September 28, 2007

Lemony Morning

We spent the morning getting monitored for the babies - it was a regular check-up for blood pressure and the lot. Only it took longer than fuck because of the Lemonheads acting up, in their usual Lemonhead way.

A few times a week now we have to get the bloods checked, the urine checked, their heart rates monitored and my blood pressure taken. This morning was one of those mornings. You show up to the maternity Day Assessment Unit, get seated in a pink vinyl armchair (vinyl in case we pop our waters, I think, so, um, ewww.) And then you get wired in.


Another day wired up for the babies


They cover you with a sheet for modesty. What they don't know is most of us in there could really give a shit who sees our stomach, if you're in the day assessment unit it means things aren't going well, we have better things to stress about.

This morning's monitoring was no different than usual - my blood pressure is still high. I knew this actually as not only do the headaches and starry vision continue, but yesterday I was a disaster. I have had severe dizzy spells that make me have to sit down immediately over the past two days. My spell yesterday morning did the most damage.

Work had sent me a new mobile phone to test. It's a prototype and I'm madly in love with it. This phone and I will spend our lives together, or at least we'll last for the next 6 months, until I get bored of it and get sent a new phone, then I will dump this phone like yesterday's Moby Dick. I was in the bath yesterday and the phone rang. I reached for it, the dizziness hit, and (you can probably guess what happened here)...the phone went into the drink. It's sitting in the airing cupboard now, as I am filled with wishful thinking that it will work.

It was one of a series of things I dropped when spells came on. Lotion hit the deck. As did my watch, a bottle of water, and some bread. I gave up then and spent the majority of the day on the couch.

So blood pressure still too high, although I am negative for protein so still no pre-eclampsia. My tests are still positive for infection, blood, and kidney problems. It's never going to end.

The other women in there were larger than I am, and had the usual pregnancy issues that I have so far luckily escaped-no swollen ankles or fingers here, no stretch marks from my pubic bone to my chin, I don't even have pregnancy induced fat-face from water retention. I've been lucky (apart from that whole kidney/UTI thing. Oh, and the blood pressure. And the Braxton-Hicks. So really, I'll take the swelling over my current caseload anyday.)

And of course today the Lemonheads acted differently. Gone was their favorite game of monitor football. They were calm, their heart rates lower than normal but still within normal range, and I realized that I hadn't felt our son move in about 12 hours. Their heart rates were so similar (which is unusual) that we also had to have a scan just to make sure that the boy was actually ok.

He is.

He's just out of room to move.

Next doctor's visit is on Tuesday, where I think I'll beg and plead for an induction date (and when I say plead, I really mean it. I'm desperate. Blow jobs, anyone?). We're leaning pretty heavily towards a C-section in this house, as research on ECV has shown that there's only a 58% success rate, and the worst case scenario is a vaginal birth for one and a C-section for the other. That'd be like getting run over by both a bus and an airplane. Angus' Mum is convinced I'll give birth tomorrow, because her father (a fraternal twin himself) was born on the 29th.

I got very, very little sleep last night and am exhausted today. We have a visit to the eye doctor's later today, which I really do need to do as I'm out of contact lenses and Angus and I both need new glasses. Then I want to take it easy, and maybe sleep.

In the meantime, I give you the following very good news, which was cause for much celebration in our house:


Council permission edited.jpg


They'll be born before the extension's ready, but at least we got past the biggest, worst hurdle and now we can start the real work.


-H.

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September 27, 2007

I've Been Cheating

I realized yesterday that I had to come clean.

So I took a bath.

Oh come on, you had to have seen that coming. Besides, nothing was going to keep me out of the bathtub as Angus thoughtfully picked up some Lush bubble bars for me yesterday when he was in London on his way to a business meeting. He told me that they made his backpack smell like a whore's handbag, which is better than smelling like various anatomical bits of a whore, I guess.

Once I got out of the bath, I brushed my teeth. I rubbed stretch mark oil on my still-expanding stomach - some say it makes no difference, these oils. I say "You're perhaps right, but no stretch marks so far, so lalalalalalalala I can't hear you!" Then I took a deep breath and headed downstairs. I walked up to Angus, who was enjoying a glass of shiraz in front of the PC.

"Babe?" I say, wondering if my fuzzy white robe was hiding my incredible girth. "I have a confession to make."

"Mmmmmm?" he replied in that "I'm mostly paying attention to you" tone.

"I've been having an affair," I confess.

There, I said it. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I had been dreading coming clean for a long time, but there it was.

Angus takes in my whale-sized shape. "Good luck with that," he says smoothly.

"No really. In fact, I've cheated twice recently, and I'm considering cheating again," I gulp. I wonder if I should cry. Tears would be the appropriate emotional response here. I could probably make myself cry. It's not hard when you're as hormonal as I am, the other day a Ritz cracker made me cry. I think crying would be best. Crying is what fornicators should do.

Angus looks up at me and sighs ever so slightly. "Ok. What have you done?" he asks, in that "Lemme' guess- you've dropped another glass in the kitchen again haven't you?" voice.

"I told you. I cheated. And I feel terrible about it." I wail. And I do feel terrible about it. "I didn't mean to, it must be the hormones or something. I'm out of control."

And I reveal the whole terrible, disgusting truth.

I have three on the go at once.

Three books, that is.

I am cheating on my literature.

"No! Don't laugh! This is serious shit!" I exclaim to Angus. He couldn't possibly understand. He's currently on a non-reading kick as he waits for his latest Modern Railways magazine to arrive. "I NEVER read more than one book at a time, if I do the other book will somehow know!"

It's true. I never read more than one book at a time. Call me crazy (and some do) but I always feel like the book I interrupted reading will be hurt. It will feel like a lesser book. It will feel unloved, unworthy. I can't have that. All books are worthy. I get through about 3 books a week, how can they suspect for a moment that I am a traitorous whore?

I fling a hand to my head. "It gets worse. I've not only cheated...I've killed."

Angus waits, unperturbed, likely wondering when the hell the soap opera train will stop so he can go back to surfing on the PC.

"Our book club is supposed to meet this Friday, but since I'm on bed rest I'm not going. Well, that's my cover story anyway. The truth is...I'm not going because I didn't finish the book. I didn't like it, I got bored of it. I teased it but never finished it off. My book has blue balls."

I finish books I start. It's kind of a rule with me. There are only a handful of books that I haven't finished, well under 10 books in my entire lifetime. I feel like if you start a book, you finish it. Even if it sucks, even if you hate it, you plug on. I can remember only a few of the titles that I didn't finish - Moby Dick is one of them. Drowning Ruth is another. Coe's What a Carve Up. All books I would happily burn and not in a Tipper Gore kind of way - I would burn them because it would somehow redeem the fact that I lost precious hours in life attempting those pieces of crap.

But otherwise you finish what you start. Mostly because I'm stubborn, but also because you can learn something unexpected from books. And, well, there's that fear that the book's feelings will be hurt if I stop reading it.

Pregnancy hasn't been kind to my morals. I've committed adultery on my books. I've murdered another. And - this is something I'm only just now admitting - I really did murder another book. I bought a book about couples going through IVF and was so infuriated by the author's disgusting, patronizing attitude that I literally ripped the book apart with my bare hands in a display of mis-directed hormonal effigy. But I did recycle it, so maybe that's like spreading evil Uncle Herbert's ashes over the rose garden. Taking something bad and trying to save the environment with it. It's what I tell myself, anyway.

Angus sighs. "Truly, these latest betrayals are unforgivable."

I can't expect him to understand. He's got 5 books next to his bedside. He's a literature slut, he doesn't understand the meaning of the words "fiction fidelity".

"Don't you understand? I have destroyed my moral turpitude! If I turn my back on finishing a book and am now even cheating on books, then doesn't my whole ethical structure break down? What's next? Walking through Barnes and Noble and breaking the spines of every paperback I see? Folding the corners down to mark the pages I'm on? Is the next step drowning kittens or outfitting our bedroom in Parisian boudoir pink silk? What's next?"

Angus stares at me.

"And I'm considering cheating again! I just started a new book which I love whole-heartedly, but it makes me laugh. Laughs cause contractions. I may have to stop reading it. Sure, it means the remainder of this pregnancy will be spent not laughing, but it's a choice, right? I'll just choose to be depressed. I'll rent Ingmar Bergman films. 'Vem ar du? Jag ar doden.' That kind of thing."

Angus smiles. He pats me on the head. He turns back to the computer.

I have been dismissed. Me and my filthy literature cheating ways. I've been putting it out in the fiction section and Angus isn't even worried. Am I the only one who swears fidelity to books? Am I alone in my "one man/one book" rule? Do you cheat on books?

I tell you. Any day now I'll be eating string cheese and licking the spines in the self-help section. It can only get worse from here.

-H.

PS-many huge thanks to Sue, who has very kindly sent the Lemonheads the baby monitor we wanted! Thank you so much, Sue - your comments and your kindness are hugely appreciated.

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September 26, 2007

From the Notepad of Mama

To My Little Boy and Girl -

I've been waiting for you for a long while now, as long as I can remember. I've been through hundreds of needles and thousands of tears to get you, and nothing will ever tell me that it wasn't worth it to have you for as long as I possibly can. Sometimes I wonder if I should tell you how you came to be, but at the end of the day I don't think it's important. What is important is that you are coming, you are here, and you will be loved until I stop breathing and even then someone else will love you.

I know this much to be true - you will never be alone. Not only will you have each other always, but you'll learn what I have - that the capacity for the world to love is great, that people are true, that love hurts but sets you free.

I look back on how far we've come and I am amazed. I was writing an email to someone not long ago and when I came to the part where I wrote "in March we learned we were having twins, which are due in October" my breath caught for a minute. How strange to write that. Twins. October. And that for 7 months I have known about you, watching you, knowing you're there. I used to worry so much about you, that I would lose you, that you would leave me, but now I have a simple, strong current inside of me that tells me you are coming and you will be fine. I wear this current like a badge on my sleeve, the stripes of a seargeant who will watch over her troops.

The single greatest part of my pregnancy has been knowing that every moment of every emotion I have felt has involved you. You have been a part of every second, every laugh, every heartbeat, every breath. I've had 7 months where I never felt alone, not for a moment.

We had fear, too. The three of us huddled in a bed together while women screamed through walls around us. We held strong when we needed tests on you to make sure you were ok (your daddy, sitting next to me at a work conference, took a moment to jot a note to me to tell me how happy he was that you were ok. That, more than most, meant that you were on his mind.) We all had fast heartbeats as we had one and then two hospital stays.

Throughout the darkness - and there has been darkness - we always had each other. I played you our song, our remarkable song, and hoped it would calm you. When you come I hope to play it to you and I hope you remember it.

