April 30, 2008

When Schadenfreude Backfires

Schadenfreude.

A German term, it means taking pleasure from someone elseÂ’s misery.

ItÂ’s something our karma-bent souls try to not partake in, but occasionally we slip and fall. ItÂ’s not nice to smirk when someone is having a problem. ItÂ’s naughty to laugh when we see someone trip and fall. ItÂ’s mean-spirited to punch the air when we know life has gotten one over on someone that we think had it coming.

Schadenfreude is rejoicing when your nemesis tumbles off that pedestal theyÂ’ve put themselves on. ItÂ’s being glad that the supermodel trips and falls on her killer 5-inch heels. ItÂ’s smiling that the beauty queen has a zit on her chin the day youÂ’re having a good hair day. ItÂ’s knowing deep down inside that someone has something coming to them, and when that something comes youÂ’re glad to see the wind fall out of their sails just that little bit. It's taking comfort that someone else is as fallible as you are, as human, as likely to have to fight and struggle.

I’m not immune. At work I’ll hunker down and wait until someone has got what’s coming to them, that the “what” is often a spectacular downfall. I may not be there to see it, I just take comfort in knowing that everyone falls, and their fall may be what evens the karmic score I’ve been tallying in my head. I’m not Buddha, but I’ll go ahead and referee for him until he gets here.

I have it in my personal life too, although to a lesser extent than in my professional life. There are a few people in particular that get me to air punching, a move which is simultaneously wholly immature and blissfully rewarding. I confess there are those whose misery I donÂ’t necessarily enjoy, but I wonÂ’t look away while itÂ’s going on, either.

I tell myself that as long as I donÂ’t hand life a bat, IÂ’m not to blame when it administers a beating to someone.

IÂ’m pretty sure Buddha wouldnÂ’t agree with that.

He should maybe come here, stand by the pitcherÂ’s mound then.

ItÂ’s not as though IÂ’m a moral compass myself. I donÂ’t decide things, I donÂ’t get to always be in the right. ItÂ’s just I have so often been in the wrong, and god knows IÂ’ve tried to claw my way out of that. When life seems like a skating rink to others, when it seems that theyÂ’ve never known what it feels like to shake the muck water out of their eyes, when theyÂ’ve never stared into the mirror and wondered who they were, when theyÂ’ve never had to work hard at anything when youÂ’ve spent your life working like a demon, well, itÂ’s a balm to a troubled soul when you see someone tumble down to your level.

But the thing with Schadenfreude is that it isnÂ’t free. It comes at a price. You may take pleasure in someone elseÂ’s misery, but chances are that at least once theyÂ’ve taken pleasure in watching you fall, too. The worst comes when you draw in your breath to unleash a hyena laugh at someoneÂ’s downfall, only with that intake of air comes the understanding that the situation has changed, and it isnÂ’t the other person whoÂ’s miserable, itÂ’s you.

And then you want to kick the BuddhaÂ’s ass.

-H.

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April 29, 2008

Oh God, They've Come In Now

Le Building Nightmare 2008 continues. There are a lot of things that they don't tell you about what building work does to your life. I vacuum every 20 seconds or so to keep the dust under control. It's a constant battle in the kitchen - once you disturb the earth around the house, as we did when foundations were laid, the ants come in and they bring all their friends for a keg party at Casa de Helen. There's zero privacy as every room has a window that the builders can see in thanks to all the scaffolding, so Angus and I have had to resort to a quickie on the landing of the stairs as that was the only place we couldn't be seen. He and I have both flashed the builders more than once trying to get dressed, but we're now beyond the point of caring. One of these days I'll step out of the shower and get handed a towel by a builder cheerfully whistling Quando Quando Quando.

Four days ago the temporary kitchen we created showed us a slightly different perspective.


Temp kitchen


That's daylight behind the dustcloth.

The kitchen ceiling is gone, as is half of the roof.


Kitchen roof


This was once the kitchen ceiling. The window at the top of the picture is the nursery, which will become a family bathroom and an en-suite bathroom. The entire back of the house is covered with tarps, so when you get a wind going you feel like the house may just sail away.

Angus and I spent the weekend working ourselves to death doing DIY. While the builders are doing the big work, Angus and I are doing little bits in order to save money - painting, tiling, floorboards, two bathrooms and the kitchen. You know. Little things.


Painting doors


Because the weather was so amazing the whole family was outside, including the babies, who slept in their bouncy chairs underneath the shade of a giant umbrella. Angus and I tooled around in shorts (OK, he wore shorts. I couldn't find my shorts so I ran around in boxer shorts. Same difference, right?) Surprisingly, both of us got sunburned, which is stupid of us because we're so naive about the weather in this country after last year's miserable summer that we didn't even think about the sun.

We started with painting the garage doors. We've had new barn doors installed on both sides of the newly roofed garage, and we painted them.


Painted doors


The garage is currently brick, but because the bricks on the garage and, sadly, the house are in such a shit state, they're going to have to be covered. We consulted with some experts to see if there's anything we could do to keep the brick as the outer fascia, but even with lots of pointing there's no hope. In some places, like this photo of the fireplace off the study, the horrible white pebble dash rendering was the only thing holding the bricks in place.


Crumbling fireplace


We're ripping off the white pebble dash and are going to have to plaster over the bricks. Short of tearing down and re-bricking every wall there's nothing else we could do to save the bricks. The plaster we'll be painting something along the lines of a cappuccino color (as will the garage), with white trim windows and a front door painted to match the garage doors.

The former kitchen ceiling is gone, but what's in place now are the studs that form part of our new master bedroom.


Master bedroom floor


The back of the house is getting there, anyway. The back wall will all be brick (we're not plastering over that wall, as it'll be a feature wall seen only from the back of the house). Doors and windows have been ordered. We're in only half a house right now, but we like to pretend we can see the finished product.


Going up


We're absolutely covered with bumps, bruises and cuts. This, because this past weekend we demolished most of the living room ourselves. I'd already started on the living room a few days ago by tearing out the horrible living room carpet, underliner, and those wood strips you nail carpet too. It was a travesty - the original wood floors in the living room had been covered over by concrete, so they're lost forever.

Angus and I went for a walk with the babies, got in an argument, and came home and beat the stuffing out of the living room, thereby dispensing the argument in a giant puff of dust.

The fireplace in the living room had to go. It wasn't the original fireplace anyway, it was rebuilt in the 1980's and we were never that keen on it. The new range cooker has to go in that space, with the hood venting out the chimney, so we knew it had to be ripped out.

So I got a crowbar and went to town. Angus joined in. It was brilliant fun.

This is what the fireplace looked like decorated for Christmas, 2006 (I didn't really decorate last year. I didn't have the energy or, frankly, the inclination).


Fireplace 2006


So we beat the stuffing out of the fireplace and removed the front and you know what we found?

Another fucking fireplace.


Fireplace x 2


It was the original fireplace, put in when the house was built. When the fireplace was re-done in the 1980's, they simply bricked in front of the old fireplace, they didn't actually remove it.

So we stripped down the brick to the original fireplace, which we're keeping and will use as a surround around our new range.

Angus and I stripped off the rails, coving, and all other bits and pieces. Then Angus got that look on his face as he studied the ceiling. You know "that look", it's the one that tells you you're further away from a shower and a glass of wine than you thought you'd be. Angus had long held the belief that there was something under the ceiling, that the levels of the floors above and the ceiling on the ground floor didn't align. So he decided to punch a hole in the living room ceiling and find out. You know - as you do.


DLiving room ceiling


He was right - there was something amiss. At some point in the past, someone had lowered the ceiling about 8 inches.

We're fans of high ceilings.

So we ripped out the entire living room ceiling.


DWhat a mess


And now the living room - which will become a kitchen in the next few weeks - looks like this:


Still a mess


In other words, it's still a disaster, but we're working on it.

I'm betting we'll have a relaxing weekend in about 2010 or so. Any takers?

-H.

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April 27, 2008

Le Snippets

There are about one million things going on, not least the fact that I'm in London tomorrow, the skin is sloughing off my hands thanks to all the building work we did today, and the delivery guy bringing our curry will be here any minute now, and my God the priority he's been given is amazing. So I bring you snippets again, because I'm a lazy bitch that way, but also because that's how my mind is working right now.


