January 31, 2008

My Shameful Secret

The other night I was looking for some photos from my childhood that I had scanned, and thus I looked into a folder on the drive called "Scanned Photos" (seriously, my powers of deduction amaze me sometimes). Instead of my photos, I found some of Angus' scanned photos. I had expected to see photos of me in various states of hideous fashion homages to the eras, instead what I found was an explosion of the 80's.

The 80's were a time when I think it would've been great to be in your teens or early 20's. Must've been fantastic. The weirdness of the 60's were over, the strange groovy disco darkness and industrial action of the 70's had passed. The 80's were about being young, having money, and being irresponsible. Our kids, well, they'll be growing up recycling the air they breathe, the dirt they walk on, all with weird names like Scyelahr and Jaedeanene and shit like that. They're going to wish they had the 80's and its use of the word "entrepreneur".

The 80's in those pictures were immediately recognizable by the hair. You know - the hair. Throw a lit match into a room and the place would've gone up like a torch thanks to the vast amount of Aquanet in the room (and thanks for all that CFC action there, people.) The women had The Blush. You know the one, the one that looked like you had to stab a thick blush brush into a pot of orange rouge, then go up the cheek in one solid stripe until you hit the hairline? That Blush? Everyone was kneedeep in shoulder pads and the peasant look was hitting that group hard.

Good times, people, good times.

I think the 80's would've been great - sex, dancing, alcohol, money, and properly tragic clothing. I'm envious of Angus that he had that era. I had the 90's, and if claiming Vanilla Ice in my era isn't embarassing then I don't know what is (I do get a lot of mileage in pointing out that Angus got married in 1988, when I was just 14. That humors me somehow.)

But the 80's are spectacular for one important reason - their music kicked ass.

Honest.

See: Vanilla Ice if you don't believe me.

So to steal an idea from MsPruFrock I'm here to admit my shameful love of certain songs that I have on my iPod (all of mine from the 80's) and am not afraid to admit it*.

1) Always on My Mind - the Pet Shop Boys. Forget Elvis, man. This English group takes the song, buys it a drink, shags it, leaves a cheese sandwich on the nightstand and goes about its merry way.

2) Separate Lives - Phil Collins. Yes, that's right. The King of Smarm is on my list. Whenever I listen to this song I feel I should be flinging myself into someone's arms and begging them to remember the good days, when in reality what I usually do is open another can of Diet Coke.

3) House of Fun - Madness. Whenever I hear this song I immediately start jumping around like a Charlie Brown character. I know I can't dance and I'm ok with that. This song helps me believe that no one else can dance, either. I also love their other song Our House, which is forever intermingled with the frat boys singing "Our house...our house is burning down. Our house..." from Revenge of the Nerds because I think I watched that film 100 million times.

4) Tainted Love - Soft Cell. Of course I went there. Everyone goes there.

5) More Than This - Roxy Music. Even though today I kinda' hate Bryan Ferry and his pro-hunting stance, I fucking love this song. It should be danced to with lots of candles and a bottle of red wine, but I've never done that because really, think about the mess.

6) True - Spandau Ballet. Thank you, Sixteen Candles. Ahhh ha ha HAAAAA HAAAAA!

7) Down Under - Men at Work. The only song I know incorporating the words "vegemite sandwich". Don't tell me you didn't think they were cool as shit in their video.

We Belong - Pat Benetar. Doesn't it make you feel like you should be running underneath jumbo jets, the entire scene a bit orange and the wind all hot? No? It doesn't? Just me then.

9) Luka - Suzanne Vega. Yes. Just yes.

10) Sweet Dreams - Eurythmics. Annie Lennox is the coolest, even with The Hair. Not many people could shave themselves to look like a tennis ball, dye it bright red, and get away with it. She can.

11) Take on Me - A-Ha. I'll excuse the bad grammar just because I like shrieking at the top of my range with the guy in this song. I don't have a fucking clue what he's saying, I just like trying to make the dog bark. Plus the video! How cool was that? In the mirror are sketched people! Cutting edge at the time, man. Cutting edge.

12) Slave to Love - the evil Bryan Ferry again. This one is what Angus and I call "a bum clutcher", meaning if you danced to this one then you got to hold on to the other person's butt for a nice long song.

13) Every Breath You Take - The Police. I love The Police and I'm only moderately embarassed to admit that. I loved their song Russians as well, because I was nothing if not an idealist.

14) In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel. I love that man, I think he's fantastic, and naturally I loved the use of the song in Say Anything because it was a John Cusack film and if you read this blog you know my adoration of Le Cusack. Petey's aged and his music, it's a little out there now, but I think no one owned 80's music quite like he did.

15) 99 Luftballons - Nena. So groovy, even if most of us really never knew what she was singing. Still, very cool.

16) Rock Me, Amadeus - Falco. Forever associated with the film for me, I loved this song. I remember thinking it was edgy and different but let's be honest-when the guy is singing he sounds like he's choking. Plus once you hear it, this song will be on your mind for days on end, which is both a plus and a minus.

17) Africa - Toto. Admitting that one is pretty shameful, like admitting you used to wear jelly shoes and you liked it. But you had me at the lyrics: Its gonna take a lot to drag me away from you/ Theres nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do.

There are more, but I'll stop now. I've done enough damage.

You? What'd I miss? What horrors do I need to download?

-H

* online that is. In real life I'd never tell anyone I listened to these songs. Also I haven't yet admitted to you that of course I also have a whole lotta' Abba (Don't go wasting your emooooo-shunuuuuun! Lay all your love on me!) on the iPod because, well, I'm a bit shy.

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January 30, 2008

This and That

Last night Angus and I sat down to watch a Horizon episode about gravity. We like Horizon. Horizon is like the poor man's university. We like poor universities.

Anyway, about 20 minutes into the program, when the chappie who needs a haircut started to explain Einstein's space-time continuum concept, a little puff of smoke emitted from behind my eyeball as my brain blew a fuse trying to understand what he was talking about. I think particle physics is like cricket-you either understand it or you don't, and no amount of trying will get you to connect two schools of thought will succeed if there just isn't a bridge there to support it. Thus entered Helen into the familiar territory known as "Hey, I just don't understand this, so I'm going to start taking the piss".

Angus, who blew his own fuse a little while after I did, joined me.

Apparently Newton's theory of gravity isn't correct when it applies to space, because lots of scientists with too much time on their hands spent lots of time (40 years. Seriously, they've spent 40 years. Blows my already blown mind.) trying to determine the distance between the moon and earth. What they've found is that Newton's calculations on gravity are wrong - his formula causes you to miscalculate the roughly 250,000 miles between earth and the moon by 10 meters.

That's right.

The chap was wrong by 10 meters.

Cue much haranguing from Angus and I.

"What, he misplaced the moon by 10 meters? Pretty careless of him."

"He couldn't even get it right! Off by 10 meters? What a maroon."

The scientist then went to the Deep South in America to study gravity.

"They have gravity in the Deep South," I said thoughtfully. "You know, when you pull that broken down pickup off the cinder block? Yeah. The truck falls. That's gravity."

(A little secret about me - I was born in the Deep South. This, I feel, gives me the right to make fun of it, much like I make fun of most everything about me.)

But my new excuse for everything is going to be Einstein's space time theory. Apparently Einstein said the earth's mass warps the space time continuum, which thus throws everything off. That's going to be my excuse for all kinds of things. "Sorry I'm late, it's this damn space time continuum." "I would do it, but I feel really blue today thanks to the space time continuum." "I could garden, but the space time continuum is telling me to just sit here on the couch."


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


I've decided that periods are actually a very good thing. This after a week of eating everything and anything that:

1) was a carb
2) resembled a carb
3) planned on being a carb
4) once touched a carb
5) was in a school play dressed as a carb and had the line "I provide your daily supply of starches!"

I've always been grateful for the blood flow, because it helps me instantly drop the fistful of dried pasta and Golden Grahams clasped in my grubby little hand, as suddenly I'm just not that bothered anymore.


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


You've maybe noticed that on the top left hand side of my blog page (in case you haven't noticed I'll wait here while you scroll up. Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere. OK? Back now?) that I have ads. I know they're not beautiful. I know you probably ignore them. I feel a bit embarrassed to have them myself, but I am going to ask a favor.