Soon you'll be here. I look at what life has in store for you and all I can tell you is that I have so much faith that things will be ok. When you get here, you'll have the world's greatest father. Your father is a man I love, admire, adore, and need. He is a rock in my life and he will be in yours, too. You have a happy-go-lucky dog and an angry cat around. You have a wonderful sister and brother waiting to find out who you are. You have two sets of grandparents that will be very, very active and will love you more than you will ever begin to suspect a person can love. You have a house on a quiet country lane where you can pet cows and chase butterflies and listen to the owls at night.

And you have me.

As long as you want me, you'll always have me.

Your childhood will be a mix of cultures. You'll have pumpkin carving at Halloween and fireworks at Guy Fawkes' Day. You'll have Thanksgiving and Christmas, and you can watch all the kids DVDs I own with me and we'll pretend they were on TV. You can call him Santa Claus or Father Christmas, whichever you prefer, and we will have visits from the Easter Bunny and enjoy warm May bank holidays. You will have the best of both worlds because we can give you that, as well as our love for our holidays and traditions.

I know a lot of moms write lists of things they want for their children, of how things will be. I honesly don't know how they will be, myself. I know that I want a stable life for you, one with rules, laughter, adventures and boundaries. I know I will be strict. I know sometimes we will all need a minute to adjust. I know I will love you more than words can possibly express, just like I love your father.

I give you these and only these promises, my babies, my blessings:

I promise that when I make mistakes - for I will make mistakes, I know - I will apologize.

I promise I will be there when you want and need me.

I promise I will marvel at who you will become and I will thank god forever for Angus, Gorby, Melissa, Jeff, and you two, for you are my family and my heart.

I'll see you soon, ok?

Love,
Mama

PS-I'll stop eating the ice cubes if you stop kicking, and if you both scootch just a little to the right I'll buy you a goldfish when you get older. I think that's a fair deal.

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

As an aside, Super Sarah (go say hi, she's got a great sense of humor!) sent two knitted lemon hats for the Lemonheads. They're coming to the hospital with us for the babies, as I love them very much.

Lemons for the Lemonheads

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September 25, 2007

Le Weekend

Sorry for the silence - I've not been doing so well.

But first! Le Weekend, you might wonder! Or, you know, you might not. Regardless, that is what comes first in this bloggy post of mine.

Melissa and Jeff arrived Friday night. My dad and Angus went to pick up the kids while my stepmom and I stayed behind and took it easy. The car showed up soon enough, and all 4 members arrived at the house in high spirits. Even Jeff. This was huge for me - I was so worried about Jeff but, apart from one or two moments of unease, he was back to his normal self again. He and I played a computer game all Saturday morning. He and my dad and stepmom played a game of Uno for an hour. He talked, he interacted, and although he was a bit shy, he was himself.

I can't begin to describe my relief.

We didn't cover anything remotely emotional, and I am a bit concerned on his next visit that he has to confront the fact he's been ousted from his room until the extension is done, but for the most part it was smooth sailing.

Score one for the Angus and the reassurance he's been providing his vulnerable son.

My father and stepmom were fantastic. I was shocked at how great with kids my stepmom is, not because she's not a kid-friendly type of person but because she's never really been around kids. She handled them with ease and grace, laughing at their jokes, being clear when there was a line to be towed, and handling them in ways that put them at ease. I find her more and more remarkable all the time, and once again I was reminded how she could have been a huge factor in my teens, if only I'd just let her in. Being as Melissa and Jeff are kids and wired towards playing constant rounds of board games, she slipped into the role with ease, always agreed to play a game, and never once complained. A better grandma could not be asked for.

My dad as well impressed me no end. When we were kids we had this "children should be seen and not heard" philosophy. My sister and I were quiet kids, and we didn't talk much and we certainly weren't noisy or opinionated. My father was not a patient man and he didn't handle questions very well. Melissa and Jeff have been raised to explore being inquisitive and opinionated, something I support now as I think it's what's right for kids - if they have questions about something of course they should ask about it. While I sometimes think they interrupt too much, the truth is I don't really know how to handle kids, and the comfort that Angus' kids have in conversations is evident. So having the kids around my dad made me a bit nervous.

I needn't have been.

My dad has changed more than I possibly realized.

For starters, Melissa and my dad got on like a house on fire. By the time they arrived at the house from the airport it was as though they were both best friends who had spent their life double dog daring each other. They talked constantly, teased each other constantly, and once when they went to the grocery store with my stepmom and Angus, they came back papered in price tag stickers, which apparently they'd been sticking on each other throughout the shopping expedition. They liked to abuse each other in joking ways during Uno. And Melissa even asked my dad to take her to Japan and show her around.

The kids both liked my Dad and stepmom and spent a lot of time talking to both of them, asking them about things in Japan, asking how to say things in Japanese, and playing games. My stepmom cooked dinner for us on Saturday (all of us love Japanese food), and then the kids and I ran around shouting "Tomkatsu! Yakisoba!" (breaded cutlets and noodles) in angry Japanese voices, much to the chagrin of my dad, who was not convinced our pronunciation was very good.

My dad was amazing. I couldn't believe it. I knew my dad had changed a lot, but I never once could have imagined that he had become something I never could have imagined he could or would pull off - he became someone who likes kids. I wonder if, in some way, his bond with Melissa is a second chance for him somehow, the opportunity to be close to a kid when he couldn't do it before. Something in him has grown up and grown out, and since he can't give it to his own girls, he can try to give it to his grandkids, be they here, in Sweden, or in the States. My dad talks about Melissa and Jeff and his other granddaughter in the States with joy, pride and light. The change in him is remarkable, and it's incredible to be a part of.

But it wasn't just Melissa my dad got along with - he also taught Jeff how to make a fire in the chiminea (with permission from Angus).


Jeff and Dad


He's already planning on things they can all do together when he sees them next.

My dad and stepmom even removed Jeff's bed and put together one of the baby cribs for us, which they then put some of the baby things they bought for the Lemonheads in. The nursery isn't done - we need to paint, we need to move the rest of the baby things in - but it's a start. It's the first piece of furniture to go up.

It almost feels like something might actually happen now.


The crib


I love this hodgepodge family of mine - the grandparents, the stepkids, all of them - so much you wouldn't believe it. It makes me cry, and it's not the hormones. It's how far we've all come to get to this place in our hearts that does it.

Melissa and Jeff left Sunday night. My dad and stepmom left yesterday. And now it's just us here.

As for my quietness - I'm really sorry, I'm not trying to add to the drama. Maybe we need some kind of code, whereby I post a one-liner relating to an 80's TV sitcom and that way you know I'm fine, it's just my uterine occupants that are keeping me from the PC.

Sunday was a bad day for us, and as a result yesterday I was pretty much a zombie and unable to sit up for any period of time. We had Angus' Mum and Stepdad over for a barbecue on Sunday, and before they arrived I got a headache that came accompanied with stars in my vision. The stars didn't go away for most of the day and I knew it was my blood pressure. I also started having contractions at 10 am. The contractions came at 8 minute intervals but by late afternoon they were every 4 minutes. I didn't want to go to the hospital because I knew they would just admit me and I didn't think I was necessarily in labor. Sunday night the contractions were worse, and by 3 am I was up fighting off contractions so strong I had to keep myself from throwing up. I still didn't go to the hospital.

Good thing, too, as the contractions were Braxton Hicks.

I could kill that guy.

I haven't been doing well. Over a 48 hour period I got about 6 hours of sleep. The blood pressure is high. We had an antenatal visit today and saw a consultant I call Dr. Doom because he's so cautious - he's cautious in this aspect too, as he said that he feels without a doubt that pre-term labor is on my radar. After checking me out he's put me onto what basically amounts to bed rest - although I don't have to stay in bed, standing, shopping, carrying, etc is all banned. My blood pressure coming in first at 140/93 and then 160/85 (which is a personal all-time high for me) was what did it.

The consultant said they will probably induce me by 37 weeks instead of 38 weeks and that I should maybe consider a C-Section, which is something we are discussing at home now. In the meantime, rest, rest, and more rest, as well as monitoring even more than I had done before (which is in itself pretty stressful as there's nothing Angus dreads more than the hospital.) Dr. Doom says the babies will only put on a few more ounces until they're born, putting them in the 5-6 pound range, as they are out of room, but that they will almost certainly not have to go into the SBCU (NICU) if they are born now. They monitored the babies and sure enough, both of them are stonkingly healthy. And active. And got angry at being monitored (as per their usual) before being pronounced the "most active babies of the day".

From your mouth to my bladder, lady.

37 weeks then. As of tomorrow, I am 35 weeks. Two more weeks - max - that I have to wait until I can meet the newest members of my kooky little family.

And I hope and pray that he means it when he says they will probably induce me by 37 weeks, because I honestly can't go on like this.

-H.

PS-many thanks to Beach Girl, who bought the Lemonheads one of these - I love these carriers and fully plan on using them! Thank you!

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September 21, 2007

Breathe Deep

Tonight Melissa and Jeff arrive.

I think it's fair to say that nerves are a little high.

We've talked to Dad and my stepmom, and briefed them a bit about Jeff. Even without the current issues storming around us, Jeff is someone you have to handle carefully - I've said that he's the most sensitive person I've ever met and I really mean that. You can never, ever let him think you're laughing about him. You can never talk about him in his vicinity, even in a positive way. You have to pay attention to what he's saying because little emotional land mines are laid throughout the fields he uses.

In short he's exhausting.

I love the kid, though. I really do.

Angus has tried talking to his ex about all of this, with increasing levels of frustration. He spent ages working on an email that was calm, even, and very focussed on the kids. He worded it such that he and the Swunt were a team working for the better of the kids, that whatever disagreements they had were not relevant at the moment. It started off like so:

Angus: I have noticed that Jeff is really struggling emotionally. I'd like to work on this and help him, and I'd like us to work together for the sake of the children.

Swunt: It's important that Jeff understands how much I hurt about your upcoming babies. He has to understand and agree with my point of view. The real problem is Melissa. No matter how many times I try to get her to understand how badly I'm suffering she doesn't listen. She's so selfish.

Angus: I really want us to put aside our problems and work for the better of the children. How can we help them both?

Swunt: I've been so down. It's all been so hard for me. I've suffered greatly.

Angus: I'm sorry that you've been hurting. How can we help the children?

Swunt: My life has been a storm of emotions and trauma. I have truly been through such hardship.

Angus: Um...the kids? How can we help the kids?

Swunt: I am now beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel. My life needs to be focussed on, my happiness is imperative.

Angus: This. Is. Not. About. You. This is about Melissa and Jeff.

Swunt: Me. Me me me me me me me.

Angus: Jesus Christ, you used to be so concerned and caring about the children's wellbeing. What the hell happened?

Swunt: Me me me me me me me. You seem so angry, Angus. Obviously you aren't happy with where you are. Anything going on that you want to talk about? Clearly things not good in your little home with your so-called partner, hmmm?

