March 31, 2008

Oh God. The Horror.

"It was horrible," I gasp, huddled under a blanket. Angus is rubbing my back, a tumbler of whiskey in my shaking hands. Mascara has run down my face in rivulets.

"It's ok now, you're ok now," he soothes.

"I couldn't face it. It was so awful, I couldn't believe it. I thought I would be stronger!" I wail. "I thought I was made of stiffer stuff!"

"You couldn't have known, there were no indications," he says, smoothing circles on my upper shoulders.

I tip the whiskey to my lips and then rub my forehead with a sob. "I'm just so glad it's over," I whisper. "I'm so, so glad."

"Me too, babe. Me too," he says, holding his forehead to mine. "Try to push it out of your mind, the whole horrible experience. Try to focus on the good - it was hell, it was worse than you could have imagined, but at least it's over."

"Yes," I agree, sitting up and feeling a shudder go down my spine. "It's done. And both babies got slots in the swim class."


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


OK, so it wasn't as bad as all that, but it was indeed one hundred times worse than I had imagined.

Saturday morning Angus, Melissa and Jeff headed off at a ridiculous hour for Heathrow (little did we know that the flight would be delayed over 12 hours, and all the fuck-ups involved in Heathrow opening a new terminal meant that Melissa and Jeff are actually still here, and going home tonight), and so the twins and I headed to register for swim class.

We left the house at 5:45.

In the morning.

On a Saturday.

All for a goddamn swim class.

I strapped the babies (both, luckily, feeling quite happy) into their car seats and then head to the car. I realized I was left with the crappy red car, the car we hate, the car we took to France and we were so tired that we didn't completely unload it, so I would be driving a car full of babies and 100 bottles of wine to the gym. Only of course, when I got into the car it wouldn't start.

I tried again.

No go.

I started shouting, and just like that scene where Clark W. Griswald makes the Christmas lights shine just by screaming and willing it to be (or so he thinks), I managed to get the car to turn over and run just because if it didn't, my mood would've been shagged for years to come. We were then on our way, bottles clinking merrily in the back.

Pulling into the parking lot, the babies in brilliant moods in their car seats, cooing and babbling at their toys, the car, who the hell knows what, I was shocked to see that the parking lot was heaving. I sigh. A number of frazzled-looking women in mid-sized sedans are pouring into the car park. I race and open Nick's door.

And 3 bottles of wine go clinking along the road, having been relieved of their place on the floorboard and willingly taking the path of least resistance. Luckily they didn't break. But they did make a hell of a noise, causing the other moms to look at me funnily as I unstrapped my tiny infant son from the backseat. I wanted to be a cow and shout "What? Everyone's gotta' have a little breakfast! Most important meal of the day!" but felt that burning bridges before I swam under them was a bad idea.

Unstrapped, Nick and Nora and I head inside.

And join the queue.

Which has easily 40 people already in the queue.

What I didn't know is that every swim class was up for enrollment that morning, so it was from 6 months old to 5 years old. Loads of half-asleep moms and dads sat there on the seats lined up for the queue with a bleary, "I'm not awake" air. We all had bed hair.

And I was the only one there with kids because other more responsible parents let their kids sleep in at home with the other parent. My co-parent was actually at that moment battling with check-in staff. We all do what we can, eh?

I slide into a seat and start feeding Nick. The woman next to me looks over. "My spouse had to take someone to the airport," I say weakly. She smiles and nods and then smiles at Nora, who flirts outrageously in return.

And so it starts. We fill out paperwork and wait. I feed Nora. Nick starts shouting. I bounce Nick. Nora starts her new game of talking at the top of her voice. I think it's cute but I can see that other moms and dads aren't finding the vocal antics of my kid very entertaining at all, especially at 6:30 in the morning. I figured: at least she wasn't screaming, we can take the babbling.

They make us shift up on seats every so often, which is highly convenient if you have a diaper bag, two babies, and two car seats. The woman next to me on my left helps me move the babies, and we get to talking.

"I can't believe how early in the morning it is," she says wearily. We'll call her Left. That seems nice and noncommittal.

"The things we do," I agree. Like I'd know what things we'd do for our kids, I've only been doing this gig for 6 months. "Is it always like this, the signing up for swim lessons?"

"Oh yes," Left says. "But at least once you're in the system it's ok."

"In the system?" I ask.

The woman on my right side leans in and joins the conversation. "You are in the system, right? We're in the system, are you in the system?" Right asks the Left.

"Definitely, we're in the system," Left replies to Right. Left looks at me. "You're not in the system?"

What fucking system are they talking about? The NHS system? The council system? The solar system? "Um....no?" I say hesitantly. God what have I done. I'm the worst mother ever. The list could be the list for the end of the world, it may be raining fire and St. Peter comes along. "Helen? Helen?" he says, checking the list. "Nope, you're not on here. Man, you are so screwed!" he crows, moving on to the next name.

"You're not in the system?" Right asks with horror. "The system here is what enables you to re-enroll smoothly! You have to be in the system to get priority!"

"No but I will do! I'll even double-book in the system, I'll take remedial classes even!" What did they need? Blood? A vow of chastity? Connections to the DAR? None of which I could provide, but still - it would be nice to know what I was up against here.

"You'll have to hope you can get a place," Left says, shaking her head sadly. "Even if the class you want is booked, you need to book something. You have to get in the system, even if you can't attend the class."

"How much is booking something?" I ask.

"£70," Right replies.

70 pounds! 70! Per child! I'm not paying £140 just to have my name on a list. Let's be reasonable, people. I love my kids, but paying £140 just to have my name on a computer screen isn't attractive.

The queue keeps moving. We get closer. Parents are leaving, angry, unable to get their kids into some classes. I'm in deep shit here - not only do I need two spots, but we can only do Friday swim classes because strangely enough work isn't that keen on us bunking off every Tuesday afternoon. Funny that. We're getting closer and closer to the front of the line. Nick's fast asleep. Nora is talking for England. I worry the mob will come for us.

Finally, it's us up for consideration. I find my knees are knocking. I can't believe it - I'm nervous. I'm nervous over a swim class.

I've lost my mind.

"Right then, so which class did you want?" she asks.

"Friday at 9am, the aquababies class," I say, chewing on my thumbnail.

She checks the list. She smells like chlorine. She smiles at Nora, who naturally smiles back. "Hmmm...ok...ah....yes! Yes we have a place! Shall I put your name down?" she asks brightly.

"Yes but I need two places," I reply.

She looks at me.

I point to the twins.

She looks back at me. "I only have one place."

So...what? This is the aqua version of Sophie's Choice? She wants me to pick my favorite kid or something, let the other kid fear water for the rest of their life? "I need two places."

"I don't have two places for the 9 am class," she says sadly. I deflate. And then she follows up with: "But I do have two places for the 10 am aquababies class."

HALLELUJAH!

I am beside myself.

We sign up.

I pay an extortionate sum of money, which I tell myself is for the best even though the babies hate water and react to it much like the Wicked Witch of the West did, and then we go home.

Swim class starts the 25th of April.


-H.


PS - Happy birthday, Mitzi!

PPS - Many thanks to Vicki for four fantastic books she sent me. Vicki is a fellow twin-mom and is riding the roller coaster of high blood pressure and UTIs. She's on bed rest and is so close to reaching term in her pregnancy, and I know exactly how she feels, so hang in there, Vicki!

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March 28, 2008

Hi Everybody! Hi Dr. Nick!

Hi!

Nick here, sneaking onto the PC while my Mom is busy making up the formula we know and love. It's vintage 2008 stuff, really nice.

Anyway, we've been really busy here. Yesterday my Dad found a cheap fare to France for the family. He said it cost 20 pounds, so I reckon we paid two babies to get there, since I weigh 12 pounds and my sister's 10 pounds. I'm not sure where they are getting all these babies, but hopefully Nora and I aren't exchanged for a cheap ferry ticket anytime soon.

So Mom, Dad, Nora, and my big sister Melissa and big brother Jeff all hopped into the car and got on a ferry to France for the day. It was pretty interesting, and the really cool thing is Nora and I have now been to 5 countries and we're not even 6 months old. Smokin'.

We went to enjoy the day out as a family, or so Mom and Dad say. Truthfully, I think it was to stock up on cheese, wine, and Mom's favorite candy. They bought over 30 packages of cheese and about 100 bottles of wine, but Mom did say that these things cost a fraction of the cost in France than in England. She also said the wine would last them all year, but then she muttered that since building work starts next week, she and Dad may finish it all off next weekend. They're pretty stressed about it. But Mom was kidding. I think.