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


Pushing Daisies. Why - WHY - has no one mentioned this program to me before? What, I look after you by telling you my deepest darkest secrets and feelings (and Mooncup incidents) but you can't tell me about this little gem?

Pushing Daisies rocks my world more than macaroni and cheese and white wine and footsy pajamas served up on a naked John Cusack bar. It has gotten me passed my deep and unending mourning for the cancellation of Dead Like Me. My life can now go on.

And I want every single one of Anna Friel's dresses on that show, and I plan on holding my breath until I get them because rumor has it that little ploy works.


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


My grandma is back home and healing. Melissa is doing well and healing. One of Vicki's sons has been released from the hospital and is busily trying to gain weight. Her other little boy, unfortunately, has gone a slightly longer route to going home - his heart surgery was cancelled as he developed a bleed on the brain. The family was taken via air ambulance to another hospital, where the little guy had a shunt inserted to help drain the bleed. He's in NICU healing and still needs heart surgery, and Vicki still needs all the support she can get.


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


I noticed the calendar tonight.

"Oh no!" I cry. "We missed Arbor Day!"

"What's that?" Angus asks, puzzled.

"It's...Arbor Day."

"And what do you do?"

"You...you arbor."

"Right. Shame we missed it then."


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


If I see one more US online news page whine about gas prices, I'm going to get stabby.

Yes, gas costs a lot (for the purposes of this one, let's call it gas. Yes, it's petrol here. I'd like to move past that one for the moment). Gas costs more than it ever has. Gas is expensive. A recent online article had a woman in (Detroit? Tampa? Butte? Whatever.) some location complain that gas was now $3.90 a gallon. Gas has been going up in price over there. But gas has been going up in price here too.

Let's analyze, yes?

$3.90 a gallon. OK. Sure, that's a lot. Now want a peek at our life?

Gas here is £1.10. That's $2.20. But that's not per gallon, that's per litre. There are 3.5 imperial litres per gallon. So we would pay £3.85 per gallon, or $7.90.

You pay $3.90.

We pay $7.90.

See? Stabby.


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


I'm keen on getting another tattoo, something small and out of the way, to celebrate the babies. Angus has suggested a small tattoo of Eros (the god of fertility). That's a leading contender, any other suggestions?

-H.

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April 25, 2008

Helen's Monthly Hormone Diary*

Day 1 - Period has ended. Whew. Glad that housecleaning is overwith. Like clockwork here - Helen changes the sheets every Sunday, I turn up and clean out the uterus every 28 days. And I like to come on in and fuck up Helen's Sunday sheet changing a little, too. Makes life interesting. Now on to ensuring that Helen's so dry post-Mooncup and post-tampon that shagging will feel like she's riding a sandpaper saddle.

Day 3 - Still a bit Sahara down there, Helen? Want to rethink going back to pads? With wings, since all pads secretly want to fly?

Day 5 - Huh. I'm bored.

Day 10-Think I'll ramp up the old cervical mucus, a little crotch snot is always good for a laugh.

Day 11-This rocks. Since Helen was pregnant once before I like to remind her that we are ready and waiting to do it again and on a much larger scale. It'll be big fun. If she thinks her ovulation fluids were high before pregnancy, she hasn't seen anything yet. Men-to the hoses!

Day 12-Helen's at the point now where she has to wear neutral colored knickers. I love this point. She hides her black knickers because of the silver-colored streaks on them. She tells Angus they're due to new laundry detergent. She's really only fooling herself.

Day 14-Helen's pants have been slimed. I shot her right off the passenger seat of the car earlier today. The pituitary and I were cracking up.

Day 14.5-Helen is seriously horny.

Day 15-Poor Angus.

Day 16-Maybe there's some kind of cream he can use, that looks pretty chafed.

Day 17-What, are you going to just waste this egg and this nice cushy uterus that I lined in hot shagpile carpet? With disco ball and black leather bar stools? Christ what a tragedy. All this work for nothing.

Day 20-Helen wants salt. Helen never uses salt, not ever.

Day 21-Helen considers installing salt lick in the bathroom to alleviate her salt needs.

Day 22-Helen has switched over to carbs. She's eaten more cereal today than a hamster does in a lifetime.

Day 23-Helen still eating all the carbs she can get her hands on. Earlier I saw her gnawing on a bookshelf. Think I'll give her a chin zit to piss her off, one of those deep gigantic ones that no amount of popping or concealer will cover. Think I'll make her cry now, too. Or maybe I'll make her obsessive, that's a fun game. If only there was a Container Store nearby, it'd really send her over the edge.

Day 24-Helen in fits of tears over a dog food commercial. Then an episode of CSI had her in puddles. Think I'll switch gears and make her angry.

Day 24.5-Helen spent ten minutes utilizing new and inventive ways to use the word "Fuck". I put my feet up on her mammaries and laughed my ass off.

Day 25-Helen may never poop again.

Day 26-Helen popping laxatives and bread. She needs to invent laxative-laced bread, she can serve two gods that way. Ooh! I know! I should throw a bit of bloating her way. She'll feel like that loaf of Wonder Bread she's coveting.

Day 27-Helen's expecting me tomorrow, think I'll fuck her off and come early instead.

Day 27.5-HA! Nailed her knickers and her trousers while she was making the nursery run. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. My evil plan continues to rule her life. God, here she comes with that Mooncup thing. Doesn't she know that only holds blood flow for pubescents? Helen, babe, once a Bichon Frise-sized tampon girl, always a Bichon Frise-sized tampon girl. I'll wait to remind her of that when she's entering the pool for the twins' first swimming class.

Day 28-Open taps, here comes the flood. Where's Moses when you need him?

- H.

* And I wonder why there seem to be fewer men around here.

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April 24, 2008

Choral Endings

I've spent my life feeling like someone who was on the move. An itch would get under my skin and inflame the hairs up and down my arms, tingling through the back of my neck. Little imperfections in my environment would become huge gaping holes propelling me to go, to move, to change for the sake of change. I always felt older than I should have, I always felt unanchored, untethered to a life that never meant to hold me anyway.

I always - always - saw an ending for me that was somewhere far away and suffering no burden of affection or love. It's cheesy but true - my ending in my mind was always driving off into the sunset in a Land Rover on a dark sub-continent. The story ends there.

But my story has changed now. There is no desert wind to the conclusion of my life. There is no dog on the seat next to me, droplets falling onto the split leather seat from his panting. There is no rearview mirror showing where I've left and no sunglasses refracting where I am heading.

Love to me was always something you left before it left you.

Life has changed that for me.

I don't know what the end has in store for me now. Since Angus is 12 years older than I and women typically outlive men, I suppose I will be around after he's gone. And now that I have two children, I want and hope to be around for them. Maybe I'll sit my days out in an elderly home, fading into the wallpaper like cabbage roses and velveteen. Maybe my children will find me frustrating, my grandchildren embarrassed by my nostalgia. Perhaps my memories will be worth nothing but the sieve-like memory that holds them.

I choose to believe I will go out in a blaze someday instead. I'm going to nurture that. The moral narcissism that I call guilt propels me to never have people take care of me unless I can take care of them, too.

I'm not being morbid or pondering death, really. Honestly I simply sit back and look at what life has in store for me. My world has changed so substantially that I can no longer plot and predict what the ending will be like. The Land Rover is gone, unless I lose the 3 people I love most in life. Then perhaps it won't be Land Rovers so much as just stopping and fading away, my fragments of my heart moving in the wind of the bedroom dust ruffle as I simply give up.

Life is an open question now, one that I stare at a great deal as surprised as I am that I get to have a life I never thought I would, never thought I could. Every single day is a surprise because nothing is the way I once suspected it would be. When you've spent your life preparing for how to heal yourself, you no longer know what's coming when you remove the option of healing by being alone.

My site traffic has gone down a bit, perhaps because I spend a lot of time talking about the babies, the building, or things of little consequence. I can understand that, and it doesn't really bother me although I do worry that my own thoughts are repetitive. While it may look like my obsessive introspection has disappeared, the truth is it's only hidden behind the day-to-day. I don't know if that's why people came here, to watch the tiny torturings of a woman bent on exposing every part of her blackened heart, and if the public self-flaggelation subsides then another train wreck is around the corner on another blog by another person.

I suppose I can just be who I am. It's not about trying to entertain, it's never been about that. Right now it's about determining how to let go of how I always saw the end, and allowing life to take me where I'm meant to be. Tomorrow it will be something different.

