May 29, 2008

I Wonder What

IÂ’m on the train now, late at night, as I return home from another business meeting. I say another and yet itÂ’s one of the first IÂ’ve been to as far back as I can remember. It seems like yesterday that I was charging up from the train station to the office, full of fire and action points and things to do and places to go and people to talk to and problems to solve.

Today it was just me. Just me and just my laptop. Just trying to figure out where I belonged in the drinking bird world.

I dressed to be serious. Business-like black sheath dress. Pearls – on the neck, wrist and ears. Hair was blown dry and not scrunched up wet for a change, heels 2 inches high. It got me bent over the back of the couch this morning for a quickie, perhaps because Angus hasn’t seen me in anything other than glasses and pajamas for ages.

I felt like someone to be reckoned with.

Maybe I was.

The meeting went off without a hitch. In the window of the meeting room I would flash in reflection. I am strong. I am a woman. I am tough. I am in charge. It looked so real I bought into it

After the meeting I meet up with my old team for drinks in our usual place. I have been in this bar so many times that I know where everything lies, where everything goes. I know what a tab looks like, when we flash it to add another drink to it. I know what their toilets with the Molton & Brown toiletries smell like. I know what smiles the bartenders have and I know how the bar heaves with people like me – business people who have no purpose other than to talk and drink and unwind a moment before life carries us away again.

Angus puts the babies to bed.

It is the first time that I am not there to put them to bed.

This team – my team – knows of my children just as I know of theirs. We ask about each others’ families. We laugh and order drinks. We flirt and tease and take the piss out of each other. We have seen each other in our weakest and our strongest moments.

Outside rain falls. People come running into the bar, shaking rain off of their heads and briefcases and umbrellas. We have another drink and some finger food. My legs cross and uncross, unused to the weight of real shoes on the real feet. I do not think of the work I have to do when I arrive home, nor of the action points I need to address tomorrow.

I sigh and sip my nameless faceless white wine. One of my boys – even though they’re not on my team anymore and we’ve all scattered to the wind I will always, always think of them as my boys – leans over to me and smiles and tells me he’s missed me. I smile back and tell him I missed him, too. We are not hitting on each other. We are just being honest.

We talk and laugh and make fun and I say my goodbyes early. I have a home to get to, one with sleeping babies and a man whoÂ’s been working and cabling and a dog whoÂ’s as sick of the rain as we are. The boys tease me about being a lightweight. They offer to buy another round. ItÂ’s not the drinks, and I think they know that. I just go home, thatÂ’s what I do.

As I walk out of the bar, with hugs and high fives for the men I have given my all to and with, with the boys who consider me one of their own, with the boys that I spend time with and never feel alone, I turn to look at the laughing lot of outcasts. They see me and wave. I wave back, and smile, and miss them. I hope to see them soon.

My heels punctuate the London rain-soaked night streets and I race for the train station, hoping to catch the right train at the right time. I have missed my babiesÂ’ first bedtime and it was ok. I have had my first business meeting, my first real meeting in ages, and it was ok. I will ride a train home and write up this blog post and I will be ok.

I wonder what you must think of my life. I write about taking a train into London, where I walk over a bridge to an office and become a businesswoman, full of vim and vigor. I wonder what you must think. I wonder if I seem impossibly unreal. I wonder if I seem egotistical and false. I wonder if I can let you know that a day came and went and I was reminded of how human I am, and how much I hold tight to memories I hold dear.

-H.

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May 28, 2008

Book Review - The Fertilty Journal

Since I love books and I love talking about books, I recently joined Mother Talk Book Club. Our first book came out and was sent to me, and it landed on my doorstep with a thud. I had no idea what the book would be, so imagine my surprise when I opened the package to see The Fertility Journal: A Day-to-Day Guide to Getting Pregnant by Kim Hahn and the editors of Conceive Magazine.

Umm...ok.

Sponsored by Conceive Magazine and published by Chronicle Books, I had never in my life seen anything like this. It's a diary where women who want to get pregnant list their cycles as they go, including diet, exercise, habits, weight, caffeine intake, basal body temp, you name it.

I nearly laughed.

No wait. I did laugh.

First off, how do you review a diary? Isn't that impossible? Isn't it like saying Behold! A notebook! Forsooth, for what dost thou say to me? (Yeah, I don't know why I'm thinking in Shakespearean either. Let's go with it.) Secondly, I've never, ever been on the "let's have a curry, have sex, and see what happens in nine months" side of the fence. I'm an IVF veteran, one of those bitter screechy laughing kind of women who mock films where a woman sneezes and gets pregnant, who rips apart articles that describe IVF the wrong way.

My inner cynic wanted to take this book and laugh. It wanted to blog about the ridiculousness of it all. Then my inner cynic dialled it down, realized it was out of its comfort zone, and got out a glass of wine and took a look.

The diary, it's not bad.

I'll be honest, I simply flipped through the book, basically ignoring the "how to get pregnant and write it down" phase. I do see that it probably is an excellent resource for women who approach things in an orderly and organized fashion - I want to get pregnant and I'm going to document kind of way. But I can't really speak to that. What I can speak to and did explore was the second half of the book, where the diary gets into fertility treatments. There's a short explanatory intro for the book in which the author describes some basics of fertility treatment. I think it gives a very good layman's summary of what a basic IVF cycle is and does.

You then have 6 weeks of diary entries, in which you can record questions, medication dosages, doctor appointments, thoughts that you are having, and there are even two pages to write out the hopes and frustrations that you may be having. The book even has a section to help a woman in the 2ww try to write out her anxieties.

I thought back to my first IVF cycle years ago, and I think I could've benefited from a book like this. Clear descriptions, a way of keeping track of everything, places for me to doodle or write "I hate that nurse!" in all caps if I chose. I can see that the diary does actually have a place for women who are new to the fertility game.

At the same time, I have to take exception with the author a bit - I felt she didn't address the emotional impact as well as she should've. I also have a real problem with the fact that she only has room for 2 fertility treatment cycles in the book (I think the average woman will take more than 2 cycles) and even more damning, at the end of fertility treatment cycle 1 she writes "And know that someday you'll be a wonderful mother, too."