As of March we have shocking expenses hitting us left and right (more on that later) for a long time to come. The belt tightening has already begun. I know a lot of bloggers have ads, some of them very altruistically, and I'm very happy to take the ad revenue that I may make and donate them to a good cause (gifts for folks, bottles of sympathy wine for those who need one) once the belt tightening has ended, but in the meantime believe it or not, I could use the extra income. I don't make a lot from the ads, it won't get me rich and I won't be able to quit my job and become a career blogger ( in fact, the ad revenue won't even keep the un-potty trained in this house in diapers for a fortnight) but every little bit helps.

You don't have to buy anything, all you have to do is click on the ads if you see one up there. Your bank details will not be sent to a cartel in Russia, you will not be inundated with online games, and you won't find your cursor has changed to a vibrating smiley face designed to send you into a seizure. But the clicks on the ads are tallied and stats sent to would-be advertisers who really would like to ensure their ad monies go to places where clickies will actually happen, so if you don't mind and if you have a spare clicking second, I'd really appreciate any help. I'm really sorry about it, too, and admit I feel embarassed to even ask you for this, but I'll be honest - we all have a price and my price is a few weeks worth of Pampers.


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


Captain Constipation is still very much in place, although I have taken the lovely Martha's suggestion and I have my daily prune juice warmed up. I actually look forward to it, even. I like the taste.

It's official then. I'm an old person in the body of an almost 34 year old.

Next week: How to Cook With Cat Food and How to Tell Those Damn Kids to Turn Down Their Damn Music.


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


I'm off to the health visitor tomorrow to talk very seriously about weight gain for the little people and about post-natal depression because sometimes even Warrior Goddesses can't get out of something without some help. I'll keep you posted.

-H.

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January 29, 2008

Form Filling

Whenever I see a form that I have to fill out with the empty, glaring box marked "Occupation", I always have to fight what I really want to put down, and put down instead my real job, which I state as "engineer/manager" as I'm something across those two. I've flirted with the idea of putting down "Pet Shop Boys wanna-be roadie", "Day Glo Stick test engineer", or "Muffin Head". But those are just idle flirtations, those are just me having an affair with the truth. Because the truth is, even though I put down "engineer/manager" in that little box, there's only one occupation that I always battle my hand to not fill in.

That occupation is "Warrior Goddess".

I always want to fill that in.

Before anyone goes there, lemme' just say that I am not currently on any medication (although am thinking of knocking that one on the head, I'll be honest). I am also not hearing little voices in my head telling me to boil the bunny. I do not have a stuffed swan that I am turning into a dress, because that's been done, too, with some Icelandic flair.

Nor am I Xena, or even something like Xena. For the record - I only ever saw one episode of Xena and I was pretty fucking drunk when I saw that one episode. I'm pretty sure Xena was created by a man because no woman would choose to dress like that, and Xena and Gabriel definitely munched the fish taco. Seriously, you just know they went south of the border on occasion.

"More blood of the Garbangon, Gabs?"

"Don't mind if I do, Xena. What is that, 80 proof?"

"90, but who's counting. Say, you look pretty hot in that ripped leather outfit that resembles nothing more than a chamois I used to buff up the leather on my dragon this morning. Speaking of buffing up..."

No, I'm not Xena either. Nor am I deity or anything like that. But I do want to put down "Warrior Goddess" on my occupation form everytime, simply because sometimes I like to pretend that's what I am.

Honest.

Take this pond business, for instance. Dressed in crappy sweats and my hair in 6 different directions of ugly, I was pulling and forcing tree stumps out of the ground. With my hands. And a great big fuck off shovel that I think has been in a number of CSI episodes as a potential murder weapon. And with each stone I removed, I would turn to Angus and report.

"The Warrior Goddess has removed another tree. She is beholden to none. NONE!"

And he's nod and go about pruning the apple tree because he's used to my nonsense.

The Warrior Goddess, she can come in handy. When people start to get the better of me, sometimes I whip out the Warrior Goddess. The Warrior Goddess speaks in the third person. She does not wear leather. She can be a slightly arrogant bitch, but then we all get a little PMS from time to time, the Warrior Goddess is no exception.

The Warrior Goddess is slightly tougher than her more mousy alter-ego Helen, whom the Warrior Goddess looks at with disdain sometimes, people, disdain! Why does Helen feel the need to wear gardening gloves when pulling out tree stumps! This should be done with one's bare hands so that one can feel the pull of the earth! One should have blisters and callouses to prove one's worth! Why does Helen need to tap the pickle jar lid against the cabinet, if Helen wasn't such a weakling she could simply grab the jar and twist, to release these brine encapsulated prisoners! Why does Helen let that man who smells like cheap bourbon to sit on the tail of her coat on the crowded train from London? She should kick his ass, enroll him in an alcoholics program and administer breath mints in a one-two-three punch!

The Warrior Goddess, she can be a handful, but she's pretty helpful.

Helen doesn't always lose, of course. When Captain Constipation finally left (THREE tablets, that's the key) I found myself spending a long time in the bathroom. I was also exceptionally pleased I've always been a stickler for the soft toilet paper.

The Warrior Goddess, however, grumbled. "I don't see why we need that fancy soft quilted shite. The Warrior Goddess can use tree bark! I am a real woman! I do not need three sheets in one!"

"Shut the hell up, Warrior Goddess," Helen retorted. "It's my bog roll, I'll do what I want. If this was just your ass we were talking about, I'd say to grab the nearest Oak trunk you find and rub yourself happy, but since it's not, your view on how soft the toilet paper is isn't welcome. Next time you go to the store maybe you should buy things instead of running around trying to slay dragons or free canned peaches or whatever the hell it is you do in your spare time."

Occasionally even the Warrior Goddess needs a smackdown.

She's not real, and she's not some alter ego of mine. I just think it's amusing to enter situations and try to channel my strength into something with a sense of humor, which to me is a tough chick who speaks in the third person (which I do get really fucks off most people around you if you talk in the third person, so the Warrior Goddess, she refrains from speech around all but Angus because really, he needs to know what he's getting himself into here.)

But if I put down "Warrior Goddess" on a form then no doubt the nice men with the clean white jackets and sparkly attractive drugs would come find me and talk me into their nice shiny car. Probably much like you want to do after reading this entry.

-H.

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January 28, 2008

Fred

If you asked me if I thought my weekend was going to go the way it did, I think I would've shrugged and murmured something along the lines of "No, not really, I - ooh look-something shiny!"

In time honored tradition, I give you the following "Which one of these things doesn't belong here?". The following are things that happened this weekend, but one of these things didn't happen. Which one is it?

A) I watched the entire season 4 of Grey's Anatomy that Angus downloaded from a pirate site for me to peruse managed to get a hold of from a peer-to-peer backing up and storage website.

B) I dug up a dead body in my garden.

C) I ate calzone.

D) I had a hangover for the first time in over a year.


The answer?

Yeah, um, I haven't had calzone in forever, so that's your guy.

I did watch my Grey's Anatomy (oh writer's strike, how you curse me so). We both got hangovers on Saturday morning as we finished off two and a half bottles of wine, something we're not necessarily proud of but, hey, you live in the minute sometimes. I didn't have calzone but I did have mac and cheese (twice, which was naughty, especially since I am now down 7 pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight and eating mac and cheese isn't likely to keep that going).

And yes. I did dig up a body in the garden.

It's all very Funny Farm I know.

As I've discussed here before, we have a great big fuck-off garden that was one of the selling points of the house, but to which I now can't figure out why I was so excited by. Huge beautiful sculpted gardens look lovely. Huge beautiful sculpted gardens are, too me, quintessentially English. Huge beautiful sculpted gardens require constant maintenance, something the retired gardener who lived here before us was able to provide and something which, even if we did have the time (which we don't) is something we lack the skill in (and which I lack the interest in. I'm lazy like that. If I can't be decent at something then I figure I shouldn't bother).

One of the other selling points for me was the fish pond we had in the back garden. It was a great big thing, taking up about a quarter of the garden. I thought it was so quaint, so twee, so lovely to sit back there in the summer with a bottle of semillion blanc and the drone of the wind in the rushes as the occasional orange fish fin probed the surface. Instead what I got was a mosquito and frog breeding ground that had to be constantly covered as there's a neighborhood heron that views fish ponds as all-you-can-eat snack bars. The pond vegetation and I were always at war. The pond and I were always at war.

Last year I ripped out the pond, and our lone surviving fish still lives happily in Angus' mother's fish pond.

This year I needed to finish the job. Get the rest of the liner out, fill in the pond, level the area, rip out the trees and shurbs, and grass over the area. So when the sun came out this weekend, I knew that the pond and I, we had some business to attend to.