-H.

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April 23, 2008

Can't Talk. Mah House Done Blowed Up.

Two days ago I heard the words: "You have a choice - the washing machine or the dishwasher."

A no-brainer really, especially with teething twins who have teething-styled diapers. My folks never saw this one coming. It's so great to see you! I love you! Hey, how're your plumbing skills?

The builders are ahead of schedule - we didn't anticipate them coming into the house until May, but they're ahead. We shouldn't complain about this, it's better this way, but God the frenzied activity the past few days is staggering. The builders are taking off half of the roof and demolishing half the kitchen and living room, so we've been frantically trying to get things moved and a temporary kitchen set up, which is why I've basically been off-line the past several days. We finally succeeded in moving everything either out to storage or into the front half of the house.

I give you the before pictures, of our house in July 2007:


House 2007


(What you can't see is the outside of the house, that white color? It's not paint. It's hideous pebble-dash rendering done to hold some of the bricks in place instead of repairing them. And there's no insulation there. Not anywhere.)

Back of house:

Back of house 2007


And the photos now:


Front of house today

And the back of the house:


Back of house today


And of course the stunning kitchen:


DSC_3257.JPG


Why yes that is a stroller in our kitchen! And yes - that is a painting table being held up by wooden sawhorses that support our sink! So fashionable, isn't it?


Now if you'll excuse me, we lose half of the entire downstairs in less than 12 hours and I have to go drink heavily pack things up as fast as possible.

-H.

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April 20, 2008

To Angus

Happy Birthday to the love of my life.

The journey has been amazing. There are lots of lows, but more highs, and for that I never let go.


My boy


I love you.

-H.

PS- it may be your birthday but it's definitely your turn to empty the babies' nappy bucket.

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April 18, 2008

And Now a Message From Our Sponsor

The Clampetts have arrived for a short visit before the builders come inside the house, which, although the builders had accidentally knocked a whole through the fireplace and had to brick it back up, will start next week.


Feeding time with grandparents

My folks don't even mind that the babies are thoroughly cranky with teething and colds.

In fact, my dad read them 10 books yesterday, including an incredibly sweet one sent over by the babies' Obaba.


Kai the Opihi


Of course, I do have to keep assuring them that no, they will not be taking the kids and adopting them and raising them in the Land of Plenty and Must See TV*.

Be back soon.

-H.


*If this teething hell doesn't end soon, I may just consider this option.

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April 17, 2008

When the Day Comes

Sometimes I wish I could just be a kid again.

You know. Bomb pops melting over a fist in the summer. Giggling over typing "boobless" in the calculator screen. Not needing to know when paychecks hit bank accounts, not needing to make sure the garbage cans are out on collection day, not having to stand in the shower and manipulate your breasts, your arm up under the spray, just checking, just to be sure, just in cse. To be free of filling the car up with gas and making sure that the bathroom has toilet paper and that the dog food bowl is always refilled.

I know I am idealizing things. I wasn't much of a kid when I was a kid, and if you unhooked the latch in me now, I couldn't be a kid again. I think I'm missing those parts.

Still, sometimes it gets to be a lot, you know? Builders asking me to make decisions about door handles. What do I care about door handles? Door handles go on doors, they just are, they don't need me to decide on what they should be.

The days start earlier and earlier. Not only do I not have the time to sleep until noon, it's now physically impossible. Up at and 'em before 8. Lately, it's up and at 'em before 7. The sun comes up and the birds come out and my feet hit the floorboards, both my ankles and the wood creaking with temporary disuse.

When you're a kid (a typical kid, anyway) you don't have worry. I was a worrier, always. I still am. But these days there's a lot more to worry about.

Melissa. Melissa was thrown from her horse Tuesday night. They thought she'd broken her arm but instead she'd broken a bone just above her tailbone. She'll be ok, the fracture will heal, she just has to take it easy and no horse riding for a while. I sent off a care package yesterday but I can see the concern in Angus' eyes. He's never been happy that the Swunt bought a horse as Melissa has had many spills from horses, and Angus worries. She'll recover and get right back on the horse again, and even though she wears a helmet and safety vest, she still gets hurt.

My grandma. My grandma is in the hospital having had major heart surgery. She's recovering now, but when I heard that while on the ventilator she had tears in her eyes from the pain my heart got ejected out of my throat. I truly believe she'll be ok, because deep down inside she's a fighter, but you just don't want anyone to go through that. I think she'll outlive all of us, and I don't want to be proven wrong on that.

And Vicki. Vicki is still hanging in there but she's been very, very ill. Pick one of those "some people experience complications from the surgery, such as a, b, c, and d" and she has been hit with all of them. One of her twin boys is doing better and had his first feed, although heartbreakingly she didn't get to be the one to feed him. Her other little guy, though, is set for heart surgery on Friday. He's been diagnosed with atrial septal defect, and he's on a ventilator. I can't imagine what she's going through, I only know I wish she wasn't.

As a kid, you don't think about these things. When someone you care about hurts, you feel bad for them, but 20 minutes later you forget because time is of the essence when you're young. As we age, time locks us down, it holds us in - we want to remember every little detail about something but we get robbed of it, forced as we are to deal with the next moment. The babies we're carrying get heavier and heavier. The people we love feel their lungs invaded by forced pressure. Seasons blend together but each day requires decisions.

And hope. Each day requires hope.

As do the people that I love who are hurting.

And no matter how much I would like for the days of innocence and youth and light-heartedness to return, the truth is life is boxed with responsibilities - some of them good - and accountability, much of it weighing us down.

-H.

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April 16, 2008

It Always Boils Down to Penis Jokes

Sunday I sat on the floor just inside the front door, my finger holding a leaking radiator closed.

"I feel like the little Dutch kid," I said over my shoulder to Angus, who was frantically getting bits and pieces together to stop our hallway from a flood of Biblical proportions (OK, it wouldn't be Biblical. It'd actually been leaking for days and we'd stuck an old Gerber baby bottle under the leak, but the leak was getting worse so repairs were needed.)

"Why's that?" he asked.

"You know, my finger in the dyke and all that," I answered.

He came into the hallway. "Yeah, but your people aren't big on plugging dams. Don't your people sit on their big front porches with a giant shot gun and shout 'Get off my land!' to people?"

"We might be breaking up soon," was my response to his petty regionalism.

The building work is ongoing. We did fix the radiator, because our assumption that "we'll just throw the radiators away sometime soon" wasn't coming soon enough. The Gerber bottle - no longer fit for purpose - hovers under the radiator like some kind of talisman to ward off future leaks.

Our house looks like a tornado hit it. Seriously. The entire front garden is covered with rubble, which a giant claw-bearing truck comes and picks up periodically.


front rubble heap


Those are two of the builders on the right-hand side of the pic (Pants? You there? How soon can you come over and help translate?) Our entire front yard is basically buried under various bits and pieces. The grass will die, but there's nothing we can do about it.

The garage virtually exploded last week, and a new roof and new doors are going on it.


garage and roof


To the right you can see all the grey blocks that make up the new exterior wall of our extension.

Nothing quite prepares you though for the back of the house.


Back of the house


It's a disaster area.


Or the fact that the wall making up our living room is coming down.


living room wall


I asked The Cowboy when we'd need to take the satellite dish down.

"We can take it down for you, and put it back up when the work is all done," was his reply.

"All done as in 14 weeks from now?" I ask.

"Yeah, that's right."

I take a deep breath. "OK, that's not happening. I need the dish back up right away."

"Why's that?" he asked with puzzled brow.

"Two words, Cowboy: 'I'm American'. TV is a part of my soul, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. If I lose TV people lose their limbs, got it?"

"Got it."

The builders and I have been getting on better, actually. We've learned their patterns - when they need to pee they do it somewhere in the garden (I don't want to know where). If they need to do more, they come inside and use our downstairs toilet. I don't know what the hell they're eating, but we've learned that they'll be in there a while, they always need a double flush, and that it's best to leave the window in there permanently open during the day.