I have a problem with that. I think that's sugar-coating what is a difficult and trying process. A large number of women don't succeed. Many women in that group go on to have a life without children. I think that statement is one more stab in the heart to those who go on to ultimately not have children.

Apart from that, though, I do think that this is a good resource for someone who is entering fertility treatment for the first time. I think the authors could even benefit from expanding on this and making a journal just for that market - women can use something to turn to that they trust during treatment times, something not filled with images of babies and women rubbing their stomachs. You could argue that if someone bought the book trying to have babies the "old-fashioned way" went on to not succeed, and had to go to section 2 of the book, might feel pretty bad that she had to face part 1, the part where she had all those hopes and dreams, each time she had to flip to the back.

-H.

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May 26, 2008

Dishwashers

"We can hook up the dishwasher next weekend," Angus says.

"Thank God," I nearly sob. "I can't face washing by hand anymore."

"That happy to see the dishwasher again, huh?"

"At the first rinse cycle I think I'm going to orgasm."

"Uh..."

"There'll be so much shaking you won't know if it's me or the dishwasher in ecstasy."

"Well..."

"I'm going to make love sweet love on a hot econowash cycle."

Silence.

Then - "Is that it?" he asks me.

"What can I say, dishwasher porn is a little hard to think of."

-H.

PS-we awoke this morning to gale force winds, blinding rain, and the sound of babies screaming. Why were they screaming, the average sane person might ask? Probably because it was raining on them. The builders are currently scurrying around trying to secure the tarps that had blown off over our house. I'm so over being roofless.

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May 25, 2008

Book Review - Water for Elephants

So my monthly book review this month featured Water for Elephants, a book not only NOT about infertility, but really not even about babies. Or women, for that matter. Because while the book did have a great deal to do with a man's love of a woman, I felt the book was quintessentially the journey of a man.

Written by a woman.

And it's true I lack a penis (or at least not one that takes batteries or cajoling after a long day), but I think she did a good job capturing what it must be like to think like a man. I'm not saying that because the chap talked about jugs and football a lot, nor did he go around quivering whenever someone asked him if they looked fat in something. It was just - to me - a great narrative and a great story and the main character was someone intriguing and someone that you cared about.

The book told the story of Jacob, who was about 10 inches away from graduating from an Ivy League school with a vet degree when he hears his folks are killed. He goes home to mourn and learns his parents have nothing. This being the Depression, it means he has nothing now too, and so he does what every Kerouac has dreamt of - he hopes on a freight car and winds up being the vet for a travelling circus.

As you do.

And falls in love with a showgirl named Marlena (you thought I was going to say Lola, didn't you?)

And she's married to a giant asshole.

Who makes Jacob ride a rail car with livestock and an angry, masturbating midget (not making that up and I shudder to see what Google will send my way now).

The book is actually told in flashbacks by an older, 93 year-old Jacob. Jacob's age makes me want to weep, as he seems frustrated and locked in a body that's betraying him as he wastes away in a retirement home, desperate to be taken seriously.

The book was staggering. I usually read very quickly, even when handling infants, builders, and work, but this one took me a while to read simply because there was a lot to absorb. I found it a very imaginative, enjoyable book. I was surprised how much I liked the book in fact, because I absolutely loathe anything to do with circuses (clowns. Too close to clowns.)

Anyway, my book review questions:


What is your favorite circus related memory?


There are so many things wrong with that question. There is no such thing as a good circus related memory. It's not even possible. I've even been to Ringling Brothers, and I can tell you, I hated that, too. Why? Clowns. There were clowns there. I have been to Cirque du Soleil and loved that, but that's less circus, more "let's climb the drapes, shall we?"


On page 109, old Jacob complains about how his family keeps secrets from him: "And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask questions, they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know... Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know about what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?... I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death..." Reading this, I could see myself in both Jacob & in his family members, both in respect to our infertility situation and other matters. Whose viewpoint do you relate to most in this passage and why?


I'm going to piss some people off, but I'll agree with his family. I'm not sure if it's a reflection of my views on privacy or my views on family, but I do think things can or should be kept from people if you think it will upset them. I relate to Jacob completely, but I think boundaries are important in order to keep the relationships healthy and moving. Letting someone in completely is difficult and, to me, something best juggled with someone who has to experience your morning breath and your daily bad moods.


(From the discussion questions at the end of the book) Looking at himself in the mirror, the old Jacob tries "to see beyond the sagging flesh." But he claims, "It's no good....I can't find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?" How would you answer that question for Jacob or for yourself?


Haven't we all been there? Haven't we all had a moment after going through something terrible - or even more to the point while going through something terrible - and said "What's happening to me? Who am I becoming?" My own experience makes me want to walk up to Jacob and put my arms around him. I'd tell him at least he noticed he wasn't himself anymore.

Now what did he want to do about it?

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 Empty Picture Frame by Jenna Nadeau (with author participation because she's a blogger!)

-H.

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May 23, 2008

An Answer

I didn't write yesterday as I was enjoying yet another round of flu to hit this house, so I alternated between crawling to the toilet to vomit and crawling to the bed to sleep, not an easy feat considering they're re-roofing the house right now.

But I also didn't write as I needed some time to put my thoughts together. There were some comments on Wednesday that hit me the wrong way. There were a few things I wanted to sort out in my head before writing it through.

I work in telecom. I never chose telecom, in fact I don't even like it all that much. But here I am and I'm too old and too stuck in life to change. Sure I'd like to be a writer. I might need to try to publish something first. Sure I'd love to be a doctor. A little thing called med school would knock me out, I'm sure. Our way of life is based on both of us working and having incomes relative to where we are. We may be roofless, dusty, and a little broke, but we have a good life. This much I'm sure of.

Telecommunications is a man's field. I work almost exclusively with men, the only women generally being those in marketing or human resources. Maybe they think we're tough enough only for the softer jobs. Maybe they think we can't hack it. Whatever the truth, I am one of the very few women working in a technical space. This never escapes my notice, especially when it comes to hard, difficult projects. It may be that I get to know which men are married, have kids, or stepkids. It's far more likely that I'll get to know which projects they've worked on and which area of the country they live, the latter being the basis for where meetings are held.