This was the pond starting point:


Damn pond


We've been filling the pond in with garden refuse all year, and it has been filling up nicely. On Saturday I savaged the pond, attacking it with great ferocity.

By Sunday, courtesy of me being home alone as Angus was at a reunion with some of his former scout mates and I was bored as I'd finished my Grey's Anatomy discs by staying up much later than is wise, the pond looked like this:


Ongoing Pond


Note our green composter, the neighbor's crumbling fence (it might be our crumbly fence, we're not clear on that) and the ever helpful Gorby removing a stick from the pond site. He's really helpful, if by helpful you mean "chases dirt, chews sticks, and generally gets in the way as often as possible".

I started digging out some more of the massive vegetation mound next to the pond site to fill the pond in when I uncovered a box. Thinking buried treasure or time capsule (which I am preparing to put a time capsule into the former pond site myself as I am a real and true geek), I dug out the box.

Imagine my shock and surprise when the box was pulled free, the bottom of the box came off and I saw, inside, a whole lotta' ashes.

Oh fuck, I think mildly. And it really was mild. I think I was in shock, my response to it was similar to how I'd react if I'd realized I discovered a run in my sock or if Gorby had grown another leg. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Angus.

"Um, yeah," I said cautiously. "I think I just dug someone up out of our garden."

"It's possible. It's not like that house is a stranger to people popping their clogs."

Which is true. The house is 100 years old and we know of at least 3 people who have died in the house, all of them elderly. The idea of previous owners dying under this roof would freak me out, but I figure at least I know about them dying here (so no surprise flesh-eating zombies there) and hopefully they had nice long lives that gave them incentive to go into the light, especially since that would be the one thing they could see without putting on their reading glasses.

I flip the box over.

"The body's name is Fred," I say into the phone.

'Cause it is, according to the engraved plate on the wooden casket.


Fred


After much discussion, we decide that Fred may have been a dog. The previous owner (the gardener) had about one hundred cats and dogs, she was always losing her animals to any number of ways there are to meet untimely ends (she also lost her husband while he was living here, he is one of the three we know about. Ironically, it was the death of 5 out of her 6 Retrievers that prompted her to move, as opposed to the death of her husband. She sold us the house for a ridiculously low cost, bought a smaller home, and has since paid over £50,000 in repairs based on last year's flooding. Ouch.) We're pretty sure she's the one that put the pond in, so it would make sense if it was a dog.

There were an awful lot of ashes for a dog there, though. Not like I'm used to weighing up cremated remains or anything, but that has to be a big damn dog to account for ashes of such weight and quantity. I'm going to keep thinking "Dog". Dog dog dog dog dog.

I re-buried Fred in the new pond site. It may not be where Fred wants to be but it's the best I can do. I'm hopeful I don't need an exorcism or anything, as while I was re-burying Fred the entire wooden casket holding the ashes fell apart, and I'm thinking the plastic baggie covering the brick-like remains of Fred won't last long against the elements (the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out).

Work will continue on the pond until the whole area is levelled and grassed off. Maybe Fred will like that. I certainly hope he will, and that this story won't end badly, with the flesh-eating zombies theme or anything like that.

I'll keep you posted.

-H.

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January 25, 2008

Little Birdy Babies

There are a lot of ways that I can describe how being a mother is to me, and many more times over I can tell you that I lack the vocabulary to make a single constructive sentence about what it's been like. Ups and downs don't even begin to describe it. Every moment has had some kind of feeling and meaning, and by the end of the day the exhaustion I have from experiencing a day full of babies correlates to me being pretty worn out (and, more than occasionally, wondering if I should go with a red or a white or just settle for whatever won't require me getting the corkscrew out).

The babies are moving into the next stage, which is where you can interact with them and enjoy them. I thought I loved the newborn stage the most, and I do, but I also love this stage the most. Maybe this is what it's like - you have a "bestest best" phase and head into another "bestest bestest best" phase.

Once you have babies your grammar, it really goes out the window.

Nick is the one I have two nicknames for - one is a deviation of his name and the other is "Bean", and if you can work out why I call him that then you will be the owner of my respect. And no, it's not because of this guy. I fucking hate that guy with a pathological hatred usurped only by my loathing of electric can openers, men that believe that they really are ribbed for her pleasure, and those Hostess snack cakes that are highlighter-pink rubbery half-domes that contain no trace of coconut or, while we're at it, chocolate.

Nick is a card. He's usually grinning or looking around and he kicks his little legs in excitement at the slightest provocation. Sometimes I pop him in a car seat and put him on the middle of the kitchen table (relax, I never leave him there alone or perch him on the very edge to test that little thing called Fate). We keep each other company, and last night I turned on the TV above the table to see his reaction. He went absolutely mental with delight over this show, and I plan on repeating the experience for Angus to see tonight. I was so overwhelmed by his happiness at the program that I teared up - it's so amazing when they're happy, and you find for the first time in your life you mean it when you say "I'm happy if you're happy". Worth every minute of it all.

(Yes, that would be me allowing my 16 week-old to watch 20 minutes of TV. But it was on CBeebies, which I think is some form of baby crack because as an adult I can tell you that a lot of those characters wig me the fuck out. And I don't feel bad or guilty about it because they do not get to watch TV, because CBeebies is designed to be educational for young children, because he can't really see the TV so well still and because what I saw of this programme made me believe it was sweet and kind and I like those values. Screw it, enough apologizing. He can have his 20 minutes of CBeebies as he's so delighted by it. Enough said.)

Nora has two nicknames as well. I call her My Little Sparrow, which is confusing as sometimes I call him that as well. Mostly I call her by a male variant of her first name combined with the last name of a childhood book character I loved dearly. I know that's confusing, but I can't give you much more than that because then you'll work out her name and she likes to roll incognito.

Both babies got their shots and weigh-ins yesterday. Suffice to say the vaccinations went ok - Nora screamed bloody murder until I had her bundled up in her clothes and winter coat again, then she stared at all of us as if to say "There, now try getting the needle through all this kit, I dare you!" Nick stuck his lower lip out and let it tremble, which earned him enormous hugs from three different nurses.

My boy, already a flirt.

The babies were on the small side before, in the second percentile. The last time they were weighed was 6 weeks ago, and in that time we've gained only a kilo (2.2 pounds), bringing Nora to 4.5kg (9.9 pounds) and Nick to 4.6kg (10.1 pounds) and both should be somewhere around the 6kg (13 pound) mark. This means we've tumbled from the 2nd percentile to the lowest of the low, the 0.4 percentile. I'm not 100% sure on how percentiles work, but the midwife explained it thus: of 100 babies, the idea is that x amount of babies should weigh x weight at x age. It's a lot of xes, especially for someone like myself, who lacks The Math Gene. Basically, if you have a baby in the 90th percentile then out of 100 babies 90 of them should be that weight, which doesn't necessarily make sense as what you're supposed to aim for is 50th percentile, aka "Hi, I'm Average". But my 0.4 babies are really scraping the bottom. I don't understand how you can have 0.4 of a baby. And as I have two of them maybe I qualify for 0.8, or a "Supersize Me!" sticker or something. I dunno.

The midwife looked at me.

"Are you feeding them ok?"

No, I'm preparing them for heroin chic. Ribcages are the new black.

(No you cannot see their ribcages. They have round tummies and are even getting that perfect ideal of babydom known as chunky baby thighs.)

"Yes, they eat 5 times a day, 150mL a time. I'm happy to feed them as much as they want, they just aren't interested."

Further discussions reveal the likely causes to be colds both babies have had, as well as the supplemental formula we had to use in the States - I had my math wrong and hadn't brought enough formula with me, so we used an SMA-Enfamil blend that their stomachs didn't appreciate (think melted butter. Think green medlted butter. Now put that visual in a diaper and you'll see where I'm coming from. Fun times, man. Fun times.)

We're on a monitoring program now, and we go back in two weeks to see if their weight has improved. The midwives aren't too worried as she examined them and they were happy and healthy (really they were, even when they were naked as jaybirds on the midwife's butcher scales which would have affected me greatly-I'd have lain there thinking: Are people looking? Do I have a crusty fanny right now? Is there a draft in here?), as if their weight is still too low in two weeks we'll investigate other formulas that may be more calorie rich. The midwife was impressed that at 16 weeks they sleep 10pm-8am every night, which I'm pretty happy about too, I can assure you.

