December 28, 2007

A Year in One Minute

Years ago there was a foreign film they showed when I lived in Sweden. I don't remember much about it, except for the concept that when we die, we get to relive one day again and again. Each person chose their day based on their lives - one person, I remember, chose a day as an infant, to enjoy the closeness of a mother and child, to feel the skin on skin.

We leave at some ridiculous time tomorrow morning for the States, where we'll spend New Years' with my father, stepmother and grandma, and then all of us (Angus, Lemonheads, Melissa and Jeff and my family) are off to Whistler where we've rented a condo. We're flying to Seattle via Amsterdam, which will make a change although the direct flight would've been easier (but was £800 more, so you can see why we chose the path we did).

14 hours on airplanes.

With two infants.

One of whom spent the entirety of the day before today screaming (no really. It was the whole day.)

Like I said, I worry we're going to be forcibly ejected from the plane. If you see a news clip containing the words "12 week old infant" and "mother suffering from sleep deprivation on levels previously seen in torture experiments" then just assume this blog will go quiet forever, yeah?

I will have access to the web until we go to Whistler but I wanted to sum up my year before then. You know. As you do.

2007 saw so much happen. Work sucked great big donkey balls, then I bailed off a project that saw me blowing hooved animals to work I enjoyed more, even if the prestige was gone. The last time I saw the work machine go by it promised great things. I'm hopeful.

The house extension plans were granted and work commences after the New Year. I shudder at the cost and mess we're going to hav, but the bathroom and bedroom situation is dire, so I also look forward to it.

My beloved happy cat Mumin died. I don't talk about her much but I still miss her, and nothing is as sad as telling someone that you still miss your cat, the one who used to sit on your lap, the one who purred so loud you couldn't miss it, the one who died 6 months ago.

I travelled - Mexico, America, Canada, Scotland (twice), Iceland. I broke my cardinal rule, which is to see two new countries a year. This year I managed only one new country. I tell myself that this cardinal rule was made to be broken, and I almost believe it.

We bought a Wii. Worth it, every single pound.

We got a new (company) car. Worth it, every single mile.

Something else happened...something else...what was it?

Oh wait.

I know.

On January 5th, while in Whistler, I started injecting myself in the stomach everyday.

On October 3rd, two perfect little beings were sprung from the sunroof, the result of all those days of needles.

I could recap my year or I could give you this - one of the memories that I have which will never, ever leak out of my Swiss cheese memory is this: on the night of Boxing Day (December 26) I was trying to soothe an upset Nick. I went into the conservatory of Angus' brother's home and rocked him to sleep. Then I rocked me to sleep. The nighttime room dark save for candlelight, the windows laced with frost, and I was on my side laying on the couch with Nick curled in my arms like a stuffed teddy bear. His head was under my chin, his arms on my neck. I fell asleep sniffing his head and hearing his gentle snoring and feeling the pulse in his soft spot, his little fingers on my skin. The world went on by us, the house full of people and dogs and children and cats and noise and Christmas, but Nick and I curled up asleep under the blankets from our beloved Auntie Teresa, and we stayed there for a long while.

That foreign film owned and consumed me that night, as I thought about the laughter of the family, the happiness, the sparkly eyes...they would all be complete when I added falling asleep with the tiny form of my infant son in my arms. When I die someday, if I have managed to not wreck my karma completely, I hope I will be allowed to relive that moment of sleeping on the couch with my baby again and again and again.

I give you that moment as my recap of 2007.

2007 was many things - I laughed, loved, fought, hoped, fucked, cried, wrote, and lived every minute of it. I have nothing to give you but that bubble, which will live with me forever, and I want to give it to you, too. I hope you like it. Sniff the top of it, you won't regret it.

Happy New Year.

I'm glad you're here, and I mean that.

-H.

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December 27, 2007

Oof.

I'm not handling today at all well.

I wish I was - I actually had a wonderful Christmas, surrounded by lots of people and lots of food and lots of laughter - but I'm just not.

Spending time with Angus' family is getting more and more enjoyable. I genuinely like and care about them all now (some relationships took a bit of time, but we got there in the end) and I actually feel like I'm part of a family. It's a nice feeling. It's a warm feeling. Angus and I - recovering from the Queen Mother of all arguments, the worst one we've had in our entire lives and something that absolutely cannot be repeated ever, as we get to work on rebuilding our trust now (so no pressure there, then) - had a nice Christmas together with the twins on the morning of the 25th. We had a lovely time - Angus outdid himself with fabulous gifts, and today I'm still enjoying them all a great deal, including my baby elephant (laugh if you want, but if you know anything about me you should know that adopting an abused elephant is exactly my kind of thing). Angus also made out like a bandit, and he is now equipped with professional grade Japanese knives from me.

("Never liked a girl enough to give her sharp knives.")

The twins, since they haven't a clue what's going on on a day-to-day basis let alone for Christmas, did not get much from us. They got more onesies since that's all they wear because I'm a lax mother (including striped ones that say "Thing 1" and "Thing 2", since I plan on paying for their therapy someday) and some Taggie blankets I've been desperate to get them. They got one soft toy from us, toys from France, because I'm a Francophile when it comes to stuffed animals. I saw the perfect one for Nick, and then a perfect one for Nora.

And our little family Christmas was a lovely time, honestly. The larger Angus' Extended Family Christmas comprised 12 adults, 6 children and 2 dogs and it was a blindingly good time. I really feel like a part of the family, and with that knowledge comes the feeling that they are a part of my family now, too.

But last night once we got home all I wanted to do was take down the Christmas stuff. I was desperate for it, I think it's misplaced stress - we leave in two days for my father's house, and I don't know what the holy fuck I was thinking, taking a Nora Child on an airplane. My stress levels are through the roof about that, not to mention Melissa and Jeff arrive tomorrow and I'm nervous around Jeff now (nervous around a 10 year old. Great.) and I want everyone to have a lovely New Years with my family.

I don't know what's wrong with me. The arugment is behind us but I'm so worn out from it and hoping that we never argue like that again (Angus is similarly worn out from it, so since we're on the same wavelength there we can hopefully ensure said fighting never occurs again). The airplane is in front of me, and although I hope that goes well I cannot get the image of an entire airplane full of people trying to push Nora and I out at 30,000 feet as we become that family that everyone on the airplane despises.

Christmas is packed up and put away in the loft this morning, as though it never happened. I'm sure that's a metaphor. I'm ok with that, and I only hope next year we have a better time leading up to the big day.

Although we usually make it to the afternoon, Nora started her bender early today, and for the very first time since this all happened I just can't cope with her today. I can't. I love her fiercely but I can't face another day of the endless screaming. No one likes to be around her, she's so fractious and so angry you wouldn't believe it. I know people keep telling me the colic will pass but I just can't get there soon enough. And I suppose I also worry that what if this isn't colic? What if this is just her? How will we cope?

She started up this morning, and I thought: I just can't do this anymore.

I didn't think about hitting her, trust me.

I did think about opening a bottle of wine, and it was only 9 am.

(I refrained, trust me. I might not be coping well today but I am keeping alcoholism at an arm's length.)

It will pass. I'll get better. Everything will get better.

Right?

-H.

PS - it would have been my 15th wedding anniversary today to my first husband. Weird, on a very surreal level.

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December 23, 2007

Just to Say...

Merry Christmas to you and the ones you love.


Stepping out in Santa Style


Love,
Helen and the Lemonheads

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December 22, 2007

Chinese Words of Wisdom

Five years or so ago I was in San Francisco for business. I had several days off, and one of those days I toured Chinatown. I remember a short elderly Chinese man standing on a milk crate on a corner, right in front of those stereotypical Chinese restaurants with the long body of a smoked duck in the window. The Chinese man had a smile fit to split his face open, and a sign in his hands. I don't remember what the sign said, all I can remember is what he was saying.

"Everybody happy!" he said with an immense amount of joy in his voice. "Everybody happy! Happy happy happy!"

And this is all he said.

And all these years later, I still often hear his voice and those words.

Everybody happy. Happy happy happy.

But what happens if you're not? What happens if a giving of your opinion goes so horribly wrong that the face of everything around you is affected? What happens if you don't feel comfortable, don't feel secure?

The worst argument so far, and no clear way out of it. Does time heal all wounds? Shall we brush it under the carpet? Do we decide that something's fundamentally changed? Will the holidays and our following trip to the States simply rectify things on its own? For once, I really don't know how to fix something. We both are outraged and angry, and both of us feel the other doesn't have a leg to stand on with their righteous indignation.

In my head I heard: I can't handle this anymore.

My heart replied: Handle what, babe? Can't handle babies? Your relationship? Working? Christmas? Thinking blogging breathing cleaning being? Can't handle any of those? Because you don't really have a choice. They are all a part of you.

My head realized my heart was right. And then it added: They keep saying things will get easier. WHEN will it? When?

My heart didn't have an answer. Typically, it checked out when I needed it most.

Today is the winter solstice, and the darkest day of the year. Even though in our house that day was Thursday, I'm not looking forward to the darkness. I don't want Christmas to come and be like this. It's supposed to be a great time - I love Christmas. It's babies' first Christmas. Yet all I want to do is take down the few decorations I have up and crawl into bed with the little twin love muffins. Not that that will help.

Everybody happy. Happy happy happy.

Except when you're not.

-H.

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December 20, 2007

A Posh Shop for a Not Posh Chick

Yesterday Nora and I trooped into London for a Mommy-Daughter day. We had one Christmas present left to buy - something for my step-grandma Nobu, the tiny little Japanses one who you could fit into your pocket (although we don't do that, as that would be mean). Nobu has a deep, inabiding fondness for one shop, for one place that would mean one of us would have to go into the Big Smoke.

Like most tourists - and more to the point, like most Asians - Nobu loves Harrod's.

Harrod's is a shop famous for being able to get you anything. If they don't have it, they will find it (I'm assuming that this does not include illegal things. One would hope, anyway). It's a luxury department store run by an Egyptian (whose son was the boyfriend of Princess Diana, the one killed in Paris with her) that the UK government will not give citizenship to, and he's notorious for being mean to his employess.

And Harrod's is very big with the wealthy jet set. Very big. It would explain why they have Versace, Armani, Escada, Valentino, all of them in the shop, and they're not the knock-offs you'd see. They sell the stuff you see on the stars at awards shows. And, in fact, I saw a breathtaking orange Roberto Cavalli dress* that I am desperate for. I want to get married in it (please, as if I could get married in white. I'd burst into flame at the sheer heresy.)

I remember last year I had to go to Harrod's to buy my parents some Christmas ornaments. There I was, buying two ornaments (£10 each! For a bloody Christmas ornament!) in the massive Christmas section when a stick thin Russian woman with a bodyguard came in, waved one hand to the suited Harrod's chap at her side, and said in that rich throaty Slavic accent "I vill haf one of each. Of all of deez decoration."