But when meetings drag on to 5 or 6pm, no men dash out of the room as they have to get the kids from nursery. When we have emergencies on weekends, no dad says they can't make it as their kids have football practice. There was only one exception to this, a chap who had to leave at the same time everyday to pick his child up from school, as his child has autism and needs a rigorous routine. The others I imagine have kids, but I don't always know for sure because it's not a topic people tend to discuss.

Kids don't factor in this business. This is a man's world. Kids fit in around work for these men. I'm not saying this is the right way to do things, I'm only saying this is how it is.

And so enter a woman into a man's world. In my former rocket riding gerbil days, everyone knew I was childless. When I had the twins, everyone knew that too. It became a subject I would often hear - "You don't want to be doing x, you have babies to look after." Or "You won't be on project y, as your priority is to your kids."

Let me spell this out - my priorities are determined by me. Me. No one in the whole entire world can come in and tell me where my priorities should lie. Do I think that my priorities are my children? Generally yes, but this is not without exceptions. But I decide my priorities. I decide where things stack up. I decide how I need to approach situations involving me and my children.

Teresa and Melissia said what I was debating about in my head - Why can't Helen be a kick ass plastic bird project leader AND a kick ass mom? Why does it seem that a woman has to choose to be either one or the other?

Exactly.

What is it about squeezing something out of my thighs that means I no longer get to be the person I once was? Men go away on their two weeks of paternity leave, and when they come back it's assumed they'll go right back to working 12 hour days. Me, I am assumed automatically to work only 7 hour days. It's true that I end my days at a specific time so I can go get my kids and spend time with them before bed. But once they're in bed asleep, I log back in. Dedication can be divided, you just have to be patient. Why is the onus supposed to be on the woman instead of the man? Why does everyone view a woman becoming a mother as any different to a man becoming a father? We have just as much emotionally invested in the children.

The temptation for me to make my children my everything is huge, which is exactly why I mustn't do that. That puts a terrible burden on them, I think. If I were to know that I was my parents' everything I would forever worry that I could let them down, and that kind of worry is intolerable. Children need to be a part of life in general, no matter what occupation their parents have. Work, home, play, family, eating, sleeping, hugging - we all have our part to play. My children cannot be the only thing to keep me going in life, simply because it's not fair on them and doesn't show them the best way of making life well-rounded and even.

I reject the fact that in having kids it means that I am second rate now in this industry, that I can't do something, that I can't be something. It's hard enough as it is - sometimes when I'm with my kids I think about work, and often when I'm at work I think about my kids. I worked my ass off in college to graduate. Once I graduated, I worked my ass off to get where I am today. Work is absolutely, positively not my life. But it is a part of it. Working gives me money to buy clothes for my babies, electricity for our home, travel for our betterment, and above all a sense of independence for my soul. I got to where I am today because I worked my bloody tail off. That's worth something to me, that's worth being proud of and believing in. And if I feel better about myself then that can only be a good thing for my children - if I'm happy they'll know it. I honestly believe that children can sense when we're happy or unhappy, and if my children see a strong, happy, confident working person around them then I hope they'll grow to know that they can be that way, too. And if I am finally excited to be moved to a drinking bird project then that should mean I'm that much more attentive as a mom, because I'm not sidetracked worrying about what I'm going to be doing when I grow up.

I have children. Those children - despite our ups and downs - are a massive and wonderful part of my life. I revel in being a mother, but at the same time those revelations are private and if I am anything in real life, it's that I am fiercely private. It's frankly no one's fucking business at work whether I have children or not. I am wildly proud of my children, but that pride is mine to savor, it's not for the conference calls or the meeting rooms. My babies don't interfere with my job, they simply mean that I work in chunks of time. And I can honestly say that juggling that will be difficult at times, but my priorities are clear - I will take care of my children in the way that I feel is best for them emotionally, physically, fiscally, and spiritually.

At the end of the day no one I work with gets to judge me. Actually I think it's even broader than that. Absolutely no one gets to judge how I am as a mother. Someday when I die I might meet a nice man with a clipboard guarding a gate, and he might ask me how people might judge me as a mother. I will sweetly smile at him, peer over his clipboard, and tell him to fuck off. No one judges me.

No one but Nick and Nora.

Their opinions matter to me. I am accountable to them. And the choices I make are choices that I feel are what's best for them as my resonsibilities emotionally, physically, and financially. These choices are never made lightly, as the consequences are tremendous. And I am never in any doubt that they don't know how much they mean to me because if there's one thing in the world that I know I am it's this - I am a loving mother. I revel in that, although once again, I revel privately.

It's not about pushing my career away to tend to my babies. I know how I am as a mother. I know how I am as a project manager. And I can honestly say that one has nothing to do with the other.


-H.

PS-thanks so much to everyone who got involved in the auctions we held to raise money for Cali. Yesterday she made her goal, and has now scheduled her next round of IVF. You're all fabulous. We'll be doing another fund-raiser again to help another woman, stay tuned for the nominee and the details.

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May 21, 2008

Jumping

In November 2006 I tired of rocket riding gerbils. There's only so long you wanna' work with those little fuckers, it was past time to move on. I needed something new, I needed to get away from the 18 hour days, the endless phone conferences and emails, the hassle, the hell. At points in that project I was on three different calls at once, trying to juggle my project and my sanity.

I leapt to another project, one that the manager had stroked my ego for me to join.

I had gotten cocky, see. I had launched the rocket riding gerbil. I had worked like a dog - not without thanks, I should add - and managed to pull something off that I never thought I could. Of course I could take on another project, one that was in the shit, one that was top priority.

Only I couldn't. I started in November 2006. By end December 2006 I had realized I'd backed myself straight into a political nightmare. I was put into this new project as a puppet, as someone to be tightly controlled by an alpha female so dominant she made me look like Lady from Lady and the Tramp. She and I locked horns, and no matter how determined I was to continue driving my project, I started to flounder against her.

By January the depression had set in. I decided to check my brain at the door as we headed into our IVF round. I struggled along in the worst project I had ever come across, one in which I bashed my head against a brick wall every single day. The politics were killing me, I felt like I was drowning.