Red Bull is unfailingly polite to me and I'm ok with that. I am the dispensary actually, usually dispensing paracetamol (Tylenol). I handed some out to him yesterday as he had a toothache due to, as he put it, "he got a bit of a smack in the face" Friday night. He showed me where two teeth had been broken off, so I reckon his interpretation of a smack and my interpretation of a smack don't align. I overheard him on the phone giving out full details of his Friday escapades - he went to a bar with a girl and wound up trying to get off with not one but two different girls while there. He started a bar brawl, got thrown out of the place, and went home with one of the girls he was trying to pick up. The girl he originally went to the bar with is pissed off with him for hitting on two girls and shagging one of them.

Sounds so unreasonable of her.

The Cowboy and I have started talking too. We talk about construction issues and things that need doing. I can't say I'm comfortable with the talks, since I am no visionary when it comes to either building or, you know, style, but I try. The one line we've drawn is electrics - he tried to talk to me about them and we had to make our relationship clear.

"And about the circuits, we need to install a-" he started.

"See," I interrupted. "I don't do electrics. Angus does electrics. Angus lives for electrics. I just blew a circuit when you started talking about circuits. Not my bag, man."

At this he laughs.

What was it that blew open the iron curtain? Was it my striving to knock down the walls of gender stereotype? Was it my desire to have women treated as equals? Was it my fight to ensure that I was taken seriously as a woman and an engineer?

No.

It was when The Cowboy was telling me a measurement. He told me that something needed to be moved 6 inches. He then got out his tape measure and the measurement actually turned out to be 2 inches.

I was only on my first cup of coffee that morning, and the mouth-brain connection was still engaged.

"God, trust a man to estimate a measurement bigger than it really is," I muttered. Then I realized what I said. I froze. The men all froze. They looked at me.

Every last one of them fell about laughing.

It wasn't my desire to be considered an equal that melted the frozen relationship.

It was a penis joke.

-H.

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April 15, 2008

Deliberate Acts of Kindness

Sometimes amazing things happen and you forget that you're a cynic, that you inherently feel that people are something to be wary of, the tiger in the cage, the bear with a hunger pang.

I've been surprised by people before. This blog is one giant gateway to how kind and empathetic people can be. I once drove across Texas, leaving my husband, only to break down and come across the one sympathetic mechanic who fixed my car for free. Nora and I have signed up for Race for Life in June, and all of our families and in-laws and cousins have donated money as sponsors.

And there's the whole UTERUS activity. It's something I feel strongly about, we should have done something like this ages ago, and I love the support we've had. People all over the world, from all walks of life...it stuns me, pure and simple. My cohorts are tireless as we campaign to drain every penny we can get our hands on for Calliope. It's spectacular the way people come together.

And people amaze me.

Yesterday, something extraordinary happened. April - here and here - who is going to be a mom any day now, won my necklace on eBay. I had it in a blue velvet case. I had bubble wrapped it. I had duct-taped the box within an inch of its life, because I love duct tape, duct tape cures all ailments. I had labelled the box and was going to post it tomorrow.

Then April told me to keep it.

That the money was for a great cause, but the necklace, it was for me.

And I cried.

I cried because people are thoughtful when I am not prepared for it, and because I always think I don't deserve kindness. This isn't where you need to reassure me, I honestly feel this way. It's part of what I'm working on in me. I'll get there someday.

The necklace is no longer mine now and I won't wear it again because I know just what to do with the necklace. The necklace is something that makes you feel beautiful, instantly. It lights you up inside when you need a bit of fire for your own. The necklace makes everything feel that much better, it makes you feel that much more confident.

Someday, when she needs it most, I am going to pull out that blue velvet case.
more...

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April 14, 2008

Book Tour - The Mistress's Daughter

It's book tour time again, and this time we read AM Homes' The Mistress's Daughter. This is a memoir written by a woman who was adopted, and when she dug into her past she found a not ideal situation - she was born to an unwed mother who'd had an affair with an older man. The birth mother was a slightly unhinged character, her father the most perfect example of a narcissist I've ever seen in writing. The author tries to dig into the past, to find out more about her biological family, as she gets drawn in to trying to find out just who she is based on the sum total of the parts she comes from.

So far on the book tours, I've enjoyed all the books. This book was no exception - I couldn't put it down. AM Homes writes in a type of stream of consciousness style that I love. Her emotions were all over the place, as were her actions. I truly loved this book, and am buying others of hers in hopes that I will love them, too.

So - the questions I have to answer for the book:


AM Homes seemed to have a lot of angst that she attributed to growing up as an adopted child. Is such angst inherently a part of being adopted, or rather, is having angst about ones childhood an inherent part of being a child, and adopted children simply pin their angst to being adopted while children raised by their biological parents pin their angst to whatever other issue they perceive as the "problem" of their childhood?


I've wondered about this, too. Are we a generation of "My childhood sucked so I'm having a bad day"? I've seen it on those talk shows - my dad was an alcoholic and that's why today hasn't been good. My mom was a drug addict and that's why I can't make anything of my life. Are these crutches and enablers? Of course having a shit childhood is bad. Having a rough background sucks (I had one myself). But it shouldn't color the day to day. I look at my grandparents - my beloved grandpa had one hell of a rough background, yet he just shrugged it off and went about his business. My Japanese grandma is herself adopted, but it plays no role in her life, nor did the idea of finding her biological parents ever play a role.


I think we are an Angst Generation. All generations had a large degree of suck. It's only now that we are free to explore the pain, trauma, and trouble that growing up inflicts on us. Yes, being adopted is very difficult for some people to reconcile, as is alcoholism, addictions, neglect, and many other paving stones that seem to make our generation.


In the book, A.M. Homes writes about being adopted into a family that had recently lost a nine year old son. She says "I always felt that my role in the family was to heal things, to make everything all right - to replace a dead boy." Grieving mothers of this generation and others, were often told to "forget about their lost child, have another one right away, move on" What, if any, of this is helpful advice and why/why not? Is this attitude something that might give a subsequent child the burden of feeling that they would not have been wanted had their sibling lived - particularly in the case of adoption, where the child was specifically chosen and might not have been otherwise?


This advice has never made sense to me. If your beloved Collie dies, I don't think it's a good idea to run right out and get another Collie puppy. If your cat passes away after old age, why go out and immediately get another kitten? To take away the pain? To distract you? To somehow cover up the hole they left behind? They're different holes. When I had my miscarriage I couldn't bear it. Now I look back and know that had I not had my miscarriage, I wouldn't have Nick and Nora. After miscarrying we didn't get back on the horse the next month, we took some time out to grieve, to heal, to find our way again. There is enormous comfort in the love and distraction a replacement brings, but it doesn't take away the loss, and I do indeed think that the onus is on the newcomer to ease the pain of the past. In the case of an adopted child being taken in immediately after the loss of another child, I think that pain would be particularly harsh - what if I'm not good enough to cover the loss? Should I feel an enormous degree of gratitude that I was picked because their child passed away? Should I feel guilty that I'm here and the other child isn't? Difficult. I think that's perhaps why adoption agencies over here insist that couples wait 12 months before trying to adoption after being through fertility treatment. I think it's right to help the smoke and foggy horror of fertility treatment clear, so that you can plan for the future without being traumatized by the past.


A feeling of the "subtlety of biology," a lovely aphorism, is not something that Homes necessarily welcomes. I sometimes feel that biology raps me over the head when I look at biologically-related family members. How has infertility affected our feelings about the "subtlety of biology"?


As an anthropologist, I've long been very intrigued with the nature vs. nurture debate. An integral part of that debate is the role that biological makeup plays - are my earlobes the way they are because of someone in my past, and will future generations have strange earlobes, too? Nick's recent eye exam had us learn that myopia runs in families-almost every single member of my family has it (including me), but none of Angus' does, so our kids have a 50/50 shot of developing it.

I come from a very, very diverse biological background. As a result, none of my family members look like each other. I lost count of how many times people asked if my sister was adopted (since I was white and my mother was white, no one asked about me. The irony there being I look absolutely nothing like my mother, it's my brown-skinned sister who has the same face as my mother.) Biology was unimportant to me, really. When I donated eggs to other women I never felt like they were "my eggs" from an ownership perspective, although I did feel guilt when the other women didn't conceive. Likewise, I think perhaps because I have such a lax approach to biology that I could've used donor eggs, and I was more than happy to have pursued adoption. Biology needn't be an inhibitor to moving forward, to me it's just something to keep in mind.


