May 31, 2007

I Am Not a Bloody Genie

Had a meeting with some folk all morning.

My stomach was rubbed.

Twice.

Imagine how pleased I am about that.

-H.

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May 30, 2007

Yeah, Really, I Just Laid There

The Lemonheads are moving along. I still haven't gained any more weight than the 7 kilos (15 pounds) I put on in the first 12 weeks, and I know I keep going on about it but I simply just don't look 4.5 months pregnant with twins. The other twin moms at similar growth rates that I see in pics look two or three times my size already. And I do eat, I really do. But the only things that I crave are fruit and Fig Newtons (which Beach Girl and Angela have been kind enough to send over, because the fig rolls you can get here? Not the same.)

We got scanned yesterday, actually. It wasn't planned but based on various symptoms I was showing I rang up the hospital and they said they'd like to see me. So off Angus and I trooped, where we checked in to labor and delivery, and I got fingered by the doctor (I had no idea they check your cervix. Seriously. I'm about as woefully ignorant about birthing as I am about welding. In fact, I might be more clued up about welding. Lemme get my goggles.) Then we got the fun with goo and ultrasound wands as they checked on the Lemonheads.

Both Lemonheads were alive and kicking.

Literally, actually, as Lemonhead #2 was kicking its sibling in the head.

What came out of the hospital visit-besides us seeing the babies, who look more like the Alein bad guy Giger drew than real babies-is that the little Lemonheads, they just keep going. Even with a severe cough that's so bad I've sprained both of my abdominal muscles, they keep persevering (the abdominal muscles are the reason why we got to go to hospital at all.)

Today I'm exactly 18 weeks pregnant. For twins, this means I've met the halfway point. Single babies, they get to party in the uterus for 40 weeks, but twins generally get the eviction at about 36 weeks.

And if I can follow the old cliche, I'd like to say this-I can't believe I've made it this far. We're a long way from being done and are certainly not out of the woods-should something go wrong and I go into labor today, the babies would not survive. But still-I got to see them do Tae Kwon Do in utero, and that's something that will live with me always.

Being pregnant has suddenly opened my eyes to certain elements of how people react. I think it's the case with all pregnancies in that suddenly you are the world's oyster, but with twins you somehow get shuttled into a different category, one in which people's mouths get unplugged from their brains. It's happened again and again and I can tell you a few things that already annoy me:

1) When people say "You'll never sleep in again." or "You'd better sleep now, while you still can!" Actually I will be sleeping again, thanks. The first few months may be a bit sleep deprived but that too shall pass. We're not heavy duty sleepers in this house anyway-although lately we've been sleeping late because we cough all night long and aren't feeling well, we typically wake up around 7 am. If our kids wind up sleeping 7 hours a night soon then we'll all be on the same schedule.

2) When people say "Ooooh twins! You have an instant family!" OK, see, twins are not a Carnation breakfast drink. Yes, twins + adults = typical family, complete with dog, house, and picket fence. But I had a family before I will be having babies. I have a boy and a dog and two pain in the ass cats. I have two stepkids. I have a family, I'm just augmenting my existing one. Saying that NOW I have a family denigrates what I currently have.

3) The big one for me-when people find out it's twins, it becomes all about Angus' sperm.

See, now, I can't really explain why this winds me up so much, it just does. Yes, Angus has fantastic, wall-splitting, super hard-working sperm. We do actually know this, because unlike most men that get to imbibe too much beer and grope the Mrs before landing a little Budweiser Junior in the hot pocket, Angus was offered a sad choice of porn (including, he says, some car magazines, which I find all kinds of strange) and a tupperware container (I begged him to stick his head out the door and shout an inquiry as to if they had any Asian porn, but he refused). So Angus does actually know how his little guys are doing, since we got a print-out result of it.

This is some of the following used to assess an acceptable sperm analysis (as according to the World Health Organization):

Volume:
2.0 mL or more

Total Sperm Count:
40 x 106 spermatozoa per ejaculate or more

pH:
7.2 or higher

Sperm Concentration:
20 x 106 spermatozoa / mL or more

Motility:
50% or more motile (grade a+b) or 25% or more with progressive motility (grade a) within 60 minutes of ejaculation.

Morphology:
WHO Criteria for assessing normal sperm morphology defines the following:
Head:The head should be oval and smooth. Round, pyriform, pin, double and amorphous heads are all abnormal.
Midpiece: The midpiece should be straight and slightly thicker than the tail.
Tail:The tail should be single, unbroken, straight and without kinks or coils.
A minimum of 100 sperm must be counted that qualify the above criteria.

Vitality:
50% or more live.

Also, you shouldn't have any pus in the sperm.

That totally makes you want to swallow, I know.

Angus met the criteria. It's gotta be pretty nerve-wracking for a guy to hear how many sperm were present, how many of them were lazy couch potatoes and how many of them were short bus. But my guy, he exceeded the norms, which for a 45 year-old has to feel pretty good (or for a guy of any age, really).

But upon finding out that I'm packing twins, the general response from my colleagues and, indeed, from pretty much most of the men we know, is this:

Duuuuuuuuuude! Way to go, Angus!

Excuse me? What, it's all thanks to the amazing sexual potency of the man? Do people think his semen has the high velocity impact of a fire hose and I am helplessly plowed into the wall when he ejaculates? No one seems to give a shit about the male aptitude when a woman has a single baby, why is it such a big deal when there are multiples?

I've heard it again and again from other men (Angus, thankfully, is not of the "It's all down to me" category). "Tell him great work!" or "He's really a man's man!" or other such comments along similarly chauvinistic lines.

Let's do a little bit of biology, shall we?

Say I was carrying identical twins (which I'm not). You know how many of Angus' Super Grip Action Men would be used in the fertilization process? One. One single determined sperm. True, the egg would be under attack from lots of swimmers, but two kids will come out of one sperm. It's the embryo that divides (generally speaking. There is an occurance called semi-identical twins, which takes two sperm and one egg, but it's extremely rare).

In that scenario, then, it's my body's contribution that does all the work.

So in our case of fraternal twins-to have our two babies, we need two sperm. Yes, again, there are 400,000 billion all having a stag do in my uterus (or, in our case, a petri dish). But only two are actually used. And as far as eggs go you need two of those as well. So we have equal contributions to what's happening.

In other words, Angus' sperm hasn't rocked the fertility world any more than my eggs have done.

Yet for men this is not essential information. It doesn't matter that good egg quality is a very important issue, too. I am the innocent bystander, the recipient of the incredible fecundity known as the male reproductive system. I am lucky I can catch his virility in a bucket, I guess. Color me blessed.

It's true that almost no one in our real life knows we've been through IVF, and I don't really see that it's any of their business, either. And it's true-my eggs this time were a bit shite (we donated 4 to another woman and so far we're too chicken to find out if it worked for her. The last time we donated eggs the woman didn't get pregnant and I was pretty cut up with guilt about that.) It's true that Angus' sperm were "washed", a process in which only the best and the brightest were presented to my 10 pack-a-day smoker eggs and his Head Boys had to do a lot of work. But I'm a bit pissed off at the resounding good ol' boy back-slapping going on with regards to sperm acknowledgements. Yes, Angus is a great man. Yes, his sperm can unite villages in remarkable peace processes.

But it took two to tango.

I asked my therapist about this, not because I had any emotional angst about this, but because I couldn't figure out what the fuck was up with the "Way to go, Angus!" remarks.

My therapist - a nice older man with 5 grown children of his own - offered me this:

"I know you're not going to like this, and unlike all the other things we talk about, this has no basis in psycholigical analysis or depth. The reason men react that way to Angus has one explanation only-it's because we're men. Generally speaking, we don't do well with emotional situations like this. While women celebrate the pregnancy, men have to connect on a level that other men understand."

"So it's just basically because 'boys will be boys'?" I ask. I wonder if this is when I start practicing my shebonics and burning my bras in protest. I wonder if I can start educating the men around me or, failling that, if a good smack will do the job.

"Sorry, but yes," he replies. "This is how a lot of men relate to each other, you can't change it."

So I guess I'll have to start working on just accepting that this, this is going to be the male reaction to the rest of my pregnancy and, I assume, the rest of our twins' lives. Good thing I love Angus a lot, otherwise the temptation to shout that it's not all about his sperm would be overwhelming.

Today I'm 18 weeks pregnant with the magical love sperm that Angus donated to my egg basket.

I'm doing well so far.

When people ask when I'm due, I tell them that foaling season starts beginning October.

I find that very funny.

So far I'm alone in finding that very funny, but I'll let you know how I get on with that.

-H.

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May 29, 2007

Another Kind of Love

The Memorial Dar weekend (we had Monday off here, too) was spent in a flurry of depression over the seriously foul weather (it rained all weekend, complete with gale-force winds and chilly temperatures) and petty arguments over nothing, arguments which cast the house in a gloomy color of mocha. I spent a lot of it hoping to get through the weekend without actually coughing up a lung or forcibly ejecting my uterus out the downward escape hatch, and it seems better today but I remain on the homemade pregnancy approved cough syrup (I do at least sound like a heavy smoker. Or at least I did until I basically spoke in a hazy wheeze last night, but I'm back to heavy smoker sounding.)

There seems to be so much to do, all of it of that level of bullshit that you generally hate doing-phone the bank. Call the doctor. Check on how we're doing on the nursery waiting lists. Ring architects. Book up hotels for our trip to Scotland, all of which seem to be full, and of course when I do finally find one that can take us it's not what was wanted, so apparently I fucked up (again). Work through 1,000 lines of Microsoft Excel in hopes of getting my project moving forward, instead of stalled in technical hell. I'm so endlessly frustrated by thoughts of what I want to write, but which only come to life in brain occasionally, trapped by my laziness and lack of confidence. My "to-do" list is exhausting, and that's without picking up the phone.

That said, I've been striking things off the list so far today. It feels good to get things done (prescription filled, one nursery has a bit of hope, architect will be by tomorrow for site survery, Excel spreadsheet done, I've completely fucking bored you now, etc. But at least it's getting better.

Yesterday the sky was dark and hostile. The wind was bitterly cold and violent-the hammock had gone for a sail across the back garden, the upbeat stripes muddied by the mud-smeared turf. The darkness matched my thoughts.

I walk up to Angus, who is working away at Turbo CAD on the downstairs PC.

"I'm not a very good person," I say quietly.

"Why's that?" he asks looking up at me.

I have been thinking about this. "There's someone I'm supposed to love, but I don't. I used to. Now I don't love them anymore. If I'm supposed to love them and I don't, then that makes me a bad person."

I really don't love someone anymore, it's not me with a knee jerk reaction, it's not me re-visiting the monochrome of my mental illness salad days. I've thought about it and thought about it in my quiet and difficult short bus way of thinking that I have these days. The inside of me is better, so much better I don't even recognize who I used to be, but part of that better means that I have to spend a lot of time trying to figure out what it is I really feel about something.

I have people in my life that I love greatly, that I love so much I don't like to imagine them not being around. This isn't to say that I would die without them, because I don't think healthy love is supposed to work like that. It just means that life without them is more bleak than I think I know how to bear, and I know bleak. Bleak owes me money.

I have people in my life that I like and enjoy. When I'm in their company, I have a great time. I may not think about them all the time and I may not see them often, but they are a happy part of my sidelines, and I like to have them there.

I have people in my life that I don't like. I'd get rid of them, but they're largely in my professional life, and you can't really detach yourself from that. If you work, chances are that there will be someone you clash with.

I have people that I'm estranged from, but still love (how can one not?). This list is short but it exists. Maybe you're thinking I should make up with them and move on, but the estrangement is enforced from both sides-sometimes we all need a little sandbagging to keep our castles from being breached. Some estrangement is necessary for the time being, and although it's sad, it's simply the way it is.

I have a few people in my life that I loathe and detest. This might be bad karma. This might be not a good way of working. It might be best that I don't go near these people or have anything to do with them, and generally speaking, I usually don't have anything to do with them. These people make my ulcer explode and my temper rise. I cannot resist a challenge from them. I don't do well even thinking about them.

And then I find this new category, this new space. Someone from one of my lists has fallen, and fallen hard. I don't love them anymore. It's as easy and as complicated as that. I don't wish them and their family any ill, I genuinely hope life goes for them the way it's supposed to go. I just don't love them anymore, and I don't want to see them again.

This makes me a bad person. I'm supposed to love this person. I used to love this person. This isn't the bitterness talking, something inside of me has shifted. Should I buck the nature of responsibility? Should I say to myself: Gee, you awful bitch, what the fuck is wrong with you? How could you not love that person? What kind of complete waste of human material are you?

Or should I just say: Yeah, you don't love them anymore. Maybe that could be changed or maybe this is just a part of life, only one of those parts that no one talks about anymore? People stop loving people in their lives, even ones they should continue to care about. It happens. It's not something to celebrate, maybe, but it happens.

Angus looks at me. "That person hasn't behaved very well," he says softly. "It doesn't make you a bad person."

But there are places where the darkness seeps that no one can get to.

Not even me.

So I'll write my documents and make my phone calls and listen to my iPod and I will watch the stormclouds roll in over the backgarden and I will know that they rain for me, and for all that I've dried up inside of myself.

-H.

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May 25, 2007

Not Just an Island with Herve Villechaize

So we're a bit....um...liberal when it comes to the mechanics involving sex. I don't mean we march around naked (although he's prone to) and I don't mean liberal as in us walking around carrying signs saying "Trotsky simply wasn't committed enough...and blow jobs are life, comrade!"