Gee. And I was just buying two ornaments.

Harrod's has a road nearby that is exclusively for the use of the chauffer-driven luxury cars. They keep the engines idling, which hey, might be a wee bit environmentall unfriendly, yeah? - and the chauffers all wear better clothes than I do. Harrod's doesn't appeal to me at all. It's nice in a touristy kind of way, but I always feel very Gap Girl in there. The only part of Harrod's that I like is the food hall - I love the food hall. I want to masturbate in the food hall. If there is a food in the world then the food hall - clean, sparkly tile, sky-high ceiling, pure extravangance - has it. You want fish you've never heard of? They have it. Blueberry tea? They have it. Marzipan carrots***? They have it.

Nora and I went together as Angus, newly returned and utterly knackered, probably could have done without the afternoon Nora screaming session. Nick stayed behind (although in hindsight I should've taken him, as apparently he went on a bender yesterday afternoon) and Nora and I caught the train.

And Nora, she was popular. Slung in the Baby Bjorn she had her big blue eyes wide open, and openly flirted with everyone who passed. You could hear the ovaries of the women throb. Top it off with the fact that I had her wearing a hat in the shape of a Christmas tree and she was irresistable.

Harrod's was chock full of tourists of all nationalities, and I noticed the Arabic and American tourists were the ones most likely to run over and want to talk to the baby. She obliged everyone, and amazingly didn't go into a screaming session once. She had her diaper changed in Harrod's baby changing station, which was perhaps the poshest diaper experience either of us has ever had, and we bought Nobu a small Harrod's cosmetics bag and left.

The train home was packed and we were sat next to a chap so cranky that the Ghost of Christmas Past would no doubt be stopping by later, and then we made it home.

Today the babies and I are off to the movies again, then off to see Angus' Mum. She's desperate to see the babies, I want to go to Sugar and Spice, and everyone's a winner. It's freezing outside, so I'll be dressed up warm. Luckily I'm wearing a thick turtleneck, not only because it's cold but because Angus accidentally left a lovebite the size of Montana on my neck.

I'll let you know how it goes.

-H.

* As though I could afford a Roberto Cavalli dress. I'd have to sell a baby to pay for that**.

** Some days (see: collicky screaming days), the thought has crossed my mind.

***I detest marzipan, so I'd probably skip the carrots.

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December 19, 2007

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me

It's late and you sleep a floor above me.
Still, silent, warm.
If I close my eyes I can see how you breathe.
I am conscious of you every moment of the day
No matter the distance
My thoughts hover, and warm.

Before there was you
There were tears
And pain
And hope.

I would close my eyes and ask an angel to sit with me.

I remember seeing you on a TV screen
In a clinic cold and sterile, a room beige and clean.
You were cells then, boiling like mercury, like the sea,
And exploding into more cells that became the you that I know.

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.

When they put you back I prayed to whatever god would listen
To please.
Please
Let
You
Stay.

And a round happy god listened.

My prayers became two lines.
Two lines became two heartbeats.
Two heartbeats became two sets of arms, two sets of legs.

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.

I continued to pray to whatever gods would listen still
To let me keep you, to let me see you, to let me love you.
Another god eased my fears and held us safe
Until the day came when I would see you.

I remember that day in a place where I will hold, forever
The memories which define me.

I stared at you.
I was so tired.
You were so beautiful.
The god who listened answered my prayers
And you and your father made my world complete
In ways I didn't know it wasn't.

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.

Every day that has passed since that day,
(That day, that moment, that lifetime)
I have spent hours staring at you
Kissing your cheeks
Touching your lips
Inhaling your scent
Holding your sleepy, silent forms
Wondering at what you are
And dreaming of who you would become.

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.

As long as I live I will pay back the debt that I have taken for you
Because I do not deserve you
(No one can deserve you)
And in that lacking comes my promise
To be more than I could ever hope to be, just for you.

Our story keeps going
And I am in awe of every aspect of you
Your smile
Your eyes
Your sounds
Your dreams
And that you are mine.

On this, your first Christmas,
I want you know that you have made me whole
My past released
My body proud
My hopes spiralling
My family real
My heart breaks and comforts every day
And I will spend every day letting you know how much you were wanted
And how much you are loved.

The way I love you can never be explained.
But I will spend the rest of my life trying.

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.

The angel came and held my hand.
And when you came the angel passed you to me
In a flurry of waffled sheets and bright lights
His passing shadow sheltered us
His presence comforted us

I closed my eyes and asked an angel to sit with me.
And the angel gave me you.

Merry Christmas, My Angels.

-H.

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December 18, 2007

Managing

I got pregnant at the same time as about 5 other IVF bloggers, and all but one of us had twins (they warn or multiple births with fertility treatment, and they're not dicking around when they do that). The group is fairly evenly split - half of us had b/g twins, the other half had b/b twins. All of us generally delivered within weeks of each other (except Watson, who stayed pregnant forever).

I remember when I was still pregnant and in a panic - what did I need? Did I have too much? Not enough? Needed more?

Add on to that the fact that there were two babies - how would I cope? What would I do? How would I handle two babies at once without becoming follically challenged?

My answer, in short, is rather stupid when you think about it (so don't think about it, because I get depressed when I come across as stupid).

How do I handle it? How does anyone handle it?

Well...you just do, that's all. You don't have much of a choice. And yes, there are some days where you look at the clock and wonder if 10 am is too early to open a bottle of wine, and there are some days when you realize you've been wearing the same bra since the Jurassic age and you could change it, but really that would take effort and any effort you have left should be reserved for crying into tissues and throwing the soggy balled up remains into the fireplace.

But once you get a routine, it does get easier. Much easier, in fact.

The feeding, well we have them in a pattern and it's a very set pattern that pretty much runs as clockwork. Thanks to the jaundice, early on we had a pattern of 30mL every 3 hours. Then it went to 60mL every 3 hours, then 90-120 every 4 hours. The babies dictated this themselves. At middle of the night feedings we made them as uninteresting for the babies as possible - we didn't talk to them and we didn't make eye contact with them. It's as hard as hell to do, to not shower kisses on your baby in the nighttime, but once the babies figured out that a middle of the night feed did not include cuddles, play time, and lots of attention they got bored with it and gave up.

We now have them on the pattern of feeding times at 7, 11, 3, 7, and 11. If they're asleep as one of these times approaches they get woken up, as they do need to eat regularly. These feeding times are sacred but we're not militant about it - if we're 30 minutes in either direction it's ok. If they get hungry between them, they get topped up with 30-60mL, but otherwise they have 150mL those 5 times a day. How do you know if they're needing a topping up? Well, you just do. Barring "you just do", you can do what I call The Robin - if I bend down and kiss their cheeks and they open their mouth and move towards me, then they're hungry. If they just hang out and don't move then they're not.

Since they feed so much during the day, they honestly don't get hungry at night. They used to wake up and shout, but when we tried to feed them they just weren't interested so we stopped. The babies go down to bed at about 11:30 and usually make it to 7 am. If they do wake up, it's usually around 5 or so and one of us will go in and pat them and ensure the swaddle hasn't loosened, and they go back to sleep for a while. We do occasionally have a rough night still, but I thank my lucky stars the babies are more or less sleeping through the night, and have been for weeks now.

We loosely based our routine on what over here is called the contented baby routine. I say loosely because the routine is very strict about giving your baby cuddles and stuff like that, and I can't be doing with not cuddling the little ones just after their feeds. The one exception is the last feed of the day - we don't stimulate them much but we do cuddle them.

We also did controlled crying, which I swear breaks your heart but it works-they only get the bottle at those hours (but we never let them go hungry). Controlled crying in our house is used when they get overstimulated, which happens easily with both of them. When they've had too much and can't settle, they go into the cot in their swaddle. If they shout, I go in at regular intervals and talk to them until they can settle. Nick has only gotten stroppy on a handful of occasions, and holding him didn't soothe him anyway (I know, I tried). For Nora, who is still collicky, she doesn't settle, but at least she knows I'm here and everything is ok.

I can and do feed both of them at the same time for most feeds. It's important they're fed at the same time as otherwise I would be spending every spare minute of the day feeding them, and a girl's gotta' pee at some point. I accomplish it thus:


feeding two babies


Occasionally they need burping mid-feed, but I have a system that works-I used to use the widgey (called the boppy in the States) but the babies were just too floppy. So I sit on the couch lengthwise, with my legs straight out in front of me on the cushions. I lay both babies across my legs and feed them that way. To burp them, I use my chin to hold a bottle in one's mouth while picking up the other to my chest, where I burp them. I bend my knee and use the knee to support them while being burped.

The burping is sometimes tricky, especially as their neck muscles are developing and they do what I call "chest diving" - halfway through a burping they'll decide to do a half-pike with a twist off my chest as they exercise their neck independence, so I have to hold on to them. This is why I raise my knees to help hold them in place.

I didn't have a rocking chair before, but my dad and stepmother have just bought us a glider (and I'm thrilled to bits about it!), so I'll hopefully be able to use that for feedings now.

Other products I have found really make life easier:

- This syringe for giving medicines/gripe (colic) water. It's brilliant - most medicines come with a useless spoon that deposits the medicine down the baby's neck, this one they suck the medicine out of.

- The aforementioned Widgey. Widgey was brilliant during pregnancy, as I slept with it between my legs (get your mind out of the gutter there). It took the pain off my back and was very helpful. Then I used it to help feed the babies. Currently the Widgey acts as a cot divider between the babies during the day. Best £20 I ever spent.

- You can't have too many bibs or muslins to clean up during feeds. You just can't. They're in constant rotation.

- For bottles we use a bottle rack to dry the bottles on the counter, and in the dishwasher we have the world's most convenient basket, where we put various bits. It's helped our dishwasher not getting taken over.

- Erica's suggestion of making up a pitcher of formula, as opposed to doing it bottle by bottle, has saved my life. Thank you, Erica. I owe you a kidney.

- I had a changing mat on a table, but found that a changing mat on the floor was a million times easier. You wouldn't think so, but after a C-section changing them on the floor was far simpler than a changing table, and I think it's safer for baby - I don't worry about them rolling off or anything like that.

- I don't have a diaper genie (and don't want one, as the idea of plastic covered plastic shaped like sausages going into a landfill gives me spasms of guilt) but I do have a small wastebasket in their room. This means I have to empty it daily, but I think that's probably best from a hygenic standpoint.

- I have a CD player in their room that I switch on and play white noise on. I can't believe I paid £10 for what sounds like a recording someone made of their vacuum cleaner, but for Nora at least it does make a difference. If I had it to do all over again (which I don't), I'd buy this bear. I'm convinced playing noises that would make us jump off a cliff makes a difference to the babies.