I think we also went to get our cheeks pinched by many nice French people, which happened a lot. We think there aren't a lot of twins in France. We also think Mom and Dad's French sucks the big teat because everytime they tried to use it they came out with a mixture of Swedish and French. They're so embarrassing.

The ferry was all right. Mom worried about seasickness because she gets sick just standing on a bathtub mat and thinking about water, but she was ok. So here's me and Mom at the start of the trip:


Mommy and Me


I think the hat makes my outfit.

Anyway, then Mom and Nora went outside to enjoy the sun.


Sunglass queens


And so my big sister and I snuck off and hit the vices. Hard.

First she let me drive*.


Nick drives


Then Melissa and I hit the slots*.


Nick gambles


Finally Melissa and I got uproariously drunk on le vin rouge*.


Hic


When Mom found out we got in so much trouble. Melissa and I are grounded for a long time. Melissa can't wear too much of her goth-like eye makeup and I can't watch CBeebies for ages. It's so unfair. I just wanted to live a little. It's not easy trying to be so cool while wearing Huggies.

And then of course she made us pose on a chair with Dover in the background and my sister is totally in my personal space.


Les Bebes


Anyway, I have to go. Granny and Grandad are coming in a little while - they're Dad's parents - and Mom has already been hitting up the tranquilizers. She keeps muttering something about "Dear God, no more lectures from them". She really enjoyed another sermon from them about getting us baptized over Easter dinner. My mom's a trooper.

And if Mom catches me writing up a blog post, then she'll be on to me. That means the catering service she offers me when she brings me milk on my request will be over, and that's a sweet deal I can't miss up on.

See ya'!

-Nick.

* No he didn't drive.

* No he didn't gamble.

* No he didn't drink. Neither did his sister.

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March 25, 2008

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

This is maybe going to make me unpopular and potentially end up in nasty emails, but I promise there's a reason for what I'm about to say.

I weighed myself on Sunday. Shockingly, I discovered I'd lost another kilo (2.2 pounds). I am two sizes smaller than I was before I heaved twins around. I now weigh about 12 pounds less than I did before I got pregnant, and as both Angus and I had been on a serious diet and exercise regime when we kicked off that cycle I was already at a low weight.

I haven't weighed this little since junior high.

Believe it or not, I'm not boasting here an I apologize if I come across that way or make anyone feel bad. You maybe want to tell me to quit my bitching (which I would understand) and certainly if I hadn't shaken off the baby weight I would be bitching about having the opposite problem. I know it's good that less than 6 months after giving birth to twins I not only have my figure back, but I have someone else's much better figure to boot. But the truth is I'm actually worried now.

I am pretty sure that there's something wrong.

I don't lose weight easily. I can lose a few pounds, yes, but I can just as easily gain a few by simply thinking about macaroni and chees. My body hit a specific weight about 10 years ago and basically decided that's where it wanted to stay. Even during anorexic periods I never really lost loads of weight, my shape has the stubborn mule attitude my brain has always claimed as its own. "What, me? Change? I don't have to change, you change instead!" I never got to the weight I am now. It just isn't that easy for me.

And I'm eating. I eat regularly, I'm not skipping meals, I'm eating plenty of naughty things like cheese and such, so it's not because I'm depriving myself. I don't belong to a gym anymore, and since the babies started nursery I'm running around the house a lot less than I used to so it's definitely not due to exercise. And yet I'm still losing weight. Jeans I bought at New Year slide right off my body, even when buttoned and belted. I have only one pair of trousers that fit anymore. My bras are all too big as my breasts are shrinking. I have visible cheekbones and I never had cheekbones before, they were always buried somewhere in my round face. And even though my stomach apron is present and accounted for, I was shocked on Sunday to see my hipbone sticking prominently out of my pelvis.

A recent blood workup showed only two abnormalities - my cholesterol is actually too low (nice problem to have, I guess) and my white blood cell count is too low as well. Neither of those can account for what's going on with me, although perhaps it explains why I'm covered in bruises, most of which I don't even know how I got. It also explains why I am constantly so fucking tired. My thyroid checked out fine, so it's not a thyroid problem. I'm going to go back and ask for more tests to be run.

I know it sounds crazy - I should be glad I got my body back so fast after pregnancy, and believe me I am glad. I'm not checking the orhthodontics of a gifted equine or anything. But to keep losing weight without trying, begging, pleading, and offering sacrifices to the gods is not something my body does, not ever. To be this size is not normal for me. I want to find out if this is based on nothing at all, or if I need to sit my body down in the naughty chair.

-H.

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March 24, 2008

Steps and Stairs

Melissa and Jeff arrive today for a 5-day stay - Angus has just gone off to the airport to get them. This means that posting and mails will be slower this week, because a 15 year-old with a penchance for Googling about the band The Killers and an 11 year-old who's just gotten into World of Warcraft render us computer restricted in a very big way. We also want to spend quite a bit of time with them - they won't be back here for a long time, as once the extension starts there's simply no room for us all. Luckily, the kids understand. It's for the greater good that they can't be here for a while, and Angus will instead go to Stockholm to visit them. When the extension is done there will finally be a room for everyone.

Jeff is looking forward to it most, I think. Ousted by the babies, he currently sleeps on the pull-out sofabed in the study when he comes to visit. After the extension, the family bathroom gets ripped out and turned into a bedroom, and he gets that room complete with his own computer (an older one we have that needs rebuilding) as a thank you for being accommodating.

Through out everything, Jeff is the one who gets impacted the most. He's got a lot of issues, and Angus and I both think he really needs to speak to a therapist. When Angus mentioned this to the Swunt, she haughtily replied that Jeff is fine, that it's Angus who needs to see a shrink. We gave up then, but Jeff is a troubled lad. He's ripe for the cult-picking, I think - he gets ideas into his head and gets militant about them. I can see him wearing black sweats and purple sneakers and drinking the Kool-Aid. He overthinks everything. He acts out and lashes out and has a problem making his voice heard.

He confessed to Angus over New Year's that he knows he's acts up. He does it deliberately, he said, because he doesn't get attention otherwise. And we both think this is true - at home he's overlooked, the Swunt has other attentions.

The Swunt...ah, the Swunt. I alternate being deep hatred for the woman and pure disgust at her behavior. I'm sure she feels the same way about me, we're both baskets of love for the other person. I never, ever let on to anyone other than Angus how I feel (at Christmas one of Angus' nieces handed me a wrapped present and asked if I would be seeing Auntie Swunt anytime soon, and could I give her this gift? I smiled and said I wouldn't be seeing her, but I would be able to get the gift to her via Melissa and Jeff. See? I can be a grown-up occasionally. This despite the fact that the Swunt has sworn off Angus' family for good, as they "betrayed" her by not telling her about my pregnancy last year.) Neither Angus nor I ever let on to the kids how pissed off we are, but the pissed-offness is growing in magnitude.

Angus is the one who has to pay for all the kids' airfares. And the Swunt isn't good about being flexible on dates, we have to accommodate her schedule at all times and thus generally get stuck booking hideously expensive tickets. The kids wanted to come on Easter Sunday. The Swunt said no, it would have to be Monday. We thought it was because Easter was important to her (the Swunt is mildly religious) but it turns out the Swunt has opened a business in her house, and she presses the kids into labor. That was why. She often takes the opportunity to make out that Angus and I were being difficult about dates or didn't want them at certain times, when the truth is she's the one awkward about dates. It's so fun to try to battle so many windmills.

But what's really fucking me off is her attitude about Jeff. She doesn't see or doesn't want to see that he really has a lot he needs help working through. Every summer he gets dragged on long horse camp holidays with the Swunt and Melissa, as they're both horse crazy. Jeff not only could care less about horses, he's actually highly allergic to them. Imagine spending a week around horses, your inhaler clasped in your inner pocket.

Further, that holiday the Swunt took over New Year was a most unusual holiday that is nursing a new obsession. She went to Uruguay. Seriously. And considering she doesn't have an income, that the only income is from Angus' child support, I can guess who funded her little excursion. Turns out she's become mad about polo and South America, is now taking Spanish lessons and planning more horse-centric polo trips to South America and trying to rope the kids in. We know it's only a matter of time before she asks for money to help pay for the three of them to go to South America. Guess what response Angus has already prepared?

Melissa and the Swunt are taking Spanish lessons. Jeff? Not so much. Yet another thing he's excluded from. And he's mad about computers and quite good with them, but the Swunt doesn't care about computers at all and can't/doesn't encourage his interest.