No, I mean we have always had a very honest, open approach to sex and issues surrounding sex in our household. Maybe it's because of how our relationship evolved, i.e. it was already naughty, let's just throw the rest of the naughty in, too. Maybe it's because we've both been burned and we've both had horrifically bad lovers in the past (this is not a go at his ex-wife or my ex-husband, either. We have had others. Suffice to say neither of us were virgins when we married.) Or perhaps it's simply because we both agree that with each other we are the best sexual compadres in the whole wide world, ever, and as such we can open up the cans of worms (don't take it personally. I'm not insulting your sexual performance. I'm sure you do a great job hanging ten in the double bed.)

Did you ever watch Sex and the City? I confess that I actually did watch it, not because I found what they had going on in their lives remotely relevant to my life in any way, shape or form (prior to the show I thought "Manolo Blahniks" was likely a Sicilian sausage product), but because their one-liners were wicked. They were hideously fast and I'm not that quick on my feet. I think of one-liners hours afterwards, when I'm either on the train home or snug in my bed, and although I get to punch the air with the sudden inspiration of my retort it's pretty meaningless.

Angus and I tend to have discussions along the same lines that Sex and the City did, or at least we do when it comes to sex (I haven't spent $40,000 on shoes. The idea isn't even tempting, and I do love me some shoes.) There's nothing that's against the rules in terms of discussing. There's also nothing against the rules in terms of activities, but that's a different discussion. We don't talk about sex constantly but it does come up, and when it does it's generally in a very matter of fact way.

One of the things which I think sets us apart is the area of fantasies. As in: We have them. I think fantasizing is a very, very taboo subject in most relationships. Fantasies lead to problems. If you dream about someone/something, then it opens the door to questions like: "Am I not enough?", "Why would you think about someone else?", or the worst: "Do I not satisfy you?"

Oh you do, darling, you do. I'd just rather think of John Cusack taking me roughly in a dark alley while we wonder if we will find the nuclear bomb in time to defuse it, thereby saving all of mankind.

Every partner I've ever had has asked me that magical question-What do you fantastize about?

I learnt early on that the correct response is: You, baby. I fantasize about you.

I learnt this the hard way. One evening while having a session with an ex who I'll call the Bunny Humper (I'm sure you can work out why it is I called him that), he asked me that loaded question - What do you fantastize about?

Caught up in the moment, I thought about it before deciding that this would be the moment I came clean. Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, and Carrie Bradshaw would thank me (Redbook wouldn't, they're a bit conservative for this kind of thing). I decided to come clean with one of my fantasies. "Sometimes, I fantasize about a threesome," I answer.

"...Oh. With people you know?"

"Oh yes."

"Am I there?"

"No."

"So...who's it with?" came the query.

Had I been remotely keyed in and not enjoying the moment of my little fantasy, I might have noticed his pace was now off. Perhaps I would have heard the strained sound in his voice. But since I had the emotional receptivity of a Muppet at that moment, I caught neither. And so I did the unthinkable. I named names. And I even took it a step further...I named the folk and told the Bunny Humper that I thought about them when I had myself a magical play session for one.

In other words, I took his loaded question and I blew our sex life right out of our skulls.

We didn't last long after that.

I had crossed many lines there, you see. Not only did I admit I have fantasies, but I admitted they weren't always about my partner (as far as the Bunny Humper goes, the fantasies were actually never about him.) The real nail in the coffin was that I had a solitary romp in the hay that he didn't know about.

Let's examine.

Fantasies, I think, may imply to people that their partner isn't getting enough out of the bed bouncing. I think a lot of people see this as "What I'm not doing/can't give them/not interested in". But to me a fantasy is just that-something made up. Am I ever going to get John Cusack taking me passionately in an alleyway? No, and maybe that's ok because rumor has it he did Britney Spears and I'm not really interested in going on prophylactic antibiotics just because. I have other fantasies, too, generally involving some element of danger (and I confess an occasional fleeting fantasy that I am Leeloo to Bruce Willis' Corbin in that final scene of The Fifth Element, where they're having sex in that glass box. They had just saved the world, you know. I'm pretty sure that kind of thing gives people stiffies.) Perhaps I fantasize because life can be a bit same-y. Maybe I have those fantasies for the adrenaline. Maybe I have them because danger implies a lack of control, and in a fantasy a lack of control is ok, whereas in real life it's not.

One evening early on in our relationship Angus went out on a limb and told me one of his fantasies.

Instead of feeling upset that I wasn't enough, I found it highly erotic.

In turn I told him one of mine.

We still do this. From time to time we're able to make the other person's fantasy come true. If we're not, that's cool.

And if he tells me a fantasy that doesn't involve me, that's cool, too.

Even weirder is if he names a woman he's fantasizing about. Say he's hot for Susan Lucci (he's not, and I don't think he even knows who she is). He could tell me, describe his fantasy, and I would find it perfectly ok that he's fantasizing about someone else (even La Lucci, who's old enough to be his grandmother.)

The truth is, I don't buy that people only fantasize about their partners. It's not a sign of not loving them enough, of not fancying them. The whole point of a fantasy is that it's something that you don't have in your life and probably will never have. That's the reason for whittling away hours making fantasies up. Angus has me, so he should feel free to occasionally hotly dream about someone else. I can see there's a fine line between "occasional fantasy" and "problem", but we haven't hit that point yet, and I don't think we will.

Which leads me to the other taboo-in a lot of relationships, I think it's not ok to take matters into your own hands, so to speak. No spanking the monkey. No punching the clown. Buffing the weasel is not kosher. Paddling the pink canoe is off limits.

And I do actually know people that say they never rub the unicorn horn. I don't buy that, I don't see how you can go through life without shaking hands with the unemployed, I think it's impossible.

(I'll stop with the masturbation slang terms now.)

(OK, just one more, because it made me laugh-dropping stomach pancakes.)

(Sorry. Done now.)

And that's the other area in our love life where we're perfectly honest-we don't mind at all if the other person needs a bit of self-relief. Sometimes you have 5 minutes, the other person isn't home/is walking the dog/is mowing the lawn and frankly, you feel like a bit of relief will make the moment. So have at it. We don't generally tell each other when we've done so, but we're not hiding anything, either.

I approached Angus this morning as he was coming down the stairs. "Would you like to have a bit of action later?" I ask, peering in to the open pocket crotch of his boxer shorts. What? It was eye level, I had to check it out.

"Absolutely. I've been saving up all week," he replied.

I've had a horrific cold all week, complete with runny nose, sneezing, and coughs that a 60 year-old 10 pack-a-day smoker would envy. Sex has been off the menu, as my only real objective this week is to breathe my way through my mucus.

"All week? So you haven't played with yourself at all?" I ask, surprised.

"Nope," he replied. "But I don't think it's unusual for chaps to go for a week without any."

"I do. I can't imagine most people go that long without a release," I comment.

"They probably do," he said.

"I doubt it. I think in most relationships, people aren't ok with their partners masturbating. I think they probably do it anyway, but I bet that it's not considered ok."

"I imagine it probably is. You can't be doing it all the time, and some people have high sex drives."

So I offer it to you-how common is it to masturbate when you're in a relationship?

And if you're in a relationship, would you be angry if your partner did masturbate?

(Consider this fact finding. Enquiring minds want to know.)

-H.

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May 24, 2007

They Say That Home Ownership is Stressful. They'd Be Right.

When we first laid eyes on our perfect little house, we knew that it was the perfect little house for us.

And the emphasis on that has always been with the word "little".

We live in this area of England because it gives us:

1) Easy access to Heathrow for his kids to come visit
2) Easy access into London for work, which does dictate we come in to the office at least once a week
3) Easy enough to commute into either Waterloo or Victoria in south central London for work
4) Enough distance that we don't get drop-ins from his mom (I love her. Really I do. I just don't love her dropping in on a Sunday afternoon when I'm planning my new rendition of Afternoon Get My Freak On. Plus, I like notice so that I can vacuum. We all have an anal retentive fidget, mine is preferring that the living room doesn't resemble the Dust Bowl.)

So yeah.

We actually do need to stay in this area. Which is ok, because I honestly love this part of the country. Sure, it's not very hilly. True, we're nowhere near the water. Yes, it is a hit-or-miss kind of county in which some towns are amazing and perfect and some towns are shit.

When we found our perfect little house - and I'm not trying to be cutesy here, I simply love this house - it had a strange price. It was in the range that we were willing to pay for a house, but it was heading towards the upper side of the range. Still, we couldn't understand how our house was priced where it was - a fully detached home with a massive and very well maintained garden (or at least it was until we came along, anyway) in a quiet and 100% safe commuter-belt area outside of London, perched as it is on the end of a country lane in the middle of nowhere. It should actually have been priced higher than it was. It was as though there was something too good to be true. Although I could have done without unclogging ancient drains and the whole serious smorgasbord of wildlife that is Mumin's continuous banquet, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the bad news to come out.

But there isn't any bad news. The house was simply priced to sell, and sell fast (the widow who lived here decided it was time to move out and move on, and that time was right fucking now.) The house is just as it said on the label. It's brick and glass and has 100% of the RDA of riboflavin. So we sat back and decided to enjoy it for a year, while we decided what to do to it in terms of extensions and removations.

The house is wonderful, but it does need modernizing. The two toilets often require multiple flushes, screamed threats involving use as petunia planters, promises of virgin sacrifices, or all of the above to clear the bowl. The kitchen is a whole new death-defying description of butt-fucking ugly - tile countertops, a non-working kitchen fan, and about the stupidest layout for anyone that actually cooks. It's such a joy. There's only one shower in the house (this is a problem, especially with a 15 year-old girl around). There are only three bedrooms, and this is three bedrooms too little as we need one for Angus and I, one for Melissa, and one for Jeff, but unfortunately Jeff's bedroom doubles as Angus' study. And now we need more bedrooms for the new arrivals (although they will not only share a room but will share a crib for some time. Apparently twins do better if they sleep together for a while, as that's all they knew while they were still in the Big House.) In addition, both Angus and I largely work from home, so we need a study each (we really do need a study each, as we are often on different conference calls and you can't do them from the same room). And there are only two closets in the whole house, there is absolutely no storage anywhere.

Even without the babies on the way an extension was always in the works. We're already out of space. We just wanted to live here for a while and see what it was like, what we would want to change, what we felt needed improving. It's just now we have a little more pressure. We know the extension won't be ready in time for the babies' arrival, which is now about 4 months away. Unfortunately, Jeff will lose his bedroom to the twins while Angus takes my study (which is the former dining room-we don't see much use for a formal dining room these days) and Jeff gets the sofa bed, but Jeff will get the bribe of allowing the dog to sleep in the living room with him and the promise that he gets first pick of the new bedrooms. We think he'll be ok with that.

We contacted two architects last week and had them come round for discussions and quotes. They're both RIBA certified, which is important to us, and both locals. Many discussions were had.

Angus and I have been saving money for a long time. When we were still living in the various rented homes, we chucked well over a third of our monthly salaries into savings, just so that we could apply it to a house someday. Now that we have said house, said savings go to the mortgage, but we built up a nest egg when we could. That nest egg, augmented with other things, is the foundation for the extension. We are nowhere near rich, either of us, and after the twins start day care we'll be riding the strict budget wave for a while. But we have been saving up for years to have the home that we want.

We want to expand the house to:

- 5 bedrooms
- At least 2 bathroooms, preferably 3
- Build out the kitchen and living room
- Move the stairway (currently, it's right inside the front door. The hallway is tight, dark, and has no room for storage)
- Move the garage, or at the very least re-roof it with an eye to building a room on top of it someday
- Re-do the exterior. Some brainiac had the idea at one point to cover the brick with pebbledash, which we hate and which is not in great condition.
- Prepare the house for solar energy, both water and PV
- New windows (ours are single-glazed and thus allow heat to escape), a new hot water heater (ours is many years old and just stops working periodically) and a new heating system (see: water heater)

Angus and I will do the kitchens and bathrooms ourselves, from fitting the countertops and appliances/shower to tiling. Believe it or not, we like doing that kind of thing. Angus has already put in a few kitchens and bathrooms at other houses, and I too was part of a kitchen installation in Sweden (also, strangely enough I really enjoy tiling, which makes me one weird chick.) We'll also rip out the last remaining carpets in the house and install wooden floorboards ourselves, as well as various other bits and pieces throughout the house.

The architects both said that the sum of money we had would do the job. Just. Which makes me feel very uncomfortable, as building works generally never seem to go according to plan and I hate the idea that we'll need to up our mortgage while simultaneously wiping out our entire savings. They also agreed that everything we're planning will increase the sales value of the house, which is also important.

Then came the details.

It will take us over 6 months alone just to get planning permission from the council to build our house. Every council has requirements for building and extending of homes. Councils are notorious for being picky, difficult to deal with, slow, aggravating, expensive, and petty. Everyone I know who has had work done has a horror story to tell. The architects warned us that even though all the work we would like is fair, and since not one of our neighbors is anywhere near where we'd plan to build so there shouldn't be an issue, that undoubtedly the council would find some reason to reject our plans.

Time-wise, it comes down to this-it'll take about 6 months to get planning permission, so around the end of the year we maybe will have a "go". Then we wait for the builders. Builders are in huge demand here, and all of them have waiting lists a mile long. Not only that, but they are heart-stoppingly expensive. If you don't want to pay their prices, fine. They'll go to the next person on the list, then, have a nice life. Once we get a builder, the actual construction will take about 4-5 months. Then it's many more months for Angus and I to finish things off.

This means that building will start next Spring, whereupon the entire back of the house will be ripped out. Gone. Think flapping plastic sheets in the wind. And there are only two rooms of the house that will remain untouched, so Angus, myself, and two infants will be living in those two rooms (my study and the guest room) while the entire home is attacked. And Angus, I have a feeling he's not going to handle the mess and stress of living on a building site very well. He's a fantastic boy and I love him madly, but I can already see the depression coming our way.