I headed home with my little bird-like twins and we settled in.

One more change to our routines is that I no longer sing them "their song", that Josh Groban song Lullaby that I used to play them, that I used to sing and hum to them while holding them close, that prompted images in my head of me singing, my hair flowing loose and me dressed in a white gossamer gown. Only my hair is short now, and white gossamer, I'm thinking, would show the period stains in a bad way. Now when I want to reassure and comfort them, I sing a new song that they both love, that they both will (sometimes) stop crying just to listen to. I'm not sure what made me think of this song, but it works, so even though I feel ridiculous we go with whatever will head off the screaming.

And so it goes that during diapering (the times Nora hates most), you can hear the sound of their vegetarian mother's voice throughout the house singing the following song:

My bologna has a first name...it's O-S-C-A-R....

-H.

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January 23, 2008

The Way My Mind Works

This morning, as I went about morning business, this was how my mind worked. I figured I'd give you an example to show you just how much I overthink everything. Because I do. Overthink everything, that is.

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

I finished feeding and burping the babies and parked them under the Baby Einstein Gym. I turned on the radio (we just bought one, actually. I know. We're a little behind.) And there was BBC2 filling the house. Terry Wogan reads the news.

The stock market is sucking, huh? I wonder if I should hold off on buying their 6-12 month clothes. I'm short on 6-12 months items. Instead of hitting up a sale at Next, maybe I should wait. Maybe a market fall will commence WWIII. It'll be like a nuclear winter. We'll dress the babies in our clothing cast-offs and they will be taught to hunt using pacifiers and the tin liner of a can of formula. It's like the plot of a Stephen King novel, a creepy one like The Fog, which freaked me out so badly I can't see the movie and which, coincidentally, is the reason I stockpile nappies and formula so that we have enough to survive on just in case.

I shove my hair behind my ear. I'm not sure I like my haircut. I'm not sure I don't like it, either.

I reach for some tablets. Since giving birth I have battled with the demon known as Captain Constipation. It makes life hell. I replayed a recent discussion with Angus in my head.

"I bought you a present," he says, holding out a box of Dulco-Ease.

"Oh honey! Nothing says 'I love you ' like a box of laxatives!" I say, batting my eyelashes at him.

"But you have tablets to help treat that," he says, joining me and reaching to put plates away from a recently finished dishwasher.

"I know. I've been taking them for three days now. And drinking water. And prune juice. And eating more fibre than you can find in your average pile of rope," I reply mournfully.

That was three days ago. So now I'm going to need a militia to go in there and help get through the battle gates. Good thing I actually like the taste of prune juice. I have been popping the pills daily, and I've taken so many now that even Mike Huckabee would now be unconstipated.

Mike Huckabee, Mike Huckabee...seriously? A person can be called Mike Huckabee? His politics scare me, and you just can't elect a man named Huckabee, it's not on. Can you hear Dan Rather say "President Huckabee has plans to meet with the Japanese Prime Minister this Wednesday"? No, me neither. The rest of the world already has their enjoyment making fun of the States (trust me, I know. I get abused at every party as "the voice of America"). How can we show our face with a president whose name sounds like he's a long-lost cast member from the Andy Griffith Show?

Who am I going to vote for? Hmmm...as a Democrat (real-time note-this is not where you need to attack me, try to convince me otherwise, or palm off a link to my website to rabid, inconsistent, dogmatic right-wing bloggers. Generally I don't discuss politics here because I don't want the aggro and because I think politics are best discussed face-to-face over some single malt. I am a personal blog writer but hey - I do have a view of politics too, and those politics mean I am a platform voter, and those platforms are usually supported by the Democrats. Let me have my view in peace, as I won't try to convert you if you don't try to convert me, yes? Whiskey?) I'm not sure. The Democrats are polarized over the primaries. It feels like I have to decide, and I have to decide RIGHT NOW.

I don't mind Hilary, I like her stances on many things. Plus she stuck by Bill when his affairs were revealed, and if you've ever been cheated on you know that sticking it out with the one who's put his leg over someone else takes some major backbone. But I hate feeling like I have to vote for her because she's a woman, I'm a woman, and I am a feminist. I tend to get a little stubborn when people expect me to do something without asking if I want to do it. I also am a little pissed off about the recent Vogue gaff. Amazingly, for the first time in my life I'm actually siding with Anna Wintour, who I think of as Satan only with a slightly more expensive haircut. Clinton wouldn't do an issue of Vogue lest she appear "too feminine". What, so if you're feminine you're weak? If you admit to being a woman you've given away the ability to be taken seriously? Yes, there are prejudices in America but you would've earned my respect faster if you'd decided to address them head on, before you got elected, when you wouldn't just be talking the talk. Way to miss your own message, babe.

Obama, Obama...do I like Obama? I like him, I'd have a drink with him. He seems very intelligent and I like intelligent presidents, I think it's what we need. Does he have the experience, though? Will he be as seemingly ineffectual and invisible as Gordon Brown? If something goes very-pear shaped all of a sudden would White House aides find him under his desk in the Oval Office, moving the ink blotter around the carpet and making choo-choo noises?

More news.

Heath Ledger died? Is that possible? He was a fantastic actor, even if I think he might not have been such a nice chap in real life. But Hollywood people don't die. They just get cast in wax. They don't really die, not really. Or wait - maybe this is a conspiracy. It's something Stephen King is writing.

Ooooh Golden Grahams. That's what I want for breakfast. Opening the box, I read their new ad campaign - "With Ridges That Rock!" Think I've just gone off Golden Grahams.

Must call builders.

Must call nursery.

Must make up some bottles.

Must take some photos today.

Must get to emails.

Must ring health visitor.

Must clean house.

Must do more searching for a literary agent, although not entirely sure how one finds said agent.

Must keep writing, which I started doing the other night and which is taking over my mind.

Um....what was I just doing?

-H.

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January 22, 2008

Obstructions at the Gate

I have a lot of things buzzing around that I want to write about - extensions, work, writing, etc., - but moods in our house have taken a downturn (again), I'm working on little sleep for two nights running, and both Nick and I are battling digestive issues. So I'm taking the cheap way out and using a prompt from someone else.

The Shape of a Mother is a fascinating and, if you're expecting for the first time, slightly terrifying website. I saw it while pregnant and was reminded of it recently in a Flickr pic, and I re-visited. The website is out there to show that women don't look like Hollywood stereotypes after you give birth, that many (most?) of us don't ever regain our figures. It tries to celebrate where we are, though, instead of bashing us into a shape that people expect women should be, and there are not enough sites like that in the world.

They have a recent assignment, which is to discuss body issues as a daughter instead of as a mother. Basically, what can we do to ensure that our daughters love themselves, ostensibly so that a website like Shape of a Mother isn't really needed? How can we help prepare our children to feel good about their shapes and figures in order to prevent a lifetime of self-hatred and shame?

If you've been visiting my site for any period of time, the one thing that you'll have captured is that I struggle with myself. A lot. And always have. Years of anorexia and purging have taken their toll on my mind and body (ergo some of my current digestive issues). I have long ridiculed, hated, and abused myself based on my appearance, and more to the point, based on my figure.

On my mother's side I have several generations of women shaped to pull plows. Large women, sturdily built, with shoulders a mile wide and thighs the size of hamhocks. On my father's side are the delicate Asians, built like little birds and with limbs to match. Naturally the genetic roll of the dice gave me the sturdy agricultural build, although I luckily escaped the large thighs and instead inherited the ability to gain weight on my stomach when I gain. I am tall and sturdy, hurricane-bracing sturdy, and always will be. Do I wish this weren't the case? Yes of course. But I do accept that this is my build, as even when I went anorexic it didn't change the obvious - I have shoulders a mile long, even if you can make out the individual bones in them. I gain weight on my stomach, even when I have only eaten 16 crackers a day for a few months. My face is round like an apple, even when I have ingested a box of laxatives and spent two days in the bathroom.

Like global warming, Paris Hilton, and rising interest rates, some things just don't go away because you want them to.

The Shape of a Mother mentioned a story in which the author started feeling bad about herself. I think we all have a similar story.