I recognize I'm on a bit of a tear about her just now and I don't mean to be. I know and understand that a lot of what she's doing and feeling right now is because she probably feels like she gets her life back, and she wants to do things that make her happy. I get that. I'm also not trying to make out like I'm some kind of saint or anything, because believe me I'm not. There are times when I just want to throttle Jeff, he can be so maddening and I get weary of trying to tiptoe around him so much. But I want to grab the Swunt by the shoulders and shake her and scream "So what if you don't like computers, who gives a fuck if you'd rather be riding a horse? This kid needs you. He's screwed up and feels like no one in that house gives a shit. Straighten up and make him feel loved and secure. What, you want him to turn out like me or something?"

None of this will happen. We try to be encouraging and loving to both kids when they're here, especially since it'll be a while before they can come back and the Swunt will get her claws into both of the kids in our absence. I want them to leave here knowing how much we value them. It's all we can do, really. I just hope it'll be enough.

In the meantime, we'll be spending time with the kids. It's their favorite meal - curry - for dinner. I've recorded a number of films I think they'll like. And I've hidden the anti-depressants, because if the Swunt catches wind of the fact I'm on tablets I'm sure all hell will break loose.

-H.

PS - as ever, if commenting about the Swunt I'd be really grateful if you'd try to keep the pitchforks stowed in the garden shed.

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March 21, 2008

Thanks Easter Bunny! *Bock Bock*

It's a holiday here, and a holiday on Monday as well. We'll be taking this four day weekend to do boring things like fix the heating (apparently we gave up hot water for Lent. We'll not be doing that again.) and taking it easy. The babies are curled up on a beanbag, in fabulous moods, and although the weather looks threatening we'll have a fire in the fireplace and this evening I'll be sifting through my nine glasses of wine.

And from our house to yours, we'd like to wish you a nice weekend. We're not a religious family, not by any stretch of the imagination. Easter is about baskets, chocolate, and eggs that are colors they shouldn't be. So we hope that the Easter Bunny leaves you lots of surprises around the house, nice ones that won't require you to get paper towels out to clean them up.

And now, a special temporary message from our sponsors. more...

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March 20, 2008

You Say To-MAH-To, I Say Stop Talking Like a Ponce

I am run off my feet this morning and it's put me in a fairly fierce mood. It started when we woke up to learn the central water heating pump had packed its bags and left. This is bad. It's especially bad as we are getting rid of it in two months time with the extension build and so are reluctant to spend any money on it. It's even worse as the thing is so fucking old we can't find spare parts for it and it's a 4-day holiday weekend here so it's impossible to get any parts we could find in a timely manner. And the worst yet is we're heading into a particularly cold weekend of snow and minus degree temperatures and the loss of the pump means no heat and no hot water.

I already had a nervous tick this morning, and that was before my ice cold shower that made me want to kill people.

Then I had to refill my anti-depressants, only wouldn't you know? The pharmacist didn't turn up so the shop is closed because, you know, turning up for work must be optional for chemists. I also had to go to the grocery store, figuring I'd beat the holiday crowds, only I was foolish I tell you, foolish! Blows were nearly exchanged in the root vegetable aisle and two senior citizens were peeled off each other in the granola section, one of them with a fistful of blue hair in her hand. Then I had to drive back to the nursery because they called and Nick? You know your son, Helen? Are you completely mental, or did you miss the fact that he has every single symptom of teething? OK, they didn't say that, they simply asked if I'd mind dropping off some teething drops as they don't stock any, but I smacked my hand on my forehead and realized that of course they're right. He's teething. Cue next round of hell.

And of course I got into a big bust up in the parking lot of the nursery with a local guy. Words were hotly exchanged. Naturally, as soon as I drove away the stellar comebacks filled my mind, including but not limited to: "Maybe if you grew a pair or took driving lessons you wouldn't have this issue! Nut up, asshole!" And: "I'm not blocking the drive, your judgement is impaired by your obvious excessive use of tweed." Or "Threaten me, mate, and I'll ram that Jaguar up your backside."

Of course, I didn't say anything like these, but they make me punch the air with victory now, after the fact.

It occurs to me that I talk with a strong English accent when I get into altercations, and I think it's my sub-conscious making a ruling that we're not going to give the other person any additional ammo. I have adjusted in many ways - you ring someone up on their mobile, instead of calling someone on their cell phone (I work in telecom. If I didn't adapt to that one people would eat me alive.) It's petrol and not gas. They're bins, not garbage cans. I sometimes call them nappies instead of diapers and a cot instead of a crib. Not an apartment - a flat is the name. And the doctor's office is the surgery. All of those are no problem, I'll adapt and talk like the natives because it's easier, because they won't tease me (aka "take the piss") and make me want to fling myself off the top of a building.

But there are many ways I'm in a raft amongst the islanders. I refuse to pronounce it "to-MAH-to". I hate saying "pram" instead of stroller. I will not blatantly wing around an extra "i" to make "aluminum" into "aluminium". He is not Father Christmas. He is Santa Claus. I can't say "he cut me up" instead of "he cut me off" because it makes me feel like I'm in a teen slasher pic. I don't say "he put the phone down on me" instead of "he hung up" because seriously - too many words there. And I physically cannot bring myself to use the word "arse", it makes me feel pretentious.

I do actually love the way the general British population talks. The accent can be elegant, and an insult sounds a lot more brutal with a British accent than an American one. Words of love sound that much more sincere with a British accent, and that's not me romanticising or being an Anglophile. Equally, a British or American accent done by someone not of that culture can sound horrible if it's done wrong. When Angus tries to talk like an American he sounds like his sphincter has slammed shut. The best British and American accents in Hollywood are, I think, from Cate Blanchett and Hugh Laurie (he's English, but his American accent is perfect).

Language has been on my mind a lot lately. It's funny - Angus and I both speak English, only we don't. And it's not just word substitutions ("courgette" instead of "zucchini" and "aubergine" instead of "eggplant"). It's whole phrases and explanations. Of course we completely understand each other but things aren't without their explanations and laughter. What amuses me is that, in general, the British way of talking simply uses more words than the American way does. And those ways edge towards the Masterpiece Theatre.

We were watching TV the other night when an actor uttered this line:

"I find I am exceedingly puzzled without recourse to a rejoinder."

I laughed. Angus looked at me. "What's so funny?"

"Your people use so many great words, when that sentiment could have been shortened considerably," I reply.

"Well what would you have said there, then?"

"Fuck if I know."

"If you don't know then you shouldn't make fun."

"No, that's what I would've said. I would've said 'Fuck if I know'. That's what that sentence means."

"You're so coarse."

"And yet you stay with me."

He's just pissed off I make fun of how he pronounces schedule "SHED-yool".

See? Too many words. Also when you're talking on the phone to an Englishman they find it impossible to say "goodbye" just once. It's true. You always get: "All right then, goodbye. Bye now. Bye bye. Bye." or something like that. This makes me laugh. It also amuses me that some people use "Good morning" as "goodbye". So "Thank you very much, good morning." means "You go now." To me, "good morning" starts a conversation, not ends it.

But it's the double entendres that do me in. A male friend of mine once told me that he'd "Come round at 8 pm and knock me up". To which I thought: Hang on. We're just friends here, mate. But where "knock you up" in the States means "to impregnate", over here it means knock on your door and stop by. Whenever I hear that one it still creases me up.

Many of the naughty things between one culture and the other don't carry over.

It gets me when we go to nice places for dinner and the cheese board comes around for dessert. "Madame?" I was once asked at a business lunch at Claridge's. "Shall I cut the cheese for you?"

As long as it's the silent but violent variety, that'd be fine, I thought, suppressing seriously immature laughter. "Yes, please." I said with a straight face. My colleagues knew something was up, and once the waiter left I explained that "cut the cheese" on my side of the pond meant someone would be waving the air to remove the scent of rectal gas. I taught them a new expression that day.

The one I really struggle with is "fag". Over here a fag is a cigarette, an extremely normal use for the word. I can't bring myself to say the word, so ingrained is the word as a derogatory term for gays and homosexuals. I know it doesn't mean that over here, I just can't get past it.

Even worse, the word "faggot" really is a proper product here. It's a kind of meatball made out of various serious unattractive parts of a pig. It's old-fashioned home cooking, and were once (from what I understand) common in British cuisine, although they're a bit dated now.

The other night we were watching a documentary about Tesco, which is a giant grocery chain here (we're sad - we love documentaries in this house). The idea of this documentary is that an average joe makes a product and tries to sell it to Tesco. One man made up a slew of faggots (the meatball, just to be clear here. I'm not homophobic and I don't tolerate it around me, either. Just wanted to get that out there.) He was trying to sell his idea to Tesco, and every time the name was said I squirmed like mad. They were just throwing the term around, using it in contexts I was trying hard not to giggle at because once again, my humor is occasionally immature and extends to people using words that I know are naughty but they don't know. Like hearing a foreigner use the word "fuck" without really knowing what it means and getting your kicks out of someone saying something they shouldn't be saying (Ha! He said "doody"!).