And to top it all off, one quote came back from one of the architects. It was £50,000 over what we'd budgeted.

We're going with the other architect, whose quote was substantially lower (but is still so high it makes me want to drink. Or sit and breathe into a paper bag. Or both). But his quote was lower as he doesn't project manage the building site, so it means that we'll be project managing the house building for the most part, along with the construction engineer from the builder. If I'm not back to work yet, I will try to manage a lot of it (and actually, I'm honestly interested in managing aspects of it.) I'll just need to buy the twins some hard hats and teach them how to efficiently use nail guns, I think*.

Right about now, you're maybe saying "Jesus, woman, just move house." Or maybe you already zoned out, bored, and are surfing the web to pick out the perfect eyebrow liner (psst-Benefit Brow Zing. That's what you seek.) But we can't do that either.

England has some of the most shocking house prices I've ever seen, ever. If you're a fresh-faced, happy young couple I don't know how you get on the property ladder, I really don't. Houses are ball-numbingly expensive. And interest rates have gone up, so the repayment is also hard. Since moving into this house over a year ago, houses in our area have skyrocketed in price. This is good news, I suppose-it means we've already made money on our house in under 14 months. But the bad news is that houses in our area that were selling for around £450-500,000 are now well over that. Two bedroom homes are selling for £350,000. Some houses around the corner from us were just listed for sale. The gardens are so tiny that if you stand in the backyard and squint you'll almost be able to see a blade or two of grass, and the rooms in the house are humble. The smaller of the two houses is going for £560k. The larger one is nearly touching the £600k mark. Combine the cost of a house with things like moving costs, stamp duty, estate agent fees, etc and the truth is, we'll save money by staying here and simply extending. We'll save a LOT of money by staying put. Or, to put it simply, we don't know that we can afford to move now.

So the stress will be on.

I'm calling the architect as soon as I post this, and the game will be afoot.

Wish us luck.

We're going to need it.


-H.


*To stave off any of those kind of comments, if you think I'm even remotely serious about giving my kids nail guns then you're not very keyed up about me. I'm nervous about giving my 45 year-old boy a nail gun, never mind two little beings that can't yet hold their heads upright.

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May 23, 2007

Little Miss Inscrutable

My entire life my face has given everything away.

I'm one of those people who couldn't have a poker face if thrust a fireplace tool up my nose and tried. I don't know what it is about me, but apparently I give away my every thoughts every time I have one (which is often, as my brain is generally going 1,000 mph). Maybe it's my eyes, maybe they hold up a sign saying "Angry-back off now!" Maybe I twitch my mouth in a "Jesus, what a stupid idea!" manner. Perhaps my cheeks radiate a "I really like you" glow.

My team always used to know when I was pissed off and I never knew how they knew that. We'd be in a meeting and someone would report something, and within moments people would be looking at me with that "Whoa dude-she's going to blow" look. And in general, they'd be right. But I thought I was sitting there looking as cool as a cucumber, they couldn't possibly know I was about to blow a gasket.

Yet they did.

So I never get to hold cards close to my chest. For this reason, I'm not a poker player. Well, ok, I lied-I'm also not a poker player because I simply cannot ever remember if a flush beats a straight and all of those tiers, and if you play a game where you throw in wild cards I'm really fucked as I generally forget what they all were, so I could have been sitting there with a hand consisting of 4 aces, but if I forget that whole "2s and 4s wild" bit, then I throw away good hands.

That, and apparently my face lights up when I get a good hand.

Screwed, you see.

I decided over the weekend that I'm going to work on being more inscrutable. Inscrutable is good. Inscrutable will give me an edge. I'll have an aura of mystery about me now, people in my real life will have to regard me with caution and amazement as they cluck their tongues and remark: I simply never know what that woman is thinking. What an enigma.

You know, instead of how I am today, which is more emotionally obvious than a Mr. Men or Little Miss book.

I decided to start yesterday. I had an absolutely full day of meetings in central London, some of which were the first meetings I would have with some of my new project team, which I'd only been communicating with via email and telephone prior to yesterday. I figured-new team, new chance to be Little Miss Inscrutable.

Heading into one of the conference rooms, I exuded confidence (I thought, anyway). I would be suave. I would not give everything away in my face. I would be Little Miss Mystery.

I walked to a conference room, only it wasn't the room I'd booked. Where was the room I'd booked? I wandered around the hallway confused, much like you do if your car gets towed-you wander around in the now empty parking space sure you left the car right there, so how could it no longer be there? I did exactly that-I wandered around the end of the hallway, sure that the conference room was supposed to be there. So why wasn't it where I'd left it?

I went back to the concierge.

"Are you all right?" asked the nice concierge.

My face was clearly in the Little Miss Confused mode.

"Yeah, I just...do you know where room 112 is?"

"Yes, it's been re-numbered to room 116," he replied kindly.

"Oh. Thanks!" I replied, and headed for the room with the numbering identity problem.

I entered the room and shook hands with my new team. "I'm Helen," I say, introducing myself. I settle in, turn on the laptop, and reach for the skinny blueberry muffin I'd picked up to munch on.

"I thought Americans always watched their weight," one of the new guys said in a merry "I mean exactly the opposite" kind of way.

I consciously tired to ensure that my face did now show Little Miss Fuck Off.

"We do. This is a low-fat muffin," I say brightly. I decided I would be Little Miss Accommodating to Your Provincial Humor.

"No offense," he added hastily, looking at me.

I see I failed at pulling off inscrutable already, and it's my first meeting of the day.

At my next meeting, I decide to try again. Clean slate, new start to being unreadable. I head for the meeting once again with my head held high and the confidence that I can be a new Helen, one that doesn't give away her every thought.

"Hi, Helen," my colleague greets me.

I exude Little Miss Confident.

"Are you feeling ok? You look like you're going to be ill," he inquires kindly.

Shit. I fucked up Little Miss Inscrutable again.

"Me? No, I'm fine," I smile. He continues to look confused. "Ok, maybe a little bit ill," I lie. I wasn't remotely ill, but I didn't want to tell him that yesterday was an exercise in getting my poker face on and I am batting 0-2.

We discussed planning objectives for the project. I reported on one element of the project, he reported on another. He agreed to take one angle that would be a lot of work.

He looks at me. "I can see you're pleased about that."

I am Little Miss Tails Wags Like a Puppy, So Please Throw the Tennis Ball Again.

I get home. Angus looks at me. "You look tired," he says. "Can I get you anything?"

I give up.

Little Miss Inscrutable can go to hell.

-H.

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May 21, 2007

Iceland Ice Cap Re-Cap

Iceland was as raw as I thought it would be.

We headed out at oh-God-hundred on Wednesday morning, hurtling to Gatwick Airport at times when not even the donut man is thinking about making the donuts. We parked our car at a long-term parking place, took the shuttle to the airport, and checked in. It was all basically according to our usuals, including Angus getting into a big argument with security, which saw me frantically pushing him through the metal detector and hoping to Christ we didn't get arrested, and then some time in the BA business lounge while I dialled down the intense ulcer explosion said security bust-up enforced on me.

Once in Reykjavik, we passed through immigrations, customs, and got our rental car, a little Toyota Yaris (if you're not familiar with the Yaris, think "economy car meets bean can" and you've got it.) Armed with our usual travel Bible, the Avis courtesy map, and some tax-free candies, we hit the road.

Iceland is the size of England but with a population of only around 220,000. Sat smack on the two teutonic plates that form the base for North America and Europe, it is a hotbed (pun intended) of activity from a geological perspective-the island is covered in dormant volcanoes which are evidenced by the many, many lava fields that run throughout Iceland. Iceland also has many geysers and bubbling hot springs from water that just appears out of the surface of the ground. For this reason, Iceland is able to say that (aside from cars), it is a completely green country in terms of energy-it only uses wind and geothermic heating, and to that end it only uses 17% of the possible amount it could be using, as its needs are just not high enough to use more energy.

This makes Iceland one of our favorite countries, as it's true that both Angus and I are a couple of crunchy granola hippies who are always on the lookout for environmentally friendly alternatives (but we admit the fact that we use airplanes is naughty. Very naughty.)

We drove through many lavafields, in fact.


Icelandic Lavafield (one of many!)


It's surreal to know that there's a road simply cut through where once a raging volcano's lava fell. We made our way to Stykkisholmur, which is a fishing village on the far Western peninsula. We stopped at an old church on the way, which was stunning in its setting as it sat below a massive glacier called Snaefellsjokull.


Icelandic church 2


We also stopped at a local beach. I had the feeling I was being watched at one point, and sure enough, I looked up and I was. About 20 feet away was a set of cow-like eyes and bushy whiskers calmly checking me out.


I'm being watched


We stayed the night in Stykkisholmur, where we had one of the greatest meals known to mankind - seafood soup and lobster (fresh fish there is heaven. Ironically, most of the locals opt for burgers and pizza most of the time. I guess if you lived around all that seafood, you'd want some cow from time to time, too.)

The next morning we set off. Now, Angus' favorite way to travel around countries is to take the smallest, windiest country roads imaginable. If they're inpaved it's a plus. If they have steep inclines or declines, it's even better. So much of the day was spent hurtling around various dirt roads trying to figure out where the fuck we were-armed with only a crappy Avis map and a guide book, half the time I had no clue what road we were on.


The navigator


He was itching to ignore a sign that said "Impassable", and drive down a bumpy mountain road that takes you over 4 glaciers and requires some river fording. I promised him that next time we could come back with a 4x4 and he could try it then. I didn't think the Yaris was up for it, and by then we'd been over such rough roads my uterus was nestled somewhere under my throat anyway.

Getting around was made harder by the roadsigns-although our Swedish came in handy time and time again, more often than not we simply hadn't a fucking clue what was going on in terms of translating the Icelandic.


Can you understand it?


(Click to embiggen and stare in awe at what may or may not be cat scratchings).

We stopped to get water - we'd run out and I suggested we buy more.

"Buy water in Iceland? Never!" cried Angus, and so we stopped at a waterfall that took the water straight off the melting ice cap.


Getting water


I have to admit, the water was ice cold and perfect. It was a wise choice.

We stopped at two waterfalls-Hraunfossar and Barnafoss Waterfalls (Barnafoss literally means Child Falls. I thought it was named that because it was a small waterfall, but the truth is it was named that as two children plunged to their deaths there. Nice and uplifting.)


Hraunfossar


We also stopped at the Deildartunguhver Hot Springs. I'd never been around a hot springs or a geyser in my life prior to this, and I can tell you one thing-they don't smell nice. At all. Geysers and hot springs have a very strong sulphuric smell, which is exactly what rotten boiled eggs smell like. Still, they were incredible-boiling hot water just pouring out of the ground and steam just escaping into the air, warming the area. Not something you see every day.


Deildartunguhver Hot Springs 2


After getting lost we got stuck on a mountain in the driving snow behind a stuck Big Truck who was getting pulled out by his buddy, Even Bigger Truck. So we did what any ordinary person would do in that kind of situation-we pulled a discreet distance away from the truck and had sex in the car. Then we ate potato chips while watching the two truck drivers bounce their way to freedom.

We finally made it to Reykjavik and checked in to our hotel. The hotel was fine, and one thing was clear-the shower was pumping in geyser water. Not only couldn't we get it to come out of the tap in any degree except "so hot it sloughs your skin off", but it smelled strongly of that boiled egg sulphuric smell.

The next day we meandered around Reykjavik in the morning and had lunch there. One thing that I should point out is that while we ate lunch in the sun, a row of baby carriages marked the sidewalk outside the restaurant. This is the norm for Scandinavia. I've seen it all over and actually with the exception of London, I've seen it here, too. When I first moved to Sweden I was shocked at the sleeping babies left outside the shops, pubs and homes in their strollers, snoozing away, their mothers popping out to check on them. But it happened time and time again-this is what people do. Some doctors even advocate letting the babies continue to snooze outside in their prams, provided they are appropriately dressed for the weather. It took a while for me to get used to it, but this is how things work around here. I know it seems very strange, especially if you're an American and have the same view I did, in which it's unheard of to leave your kid outside a shop. I'm not trying to sway your opinion here and I'm not looking for people to cry that it's child abuse, it simply is what it is - we all do things differently. I've yet to hear about an abduction in these countries from a snoozing infant outside a restaurant. So if you hop a plane to Reykjavik (or any multitude of places on this side of the pond), don't be shocked if you see the strollers outside.

What's interesting about Reykjavik is a lot of the homes are covered with corrugated tin, the kind of thing you'd see on the tops of garages or the sidings in shantytowns. But the truth is, most of them are well maintained, painted, and look amazing. I'd never seen houses covered with the stuff before, and it looked crisp and clean.

We strolled around the city some more, went back to the hotel for a bit of afternoon how's your father, and then got in the car. We left Reykjavik and drove to the farthest southwest tip of Iceland. We passed a geothermal plant where Angus was desperate to go inside and tour but the barricades were down. which I tried to impress upon him was the international sign for "Seriously, we don't want people in here." The impression did not take. He passed the first set as he was so eager to see the inside of a geothermal plant (with me wondering if I'd get to see what the inside of an Icelandic prison would look like), but the second set of barriers were definitely impassable, so we left. There we stopped at the hot springs at Krysuvik.


Hot springs at Krysuvik


Hot springs dude


Which again, didn't smell too good.

Then we drove to the furthest southwest point in the country and watched the wild surf.


Water at Reyjkanesta 2


We went to the point where you can stand on a bridge overlooking the gap between the tectonic plates of America and Europe.


The divide between the tectonic plates dividing American and Europe


And finally, we went to the place I'd been dying to go to.