Yeah. You think I'm kidding. I'm really not. The flow of emails really has more or less gone along those lines (and that "the kids need to see things my way and Melissa is so selfish because she doesn't" really was what was said), right down to the implication that there's something not great here which is thus obviously upsetting Angus. Angus and his ex cannot pull together for this one, so Angus has been working hard with his son to help ease his mind. He has also talked openly with his family about what's going on, something we don't usually do, and for once I think we're all feeling - at least on this side of the Channel - that we're here for the kids.

My dad and stepmom are ready, and vow to be there for the kids, too.

I love them for it.

In the meantime, we try. Angus' and my bedroom is stuffed to the gills with baby things waiting to find a proper home, which we can do as of Sunday night when the kids leave. It does bother me that the nursery is in no way, shape or form ready, but there's not a lot I can do about it. Besides, if the babies come now they won't be home for a few weeks, giving us time to get ready.

As for the Lemonheads, things are getting harder (which is just what you expected when you clicked on this site, I'm sure). My hips and pelvis are stretching in preparation. After months of not looking pregnant with twins my stomach is suddenly enormous - the little girl lying across my stomach is pushing it out very far, to the point where no matter how long the shirt is it just won't cover the gap (but look ma! No ass!) Despite the little boy engaging in my pelvis it continues to be harder and harder to breathe as the little girl just keeps moving upwards - I'm not exaggerating when I tell you the side of her round head lies about an inch below my left breast. She's that high up in my ribcage. I don't sleep much at all, despite being in a near Zombie state. I continue to leak fluid, just not in enough amounts to be worried. I contract regularly and with increasing strength...just not often enough.

A visit to the hospital yesterday for monitoring showed the babies are beyond healthy - the midwives said that I had the most active babies they'd seen all day (proven again and again as the twins kicked the hell out of the monitoring sensors they had on my stomach). Their heartbeats were strong. My contractions were regular, and I even had one grown-up contraction register on the monitor, which came in at 50% strength. But they're not coming in at a regular interval, so we're still on hold.

My blood pressure is still too high, and I now have headaches and ringing in my ears - I try to stay on my left side, as I heard it helps (thanks Teri!) and I try to drink as much water as possible. Further, blood tests are showing that my kidney function is struggling as my infected kidneys struggle to support the waste filtering of not only myself, but of two babies as well. We're getting there. The babies are doing well, and that's what we care about (although I could be doing with some sleeping, honestly.) I will now be monitored every 3 days, as the doctors want to get me to 38 weeks before agreeing to induce me.

So we wait.

Here's to hoping a stable, normal weekend of Risk, Wii, and calm reminds a kid just how much he's loved.

-H.

PS-many huge thanks to Heidi-a fishbowl just dropped through our door! We laughed, and it will sit on the Lemonhead's changing table for them to watch. Thank you very much, we love it, and thank you again for the reassuring email, it really did help.

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September 20, 2007

Getting in Touch With My Asian Roots, All in a Bok Choi Kind of Way

IKEA is one of those institutions, one of those places that you go to for the Billy bookcase and a pack of 1,000 candles. I'd never been to an IKEA before living in Sweden, but it quickly became the place where you buy furniture in a hurry and if/ you replace it, you don't feel at all guilty. This is what happens. IKEA is like a pacifier you cut your teeth on, and it's soothing, comforting, and fits in your gob nicely.

We went to IKEA yesterday, which is something of a trip for my dad and stepmom. They've been to the IKEA in Seattle, but only for the meatball lunch. This time, they helped us pick out blinds for the study and nursery and Angus and I went ahead and bought another crib for the Lemonheads, which will be needed down the line. I'm not sure IKEA was really their thing, but they were good sports.

It was the Asian grocery store where fun was had.

We were glad to have them with us. We've been dying to know what the hell half of the things in the aisles are, as while Angus and I are adventurous with foods, we have limits (one of them being "pig uterus", which they do indeed sell there.) My dad and stepmom are Japanese, and they eat, speak, read, write it as well. They were both born in Japan and emigrated to the U.S. as children, and they speak Japanese with their mothers as well as spend a lot of time in Japan still. So we get out of the car and Angus and I turn to my family.

"OK now," I say. Angus and I are the only white people at the shop. "Don't embarrass us in there, ok? Try to blend."

They laugh.

We have a great time in the shop, which isn't easy to say when you see a display of pig uterus. They had a batch of fresh crabs come in, and Angus, Dad and I look longingly at them. Angus and I love seafood, but there is no way, ever, that we can drop a live crab into a pot of boiling water. We appeal to my stepmom, who grins, shrugs, and says she has no problem cooking up the little guys - provided we don't give them a name before we boil them, because then she gets squicked out.

A deal is struck. Two unnammed crabs come home with us for dinner.

And the four of us cook up a massive Asian meal. She makes Vietnamese summer rolls, and (after the initial moment where the crab is dropped into the pot, which my stepmom handles while the rest of us head out of the kitchen for the moment of killing) Angus and Dad boil up the crabs. We snack on edamame which we peel open with our teeth. My stepmother brings a helping of pan-friend bok choi. I tell her we should put some in a bag, and she can knock on my neighbor's door and ask them if they ordered Chinese food.

The Asian jokes don't stop. It's all par for the course - the British jokes and "very white child" jokes don't stop, either. It's all good-natured and no one takes offense. Truthfully I've always wanted to look Asian, but instead drew the "whitest of white" gene straw.

Angus asks why I didn't learn Japanese. I tell him that I do know Japanese. And I do - I can say hello and goodbye and I can count to four. I don't know where five went, maybe five is irrelevant, maybe I never needed five, but I can do 1 - 4.

I'm an embarrassment to my people.

For some reason, my dad adds a bowl of Indian tikka massala sauce and some nan breads to the table, so our meal is one serious cultural explosion. It was one of the best meals I've eaten in a long time, and we leave the table sated.

Their visit is going well so far. I love having them here. We haven't done much besides relax and chat a lot, and they're coming to the doctor with me this morning (Angus has a meeting he can't miss). Tonight Dad and Angus are off to London for the birthday present I bought Dad, as his birthday was last week - I bought the two of them an evening wine tasting course, where they get to have wine and whiskey tasting and take it easy. The kids arrive tomorrow night, which isn't without its stresses. I'm glad they're happy to relax here - I can't imagine how boring it must be to come to London and then spend time in the country, but last night was one of those "you will have 3 hours max" nights thanks to contractions and breathing problems, so relaxing is helping me immeasurably.

-H.

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September 19, 2007

Time Keeps on Slipping Into the Future

The doctor's appointment was just fine.

I'm on rest and relaxation duty as anything else brings on contractions. Based on the knicker action I have going on my cervix continues to thin. I am leaking small amounts of fluid, but no one seems to know if that's my embittered bladder or something slightly more interesting. The contractions are fierce, particularly at night. I get little sleep, as I have to work to breathe through the contractions. My blood pressure is much too high (especially for me, as I usually have blood pressure so low I'm virtually dead) and I'm now on monitoring for it, and I've been having incredible headaches thanks to it. The bottom line is, the consultants don't want to do anything until the contractions get to 3-4 minutes apart. I'm not considered in labor until that happens, and that could happen anytime between now and the next 6 weeks. The consultant assured me I would be induced at 38 weeks if the babies aren't born yet.

I am not lying when I tell you I nearly cried at hearing that.

My first thought was: I can't go four more weeks. I just can't. Not feeling like this I can't.

My subsequent thoughts were: You don't have much of a choice, babe, so suck it up and try to take it easy and go with it. Stop complaining. Want some French fries?

I don't feel great, but there's an endopint in sight, and the babies do better the longer they can stay in.

As for the babies, well...the cookies baking in my oven are nearly done. Both babies are over 5 pounds now, and their growth is slowing down as they are running out of room. The ultrasound showed that the boy is still engaged and ready to go. The girl is spread right across my stomach and the hope is that she can be turned once he's evicted.

They're in great shape, though. We were stunned to see them yesterday, as they showed massive signs of being nearly ready to be popped. The little girl was practicing her breathing, and we saw her little lungs working in and out, in and out, in preparation for the real thing. Good news, and amazing to see.

The ultrasound technician pointed something out on the head of the little boy. There, floating in the fluid, was the hair on his head. Our little man has hair.

Neither Angus nor I are particularly sentimental types, but we were both giggling and touched.

My Dad and stepmom arrived yesterday at lunch, and I'm absolutely delighted to see them. It's been relaxing and positive, and they're keen that we not do too much. We're off to IKEA and the Asian grocery store and then we're taking it easy.

I know I'm not very interesting just now, my posts are short and all about babies, and I'm really sorry. I'm aiming to be back on target shortly, I just need to get my head above water a bit.

-H.

Many thanks to Amanda, for the fantastic book. I can't wait to read it to the Lemonheads (they're going to love it, I just know it!)

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September 18, 2007

Going To The Doctor and I'm Gonna' Get Scanned....

Yeah, I had that title to the theme song of "Going to the Chapel" but it didn't work out so well. The irony, of course, is that I'm not getting married anytime soon (too much stress), but as someone (I think it was Margi - Margi, are you here?) pointed out in the comments once, the hormones would make me change my mind. Margi, god bless her, was right. I do suddenly want to get married, but score that for day 2 of shutting the barn door after the horsies.

OK, so I got about 3 hours of sleep last night, in total. I wound up going downstairs and watching Extreme Home Makeover: How Do They Do That? in between contractions and protestations from the babies (it's ok babies. Mommy doesn't like Connie either.) I can't get comfortable, and the contractions are coming with greater strength, although not with greater frequency.

We're off to the doctor's in half an hour to see if I'm in labor or not.

With my luck, I'm not in labor AND I will have been selected to be part of a twins trial in which the doctors force the pregnant mothers to go to 42 weeks before allowing them labor which is given pain relief by uncorking a bottle of horseradish and advising us to "Breathe deeply, and be one with the beef joint!" Then it's off to the airport to collect my family.

Your advice was brilliant yesterday, by the way - thanks very much. I'm nearly 100% sure I want an epidural and need to discuss it with Angus now. Ironically, I've had two spinal taps in the past and yet I'm still a big chicken.

Here's me this morning, freshly showered and exhausted. It's a fun ride, yeah?


Dear God, Someone Let Me Out of My Misery


-H.

PS-I received two fabulous Bumbo seats yesterday from Elizabeth - thank you, Elizabeth, I just love them! If you have a second, go say hi to Elizabeth, she has an absolutely gorgeous, scrumptuous little girl named Abby. Abby was born with craniosynostosis and is due to have surgery this Friday, and I imagine that any love you can send Elizabeth's way will be happily received. Plus, like I said, Abby's a charmer.


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September 17, 2007

Still Here

Still at home. Still waiting.