- I started off with 3 crib sheets and 3 waterproof undersheets. I must've been delusional thinking that would do it, considering the sheer amount of puking that goes on. I now have 7 sheets and 4 waterproof undersheets, and I think that's a good amount.

- The babies don't get bathed everyday as their skin dries out, but they get bathed often. I bought a bath chair to use, but the babies absolutely hate it with a passion matched only by their hatred of the red bulb of death (also known as a nasal syringe). What we've found works best is if Angus washes them while he showers, and I dry them off and dress them. I use Johnson's Lavender Bathtime Wash and then the lavender lotion on them. It makes them smell absolutely heavenly.

- The babies get changed once a day (more in case of severe vomiting). I have many outfits for them, but in general we stick to onesies/babygros. This because nothing incites Nora's anger more than fiddling to get to her diaper, and if there's one holy rule I try to operate by it's Let's Not Exacerbate Nora's Anger Any More Than Necessary. Removing trousers or tights and vests to get to her diaper would cause a riot. If the babies are running around in what looks like pajamas all the time, then fine. I can live with that. After all, that's all I wear.

- If you have a boy, there's one important thing to remember. Forget worrying about getting nailed while changing them, as that's bound to happen (and in fact Nora has nailed me with the wee far more than Nick has). What's important is this - for the love of God, when changing them make sure the winky wanky woo is pointing downwards when closing up the diaper. If it's pointing north, east, or west then you will be changing his clothes and yours in no time. I don't know how it works, but if the willy is pointing up in a closed diaper, somehow the piss goes all over their back. It's like magic, only not.

- Swaddles. Oodles and oodles of swaddles. We usually give them a hand out of the top of it, as they like to suck on it and self-soothe. The babies use this one during the day (bought from my favorite baby shop), as it's made of cotton and has so many secure flaps in it that Houdini couldn't escape it. Even Nora has trouble getting out of it.

- At night they use this one, a fleecy one that has convenient velcro tabs.

The rest I'm making up as I go along. I thought I'd share what I do in case someone out there is reading and needs a bit of support. I welcome any other suggestions that you may have, as hopefully we can get some kind of list going for mothers who are wondering how they're going to do all this.

-H.

PS - Angus is still working with Jeff. It's far from finished.

PPS - the babies were born at the same hospital as royalty (click on the video to see what the hospital looks like). I bet she doesn't have to deal with Midwife Mussolini. I'm guessing they don't have to pay for parking, either.

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December 17, 2007

Pin the Tail on the Swunt

We should've seen it coming.

It's going to be a strange next few days. What's so strange? Is it because it's bitingly cold outside? Only a week to Christmas? The fact that I have 8 tiny reindeer in my back garden?

None of those, really (although the reindeer one, that'd be strange). No, the reason the next few days will be strange is because it's just me, Gorby, and the babies. Angus is away for several days (and nights). He's had to go to Sweden, to try to fix things.

We really should have seen it coming. The kids were here the beginning of November, and we won't see them until the 28th of December, because The Swunt has dictated that she wants the children for the entire holiday season this year, she wants them all the days leading up to Christmas and we could have them on the 30th (the 28th was the compromise. Some compromise.), she wanted their happy moods and Christmas excitement was didn't want to share it. Angus was distraught, upset he wouldn't see his kids for over 7 weeks and not at all before Christmas, but there was nothing we could do. So it was written, so it shall be.

We worried that something would go wrong - this length of time without the kids coming combined with The Swunt's influence, and it was a recipe for disaster. We hoped it could be mitigated by a holiday - we're off to the States to stay with my family in Seattle for a few days before all of us - Angus and I, all 4 kids, my Dad and stepmother and step-grandmother - drive up to Whistler, where we've rented a condo to relax and go skiing. It'll probably be our last holiday for a long time - the kids' school sessions are intense and we have the extension starting in the New Year, which will eat up all of our income (as will nursery costs, which stress me out). The Swunt, she was angry about the holiday and crusaded against it. Then she booked herself what is, in her words, a "far away and exotic holiday" so she started lobbying the kids to come with us. I can imagine their confusion - first mom says "don't enjoy going on holiday with Daddy" then switches to "go on holiday with Daddy, I've got plans of my own". And to accommodate her plans we had to book the world's most expensive plane tickets for them to fly here. Nice.

The phone calls with the kids started tapering off. They wouldn't answer the phone. They were really ass-y when they did answer.

And then Jeff flat out refused to speak to his father.

We should've seen that coming.

When we finally got an answer from Jeff about what was going on, it blew the lid off the situation. He was, in his words, "tired of Daddy, tired of Helen, and tired of the babies". He would "just about manage" going on holiday with us, but he wouldn't speak to us in the meantime.

Angus put his foot down. Some things were going to have to change.

Everytime we go on holiday there is one day where Jeff is a Right Royal Pain in the Ass. It never fails. It's usually on a day where we've booked something we can't change - a boat trip, an airplane ride, a day out, that kind of thing - and he starts being a dick and decides he's not going to do it. So the rest of us are held hostage, Angus has to bribe him in some way, and we're all pissed off with his behavior. Jeff holds us for ransom, he knows he can do it, and he knows that we can't do anything about it when he does go off on one.

Angus told Jeff that he would have to speak to him and sort things out, and that he couldn't be difficult at all on holiday or he simply wasn't coming, he could stay with The Swunt's family. Jeff didn't toe the party line - he told Angus he was tired of us, he would be angry on holiday, and he couldn't make any promises about his behavior. Angus informed Jeff that he loved him very much, but that he couldn't join us.

That was like a bomb going off.

And in the background, The Swunt did the most severe damage yet. Jeff started spouting things that couldn't possibly have come from him, they were things which were fed to him. Much of what he had to say was about Angus (the phrases "you're a liar" and "I hate you" were used a fair amount), but a large portion also went to the babies and I. Much of it was from the far distant past - the divorce stuff came up a lot, which we know that Jeff is actually mostly ok about, it's The Swunt who still is bitter about it - we're not discounting the things Jeff has said, not at all, but they are issues Angus has checked with Jeff time and time again and found them to be non-issues. For them to suddenly be issues, then, implies an outside influence. An influence which The Swunt does not deny.

The babies came up for a really hard time - Jeff said he didn't hate them (and I know he doesn't as I saw him with them) but that they've ruined things, they're a sign that Angus' other two kids weren't enough, and so on and so forth. Much of this also comes from The Swunt, and I have had ENOUGH of people trying to blame the babies for various misdeeds and discomfort in life. The next person who wants to play that game can fuck right off because that record doesn't play on the machine ever again.

Angus tried to talk to The Swunt about all of this, how poisoning the children against the other parent is not the way to go. In this house we never, ever talk badly of The Swunt in front of the children. The Swunt said that it's important that Jeff hears her truth. Angus again tried to tell her that it really badly damages children (both he and I were part of our parents' Poisoned Well campaigns, and we have vowed that no matter what our children would never be subjected to that). The Swunt basically told him she wants nothing to do with him, that at least she has a child who's on her side.

Angus is off to Stockholm tonight to be with just Jeff, and tomorrow with both kids, to try to halt the damage. He's confident he'll be able to fix it, as Jeff at least is talking to him now. We went ahead and bought his ticket to go with us on holiday, as we're hopeful it can be sorted. Jeff is delighted his father is flying to Stockholm to spend time with him, which is in itself a sign that this can be righted.

The whole thing is really, really hard on Angus. His children mean so much to him, he is absolutely mad about them. He hates seeing them upset or confused, he hates seeing them conflicted, and I can only imagine the dagger to the heart that is your child saying "I hate you". It tears me up to see him like that, while I'm simulaneously infuriated with The Swunt and acting like a shield for the babies-no one gets through me with their finger pointing. Like my feelings for my sister, I have completely run out of sympathy for The Swunt. I find it hard to feel sorry for someone that uses her kids in a war which need not exist. It's not something the kids will get over quickly, this kind of behavior has long term consequences, but she can't or won't see that and Angus can no longer help her try to.

I'm so tired I could cry. I feel like it's always one step forward two steps back. It gets better just to get bad again, and even though I've always been a champion for Jeff I find it hard when a lot of my resources are pulled in all directions.

Not that this is about me. Because it isn't.

So my boy is on a mission - whether the issues came from Jeff or not, Angus is armed with bags of reassurance and patience to try to deal with it all. I am home with the babies and the dog. We'll take it easy, and we will have toys all over the living room for the next few days (Angus isn't a fan of the baby toys, I always pick them up with the babies are done with them). We will send text messages of support and I will do some writing and hopefully one man can knit his family back together again.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:30 AM | Comments (25) | Add Comment
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December 15, 2007

Update on Le Cat Burglar

The wanker does, indeed, appear to have removed my photo from his photostream, but apparently he took the photo up and down once already, so I'll be checking his photostream to make sure my photo does not re-appear.

As for me, I also got my wrists slapped for "inciting mob behavior". One would think I'd be giddy with power for such a claim, but truthfully I just think a guy got told that his behavior in stealing a baby photo is pretty unacceptable.

To everyone who wrote me and wrote to Flickr, I thank you.

I learned my lesson - I have some photos ready to post shortly, and they'll be friends and family only. I will post the occasional baby photo to the blog (with lots of watermarking, sorry about that), but I think my photos on Flickr will be more restricted with regards to the children. I like to think that the world being full of photos of children make it a better place, but that view got a bit dented.

Let's hope it comes back.

-H.

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December 14, 2007

Rebirth

The air is cold, so cold it takes my breath and marbles the air with the slightest hint of an exhale. I am dressed for the cold, but still shocked by it. I drive to the train station feeling my usual pressure with none of the reason for it. I park - it takes me 4 attempts to get it right.

At the train station a nice man strikes up conversation at the automated ticket machines. He has a beard and cool funky clothing and strikes me as the type who would be a considered lover, but whose idiosyncracies would drive me mad.

The train whistles quickly through the black countryside. It's empty, as rush hour has people leaving London as opposed to my journey. I see my reflection in the mirror and don't really recognize myself. My person has shifted and changed, I am not sure which way is up. Beside me is my posh handbag, a Mulberry bag. These days I tote a diaper bag and a whiff of lavendar and baby vomit, to be decked in perfume and a good purse seems so remote.

I look at the purse-I had it in the hospital when I gave birth. It was the last time I used it. My phone beeps and I check it and see a photo of Nora, one day old. I miss them and I don't miss them. I am defined by them and I am my own person. They are my everything and yet I am still me.

