March 30, 2009

I Want To Break Every Goddamn Coffee Cup Around Me

Seriously not fit for human consumption today.

Will be back in a few days. I know I use this space to sort my head out but there's only so much bitching and whinging I can take, let alone that I can subject people to.

I'm all banshee like and need to step away from the keyboard.

-H.

PS - I probably won't be blogging tomorrow, but I never forget - Happy Birthday tomorrow, Mitzi.

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March 25, 2009

Reading Way Too Much Into This

I've blogged about In The Night Garden before. The characters on that show are mental, man. Seriously.

Yet the babies love them.

And we have a set of 5 board books and 2 paperback books that the babies - particularly Nora - adore. And they're at the stage where they don't want you to read it once, thanks. They want you to read the damn books 100,000 fucking times until your eyes bleed and you are one with the Night Garden. Get to the end of the book, hope to God they're sick of the book, find out with that "Uh uh uh uh uh" noise that they're not, stab yourself in the ears.

This is how it works.

Angus has been banned from reading the books because he won't play ball. The main characters are Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, Makka Pakka, and the Tombliboos. Angus calls them Shit Snacker, Masochist, Ass Kisser, and Padiddlyboink.

Clearly not names I'd like the babies to get familiar with.

So I read the books.

Only, I hate the books.

Also, I've decided that the characters don't just have deep-seated psychological problems, but that they live in their own little land which isn't so much Night Garden as it is Gigolo Land. They're little pervs, the lot of them.

The most normal one is Igglepiggle. He's like the Mac Daddy of the Garden. I'd say he was the pimp, only evidence here is that he's not just the pusher, he partakes, too:


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Then take the Tombliboos.


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Their trousers are always falling down. See? It's a sign. It's not actually aided by the fact that in real life one of the actors in one of the costumes was in some kind of sex scandal (I believe the terms "circle jerk" and "glory hole" were bandied about).

Then you have Makka Pakka.


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Oh, Makka Pakka. So fucked up. You're like the Rain Man of the geology world.

But it's worse than that.


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He gets his rocks off on...rocks. He's the puppet equivalent of that nutter who has sex with buildings. He arranges his sexual objects in circles, sleeps with them, and then:


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he tells the world that he's succeeded in reaching orgasm by using a brass instrument.

It's always the quiet ones.

But the worst offender is Upsy Daisy.

In our house, I have to catch myself constantly, because whenever I come across an Uppsy Daisy passage in a book I always want to add: "...you little whore!" at the end of it.

For example, Upsy Daisy decides to kiss everyone in the Night Garden.


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Oh wait. My bad - she wants to kiss everything in the Night Garden, be it animal, vegetable or mineral.


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The dozy tart even seeks out public transport to try to spread her free love around easier:


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She tries to write off her depravity.


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Oh sure, babe. Blame the skirt. That's why you're so loose.


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This just makes me uncomfortable.

When your bed is chasing you around the garden it's time to admit you have a problem, Upsy Daisy...you little whore.

-H.

PS-yes, I know, it's all innocent in these books. They are sweet characters who value sharing, cooperation, and all that other shit you need to teach kids. But when you've read them 50 times in one 20 minute period you need something to divert your mind, lest you lose it.

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March 24, 2009

Broken

Yesterday I went to the doctor, ostensibly for just an ultrasound. No, not one of those ultrasounds. This one was on my wrist.

Surprise, surprise - doctor pulls out needles. Decides to activate the procedure they've been planning to do in situ. Anesthetics applied, big needles plied with steroids, and a ganglion cyst - conveniently growing within one of my tendons - gets hit. This is just one of many cysts rolling around in my buggered wrist space. The treatment has a 60% chance of working. If it doesn't work we can repeat it. If that doesn't work, they're going in with scalpels. I'd rather not get to that point.

The doctor has EDS too. He tells me that feet and ankles often go on EDS people. I decide not to think about that. I tell him about my jaw popping out. He tells me about his neck popping out. We are unwitting war buddies.

So this may be my first treatment of many.

The procedure hurt but not as much as the recovery has.

I'm in a brace now, not allowed to use my right hand for some days. I cannot dry my hair. Typing this has taken fucking ages as I cannot type with my right hand, nor write with it either (we're installing speech recognition software on the home PC tonight). I cannot drive. I cannot dry my hair and pulling on tights is something akin to a circus act. I have a deep down massive bone ache and throbbing in my wrist, one that kept me up last night.

I turn 35 next week and parts of my body are already letting the team down.

I am crazy busy - I need to see the dentist but haven't had time, I finally got a haircut after last having one in May 2008. Melissa and her best friend arrive tonight for a week. One week of two teenagers and two toddlers. Angus is building a deck and having to do it alone as the EDS now prevents it. A friend in real life found my blog and I'd really rather that didn't happen, especially as real life friend has now blown me out. I'm now nervous, and feeling exposed, and feeling bad because I've mentioned said friend on here and I don't want them to feel betrayed because that's not a very nice feeling. I tell people at work my wrist is in a brace as I've been backhanding people too much. They smile. It beats the truth.

Miles to go before I sleep and I can't even sleep.

I'm in a good mood, though. That has to be worth something. Angus and I are getting along well lately - I hope the peace lasts. The sun is out. And I am so proud of my toddlers that I feel it deep down in my bones, down by where the needles went through.