Have done some research, and basically I could be having babies tonight,or I could go overdue, there's no hard-coded formula for this. The mucus plug is still being dismantled and it's accompanied by a stonking headache, the shakes, nausea, and contractions - only the contractions aren't frequent enough. I'm on notice to go in if they get to 3-4 minutes apart, and we're still about 10 minutes apart. Some of the contractions are very painful, as in "this must be what it's like to be a man and get kicked in the nads" kind of painful, and some of them are just a simple tightening in the stomach.

I'm very uncomfortable. Everything hurts. Yes, I'm whining. While the babies have calmed down their maneuvers, the girl is right up under my ribs in a painful, ribs-as-xylophones way. Breathing is hard. Moving is hard. Sleeping is hard. Thanks to the little man's head being firmly wedged in my pelvis, walking is hard. Despite everything being hard I am supercharged and the house? She has never been cleaner.

It's not only my deep, vicious desire to clean that's driving me though.

Tomorrow my father and stepmother arrive, and Melissa and Jeff land here on Friday night. We wanted to spend some time without babies around for my
family to get to know Melissa and Jeff, to make them feel important and special. It's vital to both my family and Angus and I that Melissa and Jeff do not for a minute think that they are second in any way, and thus my Dad and stepmom are arriving braced for a quiet week and a weekend of board games with the kids.

It's not without its stresses, though - although Jeff and Angus talk almost daily, we have no idea how Jeff is really doing emotionally and mentally, or how he's going to behave. Angus has worked hard on being a constant and reassuring presence in Jeff's life, and while we think and hope it's worked we'll only know for sure once he arrives. This visit has been booked for ages, back in the days when Jeff was still thinking of my Dad and stepmom as his new grandparents, and we can only hope it goes well. The nursery still isn't touched - the babies' things are under our bed and in the shed - as Jeff is still highly sensitive about the changes to come and Angus and I agreed that a stable situation as long as possible is what Jeff needs.

Melissa also threw a wobble - she said that she wasn't going to give up her room to my family, even though she really likes them and even though her room currently doubles as the guest room until the extension is done. We've since made it clear (accompanied with apologies) that we respect her space and her need for having her own room, but right now we all have to make concessions and once the extension is done, her room will be just hers. I think she's ok with it all now. I sure hope so, as we could do with calm.

I'm almost 34 weeks pregnant now. If the babies are born now they have a 99% chance of survival, but it won't be without problems. Although they're big, healthy-sized babies who have had the benefit of steroid shots to boost their lungs, it doesn't guarantee that they can breathe on their own. Although they have been swallowing the amniotic fluid around them, an infant's ability to suck doesn't usually completely develop until later in gestation, so the consultant thinks the babies would have to have feeding tubes. And finally, although the babies' major organs are all developed and largely ready to go, the liver is the last of the organs to develop at around 36 weeks. The babies would almost certainly be born jaundiced, and in need of time under a special light.

Basically, my body is giving indications of "let's evict the kids now", but the babies would have to be in special care for a while, although prospects are very good that there would be no long term damage.

I'm also suddenly very, very freaked out by labor (I know. If there was ever a "shutting the barn door after the horses have bolted" example, then this is it.) I don't know what to do about pain relief, either. Natural birth is in no way, shape, or form an option for me and no amount of convincing will change that - after all, I heard the women scream in L&D. I will absolutely not go that route. Nor are other options that one might describe as crunchy granola - no water birth, no home birth, no Lamaze. Gas has absolutely zero effect on me, and we're not even bothering with the TENS as I understand more moms in labor wind up winging them against the wall than get relief out of them.

We have two options: narcotics or an epidural.

I'm keen on an epidural but am freaked out about the needle in the back business. Angus is also really freaked out about the needle in the back business. We're both petrified that something could go wrong and I could wind up paralyzed.

I could use some advice on this one, about pain relief versus the epidural, if you have any.

In the meantime we wait.

I have a doctor's appointment and scan first thing tomorrow morning, so at least we'll have some answers then.

And I'll be honest - all of a sudden I'm really, really scared.

-H.

PS-Gorby has a very successful doppelganger. Angus' mum keeps pressing us to teach Gorby how to dance, too, but we keep telling her that not only is Gorby well and truly a family dog and is going to remain firmly out of the limelight, but that whole "funny looking spotted dancing rescue dog" shtick has been done, so no need to reinvent the wheel.

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September 16, 2007

Step 2

So this morning we woke up to the Bloody Show.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick....

UPDATED - we're not off to the hospital or anything - my waters haven't broken and as my contractions remain unchanged, there's no point. Either of the two need to occur before we go in, as we're not in labor until one or both of those events happen. So instead we wait and see if we're going to progress or if I just stay at this state for a while (and by "while" it could be days. Or weeks. Weeks will be bad. Won't be months, at least). And in the meantime I wash windows.

As one does.

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September 14, 2007

Getting There

OK, so another interesting morning Chez Helen.

Yesterday morning I started contracting and the contractions lasted all day and into the night, staying a constant 8 minutes apart. I finally broke down and called Labor and Delivery this morning, where they predictably told me I needed to come in (this is par for my course, really. "How many weeks are you? You're-you're having TWINS? Oh my God. Come in. Right away. Bring Cheetos.")

So - much to Angus' delight - we went in this morning (he hates going to the hospital. As in "would prefer going to the dentist anyday" kind of hate). I was hooked up to various monitors and trussed up, feeling like they were strapping me in to deliberately show that I have reached sausage-like proportions in my midsection. I looked like the spill-over you get at the top of a thigh high stocking.

Pregnancy is so glamorous.

The monitoring was ok - the Lemonheads are fine and as per usual the babies weren't interested in letting anyone listen to them and thus spent their time trying to swim away or kick off the sensors. They're pretty successful at that game, too, and it amuses me to watch the strength with which they'll nail one of the sensors to get it off them. I continued to have contractions, but they only came to 25% max when I was having them, and apparently in order to be considered "in labor" your contractions need to be at 50%. Now, 25% is uncomfortable enough, I can't really visualize 50%. Or, worse yet, 80%. What is that considered? A legitimate legal defense for killing folk? The one time it's ok to watch Ricki Lake and chant "Go Ricki"?

They wanted to admit me for observation but I fought them on it, as we live close to the hospital should anything start to change. It's been determined that I am not in labor but that my insides are clearly unhappy. They did a scan of the babies which showed that the boy is fully engaged, which means his head is bumping right down inside my pelvis by the cervix. The little girl is turned sideways, lengthwise across my body, so that round thing coming out of my left side is her head, not his ass. Good thing, too, as I was finding it weird that rubbing his bum like that calmed him down so much and while Mummy loves you, sweetheart, she's not going to always be willing to rub your rump to get you to relax.

The doctor did a pelvic exam, and for once I was pretty damn glad I'd gone and gotten waxed on Wednesday. I was feeling pretty unattractive and even though I can't see my own beaver anymore, I just thought a Brazillian might cheer me up. If by "cheer myself up" I meant "nearly scream with the pain of 10,000 fire ant bites on my privates", then I was right. But at least I had a tidy package down there, and that helps.

The exam showed that while I am not in labor, my body is actually getting ready for labor. Without going into too much gory detail (cause that never happens on this site), it turns out that my cervix has softened, which is a sign that my body is getting ready for labor. The doctor gives me 50/50 chances of preterm labor, and I honestly think that I will deliver sometime early myself.

We're getting there.

I'm at home now, and on light duties. I'm to go to the hospital if the contractions get closer together, get stronger, or my water breaks.

So thank goodness we've got some names for the Lemonheads then. A few of the names that were suggested and were up for voting were names that had been on our list, actually - Jack, Charlie, Kate and Isobel were all on our possible real name list before we crossed them off. But you voted and the votes, all tallied up, reveal the name of the Lemonheads once they're born.

You'll be introduced to Nick and Nora, once they're here.

Until then though, at least in my world, they're the Lemonheads.


-H.

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September 13, 2007

And Then Sometimes Good Things Happen

I've been reading the latest Christopher Moore novel Fluke. I love Christopher Moore. I've only read one other book of his and I want to read more, but I need to take them slowly, like I do with Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris. This is going to sound insane, but I'll generally buy the new Sedaris or Burroughs and then not read it for as long as possible, because once I read it, then I'll be done with it.

I know. I'm in therapy.

Christopher Moore is one hell of a writer - at one turn hilarious, at the next serious and metaphor-y. He writes storylines that are completely impossible, and yet you go with it because he's either making you laugh or making you suck in your breath. An example of a passage from this book he's written that stunned me:


Leathery bar girls worked the charter booths at the harbor, smoking Basic 100s and talking in voices that sounded like 151 rum poured into hot grease - a jigger of friendly to the liter of harsh. They were thirty-five or sixty-five, the color of mahogany, skinny and strong from living on boats, liquor, fish, and disappointment. They'd come here from a dozen coastal towns, some sailing from the mainland in small craft but forgetting to save enough courage for the trip home.


Jesus.

Maybe you're not impressed, but I sure as hell was.

Or I would be, only I was still bitter over the "you didn't prove you can speak English" bit. I know it seems like nothing, but language is hugely important to me, it's everything, it's the basis of who I am. Angus (and every ex in my past, actually) gets angry with me because of how I work over the language in an argument. I can talk my way out of all kinds of scrapes, and while I used to be able to do it in several languages, these days I'll stick with just the English version.

I woke the other morning in a pure panic because I couldn't remember what a gerund was - it's pathetic enough that I know the word "gerund", add in to the fact that I a) was in a panic because I didn't remember what it was and b) I looked it up to relieve my mind, and it should show you what a loser I can be. English was my favorite (and easiest) subject in school. Lemme' diagram a sentence anyday, it'll rock my world. I'll accept that I suck at many things, but one thing I always wanted to be proud of myself for was my control of the English language.

Then along came the Home Office, and suddenly I felt like they came in and took away my eblows - a vital part of me that I needed was gone, as was my flexibility.

A non-blogging friend of mine recently sent me a joke:

For those of you who watch what you eat, here's the final word on nutrition
and health. It's a relief to know the truth after all those conflicting nutritional studies.

1. The Japanese diet consists of very little fat and yet Japanese suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

2. The Mexican diet consists of a lot of fat and yet Mexicans suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

3. The Chinese drink very little red wine and yet suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

4. The Italians drink a lot of red wine and yet suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

5. The Germans drink a lot of beers and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

CONCLUSION:
Eat and drink what you like.
Speaking English is apparently what kills you.


As far as the visa goes, as I am an American, speaking English was indeed my issue.

Yesterday after running a few errands and looking forward to a nap, I came home to an envelope in the post box for me.

I opened it.

This was inside.


I have papers now


Yessss....

Today is the final day of name voting. A few of the name choices are really, really close. May the best names win.


more at twiigs.com...


-H.

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September 12, 2007

I See Stupid People

I'm in a bit of a crappy mood this morning - another sleepless night, an argument with the cat (who always goes into alliterations in order to sound more posh, it drives me mad) and a very long to-do list today, including running errands and dealing with bureaucracy. Who wouldn't be in a crappy mood?