The story about Ellen's boxes and the fact that the author was unable to go through them for several years struck a cord with me as I have my own boxes that are hiding in the house waiting for unpacking. Have you experienced something similar with a project, book, or other item that plagued you with emotions that prevented you from tackling it? What was the situation? How did it resolve-- did you become zealous about something you discovered during the resolution (like the author's quest for her genealogy) or did it just all fade away?


I too have boxes. I always have had boxes. When Bad Things Happen, I pack them up and don't deal with them. It's my way of things, it's always been my way of things. At some points in my past I have taken those boxes and without even unsealing them, I've simply thrown them out. Gone. No longer dealing with them. I now try to keep the boxes as best I can - my modus operandi is to destroy and dispose of things when I feel great depression and angst. I have boxes. Then I don't. And because my memory is so bad, when those boxes go so do the things behind them.

Most of the the time, anyway.


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: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen (with author participation!)

-H.


PS-So far we've raised a lot of money on the ebay.co.uk site for our UTERUS fund raiser - I'm so hugely grateful and touched you wouldn't believe it (think sap, then multiply by one hundred). We have loads of things up for auction on our ebay.com site, with more posted yesterday. Please, please keep checking on items that you may want, because every penny is going to help our friend fund a round of IVF.

PPS - I've heard from Vicki, a longer email that sounds more like her. She's still unwell but one of her sons is doing much better and she even got to hold him briefly. Her other son is seeing a specialist today and sounds like he's got a lot going on, the poor little guy. She asked me to relay her thanks to you all for your comments - she read and appreciated each and every one and said they mean so much to her. I truly hope her boys get well and come home soon, as I also hope my friend finds her way out of the dark.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you too.

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April 12, 2008

Mothers! Fathers! Anyone! I Need Your Help!

OK, I need some help here.

A lovely, big-hearted woman named Vicki (who comments here) just delivered her twin sons. Her boys were conceived after many years and many IVF attempts, and she delivered them a few days ago, several weeks premature.

Vicki's boys are in NICU now. She had a rough delivery, which quite suddenly turned into a very scary emergency C-section. Vicki herself is very ill. She doesn't remember most of the deliveries, and she cannot hold or feed her boys. I don't want to go into details about her boys to respect her privacy, but they are hanging in there and suffer from things a lot of preemies do (Nick and Nora had a few of these issues themselves). Based on what her husband has said, it sounds like the boys will be fine in the long run, they just need a bit more baking time in the NICU oven.

Vicki is rock bottom. She feels very, very low and lost. She's unwell herself, and everything happened so fast. This isn't how she (or anyone) saw the delivery going. She sounds as though she feels completely and utterly depressed and helpless - she can't hold her boys or do bonding things with them right now.

Please, I really need your help - if you have some words of encouragement or advice, if you've been a mom to preemies yourself, if you know some of what she's feeling, if you just want her to know she's not alone, if you can let me know then I will forward any and all comments, suggestions and emails to her. I don't want her to feel alone. I want her to know that this too shall pass, and that everything she's feeling will subside, and that hopefully in a very short while this will be behind her and her days will be full of bottles, sleeplessness, and contentment.

Thanks for any help you can give.

-H.

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April 10, 2008

Just a Thank You (Beware of Sap)

Pru (Pru again! Damn her!) hit on something that I've been thinking about myself.

I lay everything out here on the blog, and by everything, I pretty much mean everything (please, I even told you about a failed mooncup incident. If that's not sharing then what is?) Names and specifics are changed on the blog to protect identities and Googling by people in our real life, but the bottom line is true. Everything that goes up here has happened, all of my feelings here are real. I am not a middle-aged man in Nebraska. I really am a 34 year-old woman in England (complete with builders outside who are currently debating breast measurements of the women they are currently shagging dating).

But in real life, I'm a very private person. People tend to bewilder me - I don't know what their motivations are. I don't see where things are going. The same could be said of being out here, I guess - I don't see where things head, but at the same time, people have the option of clicking that little red X in the corner. People are only here because they choose to be, perhaps they want to be.

I try to have "real life" friends - tomorrow a friend of mine is coming for tea. Saturday we might have an Aussie friend and her husband over a meal. Her husband is an electrician, so no doubt Angus will be beside himself with chat and questions.

But the people I meet and get to know online are people that I care about. My real friends, the ones who know the most about me, are flung all over the planet. I have K in Missouri (hi babe!) who is going through a rough time. Sophie is my "parenting teens" stepmom in arms. Lisa had a terrible last year, and has a quiet strength to her (which she loans to me on occasion). Margi is like the den mom, with Auntie CTG bringing up the flank. Diamond Dave, Physics Geek and Easy are the big brothers, Statia and Teresa are like sisters who don't get too pissed off with me when I fuck up, and Sarah Pants my college lesbian encounter that I still snog when I drink too much.

But it's more than that. Last week when Clancy and Julie clarified my position on why no pics of Melissa and Jeff exist on the blog, they not only got it bang on correct, but they warmed my heart. It's like a community of people that hang here with a cup of coffee and get to know this little slice of my world and have my back when the office gossip comes by telling people I had toilet paper on the bottom of my shoe.

And there's the women of the infertile brigade I've gotten to know - DD, Becks, Donna, Melissa...these women have the strength of boulders and the most amazing hearts. I think about these women. I worry about Jennifer, who fell off the radar and I hope to hell her pregnancy is progressing. I worry about Vicki and her boys. I celebrate and cry over how many people are rallying to help another person try to have a baby (auctions still ongoing here and here - and I listed a whole set of felt food on the US site yesterday. Felt food! How is it that I had never heard of such a thing? I'm trying to talk myself out of being convinced that I must buy these because Nick and Nora need them because their mother can't sew.)

I think about Tracy and her stepkids, I think about Kathy and her calming motherhood emails, I think about Kenju and Sue and Mia and Amber and everyone. Your comments stay with me, but more than that they help me and give me guidance. And other mothers-to-be write me as they found my blog, they found your comments, they got the answers they sought from you. I can't tell you what it means that you might be leaving comments that will help someone else as they waddle through the stage known as "I'm pregnant, what the fuck happens now?"

And there are so many more people out there that matter to me, please don't take offense if your name wasn't mentioned-I have about 6 minutes of blogging time this morning and only 55 seconds of that is left. I'm not great at leaving comments but I have started to reply to some of the comments that are left for me via email - if you don't want that, let me know. If you think that what you say here goes unnoticed, then you're wrong. I certainly read, and I've since learned that many others are reading you here, too - in fact, I can't believe the numbers that are checking in here daily. I wonder why they come, I wonder what they get. Don't they realize that I'm a nut?

This is me saying thank you.

Thank you so much. For every comment and email, for the forgiveness you have at how slow I am to respond to said emails, for the gestures and thoughts and kindness. Thank you for not judging me for being crazy and broken, for not kicking me when I was down, and for staying with me for as long as you have. Thank you for helping me feel like there's a little space in the world where it's safe for me to be me.

I'm going on 5 years of blogging this year. I have no plans to quit, I'm sure I will carry on for some time. I just wanted to tell you that in those 5 years, I have been touched so completely by so many of you.

And for that, I thank you.

Love,
H.

PS-the first person to say "You complete me" is going to have Nick and Nora's morning teething-related diaper explosions flung at their head.

PPS-no I don't have PMS and I'm not drunk and I haven't just been told I only have 2 weeks to live. Just feeling mushy today, that's all.

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April 09, 2008

Deciphering Children's TV

When you have kids you learn kid things.

Not that your child may like certain foods or certain toys, and not that your child may want to be held a certain way.

You learn about children's entertainment.

And I'm not talking about clowns (which are banned in this household no matter how much I love our children, banned I tell you!)

Specifically, you learn to hate children's TV.

In talks with both my brother-in-law (his son - the babies' 16 month old cousin - is a huge fan of a show the babies love) and Pru, I learned that I was not alone in assessing children's TV.

The babies love a hugely popular TV programme over here called In the Night Garden. Yes, that would be the 6 month old babies. No, they don't watch TV. One evening I was cooking and Nick was up with me - he was mesmerized by In the Night Garden, and it's so highly acclaimed for being educational and good for children that I let both of them watch it. In the Night Garden is on every night at 6:25, or it was until CBeebies decided to fuck with our minds and move the timetable around, thereby making their message that "routines are good for kids" null and void as my babes wonder why the hell they can't watch In the Night Garden anymore.

Not familiar with In the Night Garden? This short clip may help.