My body is aging now, and I can't help feeling it's too early for that. It's not pity I'm playing with here, it's just something I wish wasn't. I wonder if I should buy my adult undergarments or ordering up a cane ahead of time. I wonder if there are coupons to prevent aging, and what part of me I need to sell to get them.

-H.

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March 23, 2009

Progress

I had a procedure on my wrist today and have been told to take it easy. As a result this week posting will consist of short posts, photos, and other drivel.

Nora took two steps on Friday. Four steps on Saturday and Sunday.

This evening she took nine.

And, not to be outdone, Nick got off a chair and stood up unassisted.

He then took off, which we have on camera.

Apologies for my shrieking and screaming in the background.

-H.

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March 22, 2009

It's a Special Sunday

OK, stop reading now if you've recently suffered a loss. Or have been trying to have a family without success so far. Or you hate children. Or you hate mothers. Maybe you hate children with mothers. If any of those sound like you, then I would advise you stop reading now.

In all seriousness, I really hate the idea that anyone goes away from my site feeling bad, feeling alone, feeling hurt, and thus the rest is below the jump. more...

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March 20, 2009

Help. I Have Done It Again.*

It's been almost two years.

Two years since I got on the trains and tubes and walked my way through leafy London neighborhoods, passing that large imposing church, passing a few homes which I knew were covert women's shelters. I knew this because I would see the women come and go from them, looking over their shoulders and drawing their hair over bruised faces, hoping that they wouldn't run into the person they were running from. I would pass that house with the massive rose bush growing over the wall, and pass the house that had an Edwardian desk rotting in the driveway, slowly fading over time.

I would make my way to the house with the wisteria arbor. I would ring the doorbell. I would wait until someone opened the door, where I'd then get a whiff of spicy oils and Indian scents. The house was inhabited by doctors and specialists who worked from home. I was far from the only patient who went there.

Up one flight of stairs, then another, then another. We were in the eaves of the house, a converted loft. It was his home for the most part, a Spartan place with a large leather couch and a small balcony overlooking the homes in the area. There were candles, often, and books on subjects nearly too touchy-feely for me. My therapist was a specialist in psycosynthesis. I used to make fun, but I think his approach was the only one I could've responded to.

It's been 12 years since I stopped my OCD behaviour.

It's been 8 years since I stopped my eating disorders.

Both of them are control triggers, things I do when there are parts of my life that I am not in control of. Like the self-harm, they are things my subconscious triggers when it is flailing (although the self-harm - like suicide - are well and truly off the menu. Forever.). It is me telling myself, however mistakenly, that I am in charge. I make choices, these choices put me in the driver's seat.

The eating disorders always worked the same. I would start to feel fat. I would start to feel revolting. I would want to watch every little thing I ate. I used every anorexia trick in the book - ensuring I burnt off as many (preferably more) calories than I took in. Throwing food away so that I wouldn't eat it, because if there's anything bigger than my fear of being out of control it's my fear of germs. Brushing my teeth repeatedly. Eating cereal dry and without milk so it would expand in my stomach with fewer calories. And most of all, I would hear a voice in the back of my head. A snack, a low voice, one that was almost always hypnotic to me.

"You'll feel so much better if you don't."

That's all the voice ever said. Ever.

And I obeyed it every single time. If I heard the voice, I immediately stopped eating, I immediately walked away, I immediately resisted.

The OCD was done in obsession mostly, rather than compulsion. I had to do things 5 times. Just 5. If I did something 6 times I had to start all over again. Lock the door 5 times - lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock. Check my contacts 5 times. Touch all the burners of the stove 5 times each to make sure they were off. I would even drive to work, turn around halfway, and come home just to check everything all over again. If I touched something with one finger I had to touch it with all of them in the exact same way. If I messed that up then it would be another pattern to introduce.

It consumed me.

I went to therapy and got all better.

Then a few days ago I had to literally sit on my hands to keep myself from driving home and checking the stove 5 times. I had to do it. I even broke into a sweat. 5 times, I had to check the stove 5 times, I had to do it now. I didn't let myself, I told myself that if the house burned down at least the babies were at nursery, Angus was away, and the pets could escape.

And last week the snake came back. "You'll feel so much better if you don't." I've been eating but I haven't wanted to. I want to stop eating. I want to diet uncontrollably. I feel fat. I want to stop eating. I have to take laxatives occasionally, as the digestive system doesn't work so well post-pregnancy. I have to take three tablets at once, courtesy of all of those years of binging and purging. I haven't yet heard the voice urging me to take the whole box, it does no good if you take the whole box, go on and swallow them all, but I know it can come. It may come.

I am so sick and fucking tired of being crazy.

I haven't told anyone but Angus that I am beginning to fail because I am so embarrassed. I write on this blog about the things I have been trying to overcome, the things I have overcome, and perhaps all of it is just big talk. I'm sliding back downhill and I feel so ashamed about it that it's hard to write it all down.

Almost two years ago I stopped seeing my therapist.

Yesterday, despite money being tight, despite him not being covered by insurance, despite him being a 4 hour journey to and fro, I reached out to him again. On the phone his voice was guarded at first as I awkwardly tried to do basic salutations, my insecurities covering the mouthpiece of the phone like a layer of melted caramel. When I finally revealed myself his voice opened like the door of an old friend who always has the kettle on for you. He remembered me. My insecurity had me worried that he wouldn't. Stupid thing to worry about, really, when your therapist tells you that in his entire career he's never met anyone with a more unstable background.