I've had a run of dealing with Stupid People this week. Yes, I meant that in caps. Stupid People are a breed below "people who are just not with it today". Stupid People are Stupid to the point of banging your head against the wall, considering crimes against humanity, or you wanting to take a DNA sample of their blood in order to isolate what can only be described as the Stupid Gene (you'll know it when you see it, it's the one at the elevator jabbing the call button repeatedly in their irritation and annoyance with how an important person like themselves has to wait, even when the light is already lit and you know the elevator is on its way down and pushing the button more does not put it into warp drive, people).

I'll give you a few examples.


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


Stupid People #1 - PayPal.

That's right.

PayPal = Stupid People.

PayPal winds me up anyway. They're not an intuitive service to use, they're seriously money hungry, and should something go wrong - and with PayPal things often go wrong - then too bad, sucker! See you on the other side of my Mai Tai!

I recently got done with a transaction. I've been using PayPal for a few years now, I guess it was about time to get screwed, but screwed I got, in that "grab your ankles and I'm not even lubing up" kind of way. I was going to buy some Band-Aids for Statia's birthday, only the shop was out of them. So I ordered them online from an online toy shop. Simple, right? I PayPal'ed them my money.

Then nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

The boat sailed for Statia's birthday and no Band-Aids showed (these were quality first aid goods too, I tell you). After many emails to the seller went unanswered, I then went through PayPal's resolution centre. Nada. I then - 8 weeks later - raised a claim on PayPal. I'd since bought more Band-Aids as my local shop stocked them again, but I wanted my money back. It wasn't a huge sum of money, I can't reveal it because it was for a present for someone, but yes goddammit, it was the principle of the matter.

PayPal wrote me back - I won the judgement. Congrats. Yeah, me.

But, um, oh yeah - they can't get my money back.

Case closed, see ya' at the bar, sucker!

Oh, so my victory is one of those moral victories then, huh? The kind where I'm supposed to pull the lapel of my wool library jacket closer to my necktie and feel good about oneself, that the tides of justice are still ebbing and flowing, right? I should stand tall in a crowd and shout "I have truth, justice, and the support of an online consumer buyer protection agency on my side!" then?

I was furious. And I'm the type of girl that if you fuck with me on some things, I will make you pay to whatever extent I can. On Flickr I'm religious about checking to see who's linking to me and what their profile is - more than once I've been linked to by someone into seriously inappropriate porn (involving children, forced sex acts on women, etc.) or by someone who I feel crosses a line by only collecting pics of naked pregnant women or of candid shots up unsuspecting womens' skirts. I go mental when that happens, and as I'm clear about in my profile, I won't just block someone like that, I'll report them, too.

I decided to take action.

I filed another claim in PayPal, this time against PayPal.

I reported PayPal to the trading standards agency for not being clearer about their Buyer Protection policy (it won't work, but it's fun to think of PayPal having to deal with paperwork.)

I reported the toy desiger to the trading standards agency, for taking my money and running. Then I found out they have a shop in Ebay, so I reported them to Ebay, too. As soon a I can get an address out of them, I'm taking them to small claims court (because it's mostly an online process these days and doesn't tie up resources doing big things, like going after people for pit bull fighting or those dodging their taxes).

I will get a result on this one, though. My "moral victory" is not enough.


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


Stupid People #2 - Some locals, or as I like to think of it, "You want me to prove I speak English but what are you doing about this lot?"

Because of our ebay cleanout and a few care packages I've sent out recently, as well as my visa application stuff (clarification materials went out last Friday, fingers crossed!), I've been spending a lot of time at the local post office (which, seeing as we had a number of auctions finish last night, is where I'll be visiting again today).

Our local post office is a village post office, and as such it has village hours. Generally speaking, it's open from about 11:01 am - 1:02 pm, with an hour's break for lunch in the middle. It's run by a woman who's about 100, and even if she knows you she still demands to see some ID before handing over a package. I prefer to go to a post office in the nearest town, which is about a 5 minute drive.

This town, though, is a bit of a dump. Some parts of it are nice, while other parts are clearly the action end of a Friday night drink up, complete with chicken vindaloo and vomit-a-thon at the end. The post office lies in the crappy area. It's not unsafe or anything like that, it's just full of 1960's row houses that scream of people who like to decorate in a style that should have left when Maggie Thatcher did.

I was waiting in line at the post office on Saturday. In front of me were two women and two kids under the age of 4. The women were both dressed in midriff baring size 8 tube tops (the tags were hanging out the back of the tops) and...um...both women shouldn't have been wearing those. I know I shouldn't be talking, I am currently the size of the house dropped on the Wicked Witch of the West, but just because you can fit into something doesn't mean you should.

Anyway, one of the kids was running up and down the magazine aisle, ripping the covers off of the magazines. The people in line behind me and I just stared, aghast. The mother, who was holding the other child on her shoulder, simply shouted "You rip them covers off, and I ain't paying for them!"

I love it when people use good grammar.

The kid stared at his mother, shrugged, and then instead of his vandalism spree he started ripping all of the freebies off the magazines and stuffing them into his pockets. She nodded, satisfied that at least he wasn't doing anything criminal or anything like that, he wasn't ripping up magazines, he was just into petty thievery.

Right about now you're probably thinking "Why didn't Helen say anything to these women?" The reason Helen didn't say anything is simple: They would have kicked my ass up and down the aisle of that shop. I kid you not, they had "I dare you to challenge me" written all over them, and since Britain in general seems easier about the assault than America does. I've seen more people hit each other here than I ever did, ever, in America. I think the reason for this is simple - in America you get sued. Here, you really don't. Witness an altercation in some areas here and it's possible you'll see some action. While in general it's a very, very laid back culture in terms of confrontation, there are those who don't play by the rules. I've seen one guy go after Angus and cuff him one, for instance. Please don't for a minute think that where we live is dangerous or violent-the lack of guns makes things pretty safe, and the problems are pretty much centered with teens and gangs in the bigger poorer areas of cities. But it happens. These women had "I will follow you and smack you down, bitch" written all over them, and while that kind of thing usually doesn't phase me, it does tend to sway my actions when I'm 8 months pregnant.

So, like the others in the line, we simply stared.

The little girl at one point dropped her pacifier out of her mouth on to the floor, and it rolled to the feet of the other woman in their party. The other woman looked at it. She looked at me. Even though the pacifier was closer to her than to me, she challenged me with her eyes, with a "Well? Ain't you going to pick it up?" look.

And on this one, the Stupid People would not win. Not only would I not bend over and pick up the pacifier, but considering the position of one of the twins it's pretty impossible for me to bend over, anyway. I stared her back down.

The woman called the thuggish boy over to come pick up the pacifier and hand it to her. He did. The woman then took the pacifier and - I kid you not - slammed it into the mouth of the little girl.

"Don't drop it again, you fucking bitch!" she snarled, and - I couldn't believe it - reached out a hand and slapped the kid.

There was an audible gasp in the line behind me as we witnessed this. We couldn't believe it. What kind of future was in store for this poor kid?

Both myself and the woman behind me opened our mouths to say something.

The little girl, though, circumvented us. Reaching out a chubby white arm, the little girl swung her arm back and nailed the woman right in the face.

The other woman, instead of getting angry at the little girl's retaliation, burst into a smile. "That's my girl!" she cooed. "You smack me back real good, dintcha'?"

Right. So in your household vandalism, thievery, and rewarding violence with violence is the way to go.

I shook my head.

It was all too late for that family.


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

OK, as for the name voting- the poll thing-y seems to lock after you vote once, but I'm keeping all the stats and will combine them on Friday. This is a newly opened poll, but I did say that voting is open until Thursday and I'm determined that should be the case. You can vote once a day, and I'm feeling confused about the naming and am hoping for a lot of feedback here and the names are running close in terms of voting, so please vote!

more at twiigs.com...


-H.

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September 11, 2007

"Consider yourself at home! Consider yourself one of the family!"

I've always hated that song, actually. I think it's the line "Consider yourself part of the furniture!" that does my head in. What's the mean, actually? "Consider yourself part of the furniture?" Do I look like a recliner to you? Is there something about my T-shirt that reminds you of a laundry basket?

I've determined that I'm getting old. It's come on gradually, much like age itself has, but I am definitely aging. Case in point - recently one of our neighbors had a party for their teenager, and the party's noise levels could be heard all the way over in Germany. Speakers blaring, people laughing, girls screaming, arguments and taunts had...it was 150,000 decibels at least. The music blared at top volume, which might not have been so bad had they not kept changing the station mid-song. It happened constantly-a song would start, someone would decide that song did not, indeed, rock their world, and then there'd be the noise of someone searching for a new song. It drove me wild.

Years ago I never used to understand why people riding in the car with me would get angry with me for changing the station so much. It didn't compute. To these long-suffering souls, I offer the following - Mea culpa. I get it now.

The screaming was really grating on me, too. One loud, long scream drew me into our back garden to check that the girl was ok, and at the end of the song there was a silence and then huge laughter and then the girl making some kind of joke that invariably included the words "Ohmigod! That was so funny!" I wanted to go up to these girls and put my hands on their shoulders and tell them that these screams, they're the serious kind. Don't waste them now, babe, because that patronizing story about "never crying wolf" comes to mind, and someday you may need that scream.

I truly realized I had moved on in age when the party continued on well after midnight. We didn't want to complain, because 1) our house extension planning was still out to the neighbors for comment and we could see the retribution at twenty paces there and 2) we occasionally have backyard parties, too, and although we don't play music or scream like it's a ritual sacrifice, it'd be nice to know that our neighbors aren't playing tit for tat. But the noise was too much, I was really getting wound up.

"You're getting old," muttered the nearly-asleep Angus from the safety of his side of the bed.

Actually, I've always been one of those who is sensitive to noise at bedtime and can't fall asleep if it's too racuous outside (or I can, but it involves sedatives and/or alcohol). "It's ridiculous! Don't they have any respect for their neighbors?" I fume.

And I realize that I am moments away from pink sponge curlers, house coats, and a broomstick handle I use for coaxing my dozens of cats out of trees.

It's been coming on for a while, I think, this aging thing. I've noticed I drive differently now, much more reserved and cautious and certainly a lot slower than I ever did before. I have lost all confidence in parking a car now, too, and it takes me several attempts to get a car in a parking bay, which makes me feel about 100 years old.

I'm old in other ways, too - in our line of work we're big on text communications. I send many, many more texts than I do emails or phone calls for work purposes. But I'm a bit of a stickler about texts - I can't stand text abbreviations. If you want to text me the message "See you later, meet at the station!" then you'd better text me the message "See you later, meet at the station!" If I get a text that says "C U l8ter, meet @ st!" then I'm going to delete the fucking thing and wait until you text me a message spelled the grown-up way. It drives me crazy, that abbreviated text talk.