Mine started when I was 13, with Helen Squared. I was living in Arkansas at the time, and Helen Squared, whom I had been BFF - with pinky swears, of course - with in Washington and now had met up with again in a little town in the middle of nowhere. She was over at our house, hanging out in a small above ground pool my mother had bought for the family to use. My whole family was chilling at the pool. Helen Squared was in a red and white striped bikini which I was deeply envious of - so brave, so daring! There I was in a peach colored one piece, amazed at a bikini in the pool. My dad looked over at me and told me I should suck it in. I looked down - I did have a small, rounded pot belly. I sucked it in. Then I went inside and got a T-shirt on, so that no one could see my pot belly, so that all one could see was the blinding hot Arkansas sun and the red and white stripes of a chick who didn't need to suck it in.

I started to wonder about myself then. Prior to this, I'd simply been a kid. Now, did I maybe have a weight problem?

Forward to some months after this. My parents had split. We were living in a rental house in Arlington, Texas. Born with a deviated septum (yes really. I really am one of the few who honestly did have one, this wasn't code for having a nose job) I had just had the final of three nose surgeries designed to try to fix my nose. It was a particularly rough surgery, as they'd cut cartilege out from behind one of my ears to try to repair the two previous surgeries. I was home after a few days in the hospital recuperating, feeling pretty rough and very, very tired.

My mother drew me a bath. Feeling weak and dizzy and as though I'd been hit by a mack truck carrying a load of Christmas trees, I gratefully shed my clothes and hopped in. My mother stood there, by the sink, looking critically at me.

"You need to do some sit-ups," she said flatly. "You could use some toning up."

I had just had surgery.

I was 14 years old.

And I had just had surgery.

I looked at her, unclear what was happening. Her expression was cold, calculating. She was putting me under the microscope. I knew that my father had spent a lot of time in their marriage criticizing her and her weight. I knew he was often having a go at her, and that my mother had struggled with her weight for most of her life. I knew that she hated how she looked and battled with her self-esteem.

And in that bathroom that night in Texas, she passed that battle on to me.

It led to all kinds of things - at the children's theatre and dance school I went to after school I found a body leotard in the lost and found. I took it home, and I used to wear it. Shiny and black, in the quiet of my bedroom it highlighted my every flaw, my every bulge. I made myself exercise in it constantly to try to critique how I looked, how I needed to improve, what I could do better.

Here I am today. 20 years have passed since that all started and when I look back on my body image all I can see is hatred, and although I have moved on a lot, I still have my setbacks. We all do. But I would spare my daughter that.

Or the hell with that. I will spare my daughter that.

Melissa is getting on the chunky side but we don't say anything to her. We encourage her to eat well and we ourselves are also trying to eat better. We ask a lot of questions about the physical activities she engages in without poking at her to do more. We don't say anything because she's 15, and at that age where self-hatred sets in faster than a love of Orlando Bloom. While we want her to be healthy, we want that health to be of all kinds. She could do with losing some weight, yes. But at this stage it's not a danger to her health, and it's important that she feels valued, that she feels beautiful, that if she wants to lose weight she does so of her own volition, and not driven by guilt or self-loathing.

Nora will be handled similarly - encouraged to be active and eat well, she will be told things about herself to make herself feel good. But I don't necessarily advocate telling our daughters constantly that they are beautiful from an aesthetic side - while it's important to address how they are feeling about themselves from a physical perspective, I think it's just as important to tell them how clever they are, how good with animals they are, how great they are at making birthday cakes or how lovely they are when they're happy.

I think our daughters don't just need to feel good physically.

They need to love themselves all the way around.

Any other suggestions gratefully received, because this is a difficult topic, because it's not like I'm not operating without a parachute here.

-H.

PS-many thanks to my anonymous benefactor - two books showed up on my doorstep yesterday, one for the babies and one for me. There was no sender information on it, but thank you so much, I love them and can't wait until the babies love their book, too!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:35 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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January 21, 2008

Thank You

Wow. Many huge, enormous thanks to those who came forward and let me know who you are in my last post. I am heartened/shocked/amazed/humbled by the comments, and am especially glad to see how many mothers/about-to-be mothers/women going through absolute fiery hell fertility treatment to become mothers there are reading here. I guess it helps me feel like I'm not a total crap mother, because if I was surely you'd have rung the NSPCC on me instead of reading along.

So thank you.

And as a thank you, we have something to share (a something small) that will be on here for a short while only as I remain a bit twitchy (although I am twitchier about Flickr than I am about my blog site), so check it out while it lasts.
more...

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:25 AM | Comments (53) | Add Comment
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January 18, 2008

Time Marches On, aka Hey, Another Baby Post, Who Knew?

Time marches on. The babies are now 3.5 months old, and even though we're only just fitting into size 0-3, they are growing and I know that any attempt to fight it will be like tilting windmills on a whole new scale. And I never much liked windmills anyway, so why charge at them? What'd they ever do to me?

In the past week the babies have started hitting milestones left and right. We're still behind developmentally on most things, although they are doing things in their age group as well. Nora is more advanced physically while Nick has you covered in the other areas. I like to think we're the yin and yang of babyhood here, but then again I'm full of shit.

Nora can hold her head steady very well and has advanced to using the Bumbo, as well as being propped up in her high chair with loads of cushions and blankets (she isn't fed in the high chair but she does keep us company in the kitchen while we're cooking). She's taken to batting hanging toys like tormenting pinatas, her fist curled into a right hook. She rolls to her side constantly and on Wednesday managed to turn herself over by planting her elbow and allowing gravity to do the rest. She was surprised as hell to find herself on her stomach, and she hasn't repeated it since.

She's started blowing spit bubbles, and needs far less burping than before. Although we don't have 16 hours of collicky screaming these days, it's not to say we don't have any. We had an hour of it yesterday that nearly saw me come unglued, worried as I was that we were returning to the days of The Scream. I can't take that anymore. Should it come to that, I will most definitely need medicating of the anti-psychotic variety because I can't take the collicky days for another minute. I'm hopeful the marathon screaming days are over, but Nora remains a very difficult child - although her smiles are enormous and when she's in a great mood she's an absolute dream, she can be very aggressive and angry. Her first impulse at everything is to cry and shout and I'm hopeful that time breaks her of that. She's taken to sucking her thumb to fall asleep, which I know a lot of people will have a problem with but I'm ok about - I'll happily pay for braces someday if it means an end to her screaming today (see: medication. See also: Mummy loses her mind).

Nick is less adept at all things physical, he still has very wonky control of his neck muscles so the Bumbo and the high chair are out. He does sleep on his side most of the time, even though he's always put down on his back. He managed to flip himself onto his stomach on his play gym yesterday, but that too was a one-off and seemed to freak him out a lot. I noticed him reaching for hanging toys today, his hand curled into a fist, and he likes to beat the crap out of them like his aggressive sister.

Nick's first reaction at anything is to smile, which makes everyone worship at his feet. If you talk to him while he's smiling he kicks his feet furiously in excitement. He babbles constantly, and we have pretend conversations with him:

Me: "So what did you do today?"

Nick: "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...."

Me: "You cured cancer? Really?"

Nick: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh....AH! AH!"

Me: "You're working on what? Resuscitating Britney Spears career? Not going to happen, babe, but sweet of you to try."

Nick: "Ack! Ack ack ack!"

It's a fun game. He makes noises all the time and I love that he does that.

Both babies sleep through the night, all night every night (since returning from holiday, anyway. On holiday sleeping was hell. Let us not speak of that.) They go to bed anywhere from 10:30-11:30 and wake up about 8:30. They no longer get swaddled but sleep in Grobags, which are some of the greatest inventions in the world. If you're looking for other good ideas, I came across Baby Snugglers, created by two moms here in the UK. They're amazing, dead easy to use, very comfortable for the babies, and now they get strapped into them whenever we leave the house. Also, they make them look like Smurfs and I can't tell you how amusing I find that.

And while I'm pimping products that I have found and love, can I just say that I am so glad I bought this and pushed it into action? I'm sentimental. I love that I'll be able to look back on the holidays with them someday. And yes, each baby has their own baby book that I fill out for them, complete with photos, because I am a softie like that.

Neither baby can hold their head up at all while on their stomach, which is something they should've been able to do several weeks ago. We do tummy time, which is where you put them on the floor on their stomach to work their neck muscles - you dangle toys, talk to them, have mirrors they can look in. However my children's reaction is to shout with a "Fuck you and your toys, lady. We hate the tummy time." and we invariably flip them back over after about 10 minutes of ear-bleeding screaming.