When I get to London it's all so familiar, and yet in the months since my weekly commutes, so much has changed. I take the tube to the stop near the company office, which is right in the middle of what's called The City, or the part of London where deals are made and dreams are broken. I walk down a long sidewalk, passing men in ties with shoes too shiny and women in thick coats and whispering handbags. I pass the office, which I scarecly look at. I can't go in there (but I don't want to, anyway) as I don't have my badge with me. I don't even know where my badge is, perhaps in my laptop bag which sits gathering dust in the corner in the bedroom.

I pass a street lit up with Christmas lights. Blues and whites and greens and reds light the alleyway, and I want to bring Nick here in the Baby Bjorn to see them. Nick, my little man, who stares at lights with the deepest of fascination. He would love this alleyway, I think, and I would walk up and down it with him until his fascination wore to exhaustion, and he would sleep in my arms on the train back home.

There is a man peddling in the cold. He's very polite and very kind, and I drop him a coin with a shy "Merry Christmas". I never know the right thing to say.

In my ears I play Christmas music. Josh Groban, actually, because these days all roads lead back to him. I think of Nora, who likes having Christmas carols sung to her (she also likes Abba. At least she didn't inherit her father's love of Blondie.) If I had her here we could walk up the sidewalk at our pace, out of the path of the business suits, and I could hum to her. I would stare into her eyes, because that is her way, she makes eye contact constantly, tipping you into a sea of deep blue and shiny irises, and together we could drown out the blare of the London nightline and just be together.

They are always with me, even when they aren't.

At the bar hugs and exclamations - I wasn't expected. I am congratulated, and told how well I look. I have a glass of wine and catch up with everyone. They are all exactly as I remembered them to be, and I wonder if I am the same, too. I must be. I feel like me, but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror of the bathroom, I look more angular, more grown-up. Something in the reflection has changed but not in a bad way.

They tell me that people were surprised to hear that I had babies - my pregnancy wasn't common knowledge, and apparently the belief is rife that I am not the maternal type. I congratulate myself for my latest of acting parts. I got them to believe that I am tough and hard and no-nonsense, when the truth is at work I am often frightened, often insecure, and I like nothing more than to sleep with the feel of a warm tiny baby snuggled just above my heart. At work I am impatient and do not suffer fools. At home I can be covered in various baby bodily liquids and still laugh about it.

I am both of these people, and the audience for which my behaviors are intended need never know about the other.

I make my excuses early, having had one glass of wine and many glasses of water. I walk in the cold evening London air, one foot in front of the other. The lights from the hanging Christmas decorations a beacon, a path, a way to follow. Everywhere is Christmas and I am so goddamn glad for it, I want to embrace it all and inahle it in and hold everything deep inside.

I make my way home to my Angus, to my babies, and to my first Christmas as a mother.

- H.

PS - I wrote the above on the train last night, before the picture theft debacle. Had I not already written it, I doubt I would be posting today as I'm pretty depressed about the whole thing. I was kindly alerted by an admin of a Flickr forum I belong to, who had been surfing twin pics in Flickr and saw my photo in a place it shouldn't have been. The asshole still has my photo in his stream despite me filing a notice of infringement on him. I'm hoping Flickr deals with this soon. I think it's as Rose said - perhaps he's copying the pictures because he doesn't know how to favorite them as his entire photostream looks to be stolen from various members, but it still greatly upsets me. I don't think he's a perv and I don't actually worry that much about naughty people getting hold of my baby photos, but my children are precious to me, as are the photos I take. I will post photos from time to time here on my blog, and I will publicly Flickr photos that don't show a lot of detail about the babies. Like I said, if you do want to see photos then let me know your user ID on Flickr (you do need an accout on Flickr, but they're free) and if I know of you through your comments, I will add you.

What gets me most of all is the fact that I love taking photos of the babies, and I love showing them to anyone who I'm not boring with them. Like all mothers, I think my children are beautiful. And I went through so much to have them - 5 rounds of IVF - that all I want to do is celebrate them in every way. I'm depressed this has happened, because the daily photos were, for me, a reminder of how far we've come and how amazing the journey is.

Here's to hoping the situation is rectified, and soon.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:54 AM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
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December 13, 2007

SON OF A BITCH

An asshole has stolen one of the pictures of my babies.

I am many levels beyond furious.

So that's it.

My pictures of the babies on Flickr will be for friends and family only from here on. If you want to view them and I know you, then let me know and I will add you as a Flickr contact. If you don't have a Flickr account, you can create one for free on www.Flickr.com, and I can link you from there.

If I don't know your name as a frequent commenter on my blog or on the Flickr photos, then the photos will be unavailable. Sorry, but I'm very angry about this.

It's always one dickhead who has to go and ruin it for everyone.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:44 PM | Comments (62) | Add Comment
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Wonky Eyes and Days Out

It's Thursday, which means the babies and I leave in an hour to head to the movies. It's become our thing, really, although after the stupidity that was Fred Claus I've learned to be a little more discerning in which films I choose. The good news is this week it's a film I actually want to see, and next Thursday is another film I want to see.

I like these times with the babies. Although last week they weren't exactly the most well-behaved (but since it's a showing exclusively for parents of babies and toddlers we weren't alone), in general they sleep through the film, sometimes on my lap, sometimes in their car seat, and for Nick he slept on my chest for a short while as I wept my way through August Rush, complete with me promising that if he was ever taken from my I would find him no matter what (how about them hormones, huh?)

Ironically, I feel sheer panic at the concept of going to the films with the babies. I can't explain it, but although I look forward to going so much, I also have to make myself go. I get nervous and shaky and only calm down once we're in the theatre, then I'm so calm I'm sure my blood pressure registers "dead".

Tonight is another first, too. Tonight I'm leaving the twins with Angus and heading up to London to meet with my former team members from work. I haven't been to London on my own since August, which both is and isn't a big deal - I used to go weekly, and now I don't go. I think it'll overwhelm me, especially since the damn grocery store can overwhelm me still.

The health visitor came round for the babies 10 week check-up on Tuesday. I can't believe the babies are 10 weeks old. Developmentally we're still behind - they're not really smiling and they're still tiny babies, but at least they're both at 8lb 13oz, so we're getting there. But they were pronounced healthy and happy.

Both Nick and Nora are being referred to an eye specialist though, for although babies go a bit cross-eyed and lack the muscle tone to manage their eyes, there is a family history on Angus' side of what they call over here a squint (Stateside, I think it's called a wandering eye.) Angus had it and had surgery when he was 3, which is why to this day he has no depth perception and can't catch a ball thrown at him to save his life. The condition is genetic, and can be passed down.

Nora's eyes look fine but Nick definitely has it - what's more problematic is that both of his eyes seem to focus and track things, but they do it differently (which is a bit disconcerting, as you never know which eye to look into when talking to him.) It may go away on its own but they'll watch him and decide if he needs surgery or not.

I also got an exam, including a very bizarre quiz I had to take to assess if I feel post-natal depression or not (one question: "I feel like self-harming myself". I checked the big no on that one, and actually smiled as I thought about all that I've left behind.) Apparently I'm borderline for PND, as I agreed that I do feel guilty when things go wrong (because I do) and I feel responsible for everything (because I do that, too). So they're going to keep an eye on me, although they're confident PND will go away.

I'm confident it will be kept at bay, too. In general since deciding to get my voice back and be more responsible for my own happiness, I've been in a much, much better place. More confident, more opinionated. People around me seem to like it more, and Angus has what feels like a renewed sense of respect for me, as at last I'm taking the reins on my life.

The health visitor thinks going out with my colleagues tonight is a good idea. I'm not going to get drunk and I'm not staying late, but I am going. I've vacillated so much on if I should go or not, but go I shall. I think it's good I get out of the little cocoon I've built myself in the house and get back to real life, even if my real life now contains two tiny little people who are currently fast asleep on the bean bag.

I can't wait till the movies today.

-H.

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December 12, 2007

Just One of Those Days

The other day I had several errands to run. I had three boxes needing to go out in the post, Christmas cards to be written and mailed (I know, I'm running late. What can I say? Twins.) and the babies were running low on formula, so a trip to the shop was in order. Combine this with the fact that:

1) It was colder than fuck
2) I was home alone with the babies, so they'd be coming with me through our expeditions
3) My period had started and I was bleeding like a stuck pig

and I knew it would be a long morning.

I popped in my Mooncup. I washed my hands and then fed the babies (I've learned to never, ever leave the house and run errands with them unless they're doing it on a full stomach. Do otherwise and their screams are so horrific I've no doubt the NSPCC will be called on me.) and then we were off.

The logistics of juggling two babies in car seats, a diaper bag, and three large boxes were amazing. I don't usually put the babies in their stroller because:

1) the twin stroller is enormous, and although it fits through most doorways and in the car, it's really noticeable which means getting stopped every 20 seconds for people to look in on the babies.
2) the babies, they get a bit pissed off if you spend your time moving them from car seat to stroller and back again.
3) it's impossible to push a stroller and a shopping cart at the same time. Despite my formative years spent playing Pacman, I'm just not that coordinated.

So I manage to get a parking space right next to the post office door. I carried the boxes into the post office, setting them by the door. This earned me many strange glances as I left the post office, and I knew people were worried that I had something dodgy in them. As if I would bomb a post office in rural England. The only thing frightening in those boxes is the shortbread I was sending my grandma, the butter content in them screams "instant heart attack".

I then carry both babies in. The queue in the post office is horrendous, and suddenly I have no less than 3 women cooing over the babies. The women all take charge of a car seat and spend their time making eyes at the babies. Nora tolerates this well enough, but I can tell we don't have long before she boils over.

When we finally get called to the counter, it takes us ages. Everytime I mail a box to the States I have to make sure it weighs less than 2 kilos, as that's the post office's magic number. I also have to fill out customs forms and I make it my mission in life to be entertaining on them. I wonder sometimes what Statia's postman thinks of her, because I always dick around on the slips (psst Statia-your next package says the contents are "inflatable hemorrhoid cushions". All my love, babe.) Previously I've sent boxes labelled "Cheez Whiz Trophy Winner" and "Recycled Reindeer Poop". I live life on the edge, man.

It takes us ages at the counter, and when I'm finally done Nora's squaking, so we hustle out of there. I put the babies in the car, buckle us up, and head for the shop. Once halfway to the shop I realize I've completely forgotten to mail my Christmas cards.

Fuck.

At the grocery store I realize we don't have much time - the next baby feed is approaching and both Nick and Nora are letting me know that. At the shop I have a structure - I get a large trolley and place both car seats in it. The twin shopping carts are useless - as they're rarely used they're often outside covered in pigeon shit, and anyway Nick and Nora are so tiny in them they slide all over the place even when I pack them in with blankets. I hook a giant grocery bag on the hook on the front of the cart and put the groceries in there, as well as using the undercart basket, and I use the hand scanner so I can get out of the shop quicker. It means I get my shopping done with the babies.