We went to the Blue Lagoon.

This is, of course, not the place where Brooke Shields lost her virginity to Christopher Atkins.

Instead, it's where a massive amount of geothermal water is gathered into an unbelievably blue lagoon, where you swim around in water as warm as a comfortable bath and scoop some of the all-natural mud from cnetrally located buckets to scrub your face and arms. The mud, made of salt, lava rock and silica, really does make you feel like a million bucks. The entire lagoon is surrounded by a huge lava field, and you honestly feel like you are walking on the moon (hey, there's a song in that.) You swim around in your swimsuit in a massive lagoon with others dotted here and there in the lagoon, too. The air is freezing but the water is perfectly warm, and although the minerals are great for your skin it turns your hair into a true Brillo pad.

From time to time, you'd come across a little nook where a couple was getting amorous.

They weren't the only ones.

*Ahem.*

I think there's something in the water.

We didn't take any pictures inside the place because we didn't want to get our camera wet, but we took some of the unblievably blue water outside and the official website photo tab has more photos to show the place off.


Blue Lagoon 2


And then we went back to our hotel, ate a huge meal, slept like babies, and headed for the airport, where we flew back. We got to fly back on business class and use the business class lounge (courtesy of Angus' BA miles). They had a courtesy basket full of small Blue Lagoon spa hand lotion samples, which the Blue Lagoon sells for scary prices. Between Angus and myself, we took about 50 packets. This is what happens when you let riffraff like us in a business class lounge.

Iceland was amazing. I loved it. The people are very kind and remarkably trusting-not once did we have to give a credit card to hold a room or make a deposit. I think it's incredible and sweet and I hope they never get jaded there. Although we only saw a small part of the country, I'd love to go back and see more. Apparently all the geothermal plants open their doors to the public every year from June-August, which of course has registered high with the boy. I don't know if we'll be going back this year, but we'll definitely be going back.

-H.

Full set of photos here.

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May 15, 2007

Angus-isms

Angus often comes up with winners that make me wish I had a pen in my hand, so that I could scribble them down on the outside of my hand for future reference. Most of the time I think: Yup. I am so blogging that. Other times I think: Eh, they wouldn't believe me if I blogged it anyway. We run the gamut in what we talk about, but I usually know that whatever we discuss will have an angle to it that's 100% pure Angus involved. As a result, conversations in this household tends to be more interesting than conversations that I ever had with all of my exes combined.

Maybe that's what makes for a winning combination in the relationship department.

So here, I offer you the daily chitchat that occurs in my house.


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


The other night we were watching My Big Breasts and Me, partly because nothing else was on, and partly because I have some experience on the subject.

One tiny woman is attending a gym in hopes of reducing her rack. Her fitness trainer tells her that exercising, while getting you healthy and a good way of losing weight, cannot "spot check" where you want to hit, and that it may not work for her (I was told the same.) He takes her measurements.

"OK, so you're 60 kilos," he says slowly.

I sit up. "60 kilos? She's only 60 kilos-" that's about 132 pounds - "on that scale? That's impossible. She looks way heavier than me, and pre-pregnancy I was only nearly 68 kilos. She looks like she weighs more than I do, doesn't she? Doesn't she?" I ask Angus.

He looks at me, a deer caught in the headlights. A whimpering sound escapes him. He holds his head in his hands, nervous. "Ummm...what's the right answer here? How do I answer this? I dunno what I'm supposed to say. Heads, I lose, tails, I lose. What do I answer?"

And even though he answered wrong, his angst made me laugh, and he was forgiven.


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


We were laying in bed the other night, discussing the house chores that we'd completed that day (this is not what's known as foreplay in our home, in case you were wondering if we get off on Windex or anything like that.)

"I finally addressed the pile of clothes on the bed," I said mournfully. "That fucking Harry Potter didn't come take care of them for me."

"Who's Harry Potter? I thought we decided to not hire outside cleaning help."

I am exasperated. I know Angus hates sci-fi and fantasy, but this is a bit ridiculous. "Harry Potter? The teenage magician? Those books that I read?"

"Oh. Oh yes. Him. Such pointless material."

"And yet the books are one of the record-breaking book sales in history," I mutter.

"I tried to follow the story, but after all the white horses and and volcanoes, it did my head in. I watched one hour of the film and had to go do something else," he said.

"Honey, that's Tolkein you're thinking of," I say gently.

"Was he in the book too? Is that Dumbledick, or Tumblemore, or whatever his name is?"

GOD.

"Tolkein wrote The Lord of the Rings triology. You're getting them confused."

"Oh right." Then - "So he was in the book?"

I decide to take the path most travelled. "Yes, honey. Tolkein is in the Harry Potter books. He's the one with the wand."


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


Later, we were talking about a BBC programme we watched (seriously, we live life on the edge in our house.) The show was called Supergrass, and before you get your hopes up, it wasn't about the world's fastest growing turf, nor was it about the marijuana that you've been dreaming of all your life. The programme was about a series of police informants that the police force here in England used in the 70's and 80's.

"Supergrass is a stupid term for a snitch," I say out loud.

Angus laughs. "Why are you calling them snitches?" he asks.

I am confused. "Well, that's what they are. Snitches."

"Not over here, babe. A grass is someone that rats you out," he says.

"Yeah, I know. It's the same in the States, only I think it's a bit of an old-fashioned Mafia term."

"Yeah, well, a snitch means something else over here. 'Snitch' means a woman's body parts."

"The good parts or the naughty parts?"

"The naughty parts."

I think about this. "Seems weird then that an Englishwoman would write books in which her character is always chasing a Golden Snitch."

"Who does that?" comes the query.

"Harry Potter," I reply.

"Christ, not that guy again."


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


Sunday the rain came down in sheets of chilled horror. I spent the day catching up on Heroes and Lost, both of which were saved on the satelite hard drive.

"Babe?" comes the call from the study, where Angus has spent the day working on architecture designs, surfing the web for the new camcorder he wants (just in time for the twins), and dicking around on ebay.

"Yeah?" I reply, freezing the screen at the exact moment that Hiro is making a stupid facial expression, which happens more than one would think.

"How badly do you want a table saw?"

"I want a table saw more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, ever," I reply solemnly.

"Excellent. I just won one in ebay."

"Great, honey. What are you going to do with it?" I reply, grinning.

"That's not the important part. What's important is that we now have one."

Well good then. I can sleep well at night knowing that an ebay table saw is in our garage.


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


"What time is our flight on Wednesday?" I ask, popping a Ritz cracker into my mouth.

"7:30 am," replies Angus.

"Wow," I saw, just managing to avoid sending a stream of crumbs down my shirt. "We'll have to leave the house early then."

"Your powers of deduction are amazing," comes the reply.


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


We leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn (there's my deduction in action again) for four days in Iceland (and I'm a lucky enough girl that my boy used his miles to upgrade us to business class).

See you on Monday.

-H.


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May 14, 2007

White Cotton Hell - Not Just for Granny Panties Anymore

So on Friday I bunked off work early (I had actually earned this-I worked very long hours last week writing technical documents that made my eyes cross) in order to purchase clothing to accommodate the needs of my burgeoning waistline. When I was last in the States I bought a pair of jeans from Old Navy (complete with stretchy, revoltingly fluffy bunny fleece ice cream cone waistband), a pair of black work trousers, and a pair of shorts (foolish, foolish Helen. It's been raining and cold for the past 10 days straight here. What was I thinking?)

But the thing is, unless you're wearing your pajamas all the time (which, let's be honest, I am), then you get pretty sick of the ice cream cone jeans and the black trousers. Reaaaaaly sick of them. It was time to make some amends to the wardrobe.

The thing is, I've been able to wear most of my regular clothes anyway, because:

1) I suffer from low self-esteem (to which you're smacking your forehead and rolling your eyes, saying "Noooooo! Really?")
2) I like my clothes to be roomy and comfy so I buy clothes one size up from what I really wear - although I choose to wear a 14 here (U.S. size 10), I'm really a 12 (U.S. size . I just can't bear fitted clothes.
3) see # 1
4) Even though I'm four months pregnant, I've seen pictures of other four month pregnant women and I look way less pregnant than they do. And I'm carrying twins. I'm some kind of carnie freak. I worry this means I'll explode in a haze of purple stretch marks in a few months' time.

So yeah. The need hasn't been huge, but I can't go around with my zippers just unzipped anymore, the clothes, they do not fit.

So off to the shops then.

I went to a nearby Next shop. Now, I like Next. Next is ok. Next is the first shop I stopped at on my first visit to the UK, when I had under-planned a visit to the biting cold that is an English winter and desperately needed gloves and a scarf. I knew that Next had maternity gear, so I decided to see what they might have for someone that's pretty loathe to invest much money in preggo clothes.

I found a number of empire-style tops and such, but they had ridiculous patterns. It's like stepping back into the 80's, when women were expected to wear pinafores and little ribbons around their necks as they work the "Seriously, We Are the Antithesis of Sexy" look. Maternity clothes used to be (I think) a form of punishment, the scarlet letter A for those whose uteruses (uteri?) had removed the "For Let" signs. I know that for most pregnant isn't considered a time for women to be hot-Angus is not a fan of the pregnant look, he doesn't think women "glow" or are "femininely sexy", to him the pregnant woman is just that - pregnant. I must say I'm feeling pretty sexy lately (it must be the hormones), and I certainly don't want to strap myself into something that's the polyester equivalent of a chastity belt.

I picked up a few things to try on, as maybe I was just being ridiculous and slightly over-sensitive and what woman doesn't want to be swathed in fleecy ice cream cones? I grabbed the UK size 12 (one size smaller than I used to wear) since I felt I needed to get a grip on this self-esteem issue (which is always a bold move when you're up 7 kg on the scale. Nothing says "love thyself" than seeing your body creep up 15 pounds.) I tried on the froopy, cutesy empire shirts and they worked well-the only area that's growing on me is my waist, my arms and shoulders are the same size, so the clothes fit well.

As I was leaving, I asked the attendant if that was all the maternity clothing they had.

"Oh that's not maternity," the size-00 attendant replied. "Those are for our larger women. This store doesn't stock maternity clothes." She adjusted her sparkly superfluous belt around her malnourished hips and went about her business.

What? They don't have maternity clothes? These ridiculous patterns are what the shop felt was best intended for plus-size women? Moreover, the cut and pattern of the clothes is perfectly aligned for the pregnant folk (and in fact, I was one of three knocked up chicks perusing the section), yet they expect non-pregnant women to wear these cutesy cuts? NO ONE but a pregnant person looks ok in these cuts, mostly because all the shape of the clothing does is reaffirm to people that there is a bun in the oven, but also because people expect pregnant women to radiate "I've already done that sex bit, so move along". Are plus-sized women horrified at this kind of selection? What, do shops think that because women are a few sizes more they need to be interpreted as someone with an active uterus?

And moreover, when did a size 12 get labelled as a plus-size? I'm not the tiniest of chicks, but if a size 4 is the norm then hand me the nachos please, because I want off the island.

Anyway, I selected a soft dress that has absolutely no waistline and room to grow that I can wear for work. I chose one of the least cutesy tops I could find, which is a top in a dark purple color. And I picked up a casual summer dress that's also empire waisted, so that I can wear it around the house and shops. It's shockingly short, but I figured-Fuckit. My legs look fine. I may not be the hottest chick in town, but I feel pretty sexy, and just because I'm a constipated incubator, it doesn't mean I can't try to feel good about how I look.

As I was perusing the stock one more time, I saw a soft, airy white cotton dress. It was so lovely. I looked at it and immediately though of E.M. Forster's Room With a View - I could wear it and spank the Edwardian ass. I saw myself in it, serving up gin and tonics in our sun-filled garden (though not drinking one, of course), with a wide-brimmed straw hat and daintily polished toes as I tiptoed through the gentle grass and laughed in a delicate and tinkly laugh at my guests' witticisms.

(I might have been channeling a bit of Gone With the Wind there, I could be wrong.)

I had to try it on. They only had it in a size 10, but as the waist was also quite high, I figured me and my Lemonheads could fit in it. I would look like the perfect English-American-pregnant-with-twins-but-not-suffering-swollen-ankles hostess. I would flit, I would float, I would fleetly flee I'd fly.

I headed back to the dressing room, holding the white cotton dress seperate from the other maternity-like clothes, whose very presence could besmirch the purity that was my perfect summer outfit. I got into a dressing room, pulled the curtain (Yeah, um, seriously, Next - consider real doors. It won't kill you.) and took off my clothes, leaving on only my bra, knickers, and Family Guy socks (thanks, Teresa!). I smiled at my curvy stomach with Helena Bonham Carter kindness. I unzipped the side of the dress, lifted up the layers of white dress and started to slide it over my head. I was Emma Thompson. I was grace. I was in perfect harmony with my inner woman.

I was also clearly pretty hormonal, because once I got it on I looked like I had seized a sheet off the bed and decided to work it, a la toga style. The dress made my waist look wider than the state of Montana. My breasts were held up in the empire-waist style, but they also looked like you should put a quarter between them and then pull my arm and see if you could hit the jackpot. I have seldom looked worse in a dress than that one. If flour sacks become the rage, I'm going back for that dress, because it worked the baking angle in every way, shape, and form.

My Forster dreams collapsed, I frowned and immediately started to pull it off my head. I was angry. I had to be cleared of this white hot molten cotton mess as fast as possible. In these situations, I typically don't think I just react, and my reaction was to angrily remove the dress by seizing the bottom and heaving it upwards. This meant the dress turned inside out as it was coming up. This was, clearly, a mistake.

Because I'd forgotten to unzip the side before I started taking it off.

I was stuck.