You might want to go ahead and drop acid now, before the clip starts, as it'll probably make the whole thing make more sense.


According to this website, the show is supposed to be about:

"Filmed in a real woodland setting, In The Night Garden is a magical programme, for the under-4s, about the dreaming time between waking and sleeping. Reached by following a magical little, blue star, the Night Garden is a warm and affectionate world which is home to a comical and diverse community of toys, living happily together."


My ass.

The basis of the show, as far as my mind-numbed brain can work out, is a little chap named Iggle Piggle takes a boat across the Land of Nod, to wind up in the Night Garden. The sail of his boat becomes his little blanket. He interacts with many other character in the Night Garden, all of which have some deep-seated psychological issue.

Iggle Piggle is, inexplicably, blue and furry with an asymmetrical head.


iggle.jpg

Scary little fucker, isn't he? And he's the lead character. He communicates by squeaks, which drives Gorby nuts. He is the one for whom many rules need not apply - the others have to go to bed at the end of the show, but not Iggle Piggle. He just waves. No one is allowed to use the Night Garden phone but Iggle Piggle. Iggle Piggle thinks he's the boss of him. Iggle Piggle thinks he's the shit. What a narcissist.

The whole thing is narrated by Derek Jacobi. That'd be Sir Derek Jacobi. As in, Sir Derek Jacobi the classically trained Shakesperean actor, singing words like "Iggle Piggle Wiggle Niggle Woo". It's hard for me to get my head around, especially as Sir Derek Jacobi sings the song both off-key and off-tempo. The babies don't seem to notice, but I usually am bleeding from the eardrums. This isn't even taking into account that the narrative is accented by some birds that are colored the wrong colors and sound like musical instruments.

There's a character named Upsy Daisy in the show, too. Upsy Daisy makes me want to punch people. And before I get accused of it, no of course it's not because she appears to be a character who is black. She could be purple - in fact, it might make more sense if she was purple - and I'd still want to punch her.


Upsy Daisy


It's because Upsy Daisy only knows how to say two things: "Upsy Daisy!" and "Daisy Do!". And she says them in a voice that implies helium has been inhaled. And when she wants to dance for everyone she inflates her skirt and twirls around while everyone watches, her knickers visible to the whole damn world. This is, apparently, a modern take on pole dancing. Why use a pole when an inflatable skirt will do? Upsy Daisy also goes around kissing everyone in the Night Garden. She is, as Pru and I agreed, a perky whore. She clearly wants everyone to love her for her kisses. She is not true to herself. She is easily sidetracked. She goes up and down - one moment she's kissing Iggle Piggle, the next she's all "Upsy Daisy!" dealing with a dilemma. She is bipolar if there ever was a bipolar model.

Then there is Makka Pakka. Makka Pakka has issues. Serious, deep-set issues.


Makka Pakka.jpg


Makka Pakka is...well I don't know what the hell he is. I thought he was someone showing a disability, as the BBC is very prone to political correctness (Balamory, for example, has a Fillipina woman in a wheelchair. I'm not saying that people in wheelchairs and minorities shouldn't be shown because of course they should. It's just that you don't see a lot of people who fit that model on a remote island off the coast of Scotland). Makka Pakka pushes what I thought was a Zimmer frame/walker. Then I found out what it was - it's a cart that holds a trumpet, a sponge, a hand dryer, and a bar of soap. Makka Pakka likes to spend his time washing rocks, which is his favorite companion of all. He even sleeps with rocks. He has commitment and attachment issues - bonding with rocks shows a clear inability to relate to people. Anytime you see him, he's enjoying washing rocks. Actually, Makka Pakka enjoys washing anything and whips out his sponge and soap at any hint of a germ which is why he won't travel without his mobile washing cart.

Makka Pakka makes my case of OCD look like a cake walk.

My favorite characters are the Tombliboos. They don't talk either, except to say the word "tombliboo", which they say a lot in a squeaky voice that Shirley Temple would envy. They appear to be three of the same...species...who live together in a hedge. They move as fast as Charlie Chaplin does in the old films. They are bright and colorful and weird and I want to pull on those little round things on the tops of their heads and see if I can make them say a sound other than "tombliboo".


Tombliboos.jpg


They also all take off their pants and hang them on a washing line before going into the house, for reasons I can't comprehend. Are they incontinent? Are they naturalists? Are we going about it the wrong way by taking off our shoes before going into our house, should we instead take off our trousers? Once inside the Tombliboos go to bed, where they kiss each other a lot and curl up and sleep together.

Naughty, naughty tombliboos.

Characters on In the Night Garden ride around in the Ninky Nonk (I always, always worry I'm going to slip up saying that one) which is a train with lights that Angus says frighten him. And Angus is into lights. It's a hard one for me to reconcile.


ninky nonk.jpg


I've only ever seen Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy in the Ninky Nonk. The Night Garden is clearly s a very elitist society. The shame.

You can also travel by floating green Pinky Ponk. When it flies it makes fart noises. I'm thinking they may want to investigate alternate fuel options. When you fly in the Pinky Ponk, you can drink Pinky Ponk Juice, which makes everyone happy. Angus and I are usually sitting there with glazed eyes, thinking about drinking our Pinky Ponk Juice, too.

The Pinky Ponk is, in essence, a giant floating bar, enabling all of the Night Garden characters' neurosis.

Finally there are the Ponty Pines.


Pontypines.jpg


You can see them on that YouTube clip I have above - they're two families of tiny blue and red people. Only you never see the blue people. I thought it was becaues the BBC was blueist and against blue people. I've since figured out the truth - it's not that the BBC is blueist. The blue Ponty Pines are agoraphobic. You see them in the closing dance scene, but other than that I think they use the handle of a broom to push their empty milk bottles outside their door and beg their postman to go away, spending hours online talking to other agoraphobics. Their neighbors, the red Ponty Pines, are a family of 10 - Ma and Pa Ponty Pine, who dress in a way that clearly implies they are immigrants to the Night Garden, perhaps serving up traditional casserole dishes and piping in satellite TV from their Mother Land, plus 8 children who look to be the same age. The Ponty Pine children are clearly octuplets, which Ma and Pa Ponty Pine conceived using fertility drugs. They all share one bedroom, because Ma Ponty Pine carried all 8 children to term and then their sponsorship deal with Oprah ran dry, forcing them to relocate to sub-standard semi-detached housing.

This show is what the babies love.

They sit there, mesmerized, as we watch stories of the characters.

I make up my own stories to go along, because you do what you can.

-H.

PS-of course In the Night Garden is very sweet and educational - all about sharing and friendship and consideration. There's not an evil bone in those bodies. But you do go a bit mad watching episode after episode, and giving each character their own psychological condition just ups the adult fun element.

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April 08, 2008

Our House...Was Our Castle and Our Keep

Last Tuesday the builders showed up and dropped off scaffolding. Our builder - who we call The Cowboy - grinned.

"Welcome to the building site!" he said, waving his arms at our house.

And he was right.

This was the front of the house last Wednesday:


front of the house


That big green thing on the right is the shipping container which is currently storing most of our household things and everything in our garage. It's not as unattractive as we thought it would be, but it's still not the kind of thing you want on the lawn for long. Behind it is the scaffolding they started bringing. This is basically what the front of our house looked like (although I photoshopped out the name plate on the front - our house has a name, not a number - because I'm kinda' private like that).

The front of the house now looks like this:


Boom


There's a giant skip in the front for the rubbish the guys get. We have boards everywhere for the wheelbarrows to go on. During the day the builders' trucks take up the parking spaces. There is the ever present Gorby, checking out progress as he does. And Angus is taking look at the sign our builder left there as advertising (I've blacked out his name and address, I promise we haven't been busy spray painting).

And that massive mound of dirt? That's our back porch.

This is what the back used to look like:


Back of the house


It's a bit of a wreck because we were hurriedly carrying things into the shipping container, but we wanted to get a few photos of the back before it all started. That blue tarped thing is Seymour, my outdoor table. Gorby is also in the picture, naturally.

And everything else started to go as of Thursday last week when the men came through the back.


Knocking down walls


Work stopped temporarily over the weekend, as the snow fell.


Snowy digger


And now the outside looks like this:


my moat


Foundations are getting poured today.