By the time the IVF cycle had worked, I had enough of bashing my head. The alpha female finally took her spiked heel and kicked it in my ass, pushing me over the side of the cliff. I checked out of the project, damaging my reputation and my psyche.

I moved on to two much lower profile projects. I ran them quietly and unassumingly. I got no notice, I went about my work, I just wanted to get my head back together after the unbelievable hell that last project had been. I was hopeful by the time I came back from maternity leave that I would have my soul back, and have the chance to work on hot exciting things.

It was not to be.

I wonder if other women go through this. Go back to work to find that it's all the same but different. Same projects, different people. Different projects, same people. All of whom have something to do and you hang out on the side and wait. And wait. And get asked about your kids. And feel marginalized but you don't know why you feel that way. No one has specifically said to me "Well, you went and had kids, didn't you? You made a choice. Suck it up." But I feel like that's the impetus of what's happening. I got pregnant and had children. I had self-abnegation while pregnant, and company abnegation when not.

My industry is like Hollywood, only without the lights, glamour, pay, and excitement. So nothing at all like Hollywood, really. In my industry you're only as good as the last project you delivered. My rocket riding gerbil had put me at the top of my stack. Everything after that had me tumbling down a hill littered with mobile phones.

My self-esteem was rock bottom. I was being winged from one project to another, not due to me but because of department re-organizations, although in the back of my mind I wondered if it was because I had failed at something. I couldn't even get my feet under desks before I was off on something new. I was getting desperate. I was very depressed about work, something I haven't been blogging about, and Angus was trying to prop me up enough to keep me holding on. I was going nowhere, and I was going to be staying that way.

Finally, a lifeline.

Someone approached me and asked me if I would be interested in something different. No more gerbils. No more rockets. Instead of working with anything I have ever worked with before in my 10 years in telecoms, I would be working on something new to me.

Would I be interested in working with those little plastic birds that swing and pretend to drink?


drinking bird.jpg


"I don't know anything about plastic drinking birds," I replied. "Nothing at all. Complete learning curve."

"We've heard you're good," they replied. "You'll learn."

Ha! I thought. They've bought the hype.

Angus smiled at me. "You'll be good at this. It'll be good to go into a new area, get out from your management structure and prove how good you are. They can't take credit for your work any more, and you're good."

"I'm not good," I replied fearfully. "I blew that project last year."

"That project still hasn't launched. It didn't stand a chance with or without you."

"But I still feel like I should've done better than I did. I fucked up."

"Maybe so. Then this is your chance to prove that you can do a good job," Angus said simply.

I took a deep breath.

I punched out an email.

I took the job.

I've switched departments and now am showered with masses of plastic bird details. I'm getting dug in. I'm freaked out and insecure but trying to remain calm and just approach a project the way it's supposed to be done. It's a whole new world, but one that doesn't know me from before - it doesn't know my failures, it doesn't know that I'm a mother (and I don't need them to know that, I don't want to be judged and that is how this industry works I'm afraid). I can just try. And this time, if I fuck up I'll learn it's because I can't do it.

But if I succeed, I'll learn it's because I can.

This is perhaps where I should learn to recite the mantra "There is no try. There is only do." I'll do mine without the Yoda voice though.

-H.

PS-sorry for being cryptic. My work does actually have a personal blogging policy, which is "knock yourself out, just don't talk about our company strategy or give out secrets". It's unethical to even consider doing so to me, but I still would rather keep details to myself.

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May 09, 2008

Falling in Love With Others

"It's not that I don't care about you anymore, because I really do," Angus says, his head down. "I'm sorry about this." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It's just temporary, it's not that I'm tired of you, I just feel we need a break."

His shoulders drooping, he looks at me.

I shake my head.

"What are you on about?" I ask.

"I just can't bear any pain between us," he replies.

"They're just lights, Angus." I say.

"Shhh! Don't say that, they'll hear you and you'll hurt their feelings!" Angus admonishes, and then continues talking to his beloved lights - an experiment he did to prove that fluorescent lights can be dimmed - as he takes them down from the wall.

This weekend we hope to progress the kitchen, especially as we will be losing our piece of shit temporary kitchen sometime soon. We've chosen the tiles for the new floor (grey slate) and chosen flooring for the dining room and living room (oak floorboards) and have finally decided the layout of the kicthen. The cupboards will be purchased shortly, and the granite work surface still needs to be ordered.

The sink arrived earlier today (we didn't buy it from B&Q and we didn't pay that price. We're relentless about hunting down the lowest price and we have done so with every single thing we've bought so far.) The sink isn't to everyone's taste, but we both liked the look of it. It's different and it won't stain like our stainless steel one has, courtesy of coffee grounds and squash, the same squash which stains the babies' bums yellow. I do worry it's a bit Disco Stu though, and that people will expect lots of bachelor pad black leather furniture, chrome, and neon sculptures on the wall when they see the sink.

The sink was delivered by a courier company, the driver of which decided to strike up a conversation with me.

"You from the States?" he asked.

"Yes I am," I reply, moving shoes out of the way so he can move our sink inside.

"I want to go to the States but I can't get a visa," he says sadly.

"You don't need a visa if you have a UK passport," I say, rising from my shoe shuffling.

"I do though. I was convicted of a firearms offense."

Oh. My. God.

"Firearms are hard to come by in this country," I smile nervously.

"I know. That's why the U.S. won't let me in," he replies.

Look at the time! I want to shout. I have to go now, thanks so much for dropping off the sink and help yourself to any valuables you want in our home on your way out!

Naturally I don't say any of this. It's strange that a total stranger confesses this to me, but at the same time we all make mistakes, my mistakes generally being about relationships but hey - I guess firearms play different roles for different folks.

People with a criminal past don't stress me out too much, really. Two of our builders are on driving bans for drinking and driving offences. At least one of our builders has spent time "at her Majesty's pleasure", and he is one who honestly is keen to walk the straight and narrow. We all fuck up. Maybe I should make a deal with them, I'll promise not to marry the wrong guy again if they'll promise not to drink and drive.