The biggest and greatest milestone is suddenly the babies have started looking at each other. Strange but true, they've been together in one form or another for almost 12 months now, but once born they couldn't seem to see each other even if they spent their time moving towards one another when placed in the same bed. Put one in front of the other and they'd just avoid eye contact. But while in Seattle last week, suddenly Nora was looking at Nick and grinning (OK, he was screaming at the time which makes her an unkind chick, but it was nice to see her looking at him.) And yesterday he started looking at her. The babies finally exist to each other, which seemed to take a long time. I wonder at what point they'll start talking - "Listen, Nick, you didn't have to spend your time in utero kicking me in the head." "Oh yeah, Nora? Well that's what you get for squishing me into Mom's pelvis and hogging all the good nutrients!" I figure as long as no one retorts with a "Yo Mama!" we'll be ok.

So developmentally the babies are doing things anywhere from 11 weeks-15 weeks. As they were 4 weeks premature that means...actually I don't have a clue what that means. We are where we are, and we don't stress over it.

I have had some heartbreak, though.

My babies are still tiny but they're long babies and they're babies that have worked out how to scoot around. As a result, the crib that they were sharing was beginning to not work anymore as even though we would put them down seperately, they'd move towards each other everytime, and if one of them would wake up they'd kick the other awake. The babies have been together every time they slept more or less, apart from Nick's stint in Special Care and the periodic Nora Colic Screaming fit that Nick couldn't sleep next to, but now the time had come to erect the second crib and seperate them.

Yesterday, I put the crib together.


Today my heart broke just a little bit


Last night, for the first time in their little lives (again, apart from the Special Care nights), Nick and Nora slept apart.

My babies are growing, and although I sometimes miss the days when they slept all day (thereby freeing me up to, you know, breathe) I love all the new things they're doing.

And I have already bought Nora one present for her 1st birthday, as I saw it and thought it was something I couldn't resist. I like to think it's me embracing their growing up. I think I even believe it, too.

-H.

PS-I am reliably told that this week is De-Lurking Week. Since I'm in the weeds in both dealing with emails and blogging (I lost all my bookmarks while we were away, so my apologies), I would understand if you wanted to cold-shoulder me. But if you would like to say hi in honor of De-Lurking Day (I have my own rules here, why do in a week what we can do in one day?), it would be nice to know who's out there, reading.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:47 AM | Comments (131) | Add Comment
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January 17, 2008

Shhhhh! Secret!

Something extraordinary has happened.

Honestly.

I can hardly believe it.

A week ago something huge shifted into our world. It was literally overnight. I can pinpoint when it happened. I've been holding my breath since, but it has maintained for a week now. It's real. It's transforming my days and making them what I've been dreaming of. Arguments, stress, pain, exhaustion aside...I can almost dare to believe that it's real.

I'm going to tell you now, but let's not speak of it lest we jinx it. I'm going to tell you, and then we'll walk away from the secret for a while, until we're sure that it's real. Because if I'm dreaming and this new change disappears then I will very definitely need to be heavily medicated for the forseeable future, because I can't go back again. So we can't jinx it. Pretend we didn't even discuss it. Nothing to see here, move along.

So here's the secret to what's giving me hope beyond all hope, to what is beginning to make me feel like my whole entire journey has been worth it... more...

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:34 AM | Comments (38) | Add Comment
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January 16, 2008

Splash

Last night, late conversations.

Hands on a back.

Things that needed to be said, and perhaps more importantly, things that needed to be heard.

The darkness I circle through is not necessarily because of how I feel about the twins, although there is a large part of that - as a number of wonderful women commented yesterday, motherhood is a great big fucking deal that changes a lot about how you feel and think. I have found this to be true, down to the minute sense of the word. Sienna's comment that it's a terrible and wonderful adjustment is absolutely dead-on. My world is bigger now and I hate bigger, and yet it was an easy transition that I love. Do I have post-partum depression? I don't know. I've found I'm suddenly prone to intense and hardcore stress attacks which render me impossible to be around. I also am extremely fragile when it comes to hitting anniversary dates - the first shot, the first ultrasound, the first anything - it makes me feel like I've just been dreaming, that the babies aren't real, that any day now they'll be taken away once my eyes open so I'd better keep dreaming and not lose them. These are new to me, and something that I will take up with the health visitor.

The biggest issue I've been dealing with is the fallout in every other relationship in my life. Throw a rock into a puddle and you can see the ripples. The twins splashed into my life and the waves and pools they left behind have soaked everything else. What they don't tell you is the affect that babies will have on your relationship when they arrive. Oh sure, you know that things will be impacted. You know that a few things will change. You know that the sleep deprivation will takes its toll, as well as the very presence of another person (or two). But nothing-nothing- prepares you for what those changes will be. Above all, I wonder why no one prepares us for what the men will be going through - their lives have changed just as much as ours, and yet it feels like it's never about them, no one thinks to check in on the men-folk, they seem to fill a roll of sperm donater and family provider, and that's it. But their lives are changed just as much, with just as many confusing emotions.

When I read about other couples having no problems whatsoever, that all is ok, that there is no issue anywhere, at all, I think: No way, man. You're dreaming. Or burying things. Or you're married to a doll instead of a human. Because if you're two homo sapiens and something has changed, something you didn't expect and didn't prepare for, then it's causing you pause.

Relationships, like lives, aren't perfect. When I read about other people who allege that their lives and relationships are peachy, that all is well and always has been, that the world is good and small and tidy, that there are no Dorito crumbs under the couch cushions and that they have never looked into the mirror and didn't like what they saw and that they've never gone to bed pissed off and never sought solace in the bottom of a pinot grigio, I think that they're not telling the truth. Which is a shame, because what's the point in trying to paint a pretty picture when there's no one there who can relate to it?

I didn't have blinders on, it's just that when I come packed to the gills with hormones I don't always recognize that he doesn't. And I'm not the kind to dole out advice, ever (unless it involves Mooncups or cheese. See me if you need any cheese help) but if you're with someone who says they don't want kids, then don't have them. Or if you do, brace yourself for volleying rounds of difficulty. Or get yourself one of these, although I personally think those things are creepy and weird in the extreme.

Our relationship isn't perfect but this morning it feels a lot better. The truth is, I just feel overwhelmed, there is a lot on my plate right now. Babies. I have babies. Renovation work about to kick off. I go back to work in 6 short weeks. Day care starts then, also known as the Financial Kick in the Teeth. My family is driving me to distraction (not including my sister, aka the Selfish Bitch. There, I said it. Now back to disregarding her.) I can't get the past year of fertility treatments, hospitalizations and emotions out of my head. The stepkids have been causing some stress (thereby instituting the new law called During Melissa's Next Visit She's Going To Be Taught How to Do the Laundry. It's a good law. It was ratified in no time and I understand Parliament had an extended drinking session once it was signed.) It won't stop fucking raining here to the point where our street is flooded.

And then...

And then...

There is more, I think, but I'll leave it at that.

In yesterday's comments, Diamond Dave hit it dead on - the other reason to keep going is because of someone. Someone can be anyone. You get out of bed and put your feet on the floor and you go through the motions because of someone. Your best friend, your lover, your brother, your child, that nice lady at Starbucks that always smiles in a way that you think she means it, your co-worker, your vet, the one who sent you a condolence card when your cat died...someone needs you. You maybe aren't aware of it, but there is someone that would note that hole you left in their life, and likely no one would be able to fill it.

Last night, someone told me about the hole I would leave in his life.

This morning for the first time ever, two bright gummy smiles met me when I opened their door, telling me about the place I have in their lives.

I wasn't thinking of checking out (thank you, Captain Therapy). I'm still in the hallway but at least I'm less frightened about what happens next, because whatever is there is supposed to be there, and I can't quit because you're right - there is no choice but to go on and that's what I'm going to do.

My small stuff for today - the babies, Gorby and I are going for a long walk. I want to feel the swing of my hips in their joints as I walk. I want to feel the handle of the baby stroller in my hands. I want to watch Gorby get distracted by anything, everything. This is my small, and I look forward to it.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:18 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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January 15, 2008

Something Small

I sometimes get emails from people telling me that they are on the verge of killing themselves, they somehow found my blog, and what can I tell them to keep them from ending it all?

In short: nothing. I can't tell you anything that will make it all better, that will make it easier, that will make it go away. I have no secret fixes. I know of no mystery to make you want to live. The only thing I know is this: when I started hitting the bottom, I would find one thing to make myself look forward to every day. Start small. Start very small. When I bounced back from my last ride from hell, I made myself look forward to a cup of coffee every morning. One cup. Every morning. It wasn't the world, but it was something. It didn't save my life but it didn't end it, either.