It also means both babies are basically on display in the cart, so we get lots of comments.

As I'm briskly moving through the vegetables, Nora starts squeaking again. I soothe her. Nick then starts in. I soothe him.

And halfway up the fruit aisle, I hear it.

Shhhhhlooooooooock.

Oh God.

Was that sound what I think it was?

Oh God.

I have a sudden sensation of having a sippy cup up my hooch. There's only one reason why I could feel that way and hear that noise.

The seal on the Mooncup has slipped.

My suspicions are confirmed by the sudden feeling of damp knickers.

Oh God.

I can't go to the bathroom as the cart with the babies won't get through the security door leading to them. I am not finished with the shopping as we're desperately short on everything and there are staples that we need to even get through the day. And I can't very well fix the Mooncup there amongst the satsumas and pears because you get arrested for that kind of thing. So there was really only one option.

I was just going to have to bleed and shop like the wind.

I start racing the cart, only going for the things we desperately need. Milk. Formula. Newborn Pampers. Dog food. I'm doing well, blocking and repelling people and their "Ooooooh twins! You have your hands full!" comments with moves that would make a linebacker proud.

(Please, for the love of God, do not go to a mother of twins and use that stupid line. We hear that "you have your hands full" a million times every time we go out. To say that I hate that line is like saying George Bush's nostrils are slightly unattractive. They're both gross underestimations.)

I am nearly done and am grabbing a pack of toilet paper when rear offense tackles me.

It's an elderly woman. She places a frail hand on my arm.

"God bless you, dear, your babies are beautiful."

"Thank you," I say, smiling. I can't be rude, even when my crotch is doing a Lizzie Borden.

"My mother had twins when I was 11," she continues. "It was during the war, and it was tough times."

Ordinarily I would have loved talking to her, but a wet trickle on the inside of my jeans reminds me that all is not well in the House of the Mooncup. I smile.

"I tried to help out," she giggles, "but I was terrible at it." I nod encouragingly. I hope this is going somewhere, as pretty soon it's going to look like I've been making out with some red gloss paint.

"Anyway," she sighs, "the twins died."

OH MY GOD.

My mouth hangs open, slack with not knowing what to say.

She smiles brightly. "You take care, dear." She pats my hand and walks away.

I stand there for a minute. Nora announces her displeasure at absolutely everything in life and that shakes me out of it enough to hustle us to the checkout. I go to the fast lane, which I can use as I've used the hand scanner.

The line is, of course, full of people who have not used the hand scanner and are in the wrong queue but the checkout boy is too nice/too lazy to redirect them.

The woman in the queue in front of me naturally starts talking to me about her friends' twins, the fact that they don't sleep through the night, and oh I must have my hands full.

At this point Nora is furious. She opens her mouth and goes in to what we in this house call The Dolphin - it's a sound punctuated by air and vibrations, a sound which only Flipper could make, and of course it's at a volume that can crack windows all the way to Switzerland.

Everyone stops to look at us.

I pop a bottle into her mouth and she instantly quiets.

Nick starts screaming.

The elastic on the rubber band holding my hair in a ponytail snaps. My hair, which I'd put up wet, immediately makes me look like I've just had a Frankenperm.

The woman talking to me in the queue notices my jeans.

"You've spilled something on you," she say, indicating my crotch with her head.

Fucking. Mooncup.

My mind works furiously. "Frozen turkey," is all I can manage. I have no idea where it came from or why. Naturally, since it makes no sense, I repeat it. "Frozen turkey," I say again, nodding solemnly. The woman looks confused (and slightly afraid), and turns away.

By the time I pay, Nora, who is still strapped in to her chair, has managed to spill most of her bottle down her chin. Nick is shrieking. I look like a virgin on her wedding night, complete with frightening hair.

I get us into the car and whip out a maxi pad I happened to have in the diaper bag. In the driver's seat I unzip my jeans - which do indeed look like I've been masturbating with a red velvet cake - and stick the pad on. I pray to God the security guy isn't walking by as if he does what he will see is a woman with wild hair who appears to be playing with herself while her tiny infants are strapped in the back seat, one of them covered with what looks like half a bottle of milk. I reassemble myself and drive us back to the post office as I've got to get the cards out. Luckily I have enough 2nd class stamps in my wallet to get most of the English cards out, the American ones will have to wait. I pop stamps on the cards and pull up next to the post box. I get out to put them in the red symbol that is the English post box, which is 6 steps away.

And the maxi pad immediately shifts, unrolls itself, and the sticky side is now stuck on my labia.

I start walking with a hitch in a subtle attempt to get the glue off my beaver. It doesn't budge. I walk a little more with a leg kick, channeling the Thai army parade, and all that happens in the sticky pad is now completely entrenched in my cooch. I give up, walk like Igor, and simply accept that everything I own, ever, will have to go in the wash. Including my lady bits.

I sink in to the car, drive us home, and vow to never leave the house again, ever.

-H.

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December 11, 2007

An Encounter at Frosty's

The sound of Nora, screaming again, lulls me out of my sleep. It was a good sleep, too. I dreamt I was sampling the shrimp buffet at a swanky hotel in Madagascar while Mr. Pink played "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" on the piano. You know, as it sometimes happens.

I shrug into my enormous brown plaid fleece bathrobe and blearily head out to the hallway.

There, on the landing, is an elf holding an enormous 1980's boom box.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I scream, jumping back.

"Um, no. He's scheduled to visit you next Christmas," squeaks the elf.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I ask, checking out the elf and fighting the urge to swat at him with a rolled-up newspaper. Dressed entirely in green and red, I am stunned to see that he has gold bells on his shoes, and shiny gold epaulets with jumping reindeer embroidered on them. Wait. Hang on a second...I lean in to look closer. The reindeer aren't jumping they're....wait a minute...

"Dude. The reindeer on your epaulets are doing something entirely inappropriate," I say, standing up straight.

The elf sighs. "It was a practical joke. Elf tailors, man. They're the worst of the lot. And they're pretty pissy, too, as they're all Keebler cast-offs. The needle is mightier than the sword and all that, so they get back at us via their trade. Speaking of which, nice robe, babe. If you wanted something that screamed 'Never have sex with me, ever again, ever' then you've found the right garment. What, a little black lace is too much to ask?"

I glare at the elf. "It's sleeping time. The black lace is for rumpy pumpy time. We can't all be Debbie Does Dallas all the time, you know."

The elf pushes a button on his ridiculous boom box, and at once the screeching sound that I know of as my daughter ceases. "Right, I'm Cecil."

"Cecil?" I ask. "Cecil the elf? Seriously?"

"You got a problem with the name Cecil?" the elf asks agressively.

"No no," I say, waving my hands in front of me. "No problem." Elves. No sense of humor.

"So I'm Cecil - " He breaks off and looks at me as though he's daring me to say something. When I don't, he continues. "- and I'm here to pick you up."

"You're not my type. Although considering where your head comes up to on me, I have some ideas about how we can pass the time," I reply.

"Ha ha," Cecil snaps. "Listen, lady, I've heard every elf joke in the book. Don't waste my time trying to think up new material. Just come with me, the big guy wants to see you."

"Santa?" I ask. "Why doesn't he meet me in Starbucks like he usually does?"

"Because you're on maternity leave, and the only time you enter a Starbucks right now is with two shouting babies and a look that implies you've lost the will to live. Now come with me."

The elf has a point.

I follow Cecil off the landing, down the stairs and outside. As he opens the front door a burst of freezing air pours through the house, and I pull my robe closer. We step out into the yard.

There are 8 reindeer and an enormous red sleigh on my front garden. The sleigh is elaborately decked out in gold trim, entirely too much gold - it looks like Father Christmas rocks the pimp angle. The runners alone look like solid gold bars. On the front of the sleigh is draped a set of thick leather reins, and I see they're tied around an enormous gold rearview mirror with a pair of fuzzy dice draped on them.

"Nice dice, Cecil."

"Thanks."

"Nice reindeer, Cecil."

"Thanks."

"I'm not cleaning that up, by the way."

"I didn't figure you would."

I get in the sled, and sit on the warm red leather. "Uh, Cecil?" I ask. "How long will this take? I'm only asking because I have feminine issues to be wary of."

Cecil climbs in, grabs the reins, and looks confused. "What?"

I consider this - do elves even have ovaries? "I have my women's monthly just now."

"What?"

"I'm menstruating."

"Not following you, Helen."

I sigh exasperatedly. "I have my period, Cecil. My period."

"Nope, don't understand."

"I've got the candy cane flow, dude."

"OHMIGOD!" shouts Cecil. Immediately a white paper is whizzed into my face. I look at it - it's the paper that the tube and lube guys put down on your floorboard when the car is serviced, so the carpet doesn't get mucked up. I'm shocked to see the two outlines of feet on the white paper are elf size, and they even have the gold bells sillhouetted. "Sit on that," Cecil instructs. "That'll protect my finest Moroccan leather."

I think I hate Cecil.

With a snap of the leather, we're up in the air. It should feel cold but somehow doesn't, although I could do without the crinkle of paper under my ass. As we climb higher I look down over London, then Glasgow, then it grows dark over the Highlands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've now achieved our cruising altitude," Cecil says into a radio whose speaker is aimed directly at me. "I'm going to go ahead and turn off the seat belt sign now so you can feel free to move about the cabin. But if you are in your seat, we do ask that you sit on the paper, as I'm not cleaning the seat after you. Blood is hell to get out of leather. We know you don't have a choice about your travel so thank you very much for choosing to fly Air Santa."

I sigh. I fucking hate the elf.

We start to descend over what looks like a massive white landscape.

"Cecil?" I shout. "I don't see any North Pole. I don't see any of anything here. Are you leaving me here to get mugged and killed by the indigent polar bear population?"

"Hold your horses!" snarks Cecil.

We land gently on the snow, and as I look around I see a large log cabin standing to my left. There is a sign over the front that says "Frosty's", and inside the windows are lit up. Everywhere else I look is dark and snowy, with no sign of anyone, anywhere.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Frosty's, where the local time is - "

"Can it, Cecil." I hop out of the sleigh. "And whatever you're feeding Blitzen up there, you may want to reconsider. The gas that boy is emitting could melt an ice cap."

I make my way to Frosty's, and open the door.

Inside is a bar. Around every small table are elves holding enormous jugs of what looks like root beer. Straight ahead is a long wooden bar, and two tall human-sized stools are set right up against the middle. On one of them is a familiar figure dressed all in red, with a red hat lined with white laying on the bartop, beckoning.

I walk up to him. "People are going to talk if we keep meeting like this," I say to Santa's profile.