And then came the penultimate.

The guy went searching through Tesco to see if they already sold faggots, and he uttered the following now famous line in this house:

"Come on! Let's see if we can find more faggots in the meat section!"

That's when I lost my shit.

-H.

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March 19, 2008

When I Grow Up

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a lawyer. Not a ballerina, not a teacher, not any other stereotypical little girl dream. I wanted to be a lawyer and the more pernicious the better. Perhaps I was already armed with an argumentative nature and the desire to ground people's dreams into dust, or perhaps I had romanticized the profession into that which was reflected by the skinny Minnie Ally McBeal. Whatever the motivation, that's what I wanted.

When I was a teenager that goal shifted. I used to work in hospitals for two days a week on various rotations, and one of those rotations opened my eyes and showed me what it was I really wanted to be. It was on a rotation in a Dallas hospital, sunlight streaming in the windows and the distracting smell of disinfectant only marginally beaten by the sound of beeping and screaming machines. It was when I slid gloves on and reached into an isolette, cupping the head of a newborn that was no larger than a tennis ball, that I knew I wanted to be an NICU doctor.

When I went to college that goal shifted again. I made it two whole years on a pre-med plan, until the day came that I had to take a pre-requisite social sciences course and I learned I could attend anthropology class in boxer shorts and excel at a course I barely had to study at. No longer would I beat my head on my desk over the biochem classes and their wispy equations I could barely hold on to. This anthropology stuff, it was a breeze, and it allowed me to cultivate hopes that I could someday be a writer.

When I look back on it all, I can't really figure out how I got from there to here. No child looks up with beaming and expectant eyes and answers that timeless question of "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with the response "A project manager in telecom!" If they do answer that, some socialization is in store for them, as no one in their right mind would want to do this stuff. Sure, the pay isn't bad. Yes, I get perks such as phones that are on the cutting edge (most of them prototypes) and I got to travel the world, and that's something I don't take for granted at all. But the work itself is...well...just work.

I try to explain what it is I do to people who ask. No I don't make telephones. No I can't help you settle your bill. I run engineering projects that create things, generally things you can't see or touch. Just things.

I thought about what it would be like if I got called to a Career Day at a local school, dragged in by Nick or Nora.

"OK class, let's say hello to Nick and Nora's mum Helen. Helen is going to tell us what she does for a living. Helen? You ready?"

"Right," I would stride to the front of a class, recently vacated by Janie's dad the Fireman, and Henry's Mum the Dog Trainer. I had no idea how I would compete with a 6 foot long fire hose or a dancing spaniel, but I would give it a shot. Nick and Nora would be staring at me, their eyes shining. I would be in a business suit and high heels, not daring to turn up in my usual dress when I work from home, which generally is an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms.

"Hi class, I'm Helen. And I am a project manager in telecommunications. Does anyone know what that is? Yes? The little girl in the back? What's your name? Tammy? No? Your name is Tommy? You're a boy? Kid, seriously, cut your hair. What's your question? Can I get you a new mobile phone? No Tommy. I can't do that. Anyone else? You, the girl with the tragic dentistry? No I don't do ring tones." I sigh. "I manage teams that make your mobile phone work better. It's nothing that you can see. I manage people that manage whirring boxes. We don't do anything you can touch, exactly. I just..." I trail off, catching sight of Nick and Nora hiding their heads under their desks.

When I lived in Sweden I once spoke to an audience of thousands. I strode across a massive stage in boots I'd purchased in Barcelona that were designed to give off the impression that "You? You don't fuck with me, not ever." (that, and they were great to wear in the snow as I never got cold). I rocked that presentation, even getting an award for best speaker. My job at the time was managing a massive team, and I was partly responsible for managing one of the more high-profile products in that company. It was the project that was a resume's wet dream, my CV sparkled under its weight. I was made. I was on fire and ready to work my way to CEO. My career was my everything and nothing could get in my way, not after that project. That was the stuff that career dreams were made of.

Then I lost my job.

And now it's all just another line on my CV.

I find myself back at work now, and I look back on everything I've done with a degree of disassociation, and not the mental kind. It just was. It all just happened. I've had a glittering career with Dream Job the past four years and won numerous awards and bonuses (our bed and couches come from such awards, and you can't say fairer than that) but you're only as good as your latest project. Currently there's nothing up on offer, technical projects are like the metaphorical trains - you wait forever for one and then a load come along all at once.

I'm not stressed about it. In fact, I rather prefer it. When I returned to work my boss told me that there was no specific project he wanted me to lead just now, but there's a raft of research and technical documentation we need and would I tackle that? In truth, I would rather do that, by far. I am writing papers right and left. I look back on notes I took two years ago and marvel at the self-assurance that woman had, the complete control and sense of no-nonsense that permeates every page.

And the truth is I would be happy and content to remain in the sidelines for good, writing documents that make other people's projects fly. I'm not bothered about leading a project anymore. Honestly? I don't know if I can do it. I look back on that woman in her Barcelona boots and I don't know that I can do it now. Too much has happened, too much of me has changed. Even a year ago I was leading technical projects. I have a reputation as someone who doesn't suffer fools, whether gladly or not, and if you come unprepared or run late I will eat you for dinner. My former team apparently regard me with equal parts loyalty and certainty that I will tear people apart if they dick me around. People seem to think that I am still set to take over whole departments, that I will lead the world.

But the truth is, I won't. I can't. I don't want to. I feel like I don't remember how to lead, and in not remembering I'm surrendering my baton and letting someone else run the relay. I feel like I'm letting someone down by not grabbing the brass ring, but the brass is too cold, the ring too heavy. I'm not going to run departments and I don't even want to. Once I used to believe the work I did was important and relevant, but now? What's the point? None of this is important. In an obituary it wouldn't even make sense to most people, in a summary of my life it would elicit frowns of incomprehension. It's pointless, all of it. I make phones work better. Big fucking deal, really. Pass the bread.

I'm not so egotistical as to think I'm alone in this - I'm sure a lot of people look at their jobs and wonder what contribution they really make to society. I bet a lot of people are as unexcited about their career path as I am. I wish it hadn't been so cool to wear boxers to class, I wish I could've knuckled down and tried harder at the biochem. I would've loved to be a NICU doctor, and I think I would've been a good one. But I also know the truth - I was working so many jobs to put myself through school (unlike my sister, who got the whole deal for free. I'm not bitter or anything.) that I couldn't have tried any harder than I already was trying. That ship has sailed - I'm too old to go back to school to try again and we couldn't hack the loss of my income for me to try it. I fell into telecom and it's good enough. It pays the bills and that's the important thing. It'll do me. I write my papers and will, at some point, have to lead another team and hope that I get the tiger back who knows how to lead. The bite is gone in me. I'm back to work and large parts of me are glad I'm back to work.

I just wish what I did mattered more to anyone, most of all myself.

-H.

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March 18, 2008

Hiddily Hoddily Neighbourinos!

10th March 2008

Dear Neighbour (Ha! Did you see that, Neighbour? We spelled it the British way, because we're trying to unleash some subliminal companionship here! We're bonding! We're on the same page! Enjoy, because I will pluck my beaver clean with some rusty tweezers before I will ever pronounce it to-MAH-to!)*,

We send you this either because you live on our road or because you border our property from the Lane on our other side, the one where people drive too fast and we encourage you to madly chase after these drivers and shake your fist angrily, too, because I can't be the only crazy lady around here.

As most of you know, we welcomed twins the end of last year and to that end the need to extend our family home became rather pressing. You may have heard the babies, actually, as we had a very collicky beginning which we like to look back on as How the Fuck Did We Actually Survive That? Or, as experts call it, Effective Birth Control Reminders. We would very much like to thank you for your support of our extension plans and appreciate the fact that no one rasied objections to the council about our building works. This means that at Halloween I will not be forced to leave flaming love parcels of dog poop on your front doorstep. We can be friends. You complete me.

Our plans were approved and we have finally gotten off our lazy asses and hired a builder, who is known for being conscientious, clean, and sensitive to the needs of the owners and their neighbours (and if you believe that, then I have a blue dress from the Gap to show you, one I disgustingly decided not to wash after the action shot). Yes the builder is kind of a cowboy originally from East London - we even call him The Cowboy - and yes although he showed us some of his building works at his home (which we really liked and approved of) he also showed us his beautiful handmade gazebo with hot tub, plasma TV, and massive bar. This means that he gets paid a lot. This also means Helen needs to bleach her eyeballs at the thought of him in the hot tub.