I couldn't get my arms back down as my shoulder conveniently decided to lock. I couldn't get the dress back down because I was swathed in those previously cute looking layers of white cotton. I could see myself through the mirror, and there I was-my stomach riding high over the tops over my underwear and, in this position with my arms raised, I didn't look pregnant, I just looked like the Dorito eating champion of the world. And I noticed with a start that there was a hole in the front of my black lace knickers.

I struggled some more. I couldn't move. I was stuck in a white cotton straightjacket. I started swearing.

"Are you ok in there?" came a voice from the other side of the divider.

"Er...yes. Just a problem with a dress," I replied. I was getting hot battling my nemesis white dress. My face felt like it was on fire.

Suddenly, my curtain parted. I froze like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't even cover my bits as my arms were stuck above my head.

"Oh you poor dear," said a voice.

Oh. My. God.

There's a woman standing there witnessing my retail horror. And I was not invisible, she could see me. And she could see my pants. And they have a hole in them. And my bra doesn't match. And my baby paunch was hanging perversely over the top of my pants, like I was Roseanne Barr or something.

But hey-at least she was wearing one of the cutesy empire waist shirts, so there was some karma.

"Is everything ok over here?" came the voice of the attendent with the praying mantis body.

OH GOD, NOT HER. If anyone is to witness my downfall, let it be Angus, let it be Oprah, let it be Hootie and the Blowfish, just don't let it be the super skinny chick.

But of course she saw.

I'm fairly certain I heard the Lemonheads sniggering at that point.

"You're stuck," she said flatly.

Ten out of ten for the fucking obvious, babe.

"I think that's not your size," she says, observing me and taking in the unmistakable curve of a stomach that hasn't seen situps in over 4 months. I saw her lip curl. I saw her twitch, like the only way she was going to get out of the situation ok was if she dropped and gave us 20.

"Actually, it fit ok, I just forgot to unzip it," I say desperately. Why are we talking when they can see my Family Guy socks?

The two women reach over and help me get the dress off, at which point I lose an ear, the skin off my left shoulder, and any shred of dignity I had left.

The attendant hands me the now crumpled dress. "Shall I get you another size?" she asks archly.

"No," I reply firmly. "No, that dress and I are done now." I shake my hair out of my eyes and see myself in the mirror-my face is the color of an angry sunburn and I have static electricity giving my hair that absent minded professor look.

I get dressed with whatever confidence I have left, pay for my other two dresses and shirt, and leave. That feeling sexy bit that I referred to earlier? Yeah. DUST IN THE WIND.

White cotton is clearly something made by the devil.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:19 AM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
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May 11, 2007

Running Interference

So, I was warned by others that if/when I ever got knocked up, that basketball known as my uterus would become public property. Ripe for the opinions, advice (well-intentioned or otherwise), and for people touching me (no one's tried that yet. I will personally bitch slap the first person who does*. I am not a Care Bear, do not touch the stomach.)

So far, I haven't been disappointed (except the stomach rubbing part. Luckily, I'm safe from that. I think I generally give off the "I am not a smurf, don't pat me" air.) I get a lot of advice (generally well-intentioned, and of that advice, it's very welcome. Hints are good. I like hints.)

What I haven't had is a lot of real-life gasping horror at how we're planning things-I've had emails and comments, but no one has said anything to my face. Maybe I don't get that as my colleagues here don't really flap one way or another - we're a close bunch, but as long as our project plans get done, then hey-paint your face purple and run a parade float, who gives a shit? My family has turned out to be surprisingly hands-off-I thought my dad would be running interference, but his line has staunchly been "whatever you want to do, I support you". Props to my dad, then. He does sternly admonish that although I'm a vegetarian, our children should be meat-eaters, and actually I agree. I think being a vegetarian is a choice up to the individual, so if the kids decide to not eat meat then cool-that's their call.

My father has had one issue with me, though.

He wants us to get married before the babies are born.

My short answer to him was: No.

My long answer to him was: No.

I know it seems like we're going about things the wrong way, but Angus and I have both been married before. To us, we maybe see things a bit more...cynically. We're jaded. Don't get me wrong, we're engaged and we will get married, but neither of us personally see being hitched as a major showstopper in producing babies. They are coming out of the chute regardless of whether or not there's a marriage certificate to burst through like a scene from Chariots of Fire.

Unmarried families seem to be the norm in Sweden (I could count on one hand the number of married couples I knew there.) Likewise, although married families are more common that unmarried ones in England, we do also know a number of couples that aren't married but raising children together. In the U.S., the incidence of unmarried families is rising as well and is currently at an all-time high-30% of all parents are unmarried, and a study showed that unmarried couples with children tended to be the most stable relationship. This is exactly what we want-stability. I have a severely unstable background, I won't have that for my kids.

In some areas I'm a seriously stubborn chick. I won't marry for a visa - I have a work visa, thanks, and I prefer to be here on my own two feet (insert strains of I am Woman Hear Me Roar here.) I won't marry because I'm pregnant (insert strains of Deliverance here.) I won't get married for any reason other than I love the man and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And I do love my man and want to spend the rest of my life with him, it's the details that need working out. Angus wants a big wedding with all his friends and family so cool, we can do that (personally, I'd prefer a beach deal with just the two of us, but I know he's a bit of a traditionalist, and that's fine). But it'll be a lot of stress to arrange, plan, and hold a wedding between now and October, and I'd really rather not do it while desperately searching for empire waisted dresses to accommodate a growing bump and hoping to God I'll poop sometime in the near future, although ideally not moments before that "walking down the aisle" part. I want a proper honeymoon, with alcohol and sun and scuba diving, none of which are ok now. And as I keep growing, I'll be on a travel ban soon enough, we feel there simply isn't time enough to plan these things.

He and I are resolute-we will get married.

Just not this year.

Angus' family, whom we met at his mother's home in East Sussex last weekend, asked us similar questions. It turned out to be quite a nice visit, although the middle of it was pockmarked by my contentious views. I swear I never mean to cause waves with them, but this time it was rather unavoidable. Over the dessert course his family asked us when we'd be getting married this year and asked if they should buy tickets (for some reason they have it in their heads that we're all flying off to Hawaii together and Angus and I are going to united in matrimony there. Neither Angus nor I have the faintest idea where they got this idea from, it hadn't occurred to us and the idea didn't originate from us. It does, however, seem to the plan that everyone wants and expects.) We explained to them that we wouldn't be getting married this year.

Insert gasps of horror from his family.

"So...your kids will be..." chokes his sister-in-law Terry.

"Little bastards, yeah," I grin, finishing her sentence for her.

"But they will be missing out on their rights!" she exclaims.

"Really? What rights will our children lack?" I ask.

She was unable to answer.

I thought so.

If we thought that was bad, our next announcement was like dropping a bomb on the quiet English countryside.

"And we're not going to have a Christening, either," Angus announces.

We're not. Neither of us are remotely religious-Angus could loosely be described as a Christian, as for myself I pretty much walk the agnostic line and have done for some time. We both feel that religion is like being a vegetarian-it's a choice. If our kids decide to be baptised someday, if they decide to be churchgoing, then we will support them in their decision. But Angus and I come from different backgrounds-I was raised Catholic, he was raised Church of England. Who are we to say that one religion should trump the other?

That didn't sit at all well with the family. Angus' Mum and Stepfather attend church occasionally. His Fillipina sister-in-law Jane is a practicing Catholic (apart from that whole shotgun wedding thing.) And his conservative brother Adam is a bell-ringer for the local church. Church is the done thing in his book, which is titled "I'm a Traditional Man in Absolutely Every Way, Shape, and Form."

Adam looked horrified.

"If your babies die, they'll go to hell!" he preached.

My first thought was: Fuck you.
My second thought was: Fuck you.
My third thought was: I may have gained 6 kilos already, but I can outrun you and kick your skinny ass, white boy, which I'm going to do right now.
My fourth thought was: Fuck you.

There are a lot of things I struggled with about Catholicism. Birth control being a big (and rather fundamental) one, but another one was the ridiculous notion of limbo, a concept that I personally felt was a weak, pathetic, horrific attempt by the church to scare mothers into shuttling their kids off to the Catholic church. Based on the idea that a newborn needed to "wash away the original sin" of sex between the parents, a baptism was the only way that the sin could be removed and the child could go to heaven. No baptism, no golden ticket to the pearly gates. That's the church's view. This view is unforgivable to me, the idea that an innocent child is born guilty and going to hell just because of the actions of the parents. The new pope actually stated recently that there are ideas about changing the idea of limbo, in a suspiciously wimpy there are "grounds to hope that children who die without being baptized can go to heaven", although he has also said "Baptism does not exist to wipe away the "stain" of original sin, but to initiate one into the Church". So really, no true progress there.

My response to the Pope's recent discussion on limbo, which made me wildly angry, is along the lines of "Bite me", which goes partway to explaining why I'm a lapsed Catholic. Also, it's why I'm probably going to hell myself, but as I've said before I'll be manning the margarita machine down there, so stop on by for a free cold frosty one.

My response to Adam was somewhat more measured. "Our chlidren are not going to die, nor are they going to hell," I said calmly.

And I actually felt calm, too. Despite the flashed-up feeling I had about being told my kids may go to the fiery hot spot in the south, I felt calm and resolute. His reaction only served to reinforce my stance. I may have been through therapy to stop seeing my life so black and white, but it didn't mean grey applies to my kids yet.

"And the kids are going to be British citizens?" Adam fires off.

"Yes, of course," I reply. "They're going to be both American and British." This is also non-negotiable for us. The children will have the citizenship of both parents. Melissa and Jeff are both English and Swedish citizens and our two kids will be American and English. Angus and I have already discussed this and we feel it's very important.

"So are you going to move with them to America?" Adam asks.

I had prepared myself for that one.

"No, we don't see moving back to America at any point in the future," I reply.

He nods, still assessing me. I know I'm under scrutiny as he's sure that his Jane - who is about the nicest, gentlest person I know - is scheming to move back with their two kids to the Phillipines. I think it's more likely she gets her ass engraved with the words "I like big butts" than witness her moving back to the Phillipines, but hey - it's his suspicion. I am not happy with the idea that someone might view me as a walking Sperm Donor Detector - I am not with Angus purely for his semen morphology which, while impressive, is not what drew me to him. Angus has not outlived his "usefulness". Yes, we may be knocked up, but I'm with him for the very long haul, a family is just another step in this.

I'm a bit angry with Adam, but this is just the way he is. I actually really like him most of the time, he's good company and (usually) a very nice chap. He's just very black and white about issues in life. Traditional triumphs over modern every time. He makes outrageous comments he later has to back down over, and we've seen him have to do it time and time again. I know he doesn't dislike me, but as a divorcee younger foreign woman who has successfully "seduced" his older brother, I suppose I am held with some element of conscious study. Is she ok, or any minute now will her Black Widow tendancies come out?

"We're not planning on moving to America," I reiterate. "But we'd love to move to Australia or New Zealand someday, so that's always a possibility!" It's true, we would very much like to move there, only we have decided we shouldn't while Angus' two kids are still in school and can fly to see him monthly.

This was also not very popular.

Sister-in-law Jane looked relieved I'd taken the heat off. She'd confessed to me under a vow of secrecy that she and her husband (Angus' youngest brother) are thinking of moving their family to Malaysia or Singapore in the near future. I was glad to be of assistance.

It didn't really upset me too much. I'd been sinking my battleships all day anyway.


-H.


*Teresa and Ms. Pants excepted, of course.

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May 10, 2007

A Different Kind of Project Plan

Maybe it's best to have a once a week update on the Lemonheads, or else people will think I'm baby crazy (which I'm not, but I admit being knocked up does factor in my mind somewhat).

So far, everything here is fine. I've hit week 15 now, and this is where the parties get started.

Being pregnant is not unlike being a project manager-there are a lot of project targets that you have to hit and a whole lot of milestones that are coming up. When you're doing IVF, you're maybe a little more aware of the milestones:

Project Milestone 1 - Start fertility drugs
Project Milestone 2 - Egg retrieval of the crappy amount of eggs I produced
Project Milestone 3 - Put the little suckers back in there, once they partied with some Angus sperm
Project Milestone 4 - Pregnancy test
Project Milestone 5 - first ultrasound check for heartbeat
Project Milestone 6 - second ultrasound check-heart still beating?
Project Milestone 7 - Hand off to OB-GYN
Project Milestone 8 - First trimester ends
Project Milestone 9 - Nuchal scan and the resulting fear
Project Milestone 10 - Hang out and be glad the puking is over
Project Milestone 11 - Scan at 20 weeks to check growth

and then lots of little milestones after Milestone 11 to ensure they're still growing, they're not re-enacting "North and South" in there, and that they're ok, before you hit the project completion stage:

Project Completion - Birth the little suckers

But throughout the whole project are mitigations involving the risk register. There are always risks, right? Every project has risks. This project has all kinds of risks-we had a risk of miscarriage (and, with "high-risk twins", as my doctors call my pregnancy, we still do). We had a subchorionic hemotoma baking away in my uterus, which caused bleeding and had a risk of miscarriage (it's gone now). We had a risk of Down's syndrome (and I guess technically we still do, as we only tested one of the twins but the other twin has a 1:898 chance of having Down's, and I'll take those odds.) We have a risk of anemia. We have a risk of pre-eclampsia. We have a risk of pre-term labor.

Risks, risks, risks.

It's hard to relax-when you have people screeching at you that your babies are high risk, it sort of registers with you. At the same time, our Lemonheads have proven time and time again that they are absolutely superheroes who haven't given us a reason to not believe in them. So believe I will.