Similarly, I'm skipping another big trend that's going on. I met an old friend for lunch a month ago in London, and she wrote down her new Skype address. She asked me for mine, and I told her it. Then she asked me for my Facebook address.

"I don't do Facebook," I said, smiling.

The sound of her jaw hitting the floor caused many people to look over. "You don't do Facebook?" she nearly shrieked, with a degree of severity on par with "you don't do deodorant?" or "you don't advocate the prevention of cruelty to animals?"

I shrugged. "Nope. I looked in on it once with Angus when he was trying to find a mate from college, but it just seemed kinda' pointless-a wall where people you don't know can leave you messages, and you can link to thousands of people you don't know? Why would I do that?"

I do realize I'm a blogger and therefore am talking out of my ass a bit, but what can I say?

She shook her head. "OK, then, what's your MySpace page?"

I smile.

"You don't do MySpace either?" she shrieks again.

No, I don't. That seems even more pointless. On both MySpace and Facebook, all it seems to be is people connecting to anybody and everybody to be friends. The average entry reads "I had toast 4 brekfast and it wuz good. Later!" And the point of Facebook is to use your real name. So, lousy text talk, blowing my cover AND nothing to say, of course I want to join!

(Says the blogger, I know.)

Besides, the point of Facebook is linking up to people from your past.

For someone like me, that's about the scariest idea ever.

So yes. I'm old. I'm old and grouchy and anyday now I'm going to start re-using my teabags four and five times and I'll smell like government cheese.

All because I don't do Facebook and have become part of the furniture.

-H.

OK, so I haven't forgotten! Attached is the poll for what to name the Lemonheads based on your suggestions. If your suggestion didn't make it, it was because we possibly have that name on our "real life" Lemonhead list, we already know someone with that name in our real life, either of us has an ex with that name in real life (which therefore makes the name weirdly uncomfortable, as I'm sure you understand), or it was a name from sci-fi, and while I liked some of them Angus has a long-stated hatred for sci-fi, so out of respect for him we kept the names sci-fi free. Also, we didn't use "unreal" names-much as I got a great laugh out of Thing 1 and Thing 2, I couldn't see myself using those as names for the Lemonheads for the rest of my blog life.

I'll keep the poll up at the top of the blog until Friday, and then I'll announce the results. You can vote once a day and for those that like to remain lurking or hidden, you'll be able to - it doesn't record your IP address, so the voting really is anonymous. Honestly I'm feeling confused about the naming for the Lemonheads on this blog and am hoping for a lot of feedback here, so please vote!

more at twiigs.com...

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September 10, 2007

Bursting Bubbles

As movie goers, we like our magic. The magic around the story is what grabs us and keeps us tuned in. Fuck up the magic, and the bubble is burst.

I've found that with some people there are some types of films you can't watch. Maybe they're an expert on a certain subject, which means they're going to analyze shit to death, or maybe they're just on the lookout for specific things. An example - I watched Air Force One with my dad years ago. Seeing a film about a 747 with a 747 pilot is definitely a mistake. He just about held on to the film, despite angrily exclaiming "That's not possible!" a few times, but there was some scene where the 747 took off and landed in such a way that my dad threw his hands up in the air and had to leave. Being a non-pilot, it looked real to me, but I'll take his word on it.

Angus, of course, is a guru on electrics. Fry someone in a film from electricity and you'd better be sure you have your facts right, or else he'll be done watching the TV show/film pronto. He's constantly on the lookout for the details in scenes, and on more than one occasion he's had to stop watching something as they got it wrong. One memory serves in which we were watching a film where the heroine lay, gasping and dying, on a hospital bed in London. They apparently didn't feel the need to pay too close attention to the details, though, because there was a "Exit" sign by the door and a socket by the bed, both of which were Australian. Angus can spot these within 0.5 seconds of being flashed on the screen and if it's wrong he won't continue watching the film/TV show.

I'm not immune, either. Recently my movie buddy Lloyd (also in telecoms) and I saw two films that had us pointing to the screen simultaneously and exclaiming "That's not possible!" Lucky for us, the theatres were empty both times. The first was in Die Hard 4.0, when the young geek "hot programs" the mobile phone to go from GSM to satellite. This is no possible, senor. Phones don't work that way. The other was in Bourne Ultimatum (which I'll be honest, I loved. I thought the film was fantastic.) If you want to see what my usual commute is like, the first 20-odd minutes of the film were shot in London Waterloo Station, and it really was London Waterloo, it wasn't a mock-up...except for the scene in which Bourne goes to a kiosk and buys a mobile phone. That kiosk is not in Waterloo Station. The film scored a "That's not possible!" twice in that scene, the first for the mobile phone kiosk, the second because Bourne just unboxes the phone and uses it, and gimme a break-everyone knows you have to charge those bastards when you get them as the batteries are completely dead.

All this, and I don't even care that much about mobile phones.

I think we all do it, and not to look cool or show off-when you spend your days working with or have an interest in something, you're keen to see that Hollywood gets it right, instead of jonesing with it to suit their own purposes.

Something which I've recently become educated about is fertility, conception and babies. Not babies as in "Lookie here, I'm born" babies, God knows I'm clueless about that kind. But the incubating kind, the growing kind, I've learnt a lot about. I'm in no way an expert but it stuns me how many times I've seen little things on TV or in films that is no way accurate. I get it that there's a story to be told and that often you have to manipulate the ends to justify the means just to further the story, after all, who the hell wants to watch a film where they simply draw blood and report E2 numbers? But when I see these things, these small things, they wind me up.

A few months ago I started watching Brothers and Sisters which I unashamedly admit to loving. Whenever I watch that show I always get homesick for the States even though it makes no sense whatsoever-I've never lived in California, I don't come from a family of Democrats, I don't have a half-dozen or so siblings and my family isn't monstrously wealthy, nor do we all look that good. I get homesick when I watch the show just the same, for reasons I can't even make out myself.

Even though Season 1 is over in the States, we're only about halfway through it here. And the last episode I watched (recorded on the hard drive since I don't tend to watch my shows when they're actually on) was the one where the under-utilized Walker brother with the fucked-up eyebrow accompanied his wife to get a scan of their unborn baby. I'm no expert on scans, as I've noted, although fortunately Jen-Again is (Jen? You here? I'm still thankful you described those last scans for me!), but even though I can't make out what I'm seeing, there are a few facts I know for sure.

Mostly, that the entire scene they showed was bullshit.

The wife in the scene had what I understood was an IUI for starters, which means they would've checked in on her little hot pocket a long time before they did on the TV programme. Further, they showed the ultrasound tech doing loooooooooads of scanning before finally noticing and revealling to the excited parents that they were having twins. The parents went mental with joy and glee, the dad jumping and kissing his wife and shouting "I'm going to be a dad twice over!"

I felt like cold water had been thrown over me.

I remembered my own first post-positive pregnancy test scan and how even to my hopeless ultrasound eye the twin sacs were clear right away. That scan and every scan since the two little beans have been very clear. Granted, we never have any idea what we're looking at, these days they could just be scanning my colon and I wouldn't know, but there is one very obvious thing that I always see and that's the flickering light of two beating hearts. Those can't be missed.

I remembered how easy it was to see the two sacs.

Then I remembered what a really, really rough day that was.

And I sit there and feel the ice water feeling trickle into my cold dead heart.

It's true that a lot of things have gotten better and the "ohmigod, this is so bleak and what are we going to do" feeling we both had has, for the most part, passed. Now it's about moving forward, and there are even moments of light and hope - Angus the other day commented that he's already come up with a nickname for our as yet unborn daughter. Both Melissa and Jeff have nicknames and always have done, Angus calls them by these terms of endearment and probably always will. The fact that he's already come up with a nickname for our daughter - and the name, it's very, very sweet - meant the fucking world to me. If I could take that moment he mentioned his proposed nickname and hold it in a bottle I would, just so I could uncork the bottle and inhale the light that it held inside, because the glow it gave off could see the way through the darkest of nights .

The scene on the TV show got more unbelievable - the technician told them they were, like me, having a boy and a girl. The thing is, I remember that stage that the couple were at. It was "amorphous blob stage", where you may make out a few limbs and the heads and hearts are clear, but there's no way you'll see anything else. It's all just a blob. But naturally the technician could make out the sexes, even though the blobs looked to me to be the same as about my 12 wek scan, which is way too early to be able to make out the sexes of the babies on screen.

And the dad then went and recounted the news to his father's grave and spoke of his unparalleled joy at having twins, and then the happy couple broke the news to his happy family, and all the brothers and sisters and mothers screamed with joy and excitement and love and all that other happy pony shit and everyone lived happily ever after because that's what happens in Hollywood-land and that's how families react in that imaginary world we all try to associate to but never succeed.

I clearly need to stick to programmes with mobile phones, 747s, and light sockets.

And I sat there watching the TV and I knew that my bubble had burst, not because couples don't rejoice the news that they're having twins, because if one thing reading infertility blogs has taught me, it's that many parents do go happy-mental at having twins.

I knew my bubble burst not because I had twigged several mistakes on the ultrasoud scene of the show.

I knew my bubble burst because I will never know what it's like to have that happy, ecstatic jumping.

Sometimes it's no fun watching something that you are well-versed in, because it simply reminds you of what you haven't learnt for yourself.

-H.

PS-many thanks to Emily, who very kindly decided the Lemonheads needed a playgym. I can't wait to see them under it, making noises that make no sense to anyone but them.

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September 07, 2007

This Old House

OK, so last weekend was spent in a haze of horror-filled house. Not in an emotional way, but in a physical one - we had Angus' youngest brother round on Saturday to help us move furniture, as I am out of furniture moving commission and we have to start to try to get ready for things. We're emptying the room used today as Angus' study/Jeff's room, and I gave up my study to Angus (which is only fair, as he's got almost no paternity leave and I will be off work for about 4 months.) We can't do too much-although the nursery needs doing, Jeff is still very sensitive, so we're only moving PCs and such out of his room but waiting to move the rest of it until his weekend visit two weeks from now concludes (and yes, we're both worried about how he's going to be when he gets here). So until he goes home on September 23, the nursery stuff remains hidden under beds, in cabinets, and it occasinally stresses me out, especially since yesterday one of the babies engaged.

But such is life.

Anyway, the house was the single biggest disaster zone I had ever seen as a result of the furniture move. All of our shoes were under the kitchen table (Why, you might ask? Why not? Isn't under the kitchen table a perfect place for all footwear to congregate?) Cables for computers, laptops, chargers, what have you were snaked over every available surface. The house was caked with dust, as Angus is very particular about cables and such and insists that cables are run through the walls, not along the floors and thus holes were drilled. One whole couch is buried under goods that have made their way to ebay (it may be a pain, but the money will come in handy). It was hell.

And then we got a letter from the council - in order to process our request for an extension they had to come do a site survey.