He asks me about my babies right away. I tell him they're fine. I tell him that I really like them. I more than just love them - I like them. I want to convey down the line of the phone that I am the luckiest person in the world because I get to be their mother.

But it's because I am their mother that I need more help. I have to make myself right so that I can always make sure I am right for them. The cycles stop here, lifetimes of mental matriarches can and must come to an end. I will do absolutely anything - therapy, medication, wear polyester, walk through fire - to make sure that my children never know mental illness.

Not like their mother did.

I go back to my therapist on the 8th of April, in the evening, for a double session.

I think I wasn't finished baking yet and I need to go back into the oven again.


-H.


* lyrics from Sia's "Breathe Me", which is the song I almost always listened to as I went to that house in the suburbs.

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March 16, 2009

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

And you'll have that song in your head for the rest of the day.

Motherhood is this club. A great, big, huge club that you get handed a laminated card to on the day you deliver a baby and for which the dues are paid in callouses, bags under the eyes, and stacks of printed off photos that you alone think show how cute your kid is. You didn't know you would be getting into this club when you have your child(ren), nor did you know if you wanted to be part of an official club anyway. Groucho Marx was an asshole but his quote "I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member" sums up my life fairly well.

And the club is often good. There are times you get advice - make milk in batches beforehand, try this swaddle, rock them this way when they cry - and times when you get encouragement - the colic will stop, this helps teething, let me get the corkscrew. But what they don't tell you is that the Motherhood Club is also something that you occasionally want to hide from. There are times when you do something and think: The Mummy Police are coming for me when they hear about this. The Motherhood Club Card was handed to me and as a dues-paying member I'm always aware that the club is out there, like the WI with assvice. It takes you forever to become a mother and when you finally get there it's barred with good intentions. No one judges as hard as another parent. Not even the UK Home Office, and that's saying something.

We all raise our children differently. No one raises their children in the same way, and yet all of us have opinions from blog-land to the nursery playground. For me, it happened the day I came out to the blog world that I was pregnant. Immediately there were opinions on how to raise my children. I hear it from my dad. I get constant advice from my sister-in-law. And it's not that I don't want advice, because there are times I ask for help and genuinely want it (except from my sister-in-law, who needs to step the fuck off already). I'm new to this Mummy business and there are times I honestly seek and need advice.

I often want to talk about my children but know that I'll be in for it if I mention some things. And it's hard because this is my blog, this is my space for dumping my thoughts. Lemme' just say that again for my own benefit - this is my blog, this is my space. But the Motherhood Club is strong, the views fierce. I have to think about what I write and feel like I have to defend myself vigorously in doing so : Our children go to nursery but they love it and they've grown so much as individuals by going. We did a version of Cry-It-Out and it worked for us but it had to be done for Nora anyway due to colic and it's not as fucking cruel as people make it out to be, it's about offering comfort in levels as opposed to just slamming the door and ignoring them. We are big believers in vaccinations and do so according to the NHS guidelines as we believe the finding that vaccinations are linked to autism are rubbish and with the upsurge in measles it's best that our immunity-challenged babies are not exposed. We bottle fed the babies and still do but my boobs were basically empty courtesy of surgery 16 years ago, the midwives suggested bottle feeding, and the UK government has said that they feel the BPA levels are well under harmful levels and yes, they can and do use sippy cups but we still use bottles because it's convenient.

Well fuck that.

I have two beautiful, energetic, happy, pain-in-the-ass children. I may give them a bottle but I've ensured that they are growing in a very loving and secure environment. They may not be walking but they know that if I come flying at them with my hands raised that it's to tickle them, not to hit them. They go to nursery but they genuinely love their carers and, as their mum, I am better for them going to nursery. They might not have an enormous vocabulary but they know that if they fall down we are there for them instantly, to blow on the owies and cuddle them until the shock of a fall fades.

That makes me more of a mother than a fucking club card does.

I'm angry, and it's just because I feel I am judged for every parenting thing I do both on the internet and off. I realize this post is a bit "rant-y", but I get comments and emails constantly telling me how to do things and what I'm doing incorrectly. But parenting style is a choice. Maybe I'm doing it wrong, maybe others are doing it wrong, I don't know. All I know is I had a great weekend and I wanted to write about it, but I opened up this blog post feeling like I had to create my defenses from the get-go.

On Sunday we spent the day in the sun. I had a sun shade on the babies for the most part, but we were all just so damn happy for the sun and the warmth that we had some vitamin D soaking in on us, on our hands and feet. I mowed the lawn. The babies played in the swing. Angus worked on the deck.

On Saturday we went to IKEA and Wing Yip, a fantastically huge Asian market. For lunch we had McDonald's. The babies shared a Happy Meal. That's right - I gave my kids McDonald's. My 17 month old babies had a cheeseburger Happy Meal. I knew writing that would bring a downpour of grief, but you know what? Save it. They never eat out like this and they truly enjoyed it. At IKEA, for their dinner, they split a hot dog and later they snacked on elk sausages. Saturday was a treat for them as they usually eat balanced and healthy meals. They don't get sugar and they don't get chocolates and cakes but on Saturday they did get food they normally wouldn't have.

They had a great day.

So did we.

My single greatest priority for my children is that every second of every minute of every day they know that they are loved. If very occasionally that love is accompanied with a side of fries then I think that's ok.