As nearly every room in our house will be impacted, we will have a shipping container in our front garden which shall serve as storage for our belongings – we are very sorry for the unsightliness of it, and want to assure you that the shipping container is temporary! I'm sure you thought "Christ, there goes the neighbourhood" when you heard an American moved in two years ago. Now I bet you're worried that we're going to invite all of my podunk redneck American relations to move into a giant shipping container on our front garden. I think you only need to worry if you see us bring in a pickup on cement blocks and a whole bunch of broken plastic garden furniture. If you don't see those, then chances are Cletus and Marlene are not, indeed, moving in.

We want to sincerely apologise in advance for any noise or disruption (which we will try very hard to minimise) that this may potentially cause you. We will only be building during normal working hours and hopefully you wonÂ’t find any stress or strain to your home life on account of our building. We would like to build around the clock, but there is such a thing called "Overtime", and it would mean we'd have to choose our favorite child and let only them go on to secondary education, so we'll skip that part. We will try to be very diligent in respecting your space and in ensuring that the road is kept clear of too many vehicles so as not to block anyoneÂ’s access. We're even preparing to sacrifice our front garden to make it into a temporary parking lot for the builders. Now where did I leave that broken plastic garden furniture....?

Truthfully, we're just hoping to get out of this alive and with our sanity, if you get pissed off at seeing a builder urinating in the garden then please just bear in mind that we're likely not too happy about it either, ok? We're going to be doing our dishes in the bathroom and living in two rooms of a house with twins. We won't have a working kitchen. Half of our roof will be gone. Cut us some slack already. I may show up at your house in tears, trying to slice my wrists open with an unwrapped pack of Ramen noodles (hey-those little fuckers can be sharp before you add the boiling water). If that happens, just take the seasoning packet away from me and talk me off the ledge.

Building is to commence on 1 April, and the build is estimated to run for 12-16 weeks. If it actually finishes within that time we'll invite you to come over to ours for a 4th of July party. You know, the one where we eat and drink too much (even - gasp! - a bottle of wine in one sitting!) and then have fireworks to celebrate the day that Americans kicked the English out of their government. Huh...you know, thinking about it, it's kind of an inappropriate thing to celebrate over here really. If the build runs over then you'll know by the keening and wailing going on, as well as the cement mixer which will be dispensing anti-depressants in liquid form, as opposed to composites used to settle the foundationd. One foundation at a time, my dears. One foundation at a time.

Please, if you have any concerns or comments, feel free to drop in for a chat, because nothing pleases Helen more than drop-in guests. She loves that as much as she loves hand herpes, Robert Urich, and bananas. All rolled up together. You could call as well, only Helen also hates talking on the phone. You might be getting a sense of anti-socialism here, but we assure you - go ahead and email. That'll be ok. We have a delete key.

Warm Regards,
Angus and Helen


*Yes we really did write each of our neighbors. No, this was not the letter we wrote them. My mouth/brain connection may often be on the fritz, but usually when there's a spell-checker involved I get by ok.

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March 17, 2008

Let's Get Physical

On Wednesday, still feeling a little rough, I drove to the middle of fucking nowhere to have one of those "work you up thoroughly" kind of physicals.

I get there and am immediately gifted with a little cup which to wee in, which if you're a woman means you'll be rinsing the urine off your hand in short order. I don't know why they hand women little pots to pee in, if there were someone thinking in the medical profession it would really be shaped the size of a frisbee as then we wouldn't have to aim with a tiny little spigot we can't even see.

I then went in to talk to a nurse practitioner before seeing a doctor. We discussed children.

"You have twins!" The practitioner says excitedly.

"Yes I do." I smile.

"I have a friend who's having twins. She's 43. They're IVF babies."

"Mine are IVF babies," I reply.

"Really? My brother has no sperm."

Wow. I did not see that one coming.

"Oh. Er...I'm very sorry about that."

"It's ok. They used donor sperm and had IVF. It didn't work, then they ran out of his sperm, too."

Oh my god.

"I'm so sorry," I say, dazed.

"It's ok. They're now adopting from China. Sperm problems forgotten, really!"

Except by his sister, that is.

"And you're...33?" she asks.

"Yes, that's right," I confirm. "I'll be 34 in a few weeks' time."

"When's your birthday?"

"April first."

"Oh April Fool's Day! That's my wedding anniversary!" she says excitedly.

You got married on April Fool's Day? Seriously? My life has been hell having the first of April as a birthday, I can't see anyone deliberately choosing it for anything apart from a bikini wax appointment.

"So you'll be having a complete physical today, including blood work, measurements, breast exam and cervical smear," she lists, reading from a sheet of paper on top of my chart.

"Oh I just had a pap smear, I don't need another one, thanks," I say hastily.

"You don't want the smear?" She asks incredulously.

Be lubed up and slip my way to the parking lot? So tempting. "No thank you, one smear every few years is enough."

"But the pap smear is our main perk!"

You people need to work on your marketing.

"I'm good thanks. Just the rest of the exam."

They strip me down and take lots of measurements. My BMI is bang on normal and I now weigh 8 pounds less than I did before I got pregnant, which on one hand is good and on the other it means my stomach apron is just that much more noticable. Even the nurse practitioner noticed it.

"You have that apron of flesh that means you had kids," she says, observing my stomach. "I have that, too. It never goes away."

I sigh. I suppose I should be glad she's focusing on the apron as opposed to noting that I have a small hole on the right hip of my knickers.

"Have you been well?" she asks, scribbling on her chart.

"I've been ill, actually," I reply. "It's been Puke Central at my house."

She takes an involuntary step backwards. I feel like Linda Blair.

We then discuss my alcohol consumption. I was ready for this. Once returning home from Canada, Angus and I have been regimented about alcohol. We drink only at the weekends (although in the case of a really, really bad day we've been known to pop a cork out). When I think back to other periods we were doing what looks like typical home behavior over here, in that we got home, loosened the tie, and poured a glass of wine after a rough day at the office.

I tell the nice nurse practitioner with the sterile brother that I drink a max of 3 bottles of wine a week (in fact it's usually less than that).

"How many glasses of wine do you think are in a bottle?" she asks, looking at me.

Four. "Six," I say, trying to be the picture of moderation.

"Nine. There are nine glasses of wine per bottle."

"Nine! NINE! That's impossible! What kind of wineglasses are you using, ones from Lilliuput or something? Nine glasses? We're talking drinking glasses and not eyeglasses, right? Not shot glasses?"

"No, there are nine wineglasses of wine in each bottle. So in essence you are drinking 27 units of alcohol a week. The recommendations for women is to drink 14 units. Worse, you drink it over a three-day period."

"But I never get drunk," I protest. "I never lose control of my faculties." This much is true. I've been mildly souped once since the arrival of the babies, and that was on accident. I've not once been out of control or unable to deal with the children, not like the wild drinking days I had before they were conceived where occasionally hangovers were things of legendary proportion that generally involved mornings spent in bed and stomach contents coming back up for a friendly visit.

"Your liver will have to work that much harder to deal with toxins. Truthfully it's much, much better to drink regularly during the week."

"Seriously, are you advising me to drink regularly during the week?"

"Yes I am. It's better for your body. No more than a max half bottle of wine at a sitting."

Doctor's orders, then.

The rest of the physical goes smoothly. I am taught how to do self breast exams, which I am ashamed to admit I have never once done before and I will now be diligent and good and check myself. Disturbingly, I have high blood pressure, which I never had before I got knocked up but which now seems to be an issue. Also disturbingly, I'm to go to a specialist to have my kidneys checked as they're concerned I may have sustained damage from Nora booting my kidney once too often.

-H.

PS-I'm such a dick. Wordsforsnow (who has one of the cutest little girls in the history of cute little girls, which is really quite a long and distinguished history) kindly sent us these four amazing books, and although I thanked Suzie on email I forgot to thank her here which makes me feel like an asshole. I'm sorry, Suzie - we love the books, thank you very much!

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March 13, 2008

Chopping Board Post

We are largely recovering. Nick and Nora are ensconced in the warm loving arms of the nursery this morning, even if Nick's diapers are still slightly suspect (but we're out of contagion zone although we've been through over 100 diapers) so I think it's safe to say that we're going to be ok. Nick proved that although he may be a sweet, happy boy he's one of those "speak softly and carry a big stick" types, as while he may be a little boy he's got the makings of a man - he made life a living hell when he was ill. Nora just whimpered. Nick, he was like most men and made it clear that life might be ending, people, it just might be!

And now, a chopping board post, since I am not quite myself today.


*****chop chop chop chop*****


Today is Angus' middle brother's birthday. He's the nice but sanctimonious one, the one I call the Reverend, because any excuse to get on his high horse is provocation enough to be treated to his opinion, which is of course the right opinion. He's usually banging on about the environment but other rants include and are not limited to immigration, health care, technology, politics, you name it.