I don't think any of this makes me unique. I get the feeling that unless you're one of the trainwrecky Duggars, for whom giving birth is as normal as getting your teeth cleaned, that all pregnancies come with a degree of concern. Maybe that's the shape of the game, and once they're born the concerns continue-Will SIDS pop its horrible head up? Will they have learning problems? Will they sleep through the night soon? Will they be potty trained by the time they get to high school? Will they really want to tattoo the back of their head?

Maybe that's a part of having kids.

What's harder for me to get used to is the fact that my body, it's not mine anymore. The other morning I woke up and lazily stretched. My stomach - which has become an extremely hard mound - surged and moved, and then settled again. I stared at it and wondered if Sigourney Weaver was going to pop out of it. I have no idea what happened, but it was as though I was inhabited by something else, which I suppose in truth that's what's going on.

Pregnancy for me has become ticking off each milestone. I have also had to change request a number of project tasks into my Lemonhead project plan-as the doctor put me on iron tablets and a pregnant woman already has digestive problems, I didn't know I'd spend my day praying to the god of Fig Newtons if he'd just let me poop that day. That's become a daily task. Another daily task is checking for signs of life in there, because although singleton pregnancies don't feel babies moving until about 17-18 weeks, twins make themselves known earlier, and one of the Lemonheads is situated just under the skin of my stomach, so that Lemonhead really should be any day now.

I never expected to actually get pregnant, and as time goes on I'm more and more surprised that I'm staying pregnant. It's as though I actually stand a chance of having the Lemonheads now. It's getting to a strange time - I'm 15 weeks pregnant today. As of next week's 16 weeks pregnant, if the babies decide it's time to come out it won't be considered a miscarriage, but instead it would be a stillbirth. Unlike my previous miscarriage which had me emitting blood clots the size of my palm while I sat vacantly on the couch watching Scrubs, from here on if something went wrong I'd be going into labor.

But nothing will go wrong, right?

We still sometimes struggle with the enormity of it all. Angus is unhappy today as we toured the nursery we've been thinking of. The cost alone is depressing, but add in to the fact that the twins won't be attending nursery until at least next March but there's already a waiting list which basically screams "you can't get in until May", and the depression deepens. A year's waiting list for two babies that aren't even born yet. I was delighted by the nursery, actually-happy bouncy kids and a host of toys designed to stimulate and educate, loads of bright colors and projects that the kids do themselves-filled the place. But it's weird to fill out a waiting list form for something that's only just the size of your fist.

Yesterday I was sitting on the couch with a screaming migraine (yet another fun side effect of being pregnant. When I told my consultant about the migraines, he told me to take Tylenol and drink water. If HE had these kind of headaches, I can tell you he wouldn't be taking Tylenol and water himself.) I was in pretty bad shape yesterday-I passed clean out for most of the afternoon and went to bed early in hopes of getting rid of the screaming agony. But as I sat there in the afternoon, trying to write a technical spec outside of my screaming headache, I had a funny sensation inside. It was like a few bubbles moving just below the surface of my stomach, a strange feeling of a smooth bump, like there was something turning just below my navel.

I put a hand to my stomach.

Another milestone.

"Hello there," I said. "I'm your mommy."

And as each day passes, they become more real.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:41 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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May 09, 2007

Where I Am the Target Audience

Growing up, I worshipped the TV.

I still do.

I have absolutely zero shame about the big plasma TV hanging in the living room (and the other one hanging in the kitchen). I have zero shame about our Sky Plus box (the UK equivalent of satellite + Tivo). I have zero shame about the DVDs and DVD recorder we have. I love TV. I always have, I always will, and while I absolutely love me a good book too (and read a few a week), my heart will always belong to the boob tube (I'm not cheating on you with my books, TV, I swear it!).

It never bothered me that I might wind up like Bill Murray's character on Scrooged, whereby I remember my childhood as being actual clips from TV shows I watched.

(Frank-I remember a girl, and a field with flowers, and she tripped and fell!
Ghost of Christmas Past-You idiot! You IDIOT! That was Little House on the Prarie!)

TV simply was part of my childhood, just as it's part of my adulthood. It's probably safe to say that I watch a bit too much TV. When I'm working from home these days I'm propped up on the couch with the TV on as background noise, and my entire first trimester was spent napping on the couch with Charmed playing in the background (I don't know what it is about Charmed that's so soporific, I just know that having it on guaranteed I'd get the snooze out). I do recognize that I'm contributing to the smoldering hole in the ozone by having the TV on while I work, but I can't express how much comfort a TV brings me. It's the sanity in my insane world. TV - and macaroni and cheese - are one of the only constants I have ever known in my life.

Films were also a massive part of my life, and sadly I don't see as many films as I used to anymore. A weekend TBS 80's trip is just what the doctor ordered for most ailments. To this day I can clock an actor on a film and tell you what other films or tv shows they've done. My stepkids think that I have some kind of amazing talent when I do this, the bad news is that it's a terribly unmarketable skill that will get me nowhere fast, but I can tell you that the chap who played a bit part Secret Service agent in CSI is now a star in Lost. It might save my life if I'm ever stuck playing "Trivia Pursuit-the Russian Roulette Edition", but otherwise it's pretty pointless.

But it's not just TV shows and movies that hallmark my behavior.

Lately, I've come to realize that I'm a product of advertising.

I remember that horrible film Demolition Man, where the radio stations only air ads as the main feast. Sign me up for some of that. I'm happy to sing along to how I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner (although honestly, I can't think of anything worse.)

I'm a jingle-writers dream, and I've always known that. I have a bizarre, full of holes memory that can remember some remarkable details while completely forgetting key other ones. Details I remember include songs from ads I have heard a time or two too many. I don't have to go for the product, and generally speaking, I don't. The ad just has to hit the right note with me, and if it does that, it's with me for life. It also doesn't mean I had to like the ad to remember it, which makes for some unfortunate times.

When I moved to Sweden, the first Swedish phrase I learnt was from an ICA commercial (ICA is a chain of grocery stores there). To this day I don't know why it struck a chord with me, but the first words I was able to say in Swedish translates to "Excuse me, I only have a bit of salmon here."

Very useful indeed.

Over here I also tend to parrot ads from TV. Half the time I don't even know I'm doing it, I just "wake up" and find I'm spouting off an ad. My latest trip is singing along to the Sheila's Wheels advert, which is an ad for a women's only car insurance company as acted by an Australian cast (For ladies who insure their cars! Sheila's Wheels are superstars! For bonzer car insurance deals....girls rely on Sheila's Wheels!) This makes no sense to me, because the commercial is kind of crap and I wouldn't join a woman-only car insurance company anyway. Maybe I only sing it a lot because it permeated my brain while it played during my Charmed naps, so any day now I'll start having the dress sense of Alyssa Milano, aka "they ran out of fabric so I just threw some feathers on it. Now look at my navel."

But my memory is really consumed by commercials I saw when I was a kid. I repeat a load of them, all the time, only the problem is they're slightly out of context here.

Examples:

I woke up at 6:00 the other day as we had an early start. I shrug on my T-shit, incredibly bleary eyed, and whimpered "Time to make the donuts."

Angus shook his head. "What? Are you still asleep?"

I replied, "No. Winchell's donuts. It's time to make the donuts."

He didn't get it of course-not only don't they have Winchell's Donuts here (I suspect, in fact, the whole chain is gone) but that was a commercial from my childhood.

Childhood TV commercials get rolled out all the time. I like watching 80's movieswith the idea that I might be able to play "spot the product". In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, while Richie Dreyfuss is going mad making a fake clay mountain in his living room, there's the beer commercial I used to know and love playing in the background of his alien-induced madness ("When you say Bud you have it all, when you say Bud you have it all! La da da da da da da da da dada!"). It doesn't beat the motorcycle Rainier Beer commercial, but I have a feeling that was a regional commercial and maybe not shown all over the country. Similarly, I watched the commercials in E.T. and other films from my childhood.

I trot out the ads whenever possible. When Angus asked me how I got a stain out of a shirt, I winked and said, "Ancient Chinese secret!" I love to say "Silly Rabbit-Trix are for kids!" in situations varying from telling the dog what to do to business meetings. And of course, whenever someone tries a new food and enjoys it, they get the "Hey Mikey! He likes it!" routine from me. And fucking everything is The Other White Meat.

Not that those commercials mean anything over here.

Add music to it and I'm really fucked. O Solo Mio is now forever a Cornetto commercial (it's a type of ice cream here). It's a beautiful song but every time I hear it, I start singing "Give me Cornetto! Give it to me!" My bologna DOES have a first name, thank you very much, and it' O-S-C-A-R. I don't eat two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun, but I can tell you all about it. I would also like to have a french fry, for now, little baby sister of mine (although in hindsight I should've kept the carbohydrate to myself, thanks very much). Schoolhouse Rocks owns my soul, and the two ones I sing the most are the least well known ones-"Hanker for a Hunk of Cheese" (when my get up and go has got up and went, I hanker for a hunk of cheese) and the one about "Don't Drown Your Food" (in ketchup or mayo or goo! Yuck! It's no fun to eat what you can't even see, so don't drown your food!").

But the worst offender that's stuck in my head was the Milk campaign from the 80's. I can't find any trace of it on the web so perhaps I'm losing my mind, but I swear I remember it. Word for word. It was set to some marching song (Sousa, I assumed, although I don't know enough about the guy to know if that's the case or not.) It was a marching band, and there were lyrics:

You don't have to be a football star!
Whoever you are!
Show your stuff and Drink Milk!

I still sing that one to this day.

Sometimes I wish I could clear my head of all the slogans ("You soak in it!" "Let me try! Mom! Let me try!" "They're magically delicious!" and the giggle you elicit when you poke a plasticine dough boy in the stomach) to make more room for real life things, practical things that play a role in life.

But then I think-Fuckit. Ads, TV, and film make me who I am today. I survived this long, surely it's not all bad.

Then I feel thirsty for a glass of milk and a marching song, and I go with it.


-H.

PS-you do not "provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives." You are the single biggest waste of space I've ever seen in my life, ever, and I've seen some big wasters. Your conceit alone is a reason to throw you in jail, let alone breaking real laws. You broke the law, you should pay the price for breaking the law, and if Arnie pardons you then I shrug my shoulders in defeat of the U.S. judicial system forever. You should go to jail, you deserve to go to jail, and I hope you drop the soap a lot while you're there, too.

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May 08, 2007

Obedience Lessons

Last night Angus and I watched The Ice Storm, a film which I knew Angus would like and was not disappointed (it had no special effects, not very many characters, dysfunctional families, and a suitably depressing story line. He did have a problem with the electrocution scene-this is a hazard of watching films with a man who knows everything there is to know about electricity. It makes watching CSI with him absolutely impossible.) After the film ended there was a documentary I wanted to see called Obedient Wives:Hidden Lives, a show whose premise it was that married women felt the best thing for their marriages was to completely and totally submit to their husbands' wishes, desires, and dictates.

Yes really.

I wanted to watch this.

Hidden Lives is a documentary series on the usually inflammatory Channel 5. I wanted to watch this episode of the series because it intrigues me. Not in an "I want to adopt it" kind of way, but in a "Didn't we just get rid of The Rules?" kind of way. In today's society, is it so that the only evolving role really has to be just the woman's, is it unfair to wonder why there are no self-help books flooding the market for men, which bounce around from How to Be the Classy Metrosexual to Caveman-Not Just a Stereotype Anymore to Adultery: the Other White Meat?

So on the show went. Angus watched it with me, and to be honest, I found myself conflicted in a few areas.

The documentary basically followed 5 couples, half in the UK, the other half in America. There was of course the typical stereotypes one would associate with submissive wives-one couple had a Thai bride and in typical stereotype fashion, the retiree husband had the face not even a mother could love, he nattered on and on about how English women didn't even know how to microwave anymore, let alone cook for a man (which made me wonder aloud if HE knew how to microwave), and how happy he is with a submissive wife. Said submissive wife genuinely, honestly seemed pleased to take care of the man in the house, and she made it clear that her upbringing dictated that the woman's role was to care for the man.

Honestly, I didn't have a problem with this. It's not my culture (ok, actually the Asian culture is half my culture, but you know what I mean), and if it floats the Thai Wife's boat to serve her husband, then rock on.

Similarly, there was the stereotypical couple of what I call The Hardcore Christians. The day started off at 530 with a Bible reading and the Little Mrs. making breakfast and lunch for the hubby. Then the Little Mrs. spent the day cleaning and working from a list of things the Man of the House gave her to do. Seriously. He leaves her with a list of things to do every day and she has to cross them off (it includes baking bread. By hand. Because Wonder Bread is clearly not something the Lord would approve of, I assume). As she goes through her day, she constantly explains that she loves doing these things for the Man of the House as it's a way to praise and honor him, and then would quote various Bible passages to back up why it's so important to praise and honor a dweeby husband.

Now, I also didn't really think too much about them. To me they simply registered high on the Fundie meter. But as I watched them, it got more disturbing. The Little Mrs. would clean so fastidiously it smacked of OCD with a dose of paranoia on the side. When she started scrubbing a bathroom sink so amazingly clean that I would've licked pudding out of it before she scrubbed it, I figured - Someone's got issues. While scrubbing the bathtub, she explained that her scrubbing the bathtub "Praises and serves her husband, as well as makes him a better attorney." I'm not sure how Scrubbing Bubble makes someone a better lawyer, but then maybe there's something about it on the bar exam that I don't know about, perhaps a Mr. Clean secret handshake. As she continuously instructed their one year-old daughter that "you must respect and obey the man", and "we must praise and honor the Father", I got a little confused as to which father she was talking about, but when they started making a fruit pizza to "praise and honor the father" that I figured they were talking about the Man of the House because I just don't see God as a fruit pizza kind of being. And then, of course, when the kid would put a tinned mandarin orange chunk on the wrong way, the Little Mrs. would rush to fix it. I guess you can't be praised and honored if the mandarin's facing the wrong way.