I don't believe I'm alone in being a mum who does something occasionally that others would disapprove of. But I am all done with feeling like I have to edit myself because I'll be frowned upon. I'm tearing up my Motherhood Club Card because I want to be free to raise my children the way I want to.

-H.

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March 13, 2009

Playtime, Children In Need, and Recipes

OK, first off for anyone in the UK who hasn't heard (and how is that possible, I ask?) today is Red Nose Day, which is Comic Relief benefitting the children of Africa. Yesterday I took my kit off and took a photo of me with my Red Nose. I watched a prelude to Red Nose Day/Comic Relief last night - in it they had boy/girl twins. The twins caught malaria. The boy died. Cue me in floods of tears racing upstairs to check on my own little boy. Tonight I'll be glued to the TV alternating between crying and laughing.

If you live in the UK, dig in and donate.

The babies' nursery did - today the nursery is having a pajama party and a teddy bear picnic, so the kids were urged to bring a quid, a toy, and come to school in their pajamas (a policy which I love). We painted their noses red to add to the fun.


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Secondly, sometimes my babies do actually play well together. Hang in there to hear them screeching with laughter at each other.



And finally, the recipes I have been sent - thank you all so much for the suggestions and ideas. There are many of them that are going to be tried out in this house, and if anyone tries one of them let me know!

Click below the jump to collect them - don't forget to check thecomments in the post where I asked for recipes, as there are a number of good ideas in there, too. more...

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March 12, 2009

The Perfect Family

You get a lot of comments when you have twins, as I've said before. Most of the time the comments are stunningly unoriginal and lame - You must have your hands full! Double trouble! Better you than me! The one I get the most is something that I've thought long and hard about - You have an instant family!

It's like my uterus was a bucket of pot noodles, just add boiling water and a sachet of herbs and spices and you've got yourself a meal in a can.

The instant family comment is clear - we are a Mummy, Daddy, Brother, Sister, Dog and House With a Picket Fence. We are the way a family should be. From the outside we typify all that the statistics love us to be. I should be wearing a full skirt and an apron and serving up meatloaf in my hot pad clad hands.

People usually remark on the "instant family" thing when they find out we have boy/girl twins. Boy/girl twins, viewed as the winner in the IVF Lottery. One of each, the ideal combo. Having a male and female means we get the pink and the dolls and the lipstick as well as the blue and the trains and the footballs.

And this bothers me.

Mostly it bothers me because of the definition of family. Family used to mean nuclear family, yes. But I like to think that in modern times a family is what you make it. My family is Angus, mostly, and my children and his children. But it's his children that throw the perspective for a loop - by definition we already had an instant family as he has a son and daughter from his first marriage. So if we already had an instant family, what are we now?

My family has a mutt named Gorby and an angry Maggie Cat. My family is my father and stepmother and my step-grandma. The maternal side and my sibling have been neatly cleaved from my family tree. Are we still then a family? Have we just broken the family mold?

I think the family mold was broken before we got to it. I think in today's day and age a family is who you love and need, the ones you turn to in times of darkness and in times of light. My family consists of the people that, without them, life doesn't look even a little bit tempting.

Don't interpret this as being ungrateful for Nick and Nora, because I am almost daily grateful for them in a way I can't describe (the days I'm not grateful for them include teething days and days when one or both of them are being assholes. Yes, we have those days.) I just resent the idea that a house with Angus, Gorby, and Maggie didn't constitute a family. We were a family then. We're a family now. Adding little people to the mix doesn't make us any more of a family, it just changes the dynamics a bit.

I understand when people say I have an instant family. I have a son and a daughter, and I can recognize that if IVF had never worked I would have mourned the loss of both. If I had only one child I would always wonder what it would have been like having one of the opposite sex.

Take Statia - she's due with baby number 2 in a few months and is already the mother of a 2 year old son. Since she phoned me in shock that one could, you know, actually get pregnant by having sex, I've called her bun in the oven Fred. When Statia evicts Fred, if she has a girl she'll be told "You have an instant family!" and may feel as stabby as I do sometimes upon hearing it. Should Fred turn out to indeed be a Fred, she'll probably often be asked when she's going to try again to see if she can get a little girl.

Or take April - also a mother to a little boy, she recently found out baby #2 is also a boy. She writes that she feels a mixed bag about this, as she's not sure they'll try again and she does sound as though there's some yearning for pink frilly clothing. And undoubtedly she'll be getting the "going to try again for a girl?" shtick.

It's a formula people expect you to live up to - you get married. Enter house with white picket fence. Then after a TV dinner one night you and the spouse bump uglies and - because the world is perfect - 9 months later you have a boy whose name invariably includes the word "Junior". Then 2.5 years later a little girl arrives. Presto - you are complete.

I never get asked when I'll be having more. It's as though, having met the nuclear family quota in one go, I've fulfilled my responsibilities. Now the truth happens to be that I am indeed not having any more - five years, two miscarriages and five rounds of IVF followed by a perilous pregnancy do tend to have that effect - but I get left alone on the "when are you having more" front. After all, I have an instant family.

And you shouldn't just have one of each. Oh no, that's too easy. If you're placing an order at the Booty Bar then you should know that the boy needs to be born first. This is the Way Things Should Be. The boy should be older! This is the way! The girl should not be born first, she needs a big brother to protect her and to be the family heir! Do not mess this up or centuries of stereotyping will catch up and coat hanger you!