Last night he rang Angus to grill him on our choice of child care. The Reverend's wife, a woman who is studying childcare in college and thus knows more than you, me, you and me, you and Supernanny, all of us combined, about children and she had some opinions on our choice of child care and so elected her husband to be the messenger. Apparently they feel that the babies going to nursery is not acceptable.

Cue instant boiling rage from Helen. Bad enough that Angus' Mum was giving me grief about nursery ("Helen, don't you think they're too young to go to nursery?" "Well, Angus' Mum, unless we win the lottery there's not a whole lot of choice here." "I'm not kidding, Helen." "Really? Because I'm not either.") I couldn't face it from them as well. Angus difused the situation.

This was good.

I honestly really like the Reverend but he gets on my last fucking nerve with his preaching, and so I picked out his birthday present from all of us with this in mind. He had recently pissed me off, see. I found a way to settle the score.

And I silently punch the air for the thoughtful and loving gift we gave his brother for his birthday.


*****chop chop chop chop*****


We can sometimes get the babies to laugh, which is brilliant. There's no sound like it in the world, ever. I would love to record it and share it here but as soon as we get the video camera out the babies fold their hands and solemnly declare that they would like to present their dramatic interpretation of The Last Song of the Swan.


*****chop chop chop chop*****


Work posts coming. Building posts coming. Annual physical post coming. Non-baby posts coming. But today's kind of an anniversary, the last of their kind until the babies' birthday in October.

One year ago today we went into a room and saw on an ultrasound screen two dark blobs with little flickering lights.


Both of the sacs 6w6d


Those flickering lights were two identical heartbeats. Those flickering lights kicked off a fierce row between Angus and I.

Those flickering lights became our children.

It's the last of the big anniversary dates of my last IVF cycle that kicked off the creation of the babies. I won't bore you by marking them anymore, but suffice to say that I still can't believe that two tiny flickering lights turned into two blazing lights called my son and daughter.


*****chop chop chop chop*****


And now, I'm feeling pukey again and will go lie down.

-H.

PS-many thanks to another anonymous benefactor - we received these three fantastic books. It feels like Christmas with the Amazon gifts, thank you so much!

PPS-many thanks to Lily, who on Saturday was kind enough to leave my 20,000th comment.

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March 12, 2008

Gold in the Puking Olympics

Nick and Mommy


Nearly recovered.

Come back tomorrow?

-H.

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March 11, 2008

Oy.

Well, on the plus side, at least I know how they've been feeling.

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March 08, 2008

Oh yes. Of course.

And to wrap up a week of baby-related posts (I have non-baby and non-feces things to write about next week, I swear it)...

Nora is weak as a kitten and has lost a great deal of weight she couldn't afford to lose (we'd like to give a great big "Fuck you!" and a cheery wave to the percentile charts, thank you very much!), but although she's still ill we think she's on the mend as she's at least taking liquids now. She's utterly exhausted, I'm utterly exhausted, but we think she's headed towards the clear.

This morning both Nick and Angus came down with gastroenteritis.

*sigh*

-H.

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March 07, 2008

Hold on to your meatball whenever you sneeze

On top of spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball,
When somebody sneezed.

The babies like a new song when I change their diapers. They grew tired of the old ones but they love this one. I tend to sing it loud and slightly off-key: On top of spa-GHE-tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii....all covered with CHEESE.........

Last night Nora took a turn for the worse. She wouldn't drink, wouldn't eat, and just wasn't herself, which I know is a stupid thing to say, like that stupid response to "how do you know you're in love?", the "you just know" drill. She was no better this morning so she and I went back to the doctor. The doctor - this time a middle-aged woman with very kind eyes - decided Nora needed to be seen in our local hospital, which is the one that Nora was born in 5 months ago. Nora was dehydrated, she pronounced. Nora wasn't well. The doctor rang ahead to tell them we were coming.

Nora and I raced to the hospital, me feeling very panicky. She sat in her car seat, not making a sound. When I checked us into the pediatric A&E they took us straight to a curtained-off bed.

Nora and I were told to try the "dialoryte challenge", which I joked was like the Pepsi challenge only with fewer fringe benefits. I had to pump Nora with 5mL of electrolye solution every 5 minutes using a syringe. She hated it. I hated it for her. If we didn't succeed, she would be admitted and put on IVs.

We took on their challenge because her being admitted with an IV is the worse case scenario for both of us. I rocked Nora in my arms between the 5 minute battles. The boy behind the curtain to our right was very ill, and in a great deal of pain. A girl with a broken arm was on our left. Behind every curtain was a mother and her child, administering recommended doses of reassurance. Machines whirred and went off, startling her. Nora couldn't stand the tiny blood pressure cuff going on to her leg. She was weighed, and naturally she's lost weight and fallen back down the percentiles.

They left us alone to try to get the feedings down. We worked out a method whereby I would practically hold her tongue down and force the liquid down her throat. As soon as she got it down I'd hold her close to me, where she'd whimper against my chest.

The ill boy next to us had many people round him, and many machines beeping various warnings and Nora started to get upset at the commotion. I rocked her back and forth on my chest, walking beside the length of the bed. "On top of spaghetti," I sang in a low voice next to her ear. "All covered with cheese..." She calmed down and sighed, her head in the crook of my chest.

A nurse was standing by our curtain, watching us. "You two are so lovely together. She's such a beautiful baby."

Nora whimpered.

I smiled, and wondered if I looked as exhausted as I was feeling. "Thank you very much," I replied. I kept singing. I spent the morning in A&E holding her and singing to her in between the feedings. It was one of those moments when I really felt that I was a mother, complete with the shoulder covered in vomit and smell of Johnson's baby lotion wafting off her noggin.

We're home now, armed witjh instructions on what to do and if/when we need to go back. Both of us are completely exhausted. I have to force Nora to take 5mL of liquid every 10 minutes now for the rest of the day, which is hard on her. It's hard on me, too, because I hate seeing her like this.

It rolled off the table,
And on to the floor,
And then my poor meatball,
Rolled out of the door.

-H.

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March 06, 2008

I Vow Not to Get Sick

Nora and I packed up and went to the doctor's office yesterday morning after changing our 7 millionth foul diaper. I had taken a shower that morning but, like the scent of lilacs on the breeze or fish and chips in the salty pier air, I carried with me the delicate and fragile aroma of my favorite lotion (bought before I got knocked up) and eau de baby feces, a most remarkable and delectable scent. Nora was in a most miserable mood but I know when I have a fever and projectile pooping I'm not such a happy camper, either.

Our appointment was at 11 with a new doctor. The receptionist asked if we minded seeing a last year medical student who was working temporarily at our surgery, and since Nora wasn't needing a kidney trasnplant or a spinal tap
, I figured there would be no harm in that. We waited in the waiting room with 5 other people, all of them older than death and all of whom expressed great displeasure at a sqwaking baby impeding on their time spent reading 6 year old National Geographics. When Nora's name was called we made our way to the office of our med student, whom I'll call Dr. Yearling.

I opened the door.

Holy-Jesus-Jospeh-Psychadelic-Mr-Shagging-Potato-Head.

Dr. Yearling was hot.

I mean...hot. Hot, in that "I'm going to use italics for emphasis" kind of way, which I almost never do unless using it to illustrate thought as otherwise it's a cheap ploy, I tell you, a ploy! Dr. Yearling makes Dr. McDreamy look like a 17 year-old with acne and stupid hair.

"Mrs. Nora Crumplebottom?" he asks, in a smooth as caramel voice using Angus' last name.

Nora chooses that instant to break the soundbarrier with screaming.

"No, I'm Adelaide. Ms. Adelaide, actually. This is Nora Crumplebottom." I say, gesturing towards Nora, who is turning the color of a beet. "I'm not married," I add for reasons I can't understand, apparenlty finding value in pointing out that I'm single, I'm just a ho who gives birth to illegitimate children. "Er, Nora's feeling very poorly."

"Oh poor girl," he says kindly, looking at her. "She's absolutely gorgeous."

So are you, I think. (There's those italics.)

"What's wrong with Nora?" he asks, as we sit by his desk. She takes that moment to remind me that she's nestled in my arms and pukes all over the sleeve of my coat, inserting that minty fresh stomach acid smell into the room.

What's wrong with her? She can shit through the eye of a needle. "She's not well, she's had a fever and really severe diarrhea," I answer, taking a burp cloth out of my diaper bag and wiping us down as best we could.

He reaches over and feels her fontanelle. "She smells lovely." he says nicely. She should do, her diapers had been so explosive she'd already been bathed 4 times in a 12 hour period. "Was she up a lot during the night?"