We have, however, installed a lock on the study door, where we keep all of our valuables. It's not that we don't trust the builders because we do, and the Cowboy would kill any of his team who got caught stealing. I'm not kidding. The Cowboy takes his company's reputation very seriously, he would never stand for theft. But he has to use various sub-contractors that we don't know, and for that reason (and because our extra house key which we foolishly forgot in a flowerpot outside disappeared) we changed the locks on the house and installed a lock on the study. Never hurts, and might as well remove the temptation.

Anyway.

The drains are being installed in the kitchen so that we can shortly hook up the new sink, washing machine, and dishwasher. I have missed the dishwasher more than words can say. Reuniting with it will be like going to bed with the best lover in the world and making him sleep on the wet spot. I also miss the washing machine actually working - we have to stand by with an empty formula can in order to bail out the pipes when the washing machine is on spin cycle.

Admit it. You're so envious.

This afternoon I have to go pick up the cooker hood (aka the vent). We were completely out of ideas - having budgeted little for the hood we were shocked to find out how bloody expensive they really are. We couldn't find anything we liked for a decent price, so we decided to go to a posh showroom to simply figure out what styles we liked. Once there, we zeroed in on one we both loved. The vent, however, retails for £1500.

Oh how we laughed.

£1500 for a vent isn't even up for debate in this house.

The good news was the posh showroom wanted to display some new stock and told us we could have the display model for £400, which is cheaper than most of the cheapest, nastiest vents on the market today. Let's see now - uber cool and expensive vent for a ridiculously low price? Lemme' think about it.

We thought for about 0.5 seconds.

I go to pick up the hood today (Angus is in London).

And finally, I had to come clean to Angus. It was hard for me, but it had to be done. My feelings have been changing, and it has gotten to a point that I could no longer ignore.

I have actually fallen passionately in love with someone else.

And yes, I love him so much I do want to marry him.

His name is Steve.

He moved in with me last Sunday, and I can never love another again.

-H.

PS-to anyone coming in from that website that is dumping traffic here - I don't know why you're here. Apparently it's from a link that includes the words "black chicks love white people's cocks", so lemme' 'splain: I am not black, first of all (not that there's anything wrong with that, I just hate to disappoint when you see my face, the color of which is akin to rice powder). Seondly, I never use the word cock because it's just a word I don't like. I prefer dick. Penis is ok. If you want, you can even call it a wee willy winkie, I don't care. And third, why is it "white people's cocks"? Shouldn't it be "white men", or are white women armed with special parts that I don't have? Whatever the answer, if you came here from that site just move along, pod people. Move along.

PPS-if you have an account on Flickr, comment here, and aren't linked to me and my baby photos, let me know. I think I missed a few names several months ago when the whole brewhaha went down (I've been dying to say that for days - brewhaha. So pointless and yet so good.)

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:16 AM | Comments (37) | Add Comment
Post contains 1253 words, total size 7 kb.

May 08, 2008

Healing

Many years ago I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. When I finally got the diagnosis the relief was instant, like a wave that pushed me under to a place where I no longer had to panic and struggle, I could simply drown amongst the answers. Extreme sufferers of BPD also have dissociation, which I had for so many years that it has changed all of my memories, thoughts and feelings on levels I can't even being to unpick.

I started therapy after my third suicide attempt. My last therapist here in London was the best. Calmly but emotively we worked through so much that cataloguing it all would take years to get out. He told me that in his many years of being a psychotherapist, my background was by far the most unstable that he'd ever encountered, that I would no doubt have wound up a statistic, a name in the obituaries of a crumpled up morning newspaper, had I not sought help. I would have spiralled and split so completely that I could never have been whole, because in the end I was not only dissociating when bad things happened, I was dissociating when anything happened which triggered an emotional reaction. BPD sufferers are described as people who are the emotional equivalent of a third degree burn. It's the most perfect description ever.

In my therapy sessions I started to learn about myself and about what my condition had done to my way of thinking. The biggest issue was the dissociation. Even though I no longer dissociate anymore, I just couldn't get past it taking over my past and my memories. I called it "watching myself in a movie", because that's how it appeared. The worst of it was my entire childhood played out in a film before me. My memories were filled of watching another child grow up. My nightmares at night were about the adult me trying to rescue children, and failing every time. My therapist told me that was the adult me trying to save the little me, that I had to reach out and rescue the child in order to rescue myself, and I laughed and told him I didn't buy that shit, to go sell crunchy granola to someone else.

Then the Child Me started to make herself known. In a therapy session I would see myself as a child, standing against the wall in the room. The young me would be sat on the stairs, watching me. The goal was always to get the Child Me to disappear inside of me, to connect the two. We never succeeded though, and the closest we ever got was the Child Me curled underneath the sofa I sat on, her face even with the treads of my shoes on the floorboards.

I know this sounds crazy. I know it sounds like I should be locked up and the key thrown away. But this is how profoundly screwed up I was - when I talked about my childhood, the Child Me was there, in the room, the actor in the movies of my life. Some of my memories are completely lost, but at least we figured out where I started to break, where it began to go wrong. And I learned that even though I was broken, it didn't mean I was a write-off.

Nick and Nora give me so much in life. I am not trying tu gush about my children or idolize them, because trust me - we have our bad days. Nick helps me in so many ways, with his large eyes and even larger personality. My son gives me so much.

But it's Nora that's bringing me together.

Nora, the child with the colicky past. Nora, the one that no one could bear for so long. Nora, the one who I can point to the moment where I bonded with her. It wasn't when she was born, for although I was crazy in love with her from the beginning, she was a foreign little creature to me. No, it was on the plane on the way back from the States in January that we hit that patch of time that parents call bonding. Curled on my lap, spread-eagled and asleep, she snuggled into me during the entire flight from Amsterdam to London. We snoozed together, each of us taking turns sighing, and it was from that moment that I took her into places of my heart that hadn't seen light for many, many years. I just knew.

A completely stupid thing to say, but I just knew.

This is not to say that Nick hasn't wandered into his own abandoned corridors in my heart, because he has, and there is no comparison between my children as I love them equally.

This is just to say that there's something about Nora that is bringing me back together again.