I look at my two. I have a boy and a girl, and the boy was born first no less, the way it should be. I'm not sure 2 minutes older really makes any difference one way or another, but Nick was pulled out first. I can now see gender differences in them, and they're not difference we have pushed or encouraged on them. Nick likes to bash and be noisy and move a lot. Nora likes to be calm and social and likes to dress up. This morning she had a small handbag slung over her shoulder and wouldn't remove it. Let me be clear here - I'm happy for both of them to dress up and both of them to play with trains, we don't try to enforce stereotypes here but it has transpired that I have a boyish boy and a girly girl, all done of their own volition.

I do think I am amazingly lucky to have the opportunity to not just be a mum to them, but to have one of each. And if I only had one child or two of the same sex, I think it goes without saying that I would have wondered what it would have been like to have a child of the other sex running through my household. Maybe it's that way with everyone.

But instant family? Nope. They joined a family that was already here, and that will undoubtedly change and grow in the future, too.

-H.

PS-I'm looking for a reputable tattooist in the North Hampshire area. If you know of one, please let me know!

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March 11, 2009

We're Having a Baby

No really, we're not.

Funny title, though, and I wonder how many people freaked out reading that in Bloglines.

I recently wrote a post about what toys babies hate and love (particularly my babies). The first 6 months in Land 'O Baby are a maze, though, particularly if you are a new mom like I was. Everything promises to make your life easy and wonderful and to keep your newborn happy and smiley. It's bewildering. It's overwhelming.

So Angus and I put together a list of what we call The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (The Ugly being thoroughly useful things that maybe don't imply greatness). This is in addition, of course, to the two biggies you need - a baby bed (cot over here) and a car seat. The car seats are overwhelming, but there's good information on car seat guidelines in the UK here.

We wound our way through Land 'O Baby and hey! Both of our children are still alive! (Knocks furiously on wood here.) And I know that every family is different and that what may work for some doesn't work for others, but here's how we've gotten our two to the robust age of 17 months.

The Good

1) A Baby monitor. Doesn't have to be a posh one, but having one does give you peace of mind.
2) Avent bottles. I know people will explode about plastics and what have you, but we used Avent bottles, our babies loved them, and let's move on since I hate being lectured.
3) Lots of babygros/sleepers/onesies. Seriously, you need a lot of these in the beginning because we went through (on average) four of these a day and we weren't precious about things. A little bit of spit up didn't mean baby got changed, but any number of things happened during the day and we'd need to change their babygro.
4) A Baby Bjorn or a sling. Very, very useful particularly when you want to have baby near but need your hands. For slings go to a shop and try a few on, everyone likes them different. I had a Mobi wrap and I loved it, but others have found it uncomfortable.
5) Muslins. John Lewis has great ones, a pack of 6 and they're long, soft things. You will need many of these as little ones have the tendency to be little bundles of vomit for the first 6 months.
6) Cotton wool (cotton balls). The midwives and health visitors recommend that you don't use wipes to address baby bottoms but to use warm water and cotton wool. We do exactly that, as we think it's better for the babies than using wipes on them constantly, and it's a lot cheaper too.
7) Sudocrem (nappy rash cream)
Calpol (baby Tylenol. After 3 months of age you can give it to babies and it will make you love it.)
9) A bean bag. Sad but true, if you have the space an inexpensive bean bag is phenomenal. It's good for you to sit on while you're pregnant as it's comfortable (although getting out of it is another story) and throw a blanket over it and the baby can sleep in the living room with you. Now that my babies are toddlers the bean bags get heavy use - they're easy for them to climb on, we nest them in them for their morning and evening milk, and they're great places for the babies to sit and read.
10) a bouncy chair, like the ones I posted about a week ago. Alternatively, I've seen swings out now that are basically giant baby papasans, I can imagine those would be popular.
11) A multi-gym, the kind where baby lays on its back and looks up at a variety of dazzling hanging toys. Mine had the Baby Einstein gym and loved it for ages.
12) a travel cot.
13) lots and lots of cot sheets, as well as at least 2 cot underliners to prevent damp.
14) Grobags/swaddles. We used Kiddopotamus Swaddle-Me for the babies when they were small, and I am a huge fan of swaddling when the babies are small, as is the NHS. The babies still sleep in Grobags as they throw covers off, and they are so versatile and useful.
15) A mobile over the cot. The babies will indeed stare at it. We found it was better to have a non-musical one as our two weren't keen on that kind of thing.
16) A drying rack and dishwasher compartment for bottles.
17) Hand-me-downs. Fantastic, useful, and so gratefully received.


The Bad

1) Dr. Brown Bottles. Look good, supposed to prevent colic, but don't. The truth is colic will happen if it's going to happen. We tried to prevent it but Nora had it, and we tried to help her with it but the fact is colic will go when it's ready. Dr. Brown's doesn't stop colic. Fucking pain in the ass to wash, too.
2) Itzbeen. Statia sent one to use and I know she's a fan, but with two babies we just never used it as my two always let us know when it was time for something.
3) A Baby bath. Had one, never used it, gave it away.
4) Changing table - we had one, but found a changing mat on a lower surface (like the floor) was better, particularly post C-section days. Don't have to worry about them rolling off, either.
5) Dummies - the babies used a really great pacifier called a Soothie for a month or two, after that they weren't interested in the slightest.
6) Sterilizing kit - we boiled the bottles the babies used the first two times we used them. After that they went in the dishwasher.
7) Moses baskets. You can use them for about 10 seconds, then they're obsolete. Go bean bag instead.