"We were up about 3 or 4 times, yes, changing nappies and administering Calpol."

"You must be tired."

Yes. Yes I am. Hold me. "A bit, but I'm more worried about her."

"Rightfully so, she's very little and dehydration could cause severe issues for such a wee one."

Christ you're cute, I think. I want to take you home, slap a tulle tutu on you and park you in a music box.

Nora farts. I feel embarrassed while also hoping he doesn't think it was me sneaking one out. I check his face and he's grinning at Nora, so it looks like the appropriate blame has been laid.

"Has she been going through a large number of nappies?"

Let's just say that all those protests I used to join in college against Kimberly Clark's polluting and environmental destruction? Those ones? Yeah. I'm a big, fat hypocrite. "She really has, it's almost constant." Meet my kid, Lady Chapped Ass.

He takes a detailed history of how she is doing and how she was. He is very, very thorough and very kind, often reaching over to tickle her chin or try to hold her hand. He honestly seemed keen on her, and I had fantasies of shacking up with him, Nick and Nora. We could live in a big house with a grand sweeping staircase. He and I would curl up over a morning crossaint, him looking lovingly into my eyes and telling me that he's so grateful Nora went through 30 diapers in a 24 hour period, as otherwise we never would've met. Dr. Yearling might beg for more children, and we'd bcome like the Waltons only with IVF. Goodnight John Boy! Goodnight Blastocyst!

I shake my head. What am I doing? My daughter isn't feeling well. My daughter, who right now is grinning at Dr. Yearling and making me feel like an over-protective first time mother. I'm the worst mother in the world. Here I am thinking of taking Dr. Yearling home and teaching him bedroom hijinks that not even Mrs. Robinson would know and my little girl has just spent the past 24 hours pooping for England. I could win the Worst Mother of the Year Award. I'd walk on stage and pick up the golden diaper trophy to the accompaniment of boos and hisses from the PTA. I'd wave, tears in my eyes. "I'd like to thank the Academy, as well as my anti-depressants for robbing me of my sex drive just enough that I didn't throw our family doctor down and ride him like a rodeo pony! Thank you so much!"

Dr. Yearling gently listens to Nora's tummy. Nora smiles. Then we hear the sound of what sounds like whipped cream shooting out of a canister, then a heavy thud, not unlike a meringue pie smacking into a clown's face. This is immediately followed by a smell that would prompt a Hazmat team into action. Dr. Yearling and I stand and he hastily leads me to a baby changing room. He holds the door open for me. I shut the door then change Nora and head back to his office, aware that both Nora and I smell like we'd been to a Bodily Fluids Gone Wrong party and brought home all the sample sizes.

Nora is diagnosed with viral gastro-enteritis, which will pass on its own but she needs to be kept hydrated to avoid getting sicker. He writes a prescription for some electrolyte sachets that we're too pick up from the chemist.

"Looks like Nora's lunch will be a bottle of water with some electrolytes! Hope you're having something nicer," he adds kindly.

My lunch will be a grilled cheese sandwich, I think. But if you want to come home with me, I'll make you a sandwich too, the special way, where I add Doritos in it before I eat it. I only do that for people I really fancy, that Dorito shtick is my secret weapon. You'll love it.

I'm so fucking posh.

"Not really," I say, smiling. I cannot tell him about my lunch, social services will take my babies away from me.

I thank the doctor for his time, not mentioning that I've done some rough math and think the baby changing table is strong enough to hold the weight of both of us, and I take Nora home.

I call Angus up when I get home.

"How's our girl?" he asks.

"She has gastro-enteritis," I say. "She'll be ok though, and she's sitting here on my lap napping now."

"So all ok at the doctor's?"

"Oh yes. We saw a new doctor, a Dr. Yearling, who is only working here for a few months. He's hot. Seriously hot. I couldn't believe it."

"Blimey, I had no idea we had a new doctor," he said amiably. "So how's your chances with the new hot doc?"

"I smelled like feces and baby vomit."

I can hear the laughter in his voice. "Chances not good then?"

"No, chances not good."

My perfect little Nora is feeling much, much better today.

As for me, I've resolved to keep seeing our usual GP, a man in his late 50's who is very kind but about as attractive as a badger.

-H.

PS-comments have been screwed up for a bit, so if you're having a problem commenting then shoot me an email and I'll try to figure out what's going on. The server has been getting attacked a lot, and I was innundated with comment spam the other day. Hopefully it's getting better now.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:21 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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March 05, 2008

Another (Unwelcome) First

Yet another first.

Nora's first illness.

Timing, babe. It's all about the timing.

The nursery called late afternoon yesterday. Nora had a temperature. The asked if they could administer some Calpol which, frankly, is nectar of the baby gods and I said yes to. We went to pick them up and brought them home (and by the way, the homecoming from nursery was fabulous. I've never been so happy to see my babies, and when we walked in they greeted us with big gummy smiles.) I'm sure she didn't pick up something at the nursery, she wasn't there long enough to be exposed in that short of time, it just timed inconveniently with her first day at day care in that "Hey, pack your bags, Mama, you're going on a guilt trip!" kind of way.

Nora remained feverish and generally unhappy all night. When the time was up from her first dose we administered more Calpol, which made her sleepy. Late in the evening the diarrhea set in, which is less diarrhea and more "stand back, I'm just gonna' hose the kid down in the tub, m'kay?" The words "jet stream" apply here, and I'm not talking about the shower attachment.

We've been through three sets of sheets, three Grobags, and untold pairs of pajamas. I am absolutely exhausted - we were up a great portion of the night, and even though they sleep through the night my body has the remarkable ability to wake up instantly and go running at the sound of thick liquid hitting the inside of a Pamper (actually that's no joke - at 4:30 this morning my eyes shot open upon hearing Nora making yet another mess). The entire house smells like feces and vomit, and I understand Bath and Body Works are preparing a new aromatherapy candle to market the scent. Between the smell of shit and the smell of baby vomit on me, I am the new ideal for the latest fragrance campaign (We've replaced Helen's Dolce and Gabbana with a secret blend of diarrhea and vomit. Let's see if she notices!) Nora's fever peaked at about 102 and now is going down but as there's no end to the Poop Olympics and she really isn't feeling well (lethargic, whimpering, not even getting angry when you bathe her and not hungry) and still feverish, so we're off to the doctor's this morning while her brother (who is symptom and fever free and his usual, happy-go-lucky self) enjoys the comfort and fun of the nursery.

No one tells you how wretched you're going to feel when your child is sick. Or they tell you but it doesn't compute, it's in one ear and out the other: "Oh you feel distressed when your kid is sick? Really? You want fries with that?" But suffice to say when your kid is ill and it's your kid, you want to break into a pharmaceutical company and demand they create something right now to make your child feel better, everyone can have the flu but your kid, because while it's great to cuddle them when they're burning like a furnace, you just can't bear it when they hurt.

I can't handle all the firsts.

-H.

PS-two more fantastic books arrived, from Lori this time. They came yesterday in the midst of snow, power outages, first day at nursery and Nora's illness so the timing was impeccable for a pick-me-up. Thank you so much, we love them!

PPS-Happy Birthday to a great little guy.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:03 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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March 04, 2008

A Series of Firsts

This morning for the first time this winter, it started to snow.

I got ready. I got the babies ready. I changed their clothes and snuggled them and let them watch CBeebies while we showered.

I'm in the office right now. I'm in the office surrounded by office people for the first time since late summer last year. The power is out in our neighborhood while the electric company upgrades some cables. The house is freezing and so are my insides. The wallpaper is too scratchy on the walls near me. Peoples' voices baste the inside of my ear canals and drown me with inconsequence. Things are moving too fast, people are too quick. I had to wear real clothes for the first time in...well, I don't really know when.

My notebook is open beside me. The last entry in it was 31 July 2007. This is the first time I've had it out for so long now I almost forgot what it looked like. I had to borrow a pen from someone as my work laptop backpack was incomplete, it had been so long since I used it. It has cables, a laptop, that damn Blackberry, and a brag book of baby photos that I couldn't not bring with me, a brag book I don't intend on showing anyone but myself.

I'm in the office and I wasn't ready to be in the office yet, I wanted to ease in. My work assignments are light for now, a few technical documents to write that will need a bit of research. I don't know what I'm supposed to do past these documents. I find it doesn't bother me too much, the not knowing. I have to be here all day today as the power doesn't come back on until 5, and I don't know what to do with myself, I don't know how to get through this day.

I keep feeling like I'm forgetting something.

The snow fell as Angus and I drove the babies to nursery. I had to go. I couldn't wave goodbye at the door and expect to see them later. I had to be there to hand them over.