Overall, it's a huge bit of work these guys have been doing. The Cowboy prefers to deal with Angus. It's clear that in their books, I'm A Woman. Women don't understand building things. Women don't get foundations and rebar and scaffolding. I always feel like A Woman when talking to them, and I'm not sure if this should bother me or not. On the one hand I'm an engineer and a feminist, I feel I should break the mold and get the men to work with me and overlook the fact that I'm A Woman. On the other hand, I don't have a fucking clue what they're on about when they talk about purlins and RCDs and RSJs then I glaze over. I don't know what they're talking about, but even more than that, I also really, really don't care. I couldn't be less interested in the details if you stuck a cover on it and called it "Modern Wigwam Watching". I have lots of opinions on the finishing detail and layouts. I don't have opinions on what kind of joist to use. So the message here is "I should try to break down barriers, but I can't be assed".

When we got the diagrams back from the structural engineer, I had to go put my head between my legs. Lemme' give you an example of what one equation looked like:

fbc=6.43x10 to the third/74.6=86n/mm squared.

See? What the hell? Is this code? If I decipher it using my decoder ring then do I get a temporary tattoo of Lucky the Leprechaun? Easy, are you here? Do you understand this stuff?

I also think the builders think I'm a bit posh, which is anything but the case. I know they kept looking in the window on Friday, probably not understanding why I spent the day on the couch, sleeping. What they couldn't see was me dragging myself to and from the toilet to puke my guts up, but I didn't feel it was necessary to point that out. I am usually a few sentences behind when they talk to me, simply because of their accents. They're real East London lads, of the "Corr, fuck me blimey" kind, and keeping up with their fast speech and cockney accent does my head in. I think they think I'm judging them when they're talking to me, when the truth is I'm simply desperately trying to decipher what the hell they've just said.

The Cowboy runs his company with the help of his identical twin sons - and no, we can't tell them apart and you might be saying "But you have twins, shouldn't you be able to tell twins apart?" to which I'd respond "Yes, but ours aren't identical, how should we know other people's kids?". Angus did ask The Cowboy how to tell the boys apart. The Cowboy told Angus that he can see the difference when they have their shirts off. Angus replied that he doesn't usually go around looking at other men's racks.

The Cowboy also employs his cousin, whom we've nicknamed Red Bull. Red Bull just keeps going. He doesn't stop talking, he doesnt' stop working, he doesn't stop moving. He goes. We think he's a few bricks short of a wall, but he's nice enough and he loves to work.

The team attack things with gusto. They take sledgehammers and just go to town. The take shovels and dig away. We have a lot of time for people who do stuff like this, although we do wish their coffee breaks weren't quite so long.

So far the impact inside the house is minimal, and we hope that continues for a while. We had an attack of ants on Sunday, as they were driven inside from the digging and the snow, but that's been dealt with now. The house is an absolute wreck inside but we no longer care - we spilled wine on the living room carpet last week, and we simply blotted it up, not caring about the stain. The carpet has about a week and a half left to live in this house, I'm not going to waste the stain remover. We're living on a real building site now, although they haven't yet come through the walls. When that happens, it will be hell.

And I leave you with a photo of the boys, who cannot resist sitting on machines pretending to be builders.


Digging it


-H.

PS-many thanks to a fabulous geek. I got this book on Thursday and can't wait to read it. Thank you so much!

PPS-our ebay auction is ongoing for our charity drive to help Calliope fund a round of IVF. There are some spectacular things for bidding, including a duplicate of a necklace that I have and love (you can see photos here and here, and on the lovely Stella Dolce (who has also kindly donated her fabulous photography services for the charity) here). Please consider donating or bidding here or here (we've started an ebay.com site, too)!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:14 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
Post contains 1181 words, total size 8 kb.

April 04, 2008

God, Not Again

On Sunday Jeff started projectile vomiting. He nailed the bed, the bathroom, and all of his clothing. He would puke and then tell a joke and laugh then take a nap. Lather, rinse, repeat.

On Wednesday the twins started projectile vomiting. In one sitting Nick nailed his entire outfit, the bouncy chair, and me. After puking he sat there grinning and giggling.

Last night at 1 am I did what would be the first of many, many mad dashes to the toilet so that I could projectile vomit. I've been doing so for the past twelve hours.

What I want to know is, why am I not finding the flu so funny?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:21 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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April 03, 2008

Happy Half Birthday

Today the babies are 6 months old.

(Or, to be technical about it, they're 5 months old as they were 4 weeks premature. But that's being nitpicky.)

It's strange to think that 6 months ago my whole entire world changed with the arrival of two little ones. It's also hard to believe it's only been 6 months, I swear these two have been in my life forever. I know there was a time I didn't have two bundles smelling like milk and lavender, I know I went 33 years without them, it's just hard to imagine my life without them, and also a not very pleasant idea at that.

I thought I loved those early days the most, the ones where they fall asleep under your neck at the slightest provocation, the days where you could hold their entire weight supported in the cup of your hand. I thought those were the best days but I think these are the best days - drawing smiles and giggles out of them, seeing their personalities emerge, getting to know who these little people are. And just last night Nora fell asleep snuggled under my chin, so luckily those days aren't quite over yet.

This isn't to say we've made leaps and bounds, because we haven't, really. A month ago when a dehydrated Nora and I went to the A&E, the doctor stared down at my sick little girl.

"We'll see how shaky she is rolling over," the doctor said.

Yeah. We're going to be here a while. "She can't roll over yet," I reply.

"Oh. Ok. We'll see how well she can prop herself up on her arms," she says determinedly.

"We can't do that either," I confess. I'm such a crap parent.

"Can she smile?" asks the frustrated doctor.

"Smile! Yes, we can do smiles!" I gleefully exclaim. Of course, when you're feeling sick smiling isn't at the top of the to do list, so that took a while.

That illness was bad for us - Nora lost so much weight you could see her ribs, and she bounced back into clothes size 0-3 months and newborn size diapers. The twins are tiny and can't afford to lose any weight at all. Although she's put the weight back on, both of them are only just in the 2nd percentile. They wear size 3-6 months due to their length alone, but if you put them in trousers you need size 0-3. Nick weighs 13lbs7oz. Nora weighs just 13lbs2oz. They're tiny babies, man. Tiny.

The twins cannot do most of the things they should be doing at 6 or even 5 months. They cannot sit up unaided, and are still wobbly if you have them in the Bumbo (but tummy time is no problem now, and luckily the screaming has stopped, too). They cannot roll over (in either direction). They cannot support their weight on their legs if you hold them up by their arms. In short, we're behind. I don't worry too much about it, we'll catch up when they're ready, but when they were born I worried I would not have enough time of the baby days, that I would feel cheated out of the early lovey baby stages. I don't worry about that anymore. My babies have been babies for far longer than most, and I feel ready for them to move to the next stages, I feel like I won't mourn having too short a time.

Nick has been so angry and whiny with teething - his teeth are moving around in his gums, no action visible yet - that we didn't even notice until the morning of my birthday that Nora already has a tooth that's broken through on her bottom gum. We'd been so busy dealing with her angry brother that without a fuss or a problem Nora got a tooth.

Women are so tough.

The babies have 4 bottles a day, at 240mL/8oz (I know - these details are probably boring you stiff. Bear with me.) Their early introductions to solids to get their weights up means that they eat all kinds of foods now, always pureed - their favorites are parsnips, anything fruit, and courgette (zucchini). They get solid food twice a day, although both babies make a horrific face at the start of each feeding, regardless of whether it's a favorite food or not. Nick in particular will eat anything and everything, which is a far cry from the early preemie days where we had to fight to get 30mL down him.

And the best bit - both babies go to bed at 7pm. They wake up the next morning at 7am. They make wake up at 5 am and babble, but they go right back to sleep.

Nora is the one that people stop and tell us how beautiful she is. She is also the sociable one. She lights up like a Christmas tree if you smile at her, and on Monday at Heathrow the twins came with us to check Melissa and Jeff into their flight. I turned around at one point to see three adults all making faces and grinning madly at Nora, who was flirting outrageously in return. Nora will smile at you and then bury her head in your shoulder, as though saying Why yes I like you but man am I shy.

She is absolutely a completely different baby from the colic days. People tell you the colic will pass but you don't believe them. Then, one day, it does and you aren't sure how you survived it. I think I will always mourn the collicky days. I feel we lost out on getting to know Nora during those months, and Angus for sure didn't bond with Nora until much later. They still have a bit of a difficult relationship as he bonded completely with Nick, while Nora and I are extremely close.