The Ugly

1) Sainsbury's brand nappies. Believe it or not, they're great and when they're on sale they're a third less than the name brands.
2) Ebay - great place for toys.
3) You need a stroller but you don't need a posh one unless you plan on absolutely using it every day. I'd avoid the sets where the carrier becomes the car seat becomes the stroller, they're problematic.
4) IKEA. They have a lot of useful baby things and a few nice cots out now as well.
5) Boppy. It's a nursing/pregnancy pillow shaped like a horseshoe. Ugly but great while pregnant, great if nursing, great to sit baby in.


Anything I missed?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:41 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
Post contains 1104 words, total size 7 kb.

March 10, 2009

Walking Wounded

On Tuesday last week I trooped into London to have dinner with a friend.

In the middle of the night that night, I woke up feeling really shit.

By Wednesday it was clear that I was ill.

Flu symptoms exploded on me - lymph nodes in my neck the size of goose eggs. Fever. Runny nose. Exhaustion. Aching muscles. I was a poster child for illness and a pharmaceutical community's wet dream. If it came in pill form I probably was downing it. If it came in spray form I probably was inhaling it. If it promised any kind of relief of any kind I sought it out. I'm lucky I didn't know any dealers in the neighborhood, I feel certain I would have even gone down the illegal route in my attempts to feel better.

Thursday and Friday last week the flu owned me, and I couldn't even struggle in to work.

And then it turned out it wasn't the flu anyway.

On Saturday it transpired that the flu I was dealing with was really the plague glandular fever. Which, if you live Stateside, you might know as Mono. The beast also nicknamed the Kissing Disease, and an illness you generally get in your teens.

Angus looked at me. "I thought you were too old to get glandular fever."

"Thanks honey. That makes me feel so much better," I replied dryly.

"Do you know where you got it?"

"Lemme' see - since the only people I kiss are you, Nick, and Nora, I can't really work out how I could've caught it. Well, there are those nights I work the Portsmouth docks welcoming sailors home on shore leave, but I tend to think of that as not so much lascivious behavior, more my civic duty."

"Very funny."

"I know. Funny and one big walking infection! The perfect woman, that's me."

Saturday night more fun came up - a rash started spreading across various parts of my anatomy.

"I am so gross," I whinge to Angus. "Any minute now my skin will just split and pus will start oozing out."

"And that's me gone right off my dinner," Angus replied cheerfully.

The good news is I've gone from insomniac to raging sleeper. I can't get enough. I fall asleep constantly and at the drop of a hat. Whole hours are wiled away snoozing, and I get to enjoy feverish dreams, the ones where the colors are too bright and the plot too bizarre.

Sunday I started developing thrush (Stateside this is a yeast infection). I've been battling that with Canesten, hoping I can keep it from going full-blown.

Yesterday I broke down and went to the doctor.

"Put me in a bubble!" I moaned. "I'm a bane to society!"

The doctor ignored my ministrations, proceeded to take my temperature (38.5/101), checked out my mammoth lymph nodes, got a flash of my pubes as I showed her the rash (which is darkest on my hips/groin area and abdomen) and then deep throated me with a tongue depressor. All before 9am and I didn't even have to leave a tip.

I was pronounced as either having glandular fever or a hell of a raging streptoccocal infection. There was no point trying to deduce which one I have as glandular fever isn't treatable, it just needs to run its course. I've been put on antibiotics for the streptoccocal infection. This after the doctor had a long self-debate of if this was right or not, as this country is not big on handing on antibiotics. I remember as a kid antibiotics were handed out like Pez - You look peakish! Have some eurythromiacin! - but over here they fear antibiotic resistance (rightfully so) and so rarely prescribe them. The hope is that I have the bacterial streptoccocal infection, which the antibiotics will address. If not, if I have the viral glandular fever, then the worst the antibiotics will do is nothing.

"Oh," the doctor called cheerfully after my departing form. "But the antibiotics will make the thrush a lot worse."

My crotch rot can attest to that, thanks.

-H.

PS-ok, I need some help. I am one of those sad individuals that loves to cook and that loves cooking magazines. The problem is all of the magazines seem to have heartily embraced the credit crunch - Feed your family for under a fiver! the headlines scream, only when you open the magazine it gives you truly horrible shit, like a recipe for beans on toast or animal fat spread on the palm of your hand and licked off. Why does an inexpensive meal have to be so crap?

So I'd like to put together a post of nice, delicious, cheap recipes that can feed a family. I'd love any recipes, which I will post on Friday (as well as a few of my own) and we can all have access to some new ideas (and then give feedback on afterwards! It's like a club! A clique!). Just hit that "Contact" button at the top of the page, or else use helen {@} everydaystranger {dot} eu (removing the { } of course). I just want to find good, hearty, cheap recipes that we can all enjoy insteadof larging it in the misery of the recession. So if you have an idea, send it to me (and you'll be credited of course). Let's say we make it under £10/$10/10 Euros or thereabouts. If you're like me, in that you are on a budget and need to feed a family, then let's find a way to help each other out (or am I the only one who's sick of awful recipes that promise cheap eats?). Thanks in advance!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:12 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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March 09, 2009

Poor Man's Blog Post

I'm working from home, ill.