There's something about her happiness and welcome that makes me feel like I am healing. The Child Me, the one under the couch - sometimes I can touch her. Sometimes I feel her. Flashes, really - suddenly I am her, making myself walk down the sidewalk in a way to make my ponytail swing. My shins vibrate with the feel of metal roller skate wheels on the bumpy driveway. My knees tighten under the mask of scabs from falling down. Sunlight hits the back of my neck.

These are things the Child Me had.

And for moments - just moments only - I am Child Me.

I can't explain why, but there's something about my daughter that is fixing me. My son, he's helping other parts of me, but my daughter has this in the palm of her tiny hands. When Nora's eyes light up at seeing me, I feel the Child Me just behind me, her breath on my neck. When Nora babbles and growls and gigles, I smell candy necklaces and banana scratch 'n sniff stickers. When Nora nestles her head on me and falls asleep, I look through my mind and see memories that come from me, not from me watching me.

The burden to be a whole person is on myself, not on my children. I am broken but I do not expect them to fix me, I know that only I can do that. I would never impose that responsibility on them because I want only hope, light, and stability for them.

But my daughter is helping me heal.

I knew that having children would teach me to be a mother.

I never knew that having them would teach me how to be the child I was, too.

-H.

PS-I've signed up for this Twitter business, although I have no idea what I'm supposed to do (suggestions welcome). You can find me here.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:24 AM | Comments (30) | Add Comment
Post contains 1135 words, total size 6 kb.

May 07, 2008

Safety First, Children!

We were watching a news clip this morning about how much neighborhoods have changed here in the past 50 years. They showed children skipping rope, playing games, throwing a ball around in the street while mothers chatted and rocked baby prams from side to side.

"Wow," I said, shifting Nick to the other side of my lap. "Things sure have changed."

"How's that?" Angus asked.

"The kids are skipping rope in the street. That'd never be ok. A child could die of strangulation."

"And there's a kid sitting on the garden fence there. He'd not be allowed to sit on that in case he fell."

"There would be no throwing the ball around, either. Could hit someone in the head. Not to mention that ball games where you choose teams are exclusionary and damaging to children's self-confidence."

Things used to be much simpler. OK, we never would've been allowed to play in a bomb site, but still. Kids would entertain themselves with whatever they had to hand. And if they had nothing around to mess with, they'd make do with using each other as platforms in which to launch themselves of. This is what kids used to do - they'd dick around. Someone might get hurt, but then we'd learn not to do that kind of thing again.

I remember summers when I'd roll out of bed, throw on clothes, gulp down a bowl of cereal and then hurtle outside. I'd drag myself home around lunchtime, and then again for dinner, but in general I was out and about on my bike. What the hell I did during those days, I have no idea, but I remember being reasonably entertained.

I remember sitting in the car, waiting for my mother while she ran errands. Hell, Angus remembers he and his brother sitting in the back of the car, armed with two Cokes and a packet of crisps, while his folks went to the pub, which he said based on the number of kids in the backs of other cars meant it was pretty normal in the 60's. These days you can get arrested if you leave your sleeping child in your line of sight and step out of the car for two minutes. Leave a child in the car, even if you're only yards away and it's not boiling hot outside? Better have bail money ready.

I remember rolling around on the backseat without a seat belt. While I do advocate everyone in a car wearing a seat belt these days, I think it's wrong to dictate that children up to the age of 12 must be in a car seat, as is the new law here. Gives a whole new meaning to that "Mom, don't let my friends see me strapped into my car seat!" embarrassment.

It's all gone a bit mad. One of my co-workers attended his daughter's school pageant last year. She was in Snow White and the Seven Defenders of the Forest, because "dwarves" was ruled poticially incorrect. The nursery rhyme "Baa Baa Black Sheep" in banned here, you get "Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep", which makes no sense as black sheep are real - they do exist! Why not talk about them? They even get three bags of wool, why not include them?

I get it that nursery rhymes are a bit much, but that's just it - they're nursery rhymes. They're old fashioned but pretty much not nightmare inducing. Why change the endings, then, as is happening everywhere? Shall Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf sit down and talk animal conservation and how the Wolf might profit from a vegan diet? Shall Sleeping Beauty be changed to handle a sensitive portrayal of a woman with narcolepsy and a high IQ, as beauty is more than skin deep? Will Rapunzel not let down her golden hair in case it is viewed as objectification and, potentially, abuse of women?

I think back to being a kid, and I never viewed the nursery rhymes as being anything other than they were - fantasy. Beans don't grow into stalks that lead to giants and talking harps. Rapunzel wasn't objectified or abused by the chap who climbed her hair, she was just a dumb whore in need of a haircut, maybe some layers added to give it some movement. Women don't get identified based on shoes they left behind (unless they're like me, in which case they're shod in shoes the sizes of life rafts and can easily be picked out of a line-up of cuter, smaller sizes). The tales just were. Sure, some of them are definitely inappropriate (Little Black Sambo comes to mind, and some of the Uncle Remus tales maybe need to be explained to children carefully), but in general I don't think having those stories read to me colored my perception of people. Rabbits are silly, bears get stuck, and children the world over make mistakes.

I know a lot's changed in life. I know times are more dangerous, that more can go wrong. I know that handling children needs to be far more sensitive than people used to think it was, that damage can be done without the slightest provocation. Believe me - if anyone knows that you can fuck up your kids easily, it's me.

But at the same time, I guess I'm sad that we're losing the capacity to pick teams for dodgeball. Yes, it sucked to get picked last. Yes, it sucked to get pegged in the head. But it was also childhood, and let's be honest - for one gym class it felt kinda' nice to aim a ball at someone and not get in trouble for it.

I'm not sure I'm angry that we've become so sensitive and paranoid, or angry because so much has happened that we had to become so.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go see how much of Aesop's Fables are inappropriate, see how much blacklisting is being done there.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:22 AM | Comments (25) | Add Comment
Post contains 1005 words, total size 6 kb.

May 06, 2008

The Money Pit

The Money Pit.

Anyone else seen it, or is it only saddos like myself? A young couple (played by Shelley Long before she started taking herself too seriously, and Tom Hanks before he became, well, serious) buy a dilapidated house and try to rebuild it. Their contractor promises it'll be done in two weeks. Naturally it takes a lot longer than that because otherwise it wouldn't be much of a film - Two weeks? Rebuild? You got it! Everything that can go wrong does. It's a comedy of errors in pretty much every sense of the word.