The snow fell today.

Mothers will leave their babies at nursery. I am not the first nor will I be the last. This will get easier as we get a routine going. This will be good for them. This is what has to be done.

I'm in the office for the first time.

I opened my notebook for the first time.

I have my badge around my neck, hanging like a tombstone, a millstone, for the first time. I am over-conscious of it, it's a pendulum, a reminder. If I had a baby in my arms they would grab at it, instead I am aware of it and grab it in their place.

For the first time my 5 month old twins are ensconced in their nursery, Nick staring at the lights, Nora asleep on a donut. I know this as I phoned the nursery not long ago. I had to know.

They didn't cry when I dropped them off.

But I did.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:29 AM | Comments (27) | Add Comment
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March 03, 2008

Today and Tomorrow

Yesterday in England it was Mother's Day. At 7 am I woke to the sound of squealing babies entertaining themselves in their cot, as they do, and when I started to get up Angus told me to return to bed immediately. He left the room and came back with fresh coffee. Then he left and came back carrying two happy babies, with a bright pink card clutched in Nick's hands.

It was a Mother's Day card, signed (as it were) by both of the twins. Angus handed me a bottle to feed one of them with, and with a grin told me that since I was always giving them bottles they wanted to get one for me, so he handed me a bottle of champagne. He also handed me a small parcel and explained that he had nothing to do with it, but Melissa had handed it to him yesterday and told him to give it to me on Sunday, as she would be back in Sweden by then.

Inside was a card signed by both of the stepkids, with a hand-written message thanking me for the love I give them. And inside the parcel was a mirrored plaque with a poem on it, called "You're Like a Mum to Me".

I was in bits and completely, utterly touched.


my gifts


It was a good day yesterday. Mother's Day was like every other day and every other Sunday, but it was my first Mother's Day and I will keep my cards forever. I can't believe I get to have a Mother's Day. I can't believe I have the relationship I do with Melissa and Jeff, which while occasionally rocky, it's come so far. I can't believe I have Angus, who deplores Mother's Day and Father's Day and yet went and helped the babies have momentos for me. And I can't believe I have two little beings that warm the inside of my heart.


Nick and Mommy


Today is the 3rd of March. I have logged on to my work PC now, and turned off my Out of Office reply which has been in place for 5 months now. My much-ignored Blackberry is charging on the kitchen counter. I'm now going to have to start keeping track of where my mobile phone actually is again.

My boss is away today and as I've been away so long I haven't a clue what's going on, today will be a calm day. I'll update expired passwords and fulfill some admin things I need to do, then I'll walk away from the laptop, as I can't start work until I know what the hell I'm supposed to be working on. I don't know if I will be leading a project or just be a project goon on one already running. Once upon a time it would've stressed me no end to not know what project I would be working on. Now, I find I could care less.

How vast a life can change.

Tomorrow my boss is back to work, and I'm supposed to find out what project I'm doing. I have no idea what it will be. I have no idea if I will get thrown into work at high speed or if, like some projects, it will consist more of a dipping of the toe befoe immersing the whole ankle. Tomorrow is when work will properly begin, and to that end tomorrow is the babies' first day at nursery.

It's occupying a huge portion of my thinking time.

Tomorrow I find out what's in store for me.

Today I'm back to work.

And today Nick and Nora are 5 months old.

-H.

PS - a lovely box arrived from Amazon on Saturday with four absolutely fantastic books. There were sweet and funny comments with every book but Amazon didn't tell me who sent it, so I want to thank my anonymous benefactor from the bottom of my heart, it made my Saturday.

UPDATED - comments broken. Again.

UPDATED AGAIN - comments sorted!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:28 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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March 02, 2008

Book Tour - Embryo Culture

It's that time again.

Mel's Book Tour has hit again, and this time it was with the book Embryo Culture. If you don't know Mel, she's like the Den Mother of the fertility treatment world, and is so amazingly organized I want to bury my head in shame.

The book was more of an auto-biography-meets-National-Geographic. It was about an author's experience with IVF treatments and a whole lotta' science in between. Nothing wrong with science, now. Don't get me wrong. I like science, birds and the bees, Darwinism and Punnett Squares, but this was scary science, science of the negative. 60% of IVF babies will have x. 82% of IVF twins will suffer from y. 0.4% of you will get paper cuts reading this book. That kind of thing.

So, on to my questions.


1) The author also talks about how many embryos should be transferred at any given cycle. Should there be a limit?


Purely my opinion here, but - yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. In the EU they're moving towards single embryo transfer for women under a certain age or with no history of IVF, and two embryos for those over 40 or those with repeated failed IVF cycles. I remember in Sweden I didn't get a choice on one of my cycles, I was only allowed to put one back. In the UK you can only have max two put back unless you're over 40, then it's a max 3. I support a max of 3. The statistics here show that your success rates do not go up with increased numbers of embryos being transferred, and the theory is that the embryos must "compete" for all the goods at the uterine snack bar.

My clinic was a very, very conservative clinic. They hate multiple births because of the high risks involved in them. On my 5th IVF cycle they recommended both embryos be put back because they weren't great quality and I had had many failures at IVF prior to that round. And boom! I have twins and my RE was not happy.

Multiples are hard. They're hard on the health system, which almost always gets to welcome infants into special care or the mother into L&D a number of times before the arrival. They're hard on the mother's body and mind. Multiples are very hard on the finances. The risks involved with multiples are huge - premature labor (ding!), pre-eclampsia (ding!), small birth weights (ding!), developmentally behind (ding!), higher risk of in utero infant mortality (thankfully we skipped that one). Carrying multiples is very hard on the body as well, and I'm talking about my kidneys and bladder here, not about my attractive stomach apron. Not to mention that dividing your time and attention between multiple babies is not only exhausting, but also makes you feel like you're neglecting whichever child isn't getting your focus.

I wouldn't give up my babies for anything, but I feel we should be more realistic about what to do if we have more than one. I hear stories of women putting back 8 embryos, 9 embryos, and saying that should they all take they'll "just reduce". As I've said before, there's no "just" about reducing. It's a hard choice to make, just as having quints is a hard choice to make.


2) [The author] Beth Kohl discusses her fears about how IVF may lead to increased health problems for her children, and she thinks about this in the context of her daughter's surgeries for cysts on her bladder. Do you ever worry that IVF or other ART could compromise the health of your children created through the process? How has that affected your decision to pursue treatment?


I worry that the pursuit of IVF has marked my children in terms of development to some extent - because they were early they are behind, although I am assured that by 12 months old they'll have caught up with the rest of the pack. Gestationally they're about to be 18 weeks old, 22 weeks old from date of birth, but size-wise they're the same as a 12 week old, and about there developmentally too.

But I honestly never worry that they'll develop a heart condition as a result of being created in a petri dish, or that one arm will grow longer than the other because their cells were exposed to air instead of being bounced along a fallopian tube. Maybe I'm naive, I just think that at only 4-cells not a whole lot could've impacted them at that stage. I do worry about genetics in general - skin cancer runs in my family, I worry that they'll get that and vow to protect them against the sun, but I don't worry that anything might impact them due to the nature of their creation.


3) Beth likens Dr. Frankfurth's [her IVF doctor] office to one that "should have belonged to a family doctor in Anchorage, circa 1950, and not to a late twentieth century endocrinologist." How much do appearances matter? What were your first impressions of your RE's office? Did/does that color your interactions with the RE himself or herself?


My RE - while a medical genius and an excellent physician - was not a sparkling personality, and his office reflected this. We met him at his NHS office, even though we pursued treatment privately, as we are ineligible for NHS treatment for fertility. His office was a typical NHS office - boring desk, boring chair, boring view. His private office was no different, and the waiting room of the clinic where we pursued treatment was littered with ancient Hello! magazines and pamphlets from the HFEA. There was at least a coffee machine with drinkable coffee, but his office was cold and depressing. The transfer room was also a boring, run-of-the-mill NHS style room. Don't get me wrong, I love the NHS, but NHS decoration is something out of the 70's. So if I'd been going on looks I would've done a runner. As it was, we went based on their success rates, and I'm glad we went where we did, even if we never exactly had a warm and huggy relationship with the RE.

The only decoration that he had really were massive picture frames, each containing many photos of babies he'd helped to create. They lined almost every wall of the clinic and I remember being both unable to look at them and being unable to draw my eyes away from them. I sent in a photo of Nick and Nora, I sometimes wonder if they're in a frame and someone going through the process looks at them and can't bear them, just as I did.


Hop along to another stop on this blog tour by visiting the main list at http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/. You can also sign up for the next book on this online book club: The Mistress's Daughter by A.M. Homes (with author participation!)

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:52 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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