I found myself humming 'Birds singing in the sycamore trees' as I changed his nappy one morning and realised that we had turned the corner.
I felt in control, reasonably well slept and a powerful pang of love inside as I looked down at my grinning bundle below with his messy bottom. It was ~ week 6, and it was becoming plain to see (touch wood) that Barnaby was a contented baby. With the first signs of Spring in the air, I started to smile at the prospect of not going to work, and realised that motherhood was there to be thoroughly enjoyed.
That turning point gave me the confidence to push the comfort zone a little and attempt journeys that had felt like too much of an ordeal: I took the little man into central London a couple of times and to my office to be coo'd at in- articulately by former colleagues and my old boss. They looked up to see the former Ops Director, now humbled by her adorable son doling out smiles and curious frowns to all around as he dangled from my forearm like a tiger in a tree.
Later I lost my cool when he started to scream outside The Duke of Sussex (our foul Waterloo office local). Realising I'd forgotten his dummy and it was past feed time, I tried to discreetly slip him some milk, but unfortunately my nipple would slip out of his mouth and reveal itself like a damp beacon to an onlooking sales team as we continued a conversation on 2011 targets. His milk drinking farts were powerful enough to explode through his outfit, smearing leaked mustard poo onto my tight fitting diesel jeans, forcing me to change him awkwardly on the pub bench. At least the change served as a distraction to avoid answering the question 'how do you spend each day now', as I don't think 'I pull faces at him for the first hour' would really cut it.
Together with the poo incident, I was reminded of the indignity bestowed to new mothers when I had to beg a bloke in a suit to help me carry the buggy back up the endless stairs at Putney during Friday home time rush hou. I made a note to write to Putney's tory MP re 'lift required' at the busy commuter belt station.
With my new confidence I dared to read Gina Ford's book (slated in my last blog). Before I had unleafed to cover of the book - the word 'routine' had had militarian ruthless connotations for me that I associate with completely different personality types to the surfing chilled out new parents that I'd like to think Alex and I would be. However, on unfurling the pages, I realised that Barnaby was already in somewhat of a routine without us having realised - just with a few opt outs that worked better for me: It's a bit like when I used to manipulate my science experiments at schools to get to the right answer or the Excel fomulae at work to show we were on budget. Where Gina Ford tells you that the baby must be put to bed by 7pm - we do, but quite often in the carry cot on route to the pub to watch the football rather than the dark silent room with the door closed. And where she says bath time must take place at 5.30pm - we re-work it to incorporate bath time 5 mins after when Daddy comes home ~ 6.30. I reflect that Ms Ford could be responsible for thousands of London Dad's missing out on quality gargling bath time. Not being a parent herself, I'm not sure Gina really has a customer led approach to her book - the routine surely needs to work for the parents as well as the contented baby, or it's an oxymoran in my mind. Whilst I agree that sleeping through the night at 2 months would be an epitome, I think some compromises are worth making.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
The contrasts
On Sunday (4.5 weeks old) I had my first truely joyous moment with him...
His face was calm - the redness retreated, eyes wide and blue like his dads'; head tilted backwards cupped in my hand. He returned my stare, and finally - my smile - a cheeky, lip curled,dimpled grin. It lasted just a second, and as I started to doubt myself and check for signs of wind, the smile had returned - for longer this time, and I saw what I thought to be genuine warmth and love for his mum in his happy eyes, so diametrically opposed to the red eyed anguish and fury that would consume him in the middle of the night... I lit up in return, elated and grateful for the first proper smile - and I understood what everyone had told me about how at that moment you can instantly forgive and forget - sleepless nights, projectile poos and unexplained tantrums, not to mention the bleak thought consumption that things might never get better and we might never undertand those cries.
So like the labour, it is a little difficult to recall those dark nights that came before the smile - and of course it should be - otherwise we might never have evolved as a race so quickly...so I have tried to knit together a few half written blog drafts which I sporadically wrote in real time in pockets of wakefullness to capture my state of mind:
----------------------------------------------------------------
Dad goes back to work
Barnaby Charles Orme - born Wednesday 3rd February 8lb 8oz,the absolute spit of his father: A future triathlete, marathon racer, rower - like his dad; a determined, cheeky, challenging little rascal like his mum. We can already see it.