I don't know what to do about those emails, I never know if what I say is right, and I also feel a sense of pure panic - just because you googled me doesn't mean that I am the person to be listening to. My past is strung with disaster and earlier I idly wondered if a small part of our desire for children is us giving them that do-over that we never got to have. I look back at who I was and feel a sense of embarrassment so great that all I can smell is skin. I don't want my children to turn out like me. I want them to be better.

As for how I'm doing now, well...I'm not such a happy bunny. I know this is where the IF bandwagon wants to get on board and tell me that I have two children, I have everything now, what the fuck do I have to be down about? Well, I just do, that's all. Let's leave it at that. Sometimes it all feels like I'm standing in the darkened hallway, waiting for something. Maybe the door will open, maybe the hall light will come on, maybe I'll step out of my shoes and walk back into the living room, I don't know. Something. I'm waiting for something to happen to make things be ok.

Looking back on this blog I see a sea of highs and lows. I'm heading for 5 years of blogging and the words that have filled this site could fill a book, maybe even two. I have books going in my head but can't commit them to paper because if you think I handle rejection about my weight badly, you haven't seen anything yet. Rejection of anything I write would crush me like a teeny little ant. I want nothing more than to be a writer, but I can't get past a blinking cursor.

I may have been through a lot of therapy, but it doesn't mean I'm able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I can't even sidestep a newspaper stand, who am I kidding? Why do people write me and tell me I'm so strong? Don't they know that the truth is, there simply isn't any other choice?

Things aren't so great here right now - I am exhausted. I am tired of arguing. I am facing a lot, more than I've faced in a long, long time.

Today I made myself choose something small. That something small was the wind on the back of my neck as I threw a tennis ball for Gorby over and over again in the one patch of the day where it stopped raining. This was my something.

Tomorrow it'll be something else.

The day after that, something different still.

And those very small things will hang like beads on the protective necklace I wrap around myself, and they will see me through the darkened hallway.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:14 PM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
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January 14, 2008

With the Passing of Time

This morning, burdened by confused body clocks and too many time zones, we woke at 4 am and decided to just go about our day. The babies, still asleep (and sleeping record amounts since returning home) were snuggled in their Grobags in their cot, and their soft snuffles and snores reassured me.

The Grobags happened recently. An anonymous gift from my Wishlist, they lay waiting for the day the babies would fit into them. That day arrived, and overnight (literally) the babies went from always being swaddled to sleeping spread out like starfish, ensconsed in their Grobags. They love them, I love them, and right now the washing machine is cleaning their swaddles for the last time. The swaddles, like a huge pile of clothing, are off to three families about to have babies of their own.

The swaddles, like a number of newborn-sized clothes, are leaving our little house.

The babies are now growing out of newborn sizes, and are getting into size 0-3 months (although they don't fill the 0-3 size out nearly enough - the feet hang way off them and the shoulders are a Donna Summer throwback). I guess this shouldn't surprise me - the babies are over 3 months old now, of course they should start shedding their newborn sizes.

But a part of me ached while packing up their clothes this morning. It hurt like hell, holding so many onesies with so many memories. A part of me is immensely happy the babies are moving on, as new milestones are being hit, they're doing new things all the time. But a larger, more sentimental side grieves. These are the only babies I will ever have. With each day, each step, I get farther and farther away from that magical time when they were born. I would give anything to go back to that day and take more photos, more video, compensate for the times when I was passed out from the blood loss and the moments I had with Nick and Nora when they were sweet and quiet, when the texts from Angus were loving and kind, before the time in special care, before the colic, before all that came after.

Time doesn't work like that.

Time, instead, takes away the preemie baby clothes and the newborn size clothes.

I struggle as well with my memories - sometimes I'm hit with the thoughts of what I was doing a year ago.

I read through my archives from my other site from time to time. I don't remember writing most of them, which isn't unusual as I troll through this site and don't remember writing half of what's here, my method is to check my brain at the URL door and just cut loose. But while in Whistler I was aware that we were where it all started.

And now I think, from time to time, of where I was a year ago. I was on the needles, hoping to have a successful cycle. My last IVF cycle was a shared cycle, in that I donated half of my eggs to another woman so that she could do IVF, too. My last cycle sucked giant donkey balls, too, and I got a measly 8 eggs, half of which were crap quality. Of my alloted 4 eggs only two fertilizes. Those two fertilized embryos are ensconsed in the bean bag in the living room, sucking their thumbs.

The other woman, she didn't succeed.

I remember that, too.

It's all a little too much for me, these anniversaries. They hurt and celebrate and make something constrict in my throat. I remember the needles and drugs and scans like it was yesterday, when in fact yesterday I was changing diapers and squeegeeing noses and folding size 0-3 month clothes. It's all here and now and it's all far away.

I listen to that song Lullaby, which was my song with them. It brings back so many things for me, the smell of blood and cardboard and soap, the taste of tears and medications and hopes, the feeling of soft cotton sheets and newborn heads patted with vernix and of skin stretched too tight. The babies were still a mystery to me then and the emotions were a platter too great to choose from.

We grow every day. Sizes will be shed, milestones passed, and time will pass. I remain conscious of the events a year ago, just as I welcome the new that we see on a weekly basis. I know that the events of last year will fade, in time. But as we approach a year of first anniversaries - first day I started the shots that led to the babies, first positive pregnancy test for them, first day that the swaddles are finished, first day we don't fit the newborn sizes anymore - I mourn and I celebrate. I hurt and I love. I despair and I glorify. I am hobbled by my memories and yet I am set free from them.

Maybe this is how it is for everyone.

I just didn't expect to feel so many things in the last 12 months as I have.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:22 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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January 11, 2008

Home (Insert Cheesy Grin Here)

So we're home now.

We're home, the place looks like it's been bombed with the innards of a Samsonite factory, the cat rebelled and punctured the place with attractive hairballs (now rectified, because while I can tolerate baby spit-up cat stomach acid is not ok), I've got eleven billion things to do, Nick and Nora both have stonking colds, and I am so jet lagged that I can't remember my name. Starts with an H, I think. Or maybe not. Add to the fact that we just had what will go down in history as Flight Day From Hell (and if your first instinct is to type up a lecture in my comments about how I shouldn't be flying with infants then I'd urge you to rethink that one. I'm not in the mood to be patronized, and I've a rabbit punch ready for the first person who goes there) and I'm ready to open the bottle.

Actually, that's a good idea.

The flights were hell. Hell hell hell hell. The planes were packed, ergo no upgrade (a tip, as well, if you're interested - always bring the flight crew a treat, like a box of chocolates, or some shortbreads, or something wrapped and storebought. My stepmother told me about this, that if you bring the flight crew something they always tear into it. They also always remember you, and if they can they'll upgrade you, and if they can't they'll bring you lots of goodies. And sure enough, she was right. We got upgraded the first flight and got loads of attention the second flight. Worth it, even if you feel like a dick handing over a box of chocolates to a flight attendant, which you will.) Angus, Jeff and Nick sat on one side of the plane with a bassinette and Melissa, Nora and I took the other side with our bassinette. We even administered Calpol Night (like Baby Tylenol, with an aid to help them sleep.)

The babies took one look at the bassinettes and the Calpol and gave us the three month equivalent of "You and your plans, you can go fuck off, lady."

To be fair, they didn't cry much, they just whined a lot, wanted to be held, wanted feeding every 20 seconds, and generally made peeing difficult, although it was a challenge I met - yes I can pee in an airplane lavatory while holding a baby. I don't recommend it, but I can do it.

Of course we were sat next to every toddler on the plane who planned meetings right by our seats, whereby the usual toddler-to-toddler greeting wasn't "Hello, and welcome to our mini-UN". Oh no, the toddler-to-toddler greeting was more like "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" in tones that only dogs hear.

Dogs, and Nick and Nora, who have proven that while they can tolerate each other screaming next to them, they can differentiate between each other screaming and other babies screaming, and the other babies? Not so popular.

An interesting perk of the flight involved another mother of a baby close to the same age as mine (but her baby was huge! My short bus babies and I were embarrassed!). Said mother packed everything and was ready to go...the only problem being she packed her child's bottles and formula in the cargo hold. We could've delayed the flight an hour while baggage handlers struggled to find her bag, or I could share Nick and Nora's formula. Luckily I packed for America and my anal retentiveness paid off, and I had formula to spare. Cue even more gratitude from the flight crew, and we got all kinds of goodies, including Starbucks gift cards and free air miles. I would've given her the formula for no rewards, actually, but I'm not going to say no to Starbucks gift cards.