Still, I figured-their life, not mine.

The documentary came quickly to the crux of the issue-apparently there's a new movement that started in America and is now reaching out to torture the rest of the world called "Surrendered Wives". This premise is based on a book of the same name (and although I was handling all of this well, when I searched for this book on Amazon.com it threw up a search that was so repugnant to me I felt the need to bleach the inside of my monitor.)

The book was written by a woman whose marriage was reaching critical mass, and she figured out the way to save it was to check her ego at the door and allow her husband to take control. Control...of everything. Finances, sex life, decision making, child rearing, you name it. The one with the dick makes the decisions.

I do get that desperate times mean desperate measures. When I realized my former marriage was in dire straights I did about the worst thing possible-I agreed to start trying for a baby (because that always works, that whole "let's have a baby and save our marriage!" idea. Worst. Fucking. Idea. Ever.) When you find that things aren't going well, the truth is you may often be willing to go radical, I accept that.

But maybe some things are a step too far.

The documentary was very fair (I felt) and showed two women going through the process of being a Surrendered Wife. These women were the other side of submissive, and in fact two of them were the biggest nags I had ever seen in my life. Their husbands couldn't do anything right, ever, and the way they let their husbands know how uselss they thought they were was thoroughly disrespectful. I don't mean this in a "you must praise and honor him" kind of way either, I mean in a "how can you talk to anyone in that way and not be the featured corpse in a CSI episode yet?" type. If I were these women's husbands, I'd have left by now. Fuckit, if I were one of these women's friends and they talked to me like that I'd have bailed on them, too.

Anyway. One woman's "acquiescence" meant that her marriage got a lot better and her partner stopped looking like he wanted to kill himself. And I honestly didn't see that she had capitulated anything, she just stopped talking to him like he was a 5 year-old, which surely is going to make for an ok marriage. If she just became a human being in how she interacted with him, how does that make her a "Surrendered Wife"? iS she "liberated of control" simply because you don't want to drown her every time she opens her mouth?

The other woman, though, had clearly begun her indoctrination. She and her husband Chip -

(Angus-What is that guy's name?
Me-Chip.
Angus-Chip?
Me-Yes, Chip.
Angus-Chip is a name? You're allowed to name your children Chip in your country?
Me-Yes. I do understand how you're struggling to see how someone could name their child the English equivalent of the word "French Fry", but yes, you can name your child Chip in America.)

-had two kids, and Chipster, he had ideas about how to raise them. These ideas included letting his 3 year-old fly around on the back of a full size quad bike, and since the kid's feet didn't even reach the bottom of the seat, the kid just laid flat out on the back of the thing. Seriously. The kid was laying on the seat. I shuddered each time they showed it. Chip also bought his 6 year-old a dirt bike, but, seeing as I'm not a mom I'm not qualified to comment, I just had to wonder if a 6 year-old should be on a bike with an engine? Without a helmet? And no training? I'm just wondering. Anyway, Chip's Mrs. just kept closing her eyes and hoping it would work out ok because, you know, that's what a Surrendered Wife does.

She also allowed him to pick out her clothes, makeup, and do her hair for a date. On the date, he ordered her food for her. She didn't seem to enjoy it, but I was bouncing up and down on the couch at this point. "Wouldn't that be great fun!" I squealed. "You could do all that, then when we get back to the house, you could have your way with me! I'd be like your sex slave! And then the week after, we could change roles, and I'll dictate what you wear and eat and then you have to repeatedly satisfy me sexually in whatever way I specify! What a fantastic idea! Let's do it!"

Clearly, I'm falling astray from the Surrendered Wife path here, but I still like the idea.

The last couple on the documentary finally reached my Step Too Far. Prior to this I could see that some obedient wives were there for cultural or religious reasons, one woman claimed to be Surrendered Wife but actually, she just stopped acting like a real bitch, and for one woman being a Surrendered Wife to Chip meant that they'd be doing Darwin a favor and helping out with that pesky thing called Natural Selection. But the last couple was a couple that not only stands against everything I believe in, they bordered on dangerous.

A Scottish woman and her American husband, living in North Carolina, adopted the Surrendered Wife routine a few years ago when their marriage was in trouble (this is a common theme in all the women's stories, with the exception of the Thai woman and the religious Little Mrs.) She became a Surrendered Wife, and her husband very kindly explained that he makes all the decisions as she's incapable of it. If they're going to dinner and he recommends a restaurant and she says she doesn't fancy it, it's as he says: "We go there anyway. I'm in charge."

Really? You're also a conceited asshole, but who am I to judge?

He says her biggest problem is "knowing when to keep her mouth shut", which he demonstrated by physically taking her lips and holding them closed, a nice visual aid for viewers who maybe couldn't connect the words "mouth" and "shut".

But what really got me steaming was when he explained that when it came to sex, he was in charge. And if she said no, well, silly her, she didn't really mean it. No matter how often she says it, you know, he's in charge, his wife is like all women in that they act like they don't want it but they really do, and he's going to do it anyway.

Which in my mind, makes him less a husband in charge and more a rapist who should be jailed.

And throughout all this, she just nodded.

So hey. Channel 5 was able to push my buttons after all.

I get that sometimes keeping your mouth shut makes life easier at home. I do it sometimes, I don't always offer my opinion because I know it'll flash Angus up. But he says he does the same thing. So maybe it's not about "letting the man be the one in charge", it's more "gee, how about a little peace and quiet around here?" and you get along in peace as you both pick your battles. If you're going to be courteous to your spouse in how you talk to him, does that make you a Surrendered Wife, or does that just make you an amiable person? I like to cook for Angus and ensure he's happy, it doesn't mean I'm going to walk around praising and honoring him, nor will I freak out about perfect fruit line-up on the fruit pizza (also because he's not getting a fruit pizza, it sounds absolutely foul). But the thing is, my boy likes to cook for me, too. We divide the cooking 50-50. Does that mean he's not in control? I like to have a clean house, but not necessarily because I want to "please Angus" as much as it's just a relief to have a clean house. It doesn't mean I always succeed (the house needs vacuuming pretty badly and I've been using the guest bed as a dumping ground for the clean folded laundry. I keep hoping Harry Potter will show up and wave his wand and put the clothes away, but the little bastard still hasn't shown up.) It doesn't mean that because I do more indoor housework that I'm "surrendered"-Angus does more outdoor work, it's just what both of us prefer to do in terms of home maintenance.

The book way overshot the middle ground. You don't have to spend the day nagging, but nor do you have to roll over and let the man make all the decisions. I'm not a guy or anything (trust me, I've checked), but isn't the idea that you'd be making every single decision a little exhausting? Isn't the whole idea of a partnership that you have two captains piloting the boat?

I dunno.

I do know that I'm going to make lunch for both of us.

But I'm also going to nag Angus (day 5 in a row) if he'll please change the cat litter. Seriously. Maggie will go on strike soon.

There goes my Surrendered Wife title then.

-H.

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May 07, 2007

Welcome to Rydell Corporation

A few days ago I had a business meeting in the nearby office of Company X. Now, it's been almost 4 years since I lost my job with Company X and despite my cottage cheese memory I can still tell you what it felt like to be told that I was being laid off, and I can still recall the depression that ensued thereafter. Weirdly enough I've dealt with Company X a lot over the past few years, luckily as a customer to their business, so I guess in hindsight (and with a couple of freshly picked sour grapes) I can say that things are ok. I was laid off by Company X (those fuckers), and while a part of me still hopes that their company crumbles and closes, the other part of me thinks I landed on my feet and it's really bad karma to think that way.

But it doesn't mean I don't feel weird being in their hallways.

Even though I was working in Sweden I did deal with some of the UK guys and there are often many business trips between the branches. I worry that some of the people who knew I was laid off will see me and ask why the hell I'm in the hallway, like I'm the runner-up in the Homecoming Pageant and I won't get the hell off the stage. I have actually seen a few of my former colleagues and they were great-I even had an enthusiastic bear hug by a German chap I worked with a lot near Dusseldorf. Whenever I see them I feel this immature need to state that I'm not just hanging around the hallways, I do actually have a job and you know what? I'm the customer here. Maybe I'll always feel this way-you laid me off, but I have to show in a non-asshole kind of way that I've risen above it.

I never worry I'll run into my ex-husband because I understand he's still living and working in China (and I do wish him happiness, I really do. I'm sure he wishes I'll fall down some very deep well and never be heard from again, but I do hope he's found someone new to make him happier than I did.) I have toned it down a lot in worrying about meeting some of those from my former department in Sweden, which is actually a very real possibility. But I do worry about meeting up with my former managers, as well as meeting up with anyone that used to work with Angus' ex (who has since quit her job and doesn't work for Company X (or indeed at all) now).

About the time that Angus' marriage was ending, he and I started talking. My marriage hadn't quite breathed its last breath yet, and even though the writing was on the walls, it doesn't make it right that when he contacted me, I didn't even debate not having him in my life. We both have regrets about how we handled things and we both aren't proud about some aspects of our relationship, but what happened happened, and no amount of regret will change that. But I was still working for Company X, as was he (though in a different branch of the company) and as was his ex.

When she found out about Angus and I all hell broke loose. Even though I was out of the company by then, I did hear things. It was impossible not to hear the mud-flinging that went on, because after all, not only is it standard operating office procedure to blame the person that just left ("Do you have the McKenzie file?" "The McKenzie file? I thought Helen was doing that!" "Helen, that useless bitch! No wonder she was laid off, it was never done!"), but work is like high school.

Seriously.

All offices tend to have an edge of "Will you sign my yearbook?" about them. There are always cliques - the Corporate Shark Wanna-Be folk all congregating around the Speech Club podium. The technical/engineering/IT people all heading for Physics Clubs meeting. The HR people are all busy decorating the gym for homecoming. In the business meetings we had around the table you were always fairly certain there was a metaphorical slam book going around the table.

And offices are like high school because the gossiping is rife. High school is completely irrelevant for living in every way except tearing your ego down in expectation that life is going to repeatedly do that for you, anyway. If others can aid in the tearing down then obviously it means their own fragile egos will be saved.

So yes. I did hear what was said about me. The reputation slaying was phenomenal. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and hell really standeth no chance if work folk are involved. I heard it all-how dangerous and mentally unstable I was (both of which are true, but I was only a danger to myself, never to others). How I milked the company of money (very not true). How I was manic depressive and a manipulative liar (both not true.) How I stole her husband (which I refute in some ways-I think it's impossible to "steal" a person, in these situations all parties play a role.)

And I heard about those pushing forth the gossip and adding to it. I heard how my phone bills and computer files were checked and forwarded. I was livid with the intrusion, but as I'd already been laid off, there was nothing I could do (and luckily I'd wiped my PC clean of files before I handed it in.) I heard about people getting involved in the mud slinging that shouldn't have been. In the dark Swedish winter, I heard about all of it.

80,000 people were let go from Company X and I was one of them. I was told it was due to my length of service in the company-in my department you needed 7 years and 2 months to stay and I only had 4 years 9 months-and I believed them. It didn't mean that the gossip didn't add to the already incomprehensible agony I was feeling.

One of the gossiping was my former boss, Rolle. Rolle had been my boss for a long period of time and I knew him well. He wasn't the one who laid me off in the end-Rolle was interchangable with another manager I had, and between the two of them they were the only managers I had during that long stint at Company X-but he had been my boss. Rolle knew me very well. Rolle knew Angus and his ex very well.

And Rolle sided with Angus' ex.

I heard all the details. I heard what was said. A lot of it has passed from my memory, no longer relevant.

But when I saw him in the cantine at Company X last week, some of it came back.

I was sitting with some of my team eating a sandwich before our meeting. I saw someone at a table that looked familiar, but I didn't know why. I saw him staring at me with a similar expression, that "Where do I know her from?" look on his face. Then when I realized who it was, my heart started pounding. He caught on quickly, too, and he went a bit pink in the face.

Then we went about our business of ignoring each other.

I was hyper-aware of where he was, and hyper-aware of how much I didn't want him to talk to me. I had practiced a hot-headed speech ages ago of the things I would say to him if we ever bumped in to each other, but it all felt so pointless. My anger is gone now, and it's all stupid water under the bridge, he sided with one party against another. But to me, it was all uncalled for. Maybe it's true I had some of it coming. Maybe I did rise above it after the slurry came my way. But it was all too kicking a man when he's down for me.

We saw each other twice more in the hallways.

Both times we both pretended we didn't see the other person.

And I couldn't help but shake the feeling that as soon as I could get to my locker and get my chemistry book, I could tell my best friend about that dick who made fun of me in gym class, and when his slam book came around to me during English Lit, I'd make sure I wrote in an anonymous hand "I know what you said about me, and although it won't impact my life anymore, I'll never forgive you, you fucking asshole."

High school.

Work.

Same thing, really, but in one you get to pay taxes.

-H.

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May 03, 2007

Opinions

So, I knew it would happen.

I was surprised to not see it more on Statia's site when she was pregnant. I used to fear going into her comments, because I figured it would be there. I think she mostly escaped unscathed. I've seen it on some of what are referred to as Mommy Blogs, and while I don't intend on being a Mommy Blogger, this site is about whatever is on my mind at the moment. In the future, it's entirely possible my children are on my mind at that exact moment I sit down to blog. Maybe I blog about them, maybe I don't, but one thing is for sure-we have ways we're going about things as a couple. They are not up for debate.