I examine him intently during each breast feed. watching his munching jowels move rhythmically as he tugs at each nipple. His eyes are normally open wide during a feed, with his fists bunched up, daring me to knock him out of position with a cough or a neglectful movement. I bore into those blue eyes, willing them to change brown so that we can both claim some shared features - but as it, he is 95% Alex - which I love - but I feel slightly aggrieved that after the not inconsiderable effort in bringing him into this world - there is so little of my gene pool in his features.
Today he is 16 days old. I can tell you he loves breast feeding; a good kip in the day, less so at night; prefers to sleep on his belly, but rarely given the chance; likes to curl up like a frog on the shoulder; likes to behave in front of visitors but scream when they've gone; screws up his face during a change; likes movement, Miles Davies and the sound of rain on the sky lights; doesn't like or know what do do with his snotty nose, doesn't like trapped air bubbles in his body.
When you're pregnant you receive info overload on what to expect during the labour, but so little preparation and guidance for what to do when you bring the bundle home - When we did, we muddled through as a close-knit threesome - welcoming visitors but shutting the rest of the world out. They warn you about the blues and tears - supposedly on day 4, but mine only really came the day Alex went back to work. The health visitor had come around in the afternoon and as I was explaining that daddy had gone back to work today, I felt wet tears running down my face and surprised myself at my sudden lack of composure - It's just me and Barnaby today - and my mind had rushed ahead to imagine each day like this - counting the hours and minutes down to the sound of a clunk in the lock signalling daddy coming home for bath time. How to fill each day and week with structure - just the two of us - how to be a mum - a happy mum and boy?
When daddy did come home - at a decent time as he had promised - I was so conflicted as to what to do with this precious time together: Bath time? Cuddle time? How was his day at work? Hand him over and get some peace? Settle him for bed (actually this wasn't an option then), go to bed myself? Watch inane TV to relax? Talk? Let him prepare dinner? let me feel independent and prepare the dinner - what dinner? I haven't bought anything? Should we go out with the pram for dinner - get out of the bloody house? Christ, Barnaby's only 2 weeks old and I'm faced with this conundrum that sounds so trivial and simple when I read it back and reflect on my pre Barnaby selfish and layered life.
What would Gina Ford say?
F*** Gina Ford.
More immediately - I dread next week and the week after - Alex is escaping for a fortnight in Italy with work - it is unavoidable - he must go,. There will be no clunks in the lock at 6.15pm and I have no idea how we will survive the nights without him. My epic climb of the 5,670m peak in the Himalayas last year seems so easy compared to this - Compared to motherhood..
-----------------------------------
Angel by day, monster by night - Barnaby is 2 to 4 weeks old.,
The nights seem endless. He opens his eyes - wide as he falls off my breast. His arms do not drop to his side, and his head does not lull and fall on me - as it does so compliantly in the day. He is awake - more awake then at any time in the day - and he's going red, fists screwed up, legs straightened and the kick I recall from inside my womb, propels outward, face creases up with raw anger and suggestions of neglect, and the screams start to crescendo. Tension engulfs him.
We have just finished the evening feed and Barnaby is just starting his day....
Yesterday - I couldn't function - 1 hour sleep from 2.15am was my lot - ~I tried all my tricks, thought I detected what the crying signs meant but then doubted myself - and like the horses I cannot control between my legs because they sense my anxiety - I worry Barnaby has got my number at night time when he lies cradled in my arms and I start to doubt if he will ever go down. Meanwhile Barnaby's cold is getting worse -his nose is blocked and he is wheasing in between coughs that startle him on the brief occasions when we do get him down. The pharmacist suggests there is nothing he can take so young.
Alex is in the same no win situation - he had taken a 2 hour shift the night before - bobbing him up and down on the stairs cradling him to no avail - putting him down in the moses basket and scooping him back up again to his shoulder. He returned him later - a flat hopeless look in daddy's eyes " he hates me" Alex said. And I felt so sorry for him at such a state of helplessness, knowing I at least had my nipples to sooth our son when all else had failed.
Monday night was my first on my own without Alex, and it was everything I had been dreading. It was hellish.