"Evening, Helen," Santa says politely. "Can I take your robe?"

"You could do, but I wasn't exactly expecting to go anywhere tonight and I'm naked as a jaybird under it."

Santa coughs, embarrassed. "Er....um...fancy a drink?"

"God yes. This is the weirdest night ever," I reply. The elf bartender passes me a root beer. I pretend to drink it as I hate root beer, but I fear elf anger even more. "Is this the North Pole? Because it's not quite what I expected. I was thinking toy shops, carollers, big Christmas tree, maybe even some penguins pulling some sleighs. You know. Christmas shit. This? This is a bar."

"It is a bar, but that's because the North Pole is closed to outsiders. We don't let anyone in. So I brought you here."

"East Berlin lives on then, eh Santa?" I ask. "So - how's it going, big guy?"

Santa winces. "Not so good. I have a hernia - too many kids want those damn Play Stations, and do you know how heavy those bastards are? I'm going to need a second sleigh just to hold them all. That, and my son's decided to drop out of college to become a batik tie-dye expert. Imagine how happy Mrs. Claus is."

"It's creepy to think you have kids, Santa."

"Even Santa has to have the beef seen to, kid."

"Stop talking immediately or you'll blind me with embarrassment."

We pause.

"How old's your kid?" I ask.

"Harry's 193," Santa replies.

I think about this for a minute. "You named your kid Harry? Harry Claus? What, do you hate him or something?"

"I know, I know, we should've thought about that. Hindsight and all that. My year isn't helped by that stupid Fred Claus movie, people now seem to think I have a long-lost brother or some such nonsense."

"That movie sucked jingle balls, that's for sure," I agree.

We sip our root beer in silence.

"How's your year been, kid?" Santa asks gruffly.

"It's been wild," I reply. "Really wild."

"I've heard. Nick and Nora are on the Nice list, you know."

"They're not even 10 weeks old yet, they'd be hard-pressed to be on the naughty list."

"Fair point. But I've seen Nora's colicky episodes. They don't bode well for her teen years."

"You've seen them? You're spying on me?"

"Helen, please. I'm Santa Claus. I see you when you're sleeping. I know when you're awake."

I take a swig of the horrid root beer. "Man, I went through so much therapy to get over my paranoia and you come up with this slightly stalker talk. I get it that it's your job, but you may want to dial it down a bit."

"Sorry."

We both sigh a little bit, and Santa turns to me. "Helen, is there anything you want from me this year? Anything at all?"

I sit up and look around. The elves at the tables are all looking at me, expectantly. The place is quiet, reverent even. I look at Santa.

"It's been an amazing year, Santa. Truly. I've bonded with my family. I have a beautiful engagement ring. My mental health is leaps and bounds better, I may get depressed and stressed but I'm a life raft that's not going to sink. Angus and I have been through a lot, but we're making it through it and, I think, getting stronger from it all. I really love him."

The elves around me are melodramatically wiping away pretend tears and grasping each other's arms with fake drama, pausing to snicker and add on more pantomime. I want to cook the little bastards in a dish called Elf au Vin. I accept I will burn in Christmas hell for that, but some things would be worth it.

"And I had two tiny embryos that changed my world forever. I cherish them a hundred times a day." I smile at him, as he is smiling at me. "So not this year, Santa. There's absolutely nothing I want this year. I have the brass ring, and I won't ever forget it."

He reaches out an arm, and places it on my shoulder. "Isn't altruism grand?" he asks softly.

I look around the bar, and realize it's empty. There's not an elf in sight, they're all gone, it's just Santa and I. I reach out and squeeze Santa's hand and am not surprised to find it's warm. "Thank you, Santa." I say softly. "Thank you for everything. You outdid yourself this year. I can't imagine what's in store for 2008."

I get up. "I gotta' be getting home. The babies may sleep all night, but it's not a long night. I suspect you need to get some rest, too."

Santa stands up and hugs me, and it's as comforting as I thought it would be, like being held by hot cocoa, squishy pillows and Mr. Snuffleupagus all at once. "You've come a long way, kid. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks Santa."

"They're beautiful, you know. The two of them are really beautiful."

I smile. "I think so too."

I walk to the door, and turn around. "Merry Christmas, Santa."

Santa gives me a half-wave, his nose bright pink. "Merry Christmas, Helen."

I reach the door and open it. "And Santa? I still believe, you know. I always will."

Santa smiles. "I know, kid. That's why I see you every year."

And when I get home I tiptoe into babies' room and pat them gently. Someday, they'll meet Santa themselves. Until then, I'll thank the big guy every year for the greatest gift he's ever given me.

That, and I'll be setting out elf traps from now on.

Especially since someone didn't clean up after the reindeer and my favorite pair of black lace knickers seem to be missing.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:12 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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December 09, 2007

Book Tour - The Handmaid's Tale

Back when I had my other blog up and running - which I started to be private! Private from my family! Oh how that backfired, because some people can't stay out of other people's business! (I'm not going to stop mentioning that. Ever. Especially since said individuals still lurk on this blog and I want them to know that I won't be forgiving them for that. Ever.) - I joined a book club, as hosted by the amazing leader Mel. Mel is like the Statue of Liberty for the infertile masses. She lifts her lamp beside the golden stirrups.

The book club is great - we read a book a month or so, and then ask each other questions. I'm still a part of it, and this month we read The Handmaid's Tale. It took me a damn long time to read this one, not because I didn't like it but because time is something I don't have a lot of. I used to read 2-3 books a week, now one book takes me a while to finish. I've even got two book on the go right now, but that's because one of the books (from the lovely Lisa) is fraught for me, and not possible to read in one go. I don't dick around with books anymore either - if I don't like it, I stop reading it. No more of making myself finish them. I just stopped reading the new Alice Sebold, because I hated it. Hated hated. And I LOVED The Lovely Bones. I'm hoping she's not like Helen Fielding, for whom I loved the first Bridget Jones book and hated absolutely everything else Fielding wrote.

Now, I love Margaret Atwood but for some reason had never read this book - once I started reading it I didn't want to put it down (but, you know, with babies and all putting the book down was pretty much compulsory). The book is so engaging - set in a future-ish society run by a hardcore Christian militant society that took over America after overthrowing the government and started a new country, called Gilead, it's about one woman's struggle in the new society. The new environment is patriarchal and hierchical, whereby it's run by people called Commanders who have docile, "whatever you say dear" Wives that have zero say in anything, most of whom are barren (apparently due to chemical over-exposure and nuclear accidents). Enter the Handmaids, who wear red and are for reproductive purposes only. They live only to try to get impregnated by the Commanders (in a bizarre ritual whereby the fully dressed Handmaids lie between the Wives' legs while the Commanders root away, all in an attempt to be "one family". Bizarre.

In this society, women are truly abused. Rape is something that is the woman's fault. Women cannot own property or have a say. No one is allowed to read, as that gives too much power - even stores no longer have signs on the outside of them. The Handmaids get placed with Commanders who need/want children. The Handmaids' real names have been taken away, they have no names except the name of the Commander's home they take. If they do give birth, the babies are taken away from them, given to the Wives, and the Handmaid is moved to another home to keep trying to have more babies.

This Handmaid, Offred (Of - Fred, who is the Commander in whose home she lives) is the narrator of the story. She remembers life before the new government. She was married and had a daughter, but as her husband was married to someone else when she embarked on an affair, she gets pressed into Handmaid duty. Her child is taken away from her and placed with a Commander and Wife. Her husband, she fears, is dead. She has to try to have a baby with this Commander, as reproduction above all else is the crux of their society.

So - my questions:


In the beginning of the book, the Aunts discuss two facets of freedom: "freedom from" and "freedom to". While the old government's laws provided both types of freedom, the new government limited women's freedom to "freedom from". Do you think that "freedom from" is truly a freedom, or is it just the government's way of subtly taking away rights?


"Freedom from" is the perfect kind of argument. "Why can't you pick up your underwear off the bedroom floor?" He of course can reply :"I am excercising my freedom from being forced to touch my grundies." It has endless possibilities of being the ultimate rebutall. "Freedom from" is the answer to all of our argument needs.

"Freedom from" is a freedom, yes. In modern society we have freedom from having our phones tapped or our homes searched without a warrant. Oh no, wait. That right was revoked. Lemme' see...we have the freedom from being held in jail without hearing what the charges are or without a trial or for an undue amount of time. Oh, crap, no, that right is gone, now, too. Those pesky Amendments, it's about time something was done about those.

Subtly taking away rights? Yes. And isn't that the thin end of the wedge?


One of the things that struck me about the book was how the women managed to find ways to express themselves and be creative, even though so much was denied them & their roles were very rigidly defined. For example, Offred improvises pats of butter in lieu of hand cream. In particular, I was struck by Serena Joy, the Commander's Wife -- she (like me) cannot create life (a baby) -- she no longer has a television career as an outlet -- so she knits. Besides your blog, do you have a creative outlet that helps you cope with your infertility and other life stressors?


Just my blog, actually, which is why I am so furious that my privacy was invaded by people who knew not to invade. My blog(s) is/were the one place I could go to shout it out. So now I just have this site, I censor myself a bit, and I go on.

And there's always alcohol.

Sweet, loving alcohol.


One thing that continually struck me as I was reading was exactly how easily and smoothly the Giliadean government robbed women of their economic power and, ultimately, any semblance of freedom. All it took was a few keystrokes and (implied) threats to their employers to throw women back into chattel status. I kept wondering, where was the opposition? And what about the men? Offred mentions that even her partner was initially unbothered by what was happening to her. One gets the impression that a well of misogyny lingered below the surface of Offred's society, waiting for an excuse to be released. Do you think this aspect of the novel rang true? How might the citizens in Offred's culture have fought against the Gileadians' plans? Or was the takeover inevitable once it began?


Not to be bra burning about this, but aren't all societies misogynistic? Incuding ours today?

I thought about this question a great deal, and I assure you I'm not here to man bash, but I truly think that the men in this book (and were this to happen in real life I think the same is true) were just relieved that their rights weren't taken. I don't think that the men in the world want women's rights removed (OK some do, but let's not include the general nutcases and assholes, yes?) but if faced with the choice of "Her Rights Taken" versus "My/All Rights Taken" they would breathe a sigh of relief knowing that it was just Her Rights Taken. In the book I got the sense that the men were just so pleased to have escaped the purge, they didn't think twice about fighting for the woman's rights. The book mentioned there were a few small uprisings, but for the most part this was how the cookie crumbled.