Our last flight, though, was the worst. Nick decided he'd had enough and simply screamed his way from Amsterdam to London. The hatred of our fellow passengers on the plane was palpable. I've never been so glad to get home in my life. And, of course, once home both babies were smiles, laughter and light, but we were so tired we put them and us to bed for a bit.

The visit was good - more details later, but all in all it was lovely. My family is very, very thoughtful and hideously in love with the twins. Whistler was incredible and we were in the world's greatest condo, a massive place that was skin-in/ski-out right onto the downhill slope they're going to use in the Olympics in two years. The skiing was fabulous and the easy-going nights by the fire with the family were welcome.

I am glad to be home, though. It's nice to have my things and my routines. It was also not always easy - as the middle person, I often felt I was getting pulled in too many directions: "Helen, can you have a word with so-and-so about such-and-such?" "Helen, please tell X that doing Y makes Z unhappy." "Helen, why doesn't whosit do whatsit?" Add that to the fact that my stepmother is meticulous and, well, we have four kids and I felt I was always trying to apologize and tidy up (she never had a go at me for being untidy with the kids' things, it's just the way I felt) and it was something to keep me going. But it's just a matter of convergence - blending my family with Angus' kids was bound to be a bit bumpy, and all in all it went pretty well.

Perhaps the worst day was yesterday, though. I was put in the middle again, the babies were furious about god knows what, and my stepmother pointed out that the back of my hair was crunchy. Like it was stuck together with baby vomit or something. Which, naturally and inexplicably, it was. And as we were trying to get going my dad started in on his familiar tome - "Helen, you need some exercise."

Right Dad. I'll get right on that, along with the great American novel and my quest for Inca gold. You know, cause I have so much spare time and all.

"No really, Helen. You need to get in shape."

"Jesus, Dad, I gave birth to TWINS three months ago!"

"Exactly. It's been three months, you should have lost the weight."

"I DID lose the weight! I even dropped two sizes! I just haven't been able to address my attractive spare stomach skin!"

"Well you need to fix that!" And then His Lycraness goes out for a run, leaving a flabby me to wonder where the alcohol is kept. I love my dad masses, but sometimes I want to remind him that sensitivity, it's a healthy commodity.

But I'm home now, and me and my wobbly stomach are going to bust into a curry before dieting begins on Monday.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:22 PM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
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January 06, 2008

Little Miss In Between

A short one from me, because our internet connection is tenuous at best - I suppose some forethought should have gone into it, because although our condo stated they have wifi, what they failed to mention was that the wifi was cable relay and located on the top of our neighbor's condo, all of which is under 2 feet of snow. I'd go up there with a ladder and a hairdryer to rectify the situaion, but ladders freak me out. Any day now Stephen King will make a horror book based on ladders, I'll be right there with him.

Skiing has been good so far, and the condo is spectacular. The babies are now sleeping through the night and hey - turns out I'm now a size 8 in jeans, so it can't all be bad. Yet despite the successes in nocturnal habits and dropping baby weight (the weight is gone, yet I still have an attractive apron of flesh that hangs down, courtesy of Les Bebes), I feel pretty blue. And stressed to holy fuck. And not feeling where I should be feeling.

I don't know why, I don't know how to fix it, I just know I feel a bit...small.

Small can be good.

Small is helpful on ski slopes where I fall ass over teakettle.

And hey - I heard they're casting for a new person to shout "The plane! The plane!" next to a guy in a tragic white leisure suit.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:24 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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January 03, 2008

Three Months Today

In a move that both surprises me and seems the most natural thing on earth, the babies were born exactly three months ago today.

I can't believe three months has passed. It seems like more. It seems like less. It feels like I have never been without the babies, and it feels like they are brand new entries to my life. I adore them, I mourn them, I love them, I need them, and three months ago they exploded into my life.

I'm not going to write a monthly newsletter to them (that's been done and neither a leader nor a follower be), nor will I mark every single month, but this month is a little bit special - the babies, my family and I are headed up to Whistler today for 5 days of winter fun. We will be there on the 5th of January, which is the anniversary of the first shot I took in the cycle that become my Nick and Nora. In some ways it's like coming first circle, I should be able to hold my babies up to the face of Blackcomb and pay homage to the Lupron God, and lay offerings at the feet of the Stims Seraphins.

In three months so much has happened that describing it makes me exhausted in ways I'm not already exhausted. When I'm away from the babies I think of them often, alternating between enjoying the peace and quiet and yearning for them. I don't want to miss a single second of them and I want to let them grow. I want a dozen more babies and I never want to contemplate more children again. I deplore of the sheer exhaustion and I live to hear that small sighing inhale they make just before they sneeze.

In short, I love them.

In long, I love them.

And there's so much in between.

A year ago yesterday I got engaged. Isn't that strange? It was only a year ago. We are in no hurry to get married and, in fact, I can't forsee it happening for a long time. But still. I love my ring, and I love my memories.

Tonight after a day of their cooing and wide-eyed innocence I put my babies to bed. I watched them, imagining their lungs - once working in tandem with mine - moving inside their chests, felt their warm curved backs, inhaled the sweet milky scent of their formula breaths. A year has passed, three months has passed, needles have passed and tears have passed and I look back and simply cannot imagine the journey that took me from Point A to Point B.

I have never been more confused, happy, sad, confident, or fearful than I am now.

I love my infants mightily.

I always will.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:39 AM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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January 02, 2008

Brains....I Need Brains...

Christmas came in a flurry of presents and laughter, and New Years wasn't too far behind. It's great being here with my family, Melissa and Jeff have effortlessly slid into the fabric here and the babies are the very center of the universe, but overall Angus and I are really suffering.

The plane ride went better than expected - not only did the babies basically sleep through both of the flights, but we managed to secure an upgrade on the long flight from Amsterdam to Seattle (thanks to the purser of the flight being a good friend of my family's), and they cleared out a part of the business class section for us.

Heaven.

Nora went ballistic while we had to go through Immigrations, which didn't help our moods nor the moods of the egomaniacal types stamping the passports, but she gave up her tirade against the world by the time we had gotten our luggage.

We're having a good time, but Angus and I are so sleep-deprived it's reached new lows of hell. Not even when I was pregnant or on 3-hour feeding schedules was I this tired. My family's house is large but accommodating this many people is hard, so the babies are in our room. And the babies, they're furious that their schedule has been fucked with and they're in a new place. We're trying to be as consistent as possible with their schedule from home, but my whole "Looky here, my babies sleep through the night!" shtick is gone. The babies slept about 3 hours the first night we arrived, so Angus and I got about 3 hours. They're not hungry (we tried feeding them), they just want to scream. The night before last was so bad that I caved and simply pulled Nora into bed with us, risking Angus' displeasure. She fell asleep right away, her softspot twirling beneath my chin like a buttercup test.

The night before last was so agonizing I literally felt like dying. I'm a legendary insomniac and I've never felt so shit before in my life. We're inhaling coffee during the day and begging the sleep gods to let the babies sleep all night. So far, no dice. Nowhere close. We've moved the babies' cot into our adjoining en suite and still we can't get any sleep. Last night at 10 pm I felt like crying - Angus was snoring and I knew I had only hours until the babies kicked it off again. We try to stick to our schedule from home, but I can only imagine what kind of fresh hell it's going to be when we return back home and have to re-work the schedule again.

Combined with the fact that we woefully underestimated how much formula to bring, and we're now blending our SMA Gold formula from England with Enfamil, we're clearly overwhelmed. Hopefully the mixture doesn't upset their stomachs too much. I think a part of me even hopes that it'll help with Nora's colic, although if it does I'll have a big problem importing the stuff.

In the meantime, while it's lovely to be here and my family is amazing, but I can't even enjoy Target. We walked around it like fucking zombies, I couldn't even tell what was what. I'm completely mental and incoherent just now - I actually fell asleep at the table, proving that a National Lampoons special is indeed in my future. I just need sleep. Angus and I feel like we're dying.

In terms of holidays, so far it's a nice one, but definitely not a relaxing one.

Here's to hoping the situation improves once we get to Whistler.

-H.

PS-many thanks to Sue, who was my 19,000th comment.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 04:58 PM | Comments (27) | Add Comment
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