I really got fucked off about yesterday's comments and yes, I am almost certainly being oversensitive. It's a hazard these days, especially when dog food commercials can reduce me to tears. I have enough hormones in my body to fuel whole power stations, you bet that my mood swings mean things are going to cause me to react (and potentially over-react).

But as we go forward with this pregnancy, there's one thing I want to make clear- I'm not after views on if people think I'm doing something the right way or the wrong way. This goes across the board, from my boss to my Dad to my blog.

This site has been remarkable in the help I've gotten, from how to get rid of a veruca to handling Mumin killing local wildlife to the difference between the neighborhood's ducks or geese. I am honestly grateful. You have advice about the best pacifier to use? Drop me an email, that'd be great. A friend sent me an email not too long ago about some good morning sickness remedies, that was very welcome. Seen a book that you think might be helpful? Let me know about it, please. Please-if you know of a good baby product, tell me about it. I have absolutely no idea about baby things, and it's been 10 years since Angus has been in the baby world himself.

But child-rearing is a different ballpark. I would never, ever go to a stranger (or even a friend) and tell them they are doing the wrong thing based on one of their choices (unless said choice was along the lines of dangling a kid out the window, of course. Then we'd be having a talk.) As this blog progresses, I'd be grateful if people didn't feel the need to tell me how to raise my kids. I am most definitely new to all of this, but Angus isn't. He's a father of two kids, one a teenager, one a pre-teen. I think this means that since they've survived this long and are in robust shape, he knows what he's talking about.

To get it all out in the open, we will be:

- using day care
- bottle feeding
- using disposable diapers
- never co-sleeping
- using cry it out when they get older
- loving them a million times a day, even when we're too tired to brush our hair

These things are what we feel is best for us. They might not apply to all. But they are our kids. We have our reasons for each and every one of those choices, and they are choices that Angus and I made together, as we evaluate what is best for our family. There is no "right" and "wrong" in how people choose what they want for their family. It's just choice.

You may not like our choices. They may not be your choices. But your life and our lives aren't maybe the same. There is no right and wrong to how people go about choosing what they want for their kids. You want day care? Rock on. You want co-sleeping? If it makes you happy....You want to breastfeed them until they're graduating from high school? Well, it may make prom night difficult, but it's your family, you need to do as you see best.

A very kind email from Easy helped clear my head, especially when he said this: The only one qualified to tell you how to raise your kids is YOU. Don't hesitate to be firm on the subject. (I hope you don't mind that I put a few lines from your email, Easy. It really helped.)

I'm still only 14 weeks and I've got about 23 more weeks to go. I'm just rooting for "Let's get 'em out alive" and then I'll move on to "Let's make sure they're never on Oprah weeping about their childhood". I'm not interested in the early implications that I might already be a bad mother and I haven't even gotten to hold one of them yet. Let's get them out, healthy and happy in one piece, because otherwise it's really jumping the gun here.

By all means, please be a part of this with me. I'm overwhelmed on a daily basis. Seriously. I love that you might want to read. I love my blog, and I love the people that comment and email.

But I would appreciate as we go forward that people's views are not impressed upon me. If you hate that we are using day care or bottle feeding or not naming one of them LaShonda, then you can click the red "X" in the corner. You can plug your ears with your fingers and sing. You can go and agressively chop onions until they are turned into a mushy paste. You can do anything you like, but please don't try to convince me to change my mind as I'm one stubborn bitch sometimes and it simply won't work.

I'm sorry, but our choices are not up for debate, either with our friends, family, colleagues, or on my blog.

If I come across as a bit bitchy, well...I'm kinda' pissed off, actually. But don't take it personally, please, just know that I'm pretty sensitive about this. Just hang out with me. Talk to me. Tell me a funny baby story. Let me know a pregnancy with a good ending (good endings are welcome, especially if you have been on bed rest with the Discovery Channel. Good endings are almost essential). Pregnancy is stressful enough, I'd like my blog to be a stress-free zone.

And that concludes the Fighting Back portion of today's lesson.

-H.

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May 02, 2007

Just a Wee Bit More

Thank you very much for the nice comments on our last post. I promise I won't talk about the babies all the time from here on, but here's a bit more background.

We're 14 weeks pregnant exactly today. Although our due date is Halloween there's no way in hell we'll actually make that date - singletons are usually born at 40 weeks, but twins almost never make it that far. Our doctor has told us to think of 37 weeks as the end date, which puts our babies arriving at some point the beginning of October. Don't think I'm not dressing the infants up for Halloween. If the dog doesn't escape my Halloween frenzy, two helpless babies don't stand a chance.

We really have had a lot going on for us. I see I wasn't as good at hiding things as I thought I was (based on the number of commenters who suspected something was up, anyway.) This is why I don't play poker. I may as well label my forehead "Gee, you want my money? 'Cause I have a crap hand!" when I play.

This whole getting pregnant business has been a particular roller coaster. My IVF cycle (which was called a shared cycle, in which I gave half of my eggs to another woman who has no eggs of her own, for whatever reason) was a terrible round. I had almost no eggs to work with, let alone to give away. Surprisingly, I wound up with having 2 embryos myself to work with. We haven't found out if the other woman succeeded yet, and although we will at some point, we're maybe not ready to know just yet.

To say that we were shocked that both embryos - which weren't amazing quality - took is an understatement.

People will have different reactions of learning they're having multiples. While for some (particularly those on the infertility treatment merry-go-round) the idea is heaven, for others the idea is a new version of hell. I've learnt that fathers riding the Having a Baby pony a second time around the track are particularly afraid of having twins or more, since they know what it's like raising one baby. Couples tend to fall into either category - delight at "winning the baby lottery" or fear of the changes to come, and both reactions are normal and individual. You might not like it or agree with someone's reaction, but learning you're having twins is a huge deal that will have an emotional consequence.

I'll be honest - we weren't exactly over the moon when we found out it was twins. Cue Alexis Carrington-like sobbing and arguing scenes the day we found out (and that's from both of us). While we were delighted that we were pregnant, the idea of twins scares the living fuck out of both of us. Our biggest concern was (and still is) finances. A single baby we could handle with no problem financially, but now with two babies we're facing day care bills of anywhere from £900-1500 (we're still researching), and that's going to cause a real shift in how we live our life from a money perspective (don't worry - we already know the shape of the universe in every other area is going to change now that we have infants.) So combine the financial issue (belt tightening, anyone?), the pure lack of sleep we're facing, and the fact that we haven't gotten our asses in gear and built the extension (so where the hell are we going to put two babies?) into the equation, and we were shit scared.

Happy it worked.

Shit scared.

We still are.

But we have moments of happiness, too. I wouldn't say either of us has gotten used to the idea of twins, neither of us has come around to believing that we've won the baby lottery and we probably won't ever see it that way, but I have seen signs that both of us care about the babies. As the one who will be lugging them around inside of her (and I've already gained 12 pounds, which somehow doesn't freak me out as much as it would have), I feel very strongly about the babies. I already love them and they only just resemble human beings at this point in gestation. It's too early to feel them move but they are simply a part of my day. I don't think about them every single moment, but I don't forget about them either.

We told Angus' kids while we were in Cancun. They both took it very, very well. Jeff even said he wanted to adopt one of them, but when we pointed out that an infant may put a crimp in his football practice, he agreed that maybe he'll just mentor one of them.

Melissa has also taken it very well. She has said she's keen to babysit and wants to be here when they're born (but we told her that twins will mean complications, and I get a nice long stay in the hospital, so maybe they should come the week after. Angus and I aren't being obstructive, we simply want to be alone during the week that they're born to try to adjust.) Twice I have been asked to promise that I will love her as much as I love them. Once I swore we would do. The other time I put an arm around her shoulder and told her not to tell the twins, but it's possible I may just love her more.

I want her to feel as secure and invovled as possible. Jeff too. So does Angus, and we watch them carefully for signs of upset. So far so good. We've started a baby name list and the kids were a part of choosing names (although Jeff's favorites have been stricken off the name list already. Much as I love the kid, there's no way I'm naming our babies "Wayne" and "Krusty".)

The first trimester was harder than I thought it would be. I was nauseous all the time and I slept constantly. I still sleep more than I used to, but aside from blinding hormone induced migraines the symptoms are getting better and I find that I am constantly hungry now. Maybe this is all practice for how expensive twins will be, because I am eating us out of house and home (yet still, I've only gained 12 pounds in 14 weeks, which is below-target for moms having twins.)

We had a real scare about the babies two weeks ago, when a scan revealed that one of them - and you should know we call the babies the Lemonheads, a name given to them by a lovely blogger friend of ours when they were the size of lemons (they're now the size of a fist) - was at a high risk for Down's syndrome. We didn't know what to do so got a second opinion, which showed the risk was real. So we had an invasive test procedure to test the baby. The test itself has a risk for causing miscarriage, so it was a fraught time for us.

Monday we found out the Lemonhead is fine.

Yesterday we had a scan and both babies were alive and well.

We're still a little nervous something might go wrong, but determined to try to dial it down and relax a bit.

On Monday Angus and I were in an all-day meeting. After I had gotten the news that our Lemonhead was Down's free, we went into the meeting room and sat next to each other. Once the presentation had begun I saw Angus fumbling in his pocket for a pen and paper. He scribbled something and passed it to me.

Good news about baby, it said. Very pleased.

I love him.

I hold a sense of amazement-I am popping two little bags of Redenbacher popcorn in me. It seems surreal, and at the same time completely cool. We're happy, terrified, excited, nervous, and concerned all at once. The emotions go up and down, but it's safe to say there's usually an element of terror going on with everything we feel.

Maybe that's what parenthood is about.

So I won't talk about babies all the time on this site, but I leave you with a parting shot of what they looked like at 2 days old.


On board


I think they have my eyes.

They totally have his hands.

-H.

PS-any pregnancy related pics are in this set, which I have now made public. I usually update the set weekly.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:57 AM | Comments (33) | Add Comment
Post contains 1440 words, total size 8 kb.

May 01, 2007

"I got the best news! Sally just came out."*

I look into the fridge again in hopes that it may yield something interesting. I don't know what I'm expecting to find, I only know that I want something. I've had a whole wheat English muffin, a bowl of yogurt and granola, and a handful of cheese crackers so God knows I shouldn't be hungry, but I am.

In Cancun I spent a lot of time with Angus' son Jeff. I also managed to get some quality time with Melissa, who spent her time perusing my dive book and nicking my magazines. One evening I had to help her work the shower. I ran the tap and waited for the warm water to kick in. She nosed through my makeup bag.

"Melissa," I said hesitantly. Hesitant not because she was in my makeup bag (it wouldn't have been the first time she'd been in there), but because I didn't really know how to say what I wanted to say. "I just want you to know that I love you and Jeff very much. I know I'm not your mother and I would never try to take her place, I don't mean any disrespect. I just wanted you to know that I do think of you as a daughter, and I mean that in a good way. You're also like my friend and my sister in some way, and I am not trying to dismiss you at all."

The shower water was dripping down my arm onto the bathmat. I shook my hand of the excess water and turned to her. Droplets continued to fall from my arm.

"Oh I know," she said, opening a tube of lip gloss to check the color. "I love you as much as I love my mother."

Wow.

"I would never, ever try to take her place," I reminded her. I mean that. I love the kid a lot, but I'm not her mother and never will be. Our relationship is some kind of mix, and it's very important to me."

"Me too," she replied calmly. "I love you, too."

It amazes me that kids can be so calm when I'm all over the place, worried that I will upset her, worried that I won't get things right. I've never been a mother. Being a stepmother is nowhere near the difficult task it is to be a mother. I may think unkind things about the kids' mother (and I do) but I would never, ever say them to the kids. Mothers should be infallible for as long as possible in a child's eyes.

And I have learnt that in many ways, when I am with the kids, I fill some kind of motherhood role. With Jeff I am the Sunscreen Applier, the Entertainer, the Please Will You Brush Your Teeth-er, and the Have You Taken Your Medicine-er? I love that I am these people to him.

The past holiday, I found I have slipped into a "Mother Lite" role more than I had realized. Kids stand outside the bathroom door when I'm trying to have a private moment on the can and ask me questions (which, when you have a screwed-up intestinal system like I do, it doesn't help). I am the one who simultaneously knows where the sunglasses, sunscreen, and snorkles are. I coordinate across Angus, Melissa and Jeff, and I never knew how rewarding a job it would be. I love Angus, and I love being a stepmother. They are impossible, frustrating, hilarious, energetic, annoying, and great fun. I think they're the best kids in the world and although biologically they're not mine I'll love them forever, genes be damned.

I always thought my pure purpose in life is to climb the corporate ladder and rule the world.

The truth is, if I know where the sunblock is, I'm pretty fucking happy, too.

Maybe life for me will be an intermediary, a Something-In-Between. I don't know where I will be or what I will do or how everything pans out. Suddenly, I don't need to.

I still can't find anything in the refrigerator, which frustrates me.

Some (most? all?) of you (mwah!) already know the details, and now it's time to let them all out here, too.

We've had a hard time lately, we've been on tenterhooks, everything has been uncertain. It has been a roller coaster, full of incredible highs and crashing lows. 2007 is one for the books. We had an incredible New Year's complete with a ring I still admire on a daily basis. I got out of a horrible project and got not one but two pretty cool projects to work on. Our test results on Monday came back normal, the last hurdle in the hurdle of hurdles.

Our last round of IVF worked.

I am almost 14 weeks pregnant and results on Monday from our CVS came back with the report that our worry baby is Down's free.

I am due on October 31st. Halloween. My favorite holiday.

And we are having twins.


Hi. I'm Pregnant.

-H.

*From the amazing Practical Magic.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:47 AM | Comments (76) | Add Comment
Post contains 859 words, total size 5 kb.

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