You don't have to look too far to see men that still honestly believe the woman is best placed at home as the child rearer and the man is the one who works. I know a few such men myself (*cough*brother-in-law*cough*). How much of a stretch is it to imagine many men breathing a sigh of relief that we have to stop our irritating bitching about fair pay, that we have to throw out our girlie magazines with those exasperating quizzes like "Is He Still Smoking In Bed? Find Out Now!", or that we can no longer nag and moan and question their judgement, we just have to do what they say? And that's not even including the idea that the menage a trois becomes a government sanctioned activity and alcohol is just for the boys, the girls can sneak the cooking sherry. Please - I truly that's the dream of many (not all, just many) men.

I think men find the lack of control more terrifyign than women, on a whole. For every man who is abusive or terrifying, it's due to control. Men need/want/crave control (I'm not having a go at men, here, I think it's environmentally programmed into men this way - men historically must provide for families, ergo men must have control for themselves.) Women haven't been in control of a whole lot for nearly all of history. Men have always been the caveman/wage earner/household runner. The idea of losing that control for women, while horrifying and scary, also generally leads us to think something along the lines of "Gee this is familiar. No say, no rights, no recourse. Guess I just get to say if we have brown gravy or white gravy with dinner. Deja vu, anyone?" Whereas for men being 100% subservient, while the stuff of female porn audiences, is a new concept. So no - not surprising that in the book the men looked the other way while women became chattel. I think that's about how it would roll should something like that happen in reality, too.

Pesky amendments again.


It was at one time hard for me to put myself in the Wife's shoes, but having dealt with infertility on a more personal sense, I find that I can sympathize with her and her role in this society. If you had to be in this society, how could you cope with your role in it? Would you be a Wife or a Handmaid? Could you sympathize with your counterpart?


As I'm infertile too, I couldn't be a Handmaid. As I'm with Angus as a divorcee and alleged homewrecker, that whole Wife bit is out, too. I'd be like Offred's friend Moira. I'd be working in the illicit whorehouse.


Hop along to another stop on this blog tour by visiting the main list at http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/. You can also sign up for the next book on this online book club: The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Fowler (with author participation!)


-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:03 PM | Comments (22) | Add Comment
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December 07, 2007

The Truth Of It Is...

I think it's time I faced the music.

I have a confession to make.

As well as eating of the humble pie.

I followed a link someone had to me the other day only to discover the category they had me in. It was a first for me. It was a sign of the times. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times - oh wait. Someone else already went down that route.

Said category I was in was "Mommy Blogger".

And, well, I guess it was accurate.

I used to smirk at those women who wrote about their kids. Mommy blogger! was the implication. Don't you have a life? Jesus Christ, go back to the Mayfair! (yeah I don't know what the whole "Puritan" and "Mommy blogger" connection is there, just go with it.)

In many blogging circles the term "Mommy blogger" is the ultimate insult. It had an implication of being unserious about writing. To some, "mommy blogger" was used to infer the worst kind of insult -

"Botox user!"

"Racist sympathizer!"

"Squirrel shagger!"

"Oh yeah? Well you're a MOMMY BLOGGER!"

(Pause for collective gasp of horror.)

See, as a non-mommy blogger I had a life, complete with matching job, boy and vibrator (it comes in a cute tartan pattern. The vibrator, not the boy.) I have a dog, too. Non-mommy bloggers have dogs. Mommy bloggers have Diaper Genies, SUVs and practical shoes. They don't have lives. They also have hoardes of people who read them who are also mommies, albeit perhaps without the blogs.

And although I wanted to be a mommy, I most definitely did not want to be a mommy blogger. Mommy bloggers were the disdain of the non-mommy blogging community. That, and mommy bloggers had posses who would kick your ass without using spellcheck. Best to avoid that sitch.

Then I got pregnant. It's not like it was an accident, it was something I had been trying to do for a great big long goddamn time. Once pregnant, I found (especially towards the end) that all I had to talk about was the pregnancy. But the truth is, I write about whatever's occupying my mind. I had a rough pregnancy. I had a twin pregnancy. I spent a lot of time peeing in bathtubs. It kinda' makes you think about one subject a lot.

And now I have my babies. I have them here and time is flying and in no time I'll be back to work and my children will be supplying me with dodgy looking desserts from their Ea-z Bake Ovens and performing complicated trigonometry. But until all that starts, I am home with them. Some days it's just me and them and I love that. Some days it's all four of us at home and I love that too. But work, there's no room for that in my thoughts just now, not just because I'm on maternity leave, but because at work there's been a huge re-organization, I'm not sure where my work will lie, and if I think about it I'll just get stressed out. So I spare my brain power.

My blog has always been about what's on my mind. There are a few topics I can't discuss here - I talk about Angus' and my disagreements, but there are limits to what I can or should discuss. I can't talk about my family visits because The Others in my family read this site, and I am just not interested in getting my father and stepmother in trouble. I'm not working so I don't talk about work.

I talk about my babies a lot.

But that's kind of ok with me.

In case you haven't guessed, I'm very in love with my babies. But it's more than that - I love all kinds of things about them. I love that I have a boy and a girl. Seriously. I feel like a kid in a candy store with that, I have a son and a daughter. And you betcha' I dress them in pink and blue every chance I get, mostly to stave off the "Are they both boys or girls?" question, but also because I love standing with one foot in both kingdoms. I have a boy. And a girl. I will have Barbies and trucks and Lego and princess castles and I do not care which sex plays with which - it's all encouraged.

(I lie - I'll totally encourage her to be as masculine as she wants, and he, as feminine.)

I'm not gloating, honest. I'm not "Ha Ha Herman, Charlie Brown" about it. I guess I just feel like I won the lottery. I feel bowled over. I'm a Mommy. No doubt I lost people who read when I got pregnant, as not only do people going through fertility treatment sometimes need to bail on pregnant blogs to protect themselves, but suddenly I was less angst, more pregnancy around here. Maybe I lost people when the babies were born, as suddenly I was less angst/less pregnancy and more "My baby can beat up your baby. Also? Hearts and flowers and ponies and tralala I love poopy diapers." (Which I don't, they're just a part of life.)

The angst is still there, but a part of my angst has abated thanks to the babies. I'm not saying children are a one-way ticket to mental health, but for me they're in part a catharsis - I guess I feel like I can be a better mother to them thanks to the therapy I've been through. Maybe I'm wrong, only time will tell, but I have infinite patience with them due in no small part to the work that needed doing on myself. Some re-plastering, a splash of paint, and I think I'm a better person inside so I can be a better person for them.

I owe a mea culpa to any woman who is a mother and writes about her children. It doesn't make you a mommy blogger. It just means you write about your life. In that same vein, not every post will be about my children, but right now it may tend to be overly baby. I hope you stick around. If not, I understand.

I write about all that I am, and I am many things. I am a woman. I am a partner and a lover. I'm a friend and a hard-worker. I'm damaged and repaired and hopeful.

I'm also a mommy.

And a blogger.

And all of these surround me and define me and make me complete, albeit with a few Band-Aids here and there.

-H.

PS-the doctor visit - both babies are still in the 2nd percentile, proving that no matter how much you feed them, some babies refuse to give up the anorexic chic look. They're both very healthy, just tiny. 8.8 pounds, both of them (Nick finally caught up and weighs the same as Nora!) They don't want us to change formulas, as both babies are hearty eaters and very healthy, they're just small.

As for the shots, Nora screamed once at a volume that could combust glass. Then she looked at the nurses with a "Is that all you got? Bring it, bitches! I can take it!" look, and once she realized the shots were indeed finished she promptly fell asleep. Nick, on the other hand, not only bled like a stuck pig but was as one commenter said - he looked at me with such hurt, such a look of "Mommy? I thought you loved me? How could you betray me like that, hooooooooow?"

Man that hurt. Hurt me, I mean. Him, he recovered with a bottle and a cuddle, but I sure hated feeling like I offered him up as an experiment.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:15 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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December 06, 2007

Black and White and Red All Over

Just a short one from me - the babies and I are off shortly to see a film (Fred Claus. I'm thinking it'll suck some serious red and green Christmas ass, but who cares? A film with the babies is a marvelous thing indeed.) After that we're off to the doctor's, where I'm hoping the babies' weights are now out of the 2nd percentile. If you're like me and didn't have a clue what this percentile business is about, then basically this means my babies are working the anorexic chic angle of things, despite the vast quantity of food they consume.

The Kate Moss look is so over.

I'm hoping they've gained some weight and can hit at least the 5th percentile, because nothing is more satisfying in life than thinking your children are aiming for average, yes?

Nick and Nora also get their first vaccinations.

I'm bracing myself for the onslaught of tears (both theirs and mine).

I was asked for a picture of Nora smiling and I live only to serve. I managed to catch a shot of it yesterday - I had a brilliant morning with Nora, as Nick napped in between his morning feedings. Yesterday afternoon, Nora screamed the entire time in her crib so Nick and I hung out, ended world hunger, and solved the case of where Jimmy Hoffa really is buried (I'd tell you, but then you wouldn't have that issue to keep you awake at night, wondering where he is.)

So here you go. My little girl, smiling. And I can tell you, the view is better face on. It takes your breath away.


Sometimes she smiles


-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:36 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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December 05, 2007

Chance Encounters

Last night I walked Gorby through the dusky evening, the baby sling across my chest holding the weight of a sleeping twin. Mist was heading in but it was light enough to enjoy the woods. I felt pretty brave walking him in the evening, because even in full daylight I can walk through the woods and expect, at any moment, to be confronted by a bad guy. With a chainsaw. And a creepy penchance for piano music played on the high notes only. And of course I'd be the stereotype and run up the stairs, tripping and falling and crying, because that's apparently what girls do in the slasher pics.

(And I would totally have gone back for Jones, too.)

As we walked, I picked up a stick and threw it for Gorby. Like an idiot, he bounded across the bracken and fallen trees for something he could have picked up at any other location. I was just about to reach for my iPod in my pocket (I may come to the woods to relax, but I'll do it to my music, dammit), when I heard a noise in the woods behind me.

I froze, expecting the sound of a chainsaw starting up and wondered how I would handle running up the stairs when there weren't any.

I turned, and there I saw a woman. Shorter than I, she was wearing a long white bathrobe and a purple beanie. On her feet were thick yellow Wellies. I chewed on my lip a moment as I regarded her - I'm all for walking the dog in my pajamas (in fact, that's exactly what I was wearing), but the bathrobe posed a stretch too far. At least it was the thick fleecy kind, although in her case, it was covered with yellow rubber duckies.

Whatever works, I guess.

As the woman gets closer, I can see she's pregnant. Heavily pregnant. So pregnant the first thing that comes to mind is "Is she having twins?", but then I am no fool, I have read enough blogs of women carrying a singleton and I know that's the single worst thing to ask a woman, ever (even worse that "Are you on the rag?", because that's none of your business, either). The bathrobe belt lies over her enormous bump, and the way one of her hands is absentmindedly rubbing the mound screams "baby" in a completely uncomplicated way.