That day.

Cue frantic tidying.

I mean, I know they're looking at the structure, not the cleanliness of the house, but somehow I couldn't stand the idea of someone thinking that we actually live like this. I remember reading in The Grapes of Wrath how Ma Joad needed to sweep her house just before they walk out of it and into the Dust Bowl, as she can't bear anyone thinking she wasn't a good housekeeper. That'd be me then. I'm Ma Joad.

So we worked hard and the house is much better.

My "study" is done. I bought a 100 year-old school desk, the kind with the double lids and the inkwells. It looked like this:


Desk before


I re-finished it. I sanded it and painted it (had to be done, it had water damage). I had lots of help.


Sanding

And now all the kit goes inside the desk and the monitor hangs on the wall and I love my little desk. I only paid £7.00 for it, too, so I love it even more.


My finished desk


In Angus' study we got rid of our IKEA glasstop and trestles and bought ourselves a grown-up desk which we got from a family clearing out their attic. Angus' new desk is an Edwardian desk, a proper, heavy antique. I think it looks stunning, although the top of it needs refinishing, which Angus is working on (there's a cable on the floor there, which is now safely tucked inside a wall).


Angus' Desk


We've refinished other things, too. When Melissa was here we bought a chest of drawers for Melissa's room. Melissa picked them out from a shop, and they were seriously fugly. So fugly that even though they were old, they cost almost nothing, as they were, in Angus' words, "covered in Grandma dust".


Melissa cupboard


Melissa herself refinished them.


Melissa fixes up the cupboard


It's in her room now and I think it looks great (even if she did nick my Barbola mirror to go on top of it).


Melissa cupboard final


(If you see a theme here of us adopting furniture that's not only very old but in very bad shape, buying it on the cheap, and then fixing it up, then you're not far off. We love doing this kind of thing, and it's somehow more endearing to know that you worked hard restoring some furniture and that you'll have it for a long time. Hell, this is a theme in our whole fucking house - rescued second-hand relationship, rescued second-hand dog, rescued second-hand cat...give us your tired and your neglected, your huddled masses yearning to be rebuilt inside and out.)

While Melissa re-finished her cupboard and while Angus was whipping up a frenzy in the kitchen cabling, I had some oiling to do. My beloved Seymour did not last the horrible wet summer. Even though Seymour had been oiled religiously and protected to some degree, the rain was too much for him. Seymour warped and split. Seymour rotted. Seymour was returned to the shop for a full refund.

And Seymour was replaced by this beauty:


Seymour II


It was love at first sight for me. Seymour II is triangular. I love that. Seymour II wanted to come home with me. So I oiled Seymour II and he's outside right now, not remotely bothered about the rain.

It was meant to be.

I also took a table I've had for about 10 years and gave it a paint job, it's now got a renewed lease on life and will be used outside in cooperation with Seymour II.


Before (and freshly primed):


outside table


During:


painting white table


And...um...there's no "after" pic as it's not done yet. We chose bright cheerful colors-the table is a lime green, and the chairs are a pale orange. I know it sounds like we're on LSD or something, but we based it on these colors, from a lifeguard hut we love on South Beach:


South Beach lifeguard hut


Maybe I'll finish it up this weekend, it just needs some touch-ups to the top of the table. In general I'm off large projects or anything involving lifting, but running a paintbrush back and forth is manageable.

We got a lot of projects done, and the house is in far better shape than it was. But a lot of projects aren't going to get done now - there's a cabinet we bought from our favorite antique shop that is going to remain in the shed, until we can get around to it.

We'd also intended to create some in-built shelves and paint the floor of the study (yes, I know that's strange. The floor is actually wood, and original, but the previous owner lacquered the fuck out of the floor. She used to lacquer it monthly and the stain is so far in the wood that it simply needs repainting or replacing. As the lacquer wasn't great quality stuff either, every little scratch or mark shows up. So we're going to paint it. Someday.) but we're simply running out of time. We have guests here mid-September, then Melissa and Jeff, and then hopefully we can whip the nursery into shape in time for the babies to arrive (they're not getting much-the spare bed moved out, the walls painted a new color, a cabinet moved in and their crib assembled). So the study really has to wait.

And this is where we're at. In between projects, hanging out, trying to get the house in some kind of order but not really knowing what that order is.

Thus endeth what you might possibly regard as my most uninteresting post to date.

-H.

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September 06, 2007

Planning Permission

We are nearing the end of our "Hoping and Praying" stage of planning permission for our extension. The council has had our application for about a month now, and have told us we'll have a decision by 27 September, but so far it looks good. The council asks all and sundry their objections (if any) about our planned works, and so far no one has objected (fingers crossed).

So we wait. We're creating lists of builders to have at the ready, and a list of works that need doing. Angus has gotten a trade card at a local hardware shop for building supplies, and we're planning on ripping out the bathroom upstairs in favor of new bathroom goods and replacing the horrible carpet in the living room with floorboards at the end of the year ourselves, as neither of those rooms are being touched by the new building and it will save money if we handle it between the two of us. I also happen to really like tiling. It's a sickness, I know.

We're at a tricky place, really. When we bought this house a year and a half ago we got a stellar deal on the place. We were lucky-it should have cost more than it did, thereby pricing us out of this house, but the woman wanted a quick sale and priced the house as such. But much has happened in the past 18 months-interest rates here have skyrocketed, so that we have to pay more towards our mortgage than we did before (we don't have a fixed rate, as the APR at the time wasn't beautiful and we didn't want to be locked to it. Lesson learned.)

We always planned on extending this house, we just hadn't realized how urgently it would need to be done. Our house today is a 3 bedroom, 1.5 bath house. We have an enormous kitchen that's very dark and 1960's. We have a big living room and a nice-sized study. There are 6 fireplaces, only 2 of which still work (but we only use one of them). The garden is fucking enormous, which was a selling point and I love it but it's far too much work for the two of us and we seriously suck at gardening.

So before we bought the house, when we were renting, we saved every last pound we could spare in hopes of renovating a house someday. We have a savings account that is for this specific purpose, but the scary thing is that it will be absolutely drained in the extension. We will wipe out our savings in one go. And it's true, we'll be adding to the value of the house, but still-it's pretty scary. Especially with two babies on the way. To save costs, we'll be fitting the rooms out ourselves, including the bathroom and the kitchen, but we both like doing that kind of thing so it'll be ok.

Hopefully.

The truth is, the way that real estate has gone here, we actually can't afford to move. Houses in our area go for far more money now than they did 2 years ago. Houses in this country in general go for stupidly insane sums of money, and there's a critical problem with people who are not on the property ladder being able to get on to it - first-time buyers simply can't afford it. I can see why-between house costs and taxes, it's scary the sums of money that people discuss. An example of the inflation - 10 years ago Angus' father bought his house for £200,000. It's now worth £1.5 million. I'm not saying this to impress you, but to illustrate that once you're in a house here you really have to stay in it, as who can afford to move? We bought our house as Angus and his ex had two large properties, one in Sweden and one in England - he got the house in England, which we sold and thus were able to buy this house, and she got the house in Sweden (I feel it's important to note that she got the more expensive house by far. And it's actually two large houses on one huge chunk of property in Stockholm, one of which she keeps empty "just because". Why is this important to note? 'Cause I'm feeling bitchy, really. That's why.)

We need to live in this area due to its location for London and for Heathrow (for Melissa and Jeff), so moving to a cheaper locale isn't an option right now, although we're hopeful that we will be able to move in about 8 years time to an area that doesn't cost so much. Truthfully, moving in general isn't possible. So we have to extend, especially as one bathroom doesn't cut it today let alone when there are 4 people living here full-time, and even more so as the sensitivities are huge regarding the two new arrivals-everyone needs a bedroom now, and so bedrooms there shall be.

Here's an architect copy of our plans (you know, in case you're interested. Or if it's angst you're looking for in my post today, then lemme' tell you-read between the lines and there's angst). I've included a link for each picture with a pop-up in case it's hard to make out what's what.

This is what the front of the house looks like today (top of the picture) and what it will look like (bottom half of the picture):


Front of the house

Front elevation


And here's what the back of the house looks like today (top of the pic) and what it will look like (bottom of the pic):


Back of the house


Back of the house


And finally the floor plans.

This is what we currently have:


Exisisting floorplans


Existing floor plans

This is what the ground floor will look like when we're done:


New ground floor


New ground floor


And this is what the upstairs will look like:


New first floor


New first floor


Stressful times coming, my friend. Stressful times.

But it's needed. We are out of space right now for both Angus' kids and the two coming ones. It's clear that Angus' kids are unhappy with the space they have, and their happiness is important to us both, so they'll each have their own room. The Lemonheads will be sharing a room for a few years, as they'll be too small to really mind. The spare bedroom will also be Angus' study.

I love our house, but I know it's not big enough, nor light enough-half of the house is in near-total darkness a lot as there's a shortage of windows. I know the house doesn't make Angus happy, that he loved his house in Sweden more- his Swedish house was a 230 year-old renovation work, so hopefully a lot of renovation and the ability to use our imagination will be good for his love of this house.

We'll have our answer about building in about 3 weeks. We still have to hire a builder but we have a list of builders, and we won't start work until after the new year. At which point, I'll be a screaming, weeping alcoholic and you won't recognize me.

-H.

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September 05, 2007

A Letter Was Needed, and a Letter Was Had

The hospital stays, they haven't been all bad. There was one bright spark that happened in both hospital stays that did something for me, that re-affirmed my faith in people, that made me feel like this is one long damn journey but there are people you meet on the road who will show you something that stays with you long after you've left the path. I guess it's hard to see what good can come out of a hospital stay, but here it is.

Last week when I was walking Angus to the door - visiting hours were over, and it was time for him to go, and as the ward is protected by security doors I like to walk there with him to get the last few moments of company we can - I passed the night shift of midwives coming in. One woman I recognized right away, and it was clear she recognized me, too. But as she was coming in and I was walking Angus out, we smiled at each other and went about our business.

A little while later, a midwife came in and asked me for a urine sample, presenting me with a reinforced cardboard hat to wee in and bring back to her. I did so, then went looking for the midwife. I found out she'd since gone home, but was pointed to her replacement.

It was India.

India, the midwife I'd recognized in the hallway earlier.

Her face broke into a huge smile, as did mine.

"Helen!" she cried, reaching an arm out and hugging my shoulders to her.

"Hello, India," I said, grinning ear to ear.

"I'm so happy to see you," she said. "Or I'm not, because you being here means you're not well, but it's nice to see you anyway."

India was one of my midwives during my hospital visit in July. An older, grandmotherly figure who comes from the country of her name, she is short, always smiling, has the kindest eyes, and has beautiful brown skin that makes me envious. She moved to the UK from India many years ago and still has a small, uplifting trace of an accent.

"Same problem?" she asked.

"Same problem," I replied, confirming I was there due to infection.