Nick is a card. When he smiles everyone smiles because he smiles with his whole face. He's the sweet and calm one (apart from the teething times) and he is definitely his father's child - Nick absolutely and completely adores lights. If there's a light on in the room he'll be watching that over you any day. He laughs, although not as much as Nora, and he'll laugh at completely random things - walk past him sometimes and he bursts into laughter. You never know what will set him off. He still hasn't twigged that he has a twin sister, although Nora spends a lot of time staring at him.

Health-wise, Nick has more problems than Nora. He definitely still has strabismus, and the twins both have their first optical appointment on Monday. Nick also has plagio, and no amount of turning him from one side to the other will counter it. His head is noticably different, and we have discussed it and elected not to correct it with the use of a helmet. It's a personal decision for every family, there is no right or wrong, it's all very personal. Our decision was countered by the fact that virtually no one in either side of our family is bald, so Nick should have a full head of hair until the end of the road. Nick also has two completely different ears. Seriously. They do not match at all.

These are not imperfections to me.

These are parts that to me make up the sum of my magical son.

Nora loves to be kissed and laughs when you do it, and Nick loves to be pretend eaten, so if you make growling noises and "nom nom" noises and pretend to bite his neck he squeals with laughter.

Together they are teaching me so much about life.

6 months ago today they were born.

I've loved it all so far.

And I leave you with two videos that I hope make you laugh - one of both of them giggling, then a quick one of Nora and her Daddy (with Gorby whistling in the background). Giggly babies always cheer me up. If you need cheering, then I hope they helped you, too.


-H.

PS-the U.T.E.R.U.S. Brigade is going along brilliantly - we have some items up for auction and more to go up this evening (the day job is cutting in here). There really are some fantastic items up there - and you won't believe a few more that I have to put up for sale later today! Please consider donating or bidding - this is to help a woman fund a round of IVF. She's so selfless - she moved, gave up her job and her own life to take care of her grandmother who has Alzheimer's. She really deserves a chance. You can see the items up for bid here.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:40 AM | Comments (26) | Add Comment
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April 02, 2008

This One's For Someone Else

Every once in a while, you get to do something for someone else.

When that day comes, you kick yourself and ask why you didn't think of it before. You also try to find ways to do more. And above all, you want it to work so very much.

I've said it before and I'll say it many times more, I'm sure - IVF is expensive. It drains you emotionally and physically. Even more than that, IVF hits you hard financially.

Out of my 5 IVF cycles, we paid for 3 of them. The other two cycles I did egg share, so those cycles were free. My last cycle was the last time I was allowed to donate eggs, and if it didn't work it would likely have been the end of the line for our attempts at having children - the cost of IVF is high.

An IVF cycle in the UK will run you about £4000. In the U.S., where most insurance companies don't cover fertility treatment, that cost can run into the tens of thousands of dollars. This is money that many families must struggle to come up with, and for many it's a one time shot. One chance to try to make a dream come true...it seems so unfair.

So a few of us figured out a way to help.

We've created the U.T.E.R.U.S. Brigade, which we tongue-in-cheek named to say Union To Expedite Relief Until Self-Fulfillment. We're collecting items which we will put on ebay, and 100% of the proceeds of the sales from all auctions will go to a woman trying to further her family. This round we've chosen Calliope, a woman who has sacrificed so much and has a shot at her dreams of a FET (frozen embryo transfer), she's just lacking the funds.

Well now. We can't let that stop her now, can we?

The U.T.E.R.U.S. Brigade will run quarterly auctions and all proceeds will go to help someone trying to have a family, be it via IUI, IVF, or adoption (which is also horrifically expensive and exhausting for a family).

This is what the banner of a U.T.E.R.U.S. Brigade might look like:



U.T.E.R.U.S.

Take Back the U.T.E.R.U.S.


And we're asking you for help. Do you have something sitting around, gathering dust, that may help someone's dreams? If so, all you have to do is this:

* We are going to hold a series of mass auctions via eBay. The first will take place this upcoming Thursday. Our eBay ID is uterusbrigade.

* This allows us to utilize an online auction site that is already in place with little taken off the front/back end for costs.

* It also opens up the bidding to the larger world rather than having the weight of the fundraising coming internally from our community with sales.

* This is what needs to happen on your end:

1. Decide what you could donate to the sale.
2. Take a photograph.
3. Fill out this form by cutting-and-pasting it into an email.
4. Email it to Jen at jenniferelaine11@yahoo.com and Mel at thetowncriers@gmail.com simultaneously (as in, put both our names in the address line). Just a heads up, we are keeping a spreadsheet the three of us will see so any of us can email you during the process to ask you a question or give you an update.

* I am going to list your item and sell it for you. We will have all of the sales under one account to make it easier to transfer the end sum in one transaction.

* All money earned will go to the designated person (in this case, Calliope), though you will get the shipping fees you requested to ship the item (although you can donate the shipping cost if you want). The cost to you is simply the donated item and the time spent popping to the post office to post your donated item.

* We will talk the hell out of this to get word out (grab the code for the icon over here). If you can help pimp the cause, then hopefully we can start something that will help many over the years.

* There will be list of all the auctions in one space so people can easily access them.

* We will give you constant updates so you know how much we've raised. The goal is to have this completely finished within a month or so.

* The goal for this particular convening of U.T.E.R.U.S. is $3000.

On eBay, you can literally sell anything, including personal art work, services, and a tangerine peel. I know so many of you are so creative, anything you can donate would be appreciated. So, dip into your world and let me know what you could place on eBay in order to benefit Calliope.

It's easy.

Or, alternately, you can view the list of goodies we have for sale and bid on something.

Even easier.

As for me, I'm running the ebay side of things. But since we don't have loads of excess cash, courtesy of nursery fees and extension work, I am donating something that I hope gets some money.

Remember this post?

That necklace was the first of many pieces of that style that I bought. I am mad about it and think it's fantastic. Over the years I have given away every single piece of that style of jewelry that I had bought to women I respect and admire...except for that necklace.

And now I'm selling it to help raise money for someone else.

You can bid on the necklace here. Please consider bidding or donating. It's for someone else and this will be a process that, if it works, will help many women grow the families the desire so much in whatever way we can help.

And I thank you, from the bottom of my mushy heart.

-H.

PS-many thanks for all your birthday wishes yesterday, they made me feel spectacular. I don't deserve you guys, you're fabulous.

UPDATED - Lily had an excellent question - if you want to skip the hooha of donating or bidding but do want to help, you can donate directly to Calliope's IVF fund here.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:12 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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April 01, 2008

My Dream Day

This morning I got handed coffee and babies in bed (two seperate deliveries, of course). Presents were opened, kisses doled out, and after the babies were fed we all hung out on the bed in our pajamas.


Pajama birthday


This. This was the stuff my dreams of family were made of. Not the parties or the photos or the meetings with relatives who exclaim in high voices. This dream, this hope of a family giggling and laughing as we lay on the bed in our PJs. This was what I wanted.

My birthday wishes came true then.

Angus gave me a beautiful 1940's style sheath dress that fits like a glove and makes me feel skinny, even with a shadow behind me.


Sheath dress


Look ma! No makeup!

He also gave me a stunning necklace from my favorite jewelry shop.


beloved necklace


(Ignore the not-so-great quality of the photo. I needed more coffee.)

I got fabulous gifts from Melissa and Jeff - a new alarm clock that was desperately needed as I'm getting more and more blind with age and can't read my watch now in the middle of the night, and a book for war brides that was meant as a guidebook (and is very, very interesting).

And today is an ordinary day in many ways - the babies are at nursery now. I have to go to London later, my first London visit (apart from the passport visit) since last August. Tonight Angus makes me a nice dinner, and as he's a great cook no doubt I'll love it. The day goes on in an ordinary, normal way.

34 years old doesn't feel so different from 33.

But my dreams came true, anyway.

It's one of my best birthdays so far.


my birthday babies


-H.


PS - many thanks to Sophie - she sent me four fabulous books that I adore (I'd link them but Amazon keeps crashing). Sophie is one of the great stepmoms-in-arms and has the patience of a saint. I love the books, Sophie, thank you so much.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:07 AM | Comments (61) | Add Comment
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