Again.

So I give you the Poor Man's Blog Post, aka videos.

I've mentioned before how massively fascinated Nick is by lights, and I really mean it. We learned just how intense this love is this weekend when we went to IKEA in Southampton. When we took the babies in - and IKEA decided not to use dual trollies so I had Nora in one trolley while Angus had Nick in the other - we knew we'd have to go into the lighting section, as Angus also loves that section.

Nick, however, really, really loved it.

And he showed us his new word, which is "Yeah yeah!"

He used it throughout the section in IKEA, pointing to the lights and shrieking "Yeah yeah!" with absolute delight. As soon as you'd start to wheel him away from the lights he'd burst into tears. And when I say "tears" I mean "wailing and drama as though he'd found out he was now going to be seperated from his best friend for life".

Because we're kind, loving, concerned parents we caught it on video using my mobile phone and uploaded it to You Tube.



Also, I give you the next day, in which you see what feeding time is like in our house. This is the first attempt at home of the babies trying to feed themselves. Apparently they do better at nursery - not perfect, but often able to handle the spoon - but in this house round one showed they aren't great at this feeding themselves spiel. And we go through the same ordeal with Nick everytime - you have to forcefeed him the first bite no matter what it is, because he throws a strop. Almost 100% of the time once you forcefeed the first bite he has an expression of Why yes, I do like green eggs and ham, I do like them, Sam I Am.



And yes, we bought that light because we needed a new living room light, but mostly because Nick went absolutely mental over that light in the shop. We're such suckers. Most kids wants sweets and cuddly toys. Our son, he wants something running on 240V.

Going back to bed now.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:12 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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March 06, 2009

Cyclical Hopeless Phases

I'm going through one of those cycles again where I don't really have much to say, but don't want to do the blog stereotype whereby I dramatically announce my retirement, all the while clutching my cape to my weeping eyes and begging all of you to leave me, just leave me!, and then sobbing upon my return, whereby I clutch my hands to my bosom and recite some Sally Field-like "You love me, you really love me!" spiel.

Said cycles are apparently huge fans of the run-on sentence.

I feel this way periodically, this what do I really have to offer? kind of feeling. I've not been able to get to the blog daily. I haven't been able to take my 365 daily, which rather defeats the idea of a 365 but I figure fuckit. I'm no princess, but I'll do it if and when I can. I'm waaaaaaaaaay behind on emails (Beach Girl and Vicki, I'm looking at you! And Vicki, the answer is yes!), I'm currently parked on the couch smelling vaguely of infection and sickness as I nurse a fever and throat glands so large it looks like I've grown two Adam's apples, and I'm a bit lost at work and not sure where to find me.

In short, I'm going through a Hopeless Phase. The kind where you get up, get dressed and find out upon arriving at the office that you're wearing two different socks. The same as Pushing Daisies - when it's good the retro surrealism is so overwhelming you want to weep (not even taking into consideration the fab clothing) but when it's bad you could cook a meal while partly watching the show and utter a useless "Meh". The phase where you open up a blog post only to realize that once again, you'll be talking about being ill, not sleeping, or some kind of introspection that makes people shake their heads and say Dude. Dial it down.

I don't keep a stat counter so no idea if the numbers are up, down or sideways. I am crap at commenting on other sites and even worse at everything else, so a blogging Wonder Woman I am not. I remember once getting an email from someone asking why wasn't I writing blog posts 7 days a week, I should be writing them 7 days a week! And I thought: Hang on. This site is for me. I'll do what I want when I want, including cry at my party. For me, ever the loquacious chick, sometimes I actually do run out of things to say untill the guff fills up again.

And I think - do you really want to hear that I only slept two hours last night? Is anyone really interested in me telling the world that Nora can now stand unassisted for 0.45 seconds, or that Nick is cutting the last of his baby teeth and will soon have a full set of choppers? I'm just not full of things to say right now, which isn't the same thing as me swirling the cape over my shoulders and announcing "That's it. I'm leaving." but it is rather the same thing as me going "What room am I supposed to be in? You mean this class is Emergency Crock-Pot Cooking and I'm looking for How to Perform What's Opera Doc?"

There you have it.

Stuck between a rock and an opera place.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:01 AM | Comments (25) | Add Comment
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March 05, 2009

Pop Goes the Wrist Joint

I finally got a follow up with the joint specialist this week. I last saw her in December, when they took X-Rays and promised to get back to me in a week about the wrist pain. I kept calling and calling for an appointment and getting nowhere, until two weeks ago when I made it perfectly clear that I wasn't going to be calm about this anymore.

"You know that deductible I owe you?" I ask, referring to the £100 deductable I owed them as I visited that doctor using my private health insurance. "It's going to be staying with me until you get me some answers."

Hey, presto, the doctor's schedule opened right up.

I head into the same hospital that I give birth to Nick and Nora in. On my way to the specialist I pass a heavily pregnant woman wearing hospital gowns and thick leg pressure tights, her husband in scrubs, a nurse wheeling an empty bassinette to the theatre. It was exactly what we did on our way to the emergency C-section that would introduce our children to us.

As I watched them walk into the theatre wing, I wished I could go back to that day I had my two. I wish I could remember more about it, I wish I could do it all over again and record every single moment.