A clip:



I always feel like we're seconds away from that happening to us.

The Cowboy and Angus conferred and remember that whole ripping off the ceiling in the soon-to-be kitchen escapade last weekend? Yeah. Turns out we weren't done. In conferring and looking at plans, it appeared the ceiling was still not right.

So Angus and I got up on ladders, armed ourselves with crowbars and goggles, and went to check it out.


More ceiling shit


That's not a blurry photo. That's dust. 100 years of dust to be exact. The babies were safely cocooned in another room, entertained by bouncy chairs, and Angus and I went to town.

It sucked big, gaping donkey balls. And the mess - dear God, the MESS.


What a mess


We took the ceiling off completely, right back to the original joists. The ceiling was indeed too low, and now when the new ceiling goes on it'll be to regulation, which is 5cm (2in) from the joists. So we now have a great big high ceiling in the now-empty living room.


Bare


And quite a view from above, too.


Flixster - Share Movies


I keed. The real view is this:


Mah toes


That would be light coming in from the floorboards from under my freakishly long toes. You can look right up into our bedroom from the spaces between the boards.

Our new temporary living room is the artist formerly known as the guest room.


New living room


That'd be the babies checking out the TV in preparation for In the Night Garden. The living room has everything we need - babies, TV, iDeck, couch, and mattresses lining the walls in case we feel we need a good bouncing.

The work never stops. We ripped out the ceilings on Saturday. On Sunday Angus drove 300 miles to pick up our new stove as we got a great deal on it if we were willing to drive to Nottingham (save £1000? Yes please.) While he was spending 7 hours on the road I watched the kids, did the grocery shopping, cleaned, and painted the garage. We were exhausted. And then yesterday - because it was a bank holiday - I continued my War on Carpets and ripped out the carpet on the landing with assistance from my apprentice Maggie.


Before


Maybe it's because I fear I'll fall through a hole in the floor and be stuck in carpet for 24 hours.

Know what I found? Floorboards. Lovely ones. They were tarred at one stage, which is what people did when they had limited incomes - you had a rug on the floor and tarred around it to give the illusion of floor covering.


After


I didn't take the carpeting off the stairs, as they'll be too slippery and the entire staircase is going anyway, but I took the carpet off one stair and found gorgeous wooden stairs just aching to be stripped of carpet and provided with a loving coat of paint. Sadly, we can't reuse the stairs.

While I ripped out carpet Angus channeled holes in the walls of the to-be kitchen for the cabling which of course meant more brick dust because you just can't get enough brick dust, it's such a great thing, the way it covers everything and clogs the vacuum cleaner.


Cabling channels


It's all exhausting. Really exhausting. We're covered in cuts and scrapes and bruises. Our bruises have bruises. Those bruises have moved in and adopted pets. I have a feeling that we'll be blowing our nose and brick dust will be coming out in our snot for the rest of our lives. When we finally showered late Saturday, after a day of ripping out ceilings, I had to wash my hair multiple times just to get all the dust out. The babies are always completely safe, they don't get exposed to the dust, but Angus and I are often one giant ball of grey.

But it's coming along.


Week 5


No really. It is.


Nursery


That's me standing on the first floor of what will be the new nursery.

I know that it won't always be like this, and we're only 5 weeks into a 16 week build. This week the tarps should go and the roof starts to go on. We get windows installed. Lots of things happening. Considering the fact that we're living in half a house, it's a constant fight with dust, we only have half a roof, the drains in our temporary kitchen are giving out, the grass in our garden is dead and whole sections are giant mud pits, and we're spending a fortune on what looks like tarp and duct tape, we're both actually pretty upbeat and still raring to go.

Which is a good thing, considering the sheer mountain of work we have ahead of us.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:22 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
Post contains 892 words, total size 7 kb.

May 02, 2008

Seven

Late last night April and Patrick met their gorgeous son. I've known April for a while now, and am very happy for her and her family. She's been so ready for so long now, and I know that feeling of "Please take this child out of me, I'll even whiz by KFC to get you a spork to take it out with!" that she's had.

It's a strange feeling - I've thought a lot about her in the past 36 hours, thoughts of a mixture of hope, understanding, smiles, and - believe it or not - envy. I'm actually slightly envious. She's at the beginning of it all now, and when I look back on my own beginning on the 3rd of October 2007 I see so many things I would do differently. I spent most of that afternoon and evening passing in and out, unable to confidently hold the babies. I don't remember that much of the delivery. It seemed to have taken 5 minutes, when I know it was over an hour.

I remember some bits so clearly, and others are a haze. It's a haze, and it was so important. I wish I could remember better, remember more. I wish I could lock up every memory and hold it inside of me, to warm me on the colder nights.

There are so many things I would do differently, and so many moments that I would lock inside of my mind. I can never go back again and I know that, but the majority of my early days with my children reign high in beautiful moments for me. I guess it's true - I've become one of those who sit here and write about her preshus babeez. And my babies, they are precious. They're also little hellions on occasion, so don't get me wrong, my kids aren't preparing for sainthood.

Nick and Nora turn 7 months old tomorrow. 7 months. It seems like yesterday, and it seems like 7 years ago. I am enjoying them more and more as time passes. They're brilliant fun and have real personalities now, and even better they light up now when they see me. At almost 7 months old we're still way behind - size-wise we're now in size 6 months, and the babies cannot roll over and cannot sit up unaided. I don't worry about it all that much, they'll do it when they're ready, and at least my babies have truly been babies longer than most.

I read that at some point their little bodies will no longer mold against mine, will no longer curl into my shape. Sometime soon they'll be independent, they won't need me. I think of moms with their new bundles of warmth and I worry that the day is coming sooner than I can handle it, that day of independence.