I have my mum staying, who at 69, appears to be clinically deaf - at least at night when she is oblivious to the decibels right outside her bedroom. She cradles her angelic grandson by day, completes the cross word, flicks through our sky channels, and wills Barnaby to enterntain her beyond his snorting blissful sleep. Daytime Barnaby is indeed adorable, and I cannot persuade any visitor of his inperfections.
I snatch at pockets of sleep between feeds and washes, shopping and cooking - and realise now how the days pass by with no meaningful events or achievements to speak of. With my 1hour's sleep I aptly demonstrate to mum my incompetence with my inability to slot the belt into the babyseat, or put the pram back together. I fight tears and wonder how I will cope for each night that Alex works away. Outside a traffic warden slaps a penalty notice on mum's car, because I am too tired to realise we have to scratch the month off as well as the day on the permit. The warden is not sympathetic. We clock up 2 x £80 fines.
On my to do list is the post office for Barnaby's passport application, and Boots for various pads for mother and baby. The child benefit cash when I finally apply will do well to cover absorbant gauze material alone. Barnaby of course has his eyes shut on the passport photos, as the studio at Snappy Snaps shuts before midnight. I will point this out to Barnaby when he's 5 and still using the same ID.
We are half way through our daddy-less week, and becoming far too familiar with the sport of Curling. The winter olympics would be our salvation in the middle of the night, could Barnaby register just how boring and sleep inducing watching live curling from a crap British Women's and Men's team was at 3am. His mum wonders what wrong turn Steve Cram has taken in his life to build up an encyclapedic knowledge of Curling tactics and rules. She will always be grateful to hear Hazel Irvine's voice signalling the olympic highlights round up, and more importantly the start of the day - and a chance to hand Barnaby over to granny and get a bit of shut eye.
There is a comfort in my antinatal NCT group network - where battles with reflux, colic, breast and wild screaming are shared on email, together with some lateral suggestions and pragmatic remedies. In these three cases they are: put the baby to sleep on their front, use some clever enzymes in the milk to break down the lactose; switch to formula; and move them into a different room with a dummy...Well when I phoned my sister who had a similar problem to us with her first boy - she said he just got better after 3 months. 3 MONTHS, I thought - I can't get through it.
'Just wait for the first smile' Helen from the NCT lot had said over lunch - it will all get better then'.
And it did.
His face was calm - the redness retreated, eyes wide and blue like his dads'; head tilted backwards cupped in my hand. He returned my stare, and finally - my smile - a cheeky, lip curled,dimpled grin. It lasted just a second, and as I started to doubt myself and check for signs of wind, the smile had returned - for longer this time, and I saw what I thought to be genuine warmth and love for his mum in his happy eyes, so diametrically opposed to the red eyed anguish and fury that would consume him in the middle of the night... I lit up in return, elated and grateful for the first proper smile - and I understood what everyone had told me about how at that moment you can instantly forgive and forget - sleepless nights, projectile poos and unexplained tantrums, not to mention the bleak thought consumption that things might never get better and we might never undertand those cries.
So like the labour, it is a little difficult to recall those dark nights that came before the smile - and of course it should be - otherwise we might never have evolved as a race so quickly...so I have tried to knit together a few half written blog drafts which I sporadically wrote in real time in pockets of wakefullness to capture my state of mind:
----------------------------------------------------------------
Dad goes back to work
Barnaby Charles Orme - born Wednesday 3rd February 8lb 8oz,the absolute spit of his father: A future triathlete, marathon racer, rower - like his dad; a determined, cheeky, challenging little rascal like his mum. We can already see it.
I examine him intently during each breast feed. watching his munching jowels move rhythmically as he tugs at each nipple. His eyes are normally open wide during a feed, with his fists bunched up, daring me to knock him out of position with a cough or a neglectful movement. I bore into those blue eyes, willing them to change brown so that we can both claim some shared features - but as it, he is 95% Alex - which I love - but I feel slightly aggrieved that after the not inconsiderable effort in bringing him into this world - there is so little of my gene pool in his features.
Today he is 16 days old. I can tell you he loves breast feeding; a good kip in the day, less so at night; prefers to sleep on his belly, but rarely given the chance; likes to curl up like a frog on the shoulder; likes to behave in front of visitors but scream when they've gone; screws up his face during a change; likes movement, Miles Davies and the sound of rain on the sky lights; doesn't like or know what do do with his snotty nose, doesn't like trapped air bubbles in his body.