With a sad smile, I make my way to the waiting room, filled as I know it will be wih people 50+ years older than I.

When I finally get in to the doctor, she has all the answers. She doesn't explain why she hasn't contacted me in three months, and the letters on my file would indicate they knew what was wrong with me since 7 December. She smiles, wheeling the monitor around to face me, where I'm presented with a dazzling array of grey, white and black shapes that look like an inkblot test to me.

She points to a large white item. "This is the pain in your wrist!" she says triumphantly. "You have a cyst."

Hey, cyst-talk can never be good.

"A cyst?" I ask, hoping the way I ask it means she'll explain more.

"A cyst," she repeats, dashing my hopes of further explanation.

"How'd I get a cyst in there?" I ask.

"It's related to your joint disease," she replies. And then she goes into tendons, collagen, pressure on the joints, blah blah blah.

The good news is, I get to re-book an appointment and go back as they head into my wrist with a giant fuck-off needle and syringe full of steroids to try to collapse the cyst. If that doesn't work I get a visit with the surgeon. I'm not bothered either way - I just want the pain to go away. I want to be able to use my wrist again.

"What are the chances of this happening again?" I ask.

She smiles. "Your joints are failing," she says. "You'll have these kinds of problems for life now."

And I know she's right. My jaw is failing, for example. When I lay on my back I have to push in the sides of my jaw, where the mandible attaches, in order to open my mouth wide. I know it sounds dumb, but it's true - I can feel a little ball of some kind go into a space, and then presto! My mouth opens.

I ask her if it's ok if I do the London Marathon next year - I was going to run it on behalf of the NSPCC this year, but instead am earmarked for next year's marathon.

"Oh no," she replies. "No running. Running causes a jarring motion on the joints. Your running days are behind you."

Fuck.

"You can swim," she says brightly. "And even cycle. But things like yoga, running, martial arts, aerobics, things like that are all out. You may be 34, but you have the joints of someone at least 10 years older than that. "

I leave then, my heart heavy. My marathon days ended before they began and my running shoes are being retired. I have an option for the wrist but other things are failing (so hold on to those pain pads for me a little longer, ok, Melissia?)

It's not the end of the world.

There're a lot worse things in the world that can happen.

But I can't help being a little bit blue that at almost-35 my body's already aging older than my mind is.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:20 PM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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March 04, 2009

Blending

I took my Life in the UK test yesterday. I showed up at the test centre desperately sleep deprived, as the insomnia is hitting new lows, and was joined by a number of others like myself - Kiwis, Americans, Algerians, Fillipinas - all needing to pass this damn test. After parting with £33.28, I started the test. You get 45 minutes to answer 24 questions.

It took me 1 minute 36 seconds, which the test centre says is a new record.

I aced the test.

So in one week I send in my paperwork for my Indefinite Leave to Remain. It will cost me £750 and more info than I've ever had to give to the Home Office previously, including every single time I've been out of the UK, why I've been out, and for how long. That was unbelievably difficult to do, actually, and I had to use this blog and various blurred passport stamps to try to work out the details.

I then have to wait a year before I can apply for citizenship, as I am here on a work visa. It's increasingly important to me to be a dual citizen. I worry about the changing tide here - immigrants are becoming the bane of society as the job market shrinks, as layoffs happen, as people compete over jobs that immigrants are also competing for.

We've discussed getting married to short-circuit this process. I'm partial to this site personally - Angus wants a wedding and this could get it done for not so crazy money, as long as we're prepared to get married on a Thursday (we are) . And we discuss it then we have an argument about something unrelated, as we did a bit ago that turned into a 5-day ballbuster, and we postpone the talks because in typical Helen and Angus fashion when we get on it's fucking amazing and when we don't we make the Civil War look like a minor skirmish over blue and grey. But wedding talks are on the table to some extent, and I have to say - I'm fucking useless at this wedding planning business which is ironic considering I've already done it twice.

Watch this space, anyway.

I went to dinner with a friend in London last night. Instead of wearing my usual jeans, I slipped on a skirt and top. It was cold so I grabbed the coat and gloves and purse my folks gave me. On the train I tucked up with a book and then, once arriving at Waterloo, saw myself in the glass of the train.

There I was, makeup and jewelry on for a change. The coat was Burberry, the gloves Prada, and handbag Mulberry. The girl wearing all of them was a fraud.

A small, pathetic hometown girl wearing clothes she hasn't bought, wearing clothes that she doesn't emulate. The lipstick looked garish, the clothes said "Look at me and my confidence. I belong here." And in my head statistics flew round - 0.5 percent of the UK population is Black African. 10% of the UK population is Roman Catholic. Click inside the box to indicate your answer, you have 45 minutes.

This visa nonsense is the last bit of bureaucracy I have to deal with. I have the driver's license and have served out my probation. I have the work visas and the forms showing the amount of tax I pay each year. It's just this last route.

Years ago we lived in Colorado Springs. I remember going to Stapleton Airport in Denver, riding on the walkways to the terminals. It was the first time I ever rode on a moving walkway, and I remember that it went one direction and then, over a chasm that crossed the building, the moving walkway would go in the other direction. I used to imagine that something in life would happen that would have me on one walkway, moving in one direction. On the other walkway I would see someone I loved and needed moving in the other, and I couldn't get to them.

It's funny the things we worry about.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:26 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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