She looks up, sees me, smiles and waves. She heads towards me, making her way carefully through the uneven terrain. I adjust the baby sling across my chest and wait for her - I'm not big on talking babies with people, but her outfit is enough to make me pause.

"Hello," she says when she finally reaches me. "Sorry if I startled you."

"No, no problem. I'm just walking my dog," I say, motioning to the muddy, idiot-like Gorby. "Do you live around here?" I ask. I'm sure I would've noticed someone dressed in a rubber duckie robe. I would've asked where she got it, it's just my kind of thing.

"No, I'm not local. I'm trying to find more permanent accommodation," she says sweetly. "I'm thinking of Woking or, oh, the little town of Bethlehem. Something like that." She has nice eyes. Nice eyes nearly forgive the bizarre get-up.

"I'm Helen," I say, smiling and waving. Chicks don't need to shake hands, especially in a forest.

"I'm Mary. People call me the Virgin Mary," she says, waving back.

"Wow," I whistle. "High school must've been hard. Mind if I call you Mary? The Virgin part of it feels pretty uncomfortable." And pretty incorrect, judging by the size of the watermelon she's packing.

She smiles. "It's a silent night around here, isn't it?"

"Indeed. The woods are so peaceful, it's like walking in a winter wonderland. Only, you know, no snow and all." We walk in silence. "Is that your first?" I ask, nodding at her stomach.

"Yes it is! I got pregnant via immaculate conception."

"No kidding! Me too! I mean, I've never heard of IVF being called immaculate conception, but whatever works for you and all. It took me 5 rounds to get pregnant, how many did you take?"

Mary smiles beatifically. I wish I could smile like that. It's simultaneously "I have a secret" and "no, I'm not telling you what it is" all at the same time. So she must've gotten pregnant the first round, the lucky cow.

I motion towards my sling. "This is one of my twins, I had them in October."

"Lucky you! Girls, boys, or both?" she asks, smiling.

"Both," I reply. I look into the sling. "What child is this..." I murmur, then proudly show off Nick.

"Do you know what you're having?" I ask.

"A boy. An angel of the Lord, and the son of God," she replies happily.

"Well sure, we all think our kids are great, but there are limits." I shrug. "Any idea on names?"

"I'm thinking of 'Arbuthnot'," she replies. I smile, hopefully encouragingly, although the idea of a child called "Arbuthnot" makes my ears bleed. I fear for the kid's future.

I turn at the sound of a crashing Gorby, who at that moment lands squarely in a huge puddle. "Gorby!" I shout. "Jesus Christ!"

"Jesus Christ," Mary murmurs. "Now that's a good name."

Nick stirs, a hand popping out of the sling. I take it gently in my own and fold it back in the sling. "Baby, it's cold outside. Keep your hands in, Frosty the snowman."

We walk a bit more. "Helen," Mary asks. "What was the worst part of pregnancy for you?"

I think about it for a minute. "The worst part?" I reply. "Oh, I dunno. All of it, actually. You?"

"I can't get comfortable at night. I feel like I'm sleeping away in a manger or something, I can't get comfortable on a mattress, on wood, I imagine I can't even get comfy on rocks. And I haven't shaved my legs in months."

"Yeah, your priorities change a lot," I agree. "It's not important to get that difficult-to-shave under the knee part when you can't see past your waist. I couldn't do anything in my late pregnancy. Plus I got put on modified bed rest, so even gardening is out. I had the neighbor's son mow the lawn. You know, Tommy? He's in the school band? The little drummer boy? Yeah, he'll cut the grass for a fiver."

She sighs heavily. I can tell the walk is getting to her.

"Are you happy?" Mary asks, adjusting the tie on her rubber duckie bathrobe. "Really happy? I get worried. It's nice to think of having my baby at this time of year, in the winter wonderland, but that's just a side issue. Being a mother for the first time is so frightening. I wonder if I'm ready sometimes, if the happiness will be there after the baby arrives in the way I hope it will be."

I think about it. "Am I happy?" I reply. I smile. "Sometimes I am so happy I can't believe it. It should be illegal to be this happy. Other times I am so blue I can't figure out which way is up, I can't even follow the bubbles. But if you mean am I happy having my twins? The answer is yes. Absolutely. This year with them and their first Christmas, it's just amazing. I'll be home for Christmas this year, and it wil be wonderful, every single part of it."

Mary smiles. "So much to look forward to." She rubs her stomach again.

"That's not even mentioning the ridiculous hats you have to look forward to dressing your son in."

"I know. I bought one in the shape of a dreidl. My husband Joseph doesn't approve."

"Men never approve of the hats. Some kind of irrational fear that we'll put hats on them, I guess. If I had two body parts shaped like a skull I'd worry too."

Mary smiles and puts a hand to my arm. "Thank you for letting me walk with you. It's been nice. I have to go now, but thanks for the advice."

I smile back. "No problem. And good luck with your little one."

A bright yellow light comes down on us then, and I look up to see an immense star shining, lighting up the near dark evening. Mary walks towards it and the edges of her robe start to pale. She turns, waves, and smiles.

"Hey Mary!" I shout just before she dissolves. Stranger things have happened to me at Christmastime than watching a could-be mental patient dissolve into a beam of light. "Happy Holidays. And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Mary smiles back. "Hang in there, Helen. They're going to amaze you someday."

And then she's gone.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:16 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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December 04, 2007

Thelma and Louising

As time has passed I've found that my opinions get more and more scant. It's as though a cork has been popped into me and plugs up anything that might be coming out. Over the length of seconds, minutes, days, weeks and months, this has turned me into someone that I don't like. Nobody else likes it either. I feel like a caricature sometimes - "Do you want vanilla or chocolate? Vanilla or chocolate? Huh? Tell me!". My response is usually: "Umm...I dunno. Neither? Both? You decide. No really. Just pick whichever one causes the least amount of contention. That's the one I want."

What I should be doing, is speaking my mind. As in "Jesus, all you have is vanilla or chocolate? I'm a strawberry kind of girl*."

This is my fault, my problem.

And I'm sick of it.

I was looking at a photo of Nora and I this morning. Taken mid-October, I was holding her, and she was a baggy mass of newborn wrinkles. It was her pre-screaming phase, when she was so easy-going and calm and lovely. I looked at that photo and realized how much she's grown in the past 6 weeks. She looks like a real newborn now, not a preemie, and this phase has happened faster than I would have liked.

It's been hard.

But I love it.

Despite her serious unpopularity, Nora's someone I can relate to. She lives life too fast, too hard. It's all new and far too much. Nick is an amazing baby, a calm and gentle soul, someone content to watch the world and sit and stare. I can count on one hand the number of difficult days we've had with him since the jaundice passed. With Nora, I ran out of digits long ago. People don't want to hold her, be around her. Angus and Nora have had a contentious relationship-he says she just screams, pukes and shits, and on the surface it may seem like that, but she's more than that. I've seen it. People avoid her but I know that amazing things are to come. She still screams, but she will get better. I think she is getting better now, actually. The screaming sessions are fewer and fewer.

She tracks me with her eyes now when I walk around the room. I like to tell myself it's because she knows I will champion her when all others walk away. I love the pants off of both my babies, and while Nora needs extra understanding, she'll have it.

Nora needs a voice.

So do I.

It's time I started to make myself heard when something happens I don't like. I need to say what I want and don't want. I need to stop shutting the fuck up and start being clear, no one wants to be around someone who can't choose her fucking ice cream. I will do have my say on everything from baby vests to which politician I support to which flight to take. The meek don't inherit anything apart from a personality complex.

I've been hiding how I'm feeling to everyone, including myself, in an effort to avoid arguments with everyone about everything. This is my fault, I've brought this on myself, no one made me stop talking. But I'm tired of this peaceful life, because it's anything but peaceful. I'm not going to go around picking a fight with everyone, that's not how it works, but when something bothers me I'm going to deal with it. I'm not angry...I'm free.

I've been trying to hustle this newborn period along to get to when they're supposed to get "interesting", people often tell me that the babies aren't yet "interesting", that they will at some point achieve this magical "interesting" status. The truth is, they've been interesting all along. I'm not going to hide or push or change, not anymore, I'm not going to try to race to the next stage. Instead, I'm going to savor every moment, and remember that what I have is amazing and what will come may be even better. She may scream, but she's gorgeous and she's mine. He may stare and consume, but he's fabulous and he's mine.

As are my opinions.

I'm getting them back.

And it feels delightful.


-H.

* Actually, I hate strawberry ice cream. Neapolitan ice cream always looked like Barbie'd done a drive-by.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:49 PM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
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December 03, 2007

Love

Love, you know?

Love. It comes in so many, many forms. The most talked about, the most revered, the most painful thing in the world, love. The center of the Hallmark industry, the enabler of Hollywood stardust, the stuff that romantic dreams are made of. Love. The greatest and most painful, the holiest and the most sinful, the deepest and the most shallow...

My life, it's full of love.

Love of Angus, which goes without saying. Love of my babies (two months old today), which I've splashed liberally across my blog like a paint can turned on its side. Love of my health, which I have a fierce pride over.

Love of traditions. Christmas is coming, and with it comes a million different things that I love. This love, it's a pert love. Baubles and beads, lights and bells, the stuff of Christmas dreams, the love I have for the child I could have been, should have been, and was comes out this time of year. I can hear her. I'll indulge her anything. Christmas blog posts dash through my head-my favorite posts of the year come at Christmastime. Christmas presents line my bedroom floor (quick! Hide them! Tidy up!). My love for Christmas is the most youthful part of me.

It's also a lonely love, one that I battle to keep on the straight and narrow. Christmas delights and enchants me, but it's also a dangerous curve. I jump off the side of it with the slightest nudge or bump, but the lure of what it could be, what it should be, what the magic of Santa and laughter and red velvet bows and warm laughter, it's usually enough to try to keep me grounded.

This Christmas isn't getting as far inside as it should do, but I'm hoping that's just because there's been some turbulence this year. There's still time.

I love my family. When they come it's as a quiet force of calm. They descend upon our house in a haze of jet fuel and hugs. The babies can do no wrong, they are a sheer unmitigated delight and the center of the universe. For my dad, they are a well-acknowledged do-over for his failures as a father. For me, he is a chance for the babies to have all of our lessons and our love into their worlds. I've never seen him so young, so approachable, and so calm. You'd think it would make me mourn what I didn't have, but instead it makes me celebrate what the babies will.

I teared up when they left today. Now, I listen to "I'll Be Home For Christmas". In my head I'm there. In my heart, I'm home wherever those I love are. I hold my babies against my chest so they can hear my heartbeat and I watch the rest of the day go by.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:20 PM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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