and the twins. When he and I went to fetch the curry from the takeaway restaurant for dinner, I hesitantly broached the subject of him giving up his room for the babies, just until the extension is done, as they need a space. When the extension is done all the kids will have a room and Angus and I both feel terrible that Jeff has to lose a space temporarily (it makes the most sense for his room to be used as it's the smallest.)

"Of course I don't mind," he said, his eyes blue and open. I wondered if the Lemonheads would have blue eyes or brown eyes. "They're my twins."

I love that kid.

So anyway, an update - both babies are absolutely fine. They were happy and wiggling and dancing and generally being very obstructive for the sonographer. They both weigh about a pound each and are about 7.5 inches long. One of them has its head just inside my ribcage and the other one is head down. They were pronounced perfectly healthy, on target, and looking just fine.


Here is Lemonhead 1, which is the baby with the placenta posterior, and its head facing down.

Twin 1 21 weeks.jpg


And here's Lemonhead 2, which is the CVS baby, and its head facing up.


Twin 2 21 weeks.jpg


If you're like us, you find it hard to make out much in the pictures. They look like a fuzzy beer mat in the bottom of a mostly drunken glass of Guiness. But these are the profiles of both babies, from their heads to their upper chests.

It was nice to be there with my family, watching the two that are yet to be here.

Angus even quietly told me that it's ok if we find out about the sexes of the babies today.

So we did.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:42 PM | Comments (31) | Add Comment
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