So I guess what I'm looking for is reassurance that kids need cuddles well into childhood, that they need me and will light up when they see me for a while to come. These are the only children I will ever have and this is the only time they will be one day shy of 6 months old. I can handle them growing up, but growing away hurts a lot. If I can just know that it doesn't all end tomorrow or on that day their bodies no longer mold to mine when we sit, I think I'll feel that much better.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:52 PM | Comments (41) | Add Comment
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May 01, 2008

Childhood Literature

Recently I've begun packing up the nursery, getting it ready to be moved. The first things to be moved were the babies' books, which now rest in the study. With huge, huge thanks to people who sent us books, my folks, an ebay compulsion, and The Book People (I think their books fall off the back of trucks which my morals are flexibile enough to be ok with), the babies' reading material has been really beefed up.


Our ongoing collection


The books are currently not arranged or alphabetized. Do you have any idea how twitchy that makes me?

Anyway, both Nick and Nora like to be read to. They like book after book after book, although their threshold for books has no leeway - they're on your lap being read to, they're happy, they're happy, they're happy, STOP READING IMMEDIATELY. My children - already masters of what they tolerate and don't tolerate.

The thing you don't realize about children's books until you start reading them - this because your memories of your childhood books are wonderful treasured things coated with sticky strawberry jam and Pixie Stix dust - is just how fucked up some of these books really are.

No really.

Occasionally I'll be reading one of these and thinking: What the hell is this all about? And what profound psychological impacts will this have on the kids? To which the babies rubbish me and say "Seriously, Mom, you're way overthinking again. Now turn the page before I get screamy."

I'll give you some examples.


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

Aliens Love Underpants.

I love aliens. I love underpants. It stands to reason that this book would be right up my alley, so I bought this one. It has cheerful, bright illustrations. The aliens are all friends. The aliens are all happy.


DSC_3424-1.JPG


The aliens also come to Earth and steal our foundation garments. The bad news is grandmas are apparently stuck back in the 1920's, and their bloomers are considered big fun for those aliens with slightly transvestite preferences. The other bad news is apparently "Mummies wear pink frilly things", so I need to hide my period-time granny panties from the babies as they grow up, so as not to disabuse them of the notion that mummies spend their time prancing around in peachy underthings.

The aliens take our knickers off the washing line and prance around in them at night before hanging them back up on the line in the morning. Let's hope they don't leave skidmarks.


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


Dogs Don't Wear Sneakers.

Maybe they don't, but fish sure as shit are cannibals.


DSC_3425-1.JPG


Those would be fish enjoying a little lox on their bagels while wearing the very same fishing hats they wore while reeling in their Cousin Bob.


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


In the Night Kitchen.

This one - sent by the lovely Aunties CTG and ZTZCheese, is a classic. Seriously. Sendak need not bow to anyone. But I do have a hard time reading this page and keeping a straight face:


DSC_3423-1.JPG


It must be because I can't get past the milk jug on the kid's head.

Yeah, that's it.

I hope Nick doesn't get a complex from looking at this page and sizing up his own milk jug.


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


Varmints.

Varmints is an amazing book. The illustrations are stunning, the message incredible, and I want absolutely every book that this author and the illustrator collaborate on. But I do wonder a bit if this book is aimed more for adults than kids.


DSC_3426-1.JPG


Those two pages read: "It touched and warmed the hearts of those few who paused and cared to listen..../Then one day OTHERS came, and the sound of bees was lost."

The OTHERS? Ben, is that you?

Then you come to these pages:


DSC_3427-1.JPG


Those white dots on the left hand page? Those would be the creepy faces of the OTHERS. I can see this is one book the babies may read when they're older, lest I have to bunk down on the floor with them and assure them that the OTHERS are not, in actuality, under the bed waiting for the babeis to fall asleep so they can steal their souls and trade them for some red crayolas.


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


Love You Forever.

A classic. Absolute classic. A beautiful, tear-inducing book that makes me choke up every damn time I read it. I love it, it's a book about a mother who says the same poem again and again to her son as he grows up (and naturally I've plagiarized the poem and say it to my son).

What I don't love is this:


DSC_3422-1.JPG


The mother takes a bus across town, lets herself into her adult son's house, and whispers the poem into his ear before leaving again.

What. The. Fuck.

"Hey, kids! We love having you, and when you grow up someday we'll stalk you to constantly remind you of how much we love you! Better not bring home the ladies and try for some action, m'kay? Wouldn't want to blow your dear old mom's ticker out, would we?"


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


Finally, there's this one:

DSC_3421-1.JPG


My folks brought it over as part of a lot of 75 Dr. Seuss books they won on Craigslist for me. I love all the books, and I especially love that the books are old and well-used, because to me that makes them more special. But I don't love this one. Why? Well, since it was written in 1959 it pretty much takes all the major political incorrect issues, urinates on them, sticks a funny hat on them, and buys them all a pint.

I give you the middle of the book:


DSC_3420-1.JPG


Why yes, that does say "There are many Indiands here. One of the Indians looks after the plane." Presumably thie author intended the Indian to take care of the White Man's plane after the Indian was done hunting heap big buffalo and smoking peace pipe with Runs Like the Wind. Perhaps the author felt the need to call him an Indian and dress him up in the latest of Wild West schmaltz to make a point, although what that point is I cannot possibly imagine. I've been around a lot of Native Americans in my archaeology days, but not once were any of them dressed like that. I have however encountered a number of stupid white people who dressed like that in some nonsensical attempt to impersonate a Native American, so maybe the author meant to say "substitute Indian".

My real issue with Ann Can Fly though comes from the part where Ann squeals and hopes other girls can see her and maybe they'll be in an airplane someday, too! Isn't that exciting! People with vaginas are allowed up in the air! Ann can fly even though she's a girl! I mean, you couldn't have a book called Dan Can Fly because Dan is a Man. Man Dan can fly already. Man Dan uses his huge stonking penis to control the throttle, propping up his giant tree trunk man thighs on the dashboard while making jokes about the stock market and reading a map without having to land at a gas station and ask directions. But Ann, well, Ann's a little useless. Ann's just a girl. Flying is hard, Barbie.

If I read this one to the babies I'm going to explain that Ann's stupidity was due to her being dropped on her head as a baby and not due to her having two X chromosomes. Girl's can not only fly, but we'd never bump the plane while parking it.

-H.

PS-Lily, are you here? How do you pronounce that word "pech" that you and Clancy mentioned yesterday? That's my new word.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:21 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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