She smiled at me. "Well, I'm glad to see you again, anyway," she said.

"It's nice to see you too," I laughed. "I even brought you a present!" I announce, holding out my cardboard urine hat.

She smiles and takes it. "I can't believe you wrote that letter," she said. "You made me cry."

"You earned it." I reply, and I mean it.

Last July I'd had a tough time of it. Not like the August visit was a funhouse or anything, but at least I knew what to expect of the hospital visit the second time around. The maternity and ante-natal wards are set up in what I understand is the usual NHS style-there are 6 women to a very large room, 3 beds to each side, with long curtains that we can draw around the beds for privacy and for exams. There are two toilets opposite every room in the hallway, along with a bathtub room and a shower room that is equipped with two showers. From time to time you see a small room off to the side, and these rooms are individual rooms for new mothers with insurance, or with problem babies, or special circumstances. Apparently, once the Lemonheads arrive I stand a good chance of getting one of these rooms as twins are often relegated to them (I also have insurance and am not afraid to use it).

In July the rooms were always full-I had a woman with severe anemia across from me. A woman with breathing problems was next to her. Beside me was a woman who'd been trying to give birth for 4 days but was going in to a C-section the next day for relief. The two beds by the windows were a revolving door for women coming in, going in to labor, and leaving. In general, we didn't talk and we kept our curtains drawn (although in August we tended to leave our curtains open and we all talked to each other).

So one night last July, I was having a particularly tough night. I hadn't slept in days. The antibiotics hadn't kicked in yet so I was still not only in pain but suffering from the inability to wee. It was the middle of the night and my room was quiet-the overhead lights were all off. The hallway, bright and alive, threw a few shadows around. I was in agony, trooping off to the toilet every 10 minutes convinced that now, now would be the time that my bladder would drain, only to be disappointed every time.

Finally, I couldnt' take any more.

Wheeling my IV stand to the midwife station, I met up with India.

"Are you ok, dear?" she asked, looking at my face.

"India," I started crying. "I just can't go to the toilet and I really need to go."

She comes up and puts her arm on my arm. "I think the best thing to try is a catheter. It won't be comfortable, but it may give you some relief," she says kindly. "Go lay down, I'll be right there."

I nod. I go back to my bed, and in no time India shows up with plastic packages of kit.

"I'm so sorry," I gulp. "I'm sure you think I'm such a baby, crying like this when there are women going in to labor on this ward."

"Not at all, you're very uncomfortable, I can see that," she replied. She gloves up and gets ready. "The catheter will be very uncomfortable, I'm afraid."

"I don't care," I croak. "Do whatever you can. I'll give you a baby if you can help me pee."

She laughs. "I'll take the little girl then. I have a daughter, I don't think I'd know how to raise a son."

I laugh back.

She was right-the catheter was uncomfortable. It did drain a bit off the bladder, although not as much as we would have liked. "I think your bladder is just full of infection, dear," she says, removing the catheter. "It's just sore and swollen."

I hold my hands over my eyes. "I can't do this," I whimper. I am pathetic. I should get a fucking grip on myself.

There is the sound of rustling, as she takes the gloves off and uses antibiotic gel. The bed light over me is harsh and pierces the darkness in an unkind way. My eyes burn, my insides burn, everything burns. Suddenly I feel a hand on my forehead. Her hands, worn down from years of washing and of alcohol gel and holding newly delivered babies, are like strong smooth velvet, and they shine from their constant polishing. "It's ok, Helen," she says soothingly. "It's going to be ok."

And I feel, more than anything, that I have not so much the comfort of a midwife, but the soothing hands of a mother on my side.

"Just rest, dear," she says kindly. "I'm here all night and will keep checking on you." And she stayed by my bed a little while longer, until I had calmed down.

Remarkably, even though the pain didn't go away, something about the catheterization did seem to help (or maybe it was just timing) - I was able to start peeing after that, and although it was uncomfortable, at least it was possible.

When I was discharged from the hospital, India's calm reassurance stayed with me. I thought back to that night when she talked me down and calmed me. I felt that I owed her something profound, because even though she was just doing her job, she had a kindness and care about her that shouldn't be lost.

So I wrote a letter to the head of the hospital and the board of trustees, thanking the entire antenatal unit, but above all thanking her.

In August, India's eyes started to tear up. "Your letter made me cry," she said. "I got called in to the head man's office. I was so scared! I had never been called to his office before. And I go in, worried I was in trouble, and instead he thanked me and showed me your letter! It was so wonderful, thank you! They gave me a copy and they also posted it on the wall at the midwive's station. And I got another letter from the head man, thanking me! I have both letters at home, and I showed my family. They were so proud of me."

I smile. "You should've hit the head man up for a pay raise then."

She looks at me. "I've been a midwife for 35 years, and no one's ever written a letter like that before. I just go about and do my job and take care of you ladies and your babies, this is what I do."

"That's exactly why I wanted to write you a letter," I reply.

And that August night, even though I didn't need a catheter and I managed to mostly sleep through the night, she came and checked on me and the rest of her brood in our little room. It was an ordinary shift for her on an ordinary day. And while I absolutely think that the hospital I go to is a great hospital with fantastic (overworked and underpaid) staff, and I am thankful for all of them, but I am especially grateful to a midwife who made me feel, for a moment, that there is comfort and solace in a little corner of a curtained world. She was extraordinary, and that saved me.

And that's why I wanted to thank her. I wanted to thank her for reminding me that I wasn't alone, that everything wasn't fruitless, that there was someone who cared and understood, someone who had impacted me, someone who didn't expect or demand thanks, but who deserved it. I owe her so much for that.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:22 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
Post contains 1707 words, total size 9 kb.

September 04, 2007

32 Week Scan

So, as far as the Lemonheads go, we had our 32 week scan today (they'll be 32 weeks tomorrow, so close enough.) We trooped in to that now too-familiar hospital, sat down, and waited. I brought my urine sample from home, which we have to bring to each appointment. It's incredibly difficult to wee into something the size of a toilet paper roll, but I managed to do so while elegantly urinating all over my wrist. Once I washed off and sealed the vial, I rolled the vial around, simultaneously grossed out and fascinated by all the bits floating in the liquid.

"Look!" I had called to Angus. "Look at all the floaty bits in here!"

He looked repulsed. I realized I may have just jeopardized any chances of sexual activity I had been hoping for today with one flash of a floaty-bit vial.

Once at the hospital I hand the vial over to the nurse and get called in to scan.

The babies are just fine. The boy remains cephalic (lying head down), his head resting very low. The little girl is breech, her head high up in my rib cage (which would explain why I can neither breathe nor bend over) and her feet aimed near her brother's head. Picture the yin/yang symbol and you've got it. Because the first baby out of the chute is cephalic, we are opting for a regular, non-Caesarean delivery, as it's got the easiest recovery time for me and is best for baby-apparently the act of birth itself helps their lungs and we think that's important, especially as twins can have immature lungs easier than singletons as they tend not to bake in the oven so long.

Both babies have passed a milestone as well-both weigh about 4 pounds 2 ounces, which is key. Babies get an automatic ticket to the SBCU here if they're under 4 pounds, and while this doesn't mean that if they come tomorrow they won't be in SBCU for their lungs, at least their birth weights are good.

Um...and they're large. Large babies. We're talking 95th percentile here. Angus and I are both tall and built like peasants, it appears we're passing on thsee trait to the babies.

We didn't get any pictures as there's just nothing to see anymore, the technician said the larger the babies get the less clear the scan pictures are. Considering Angus and I can't make a damn thing out anyway there was pretty much no point in getting pictures, and we weren't bothered that we have nothing to take home for the album (yes, I do have a baby scrapbook. Sue me.) We saw them ourselves. I feel them all the time. We know how it's going in there.

We met with our consultant as well. While we were waiting, I turned to Angus.

"I'm willing to offer him a blow job if he'll induce me soon, is that ok?" I ask.

I am only half-joking.

After dealing with my sleepless nights, my restless leg syndrome that causes me to kick him all night, and my wild moods (including the infamous "Helen Temper Tantrum" that was yesterday morning), I'm thinking he'd offer to blow the consultant to get me induced, too.

The consultant says that they want to get me to 37-38 weeks, and I won't go beyond 38 weeks as he's concerned about my infections and the fact that there is a risk the infections will start to impact the babies. Although I am on antibiotics and will remain so for the pregnancy, my urine still shows signs of infection (see: floaty bits. See also: utter grossness) and it looks like this is par for the course for the rest of the pregnancy.

The next few scans are key - if the babies stop growing then they're coming out. If my UTI/kidney infections flare up after 34 weeks, then they're coming out. Currently, it all looks good inside of me-babies look fine, amniotic fluid levels are fine-but the babies are indeed out of room. My consultant is sure that they won't turn before birth because there's simply no space for them to do so. The boy will continue to have hiccups against my cervix. The girl will continue to make it very difficult to breathe.

I love these kids already.

The next milestone is 2 weeks away, when I hit 34 weeks. At that point the consultant is confident the babies will be able to breathe on their own thanks to their size and the steroid shots. This is huge for me-since my first infection at about 26 weeks, the babies' lungs have been on my mind a lot. The relief at hitting 34 weeks and knowing that they may get to escape time in the SBCU (NICU) is enormous.

I'm trying to emotionally prepare myself for 6 more weeks. At least it means the nursery will be able to be addressed in time. We've been paring down the names list, and think we have some final candidates. I'm trying to get ready, if there really is such a thing.

So if they don't bust out on their own or if something doesn't happen, it looks like babies will be here anytime between October 10-20 thanks to the miracle of induction.

We can make it that long, right?

Right?


-H.

PS - I apologize for being quiet here - I haven't felt much like talking, and anyway we spent the weekend moving PCs, getting our "comms center" working, and I didn't really have access to the PC. I got a number of emails, none of them of the "you ungrateful bitch" variety, and the support and complete kindness in them overwhelmed me (in a good way, that is.) I owe you a reply and will hopefully be able to get some PC action today, so will do.

And thank you.

I mean it.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:42 PM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
Post contains 989 words, total size 5 kb.

September 01, 2007

And the Winner In the "This is JUST What I Need Right Now" Category....

The postman just delivered the post.

I have heard from the government regarding my HSMP visa application to stay in the UK.

I failed.

Apparently I did not sufficiently prove that I can speak English.

So I'll call the Immigration Office on Monday and discuss. Luckily, I did finally get a letter from UTA confirming my classes were taught in English. I also apparently need to supply a letter from my work confirming my salary, as the salary info I sent over wasn't enough.

I have 28 days to sort all of this out, at which point I get a big "reject" letter from the government and am well and truly screwed. I have or can get all of the information now that they're asking for, but it's a real fucking kick in the teeth, man.

Just what I need. Immigration issues. Perfect.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:11 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
Post contains 172 words, total size 1 kb.

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