When you're pregnant you receive info overload on what to expect during the labour, but so little preparation and guidance for what to do when you bring the bundle home - When we did, we muddled through as a close-knit threesome - welcoming visitors but shutting the rest of the world out. They warn you about the blues and tears - supposedly on day 4, but mine only really came the day Alex went back to work. The health visitor had come around in the afternoon and as I was explaining that daddy had gone back to work today, I felt wet tears running down my face and surprised myself at my sudden lack of composure - It's just me and Barnaby today - and my mind had rushed ahead to imagine each day like this - counting the hours and minutes down to the sound of a clunk in the lock signalling daddy coming home for bath time. How to fill each day and week with structure - just the two of us - how to be a mum - a happy mum and boy?
When daddy did come home - at a decent time as he had promised - I was so conflicted as to what to do with this precious time together: Bath time? Cuddle time? How was his day at work? Hand him over and get some peace? Settle him for bed (actually this wasn't an option then), go to bed myself? Watch inane TV to relax? Talk? Let him prepare dinner? let me feel independent and prepare the dinner - what dinner? I haven't bought anything? Should we go out with the pram for dinner - get out of the bloody house? Christ, Barnaby's only 2 weeks old and I'm faced with this conundrum that sounds so trivial and simple when I read it back and reflect on my pre Barnaby selfish and layered life.
What would Gina Ford say?
F*** Gina Ford.
More immediately - I dread next week and the week after - Alex is escaping for a fortnight in Italy with work - it is unavoidable - he must go,. There will be no clunks in the lock at 6.15pm and I have no idea how we will survive the nights without him. My epic climb of the 5,670m peak in the Himalayas last year seems so easy compared to this - Compared to motherhood..
-----------------------------------
Angel by day, monster by night - Barnaby is 2 to 4 weeks old.,
The nights seem endless. He opens his eyes - wide as he falls off my breast. His arms do not drop to his side, and his head does not lull and fall on me - as it does so compliantly in the day. He is awake - more awake then at any time in the day - and he's going red, fists screwed up, legs straightened and the kick I recall from inside my womb, propels outward, face creases up with raw anger and suggestions of neglect, and the screams start to crescendo. Tension engulfs him.
We have just finished the evening feed and Barnaby is just starting his day....
Yesterday - I couldn't function - 1 hour sleep from 2.15am was my lot - ~I tried all my tricks, thought I detected what the crying signs meant but then doubted myself - and like the horses I cannot control between my legs because they sense my anxiety - I worry Barnaby has got my number at night time when he lies cradled in my arms and I start to doubt if he will ever go down. Meanwhile Barnaby's cold is getting worse -his nose is blocked and he is wheasing in between coughs that startle him on the brief occasions when we do get him down. The pharmacist suggests there is nothing he can take so young.
Alex is in the same no win situation - he had taken a 2 hour shift the night before - bobbing him up and down on the stairs cradling him to no avail - putting him down in the moses basket and scooping him back up again to his shoulder. He returned him later - a flat hopeless look in daddy's eyes " he hates me" Alex said. And I felt so sorry for him at such a state of helplessness, knowing I at least had my nipples to sooth our son when all else had failed.
Monday night was my first on my own without Alex, and it was everything I had been dreading. It was hellish.
I have my mum staying, who at 69, appears to be clinically deaf - at least at night when she is oblivious to the decibels right outside her bedroom. She cradles her angelic grandson by day, completes the cross word, flicks through our sky channels, and wills Barnaby to enterntain her beyond his snorting blissful sleep. Daytime Barnaby is indeed adorable, and I cannot persuade any visitor of his inperfections.
I snatch at pockets of sleep between feeds and washes, shopping and cooking - and realise now how the days pass by with no meaningful events or achievements to speak of. With my 1hour's sleep I aptly demonstrate to mum my incompetence with my inability to slot the belt into the babyseat, or put the pram back together. I fight tears and wonder how I will cope for each night that Alex works away. Outside a traffic warden slaps a penalty notice on mum's car, because I am too tired to realise we have to scratch the month off as well as the day on the permit. The warden is not sympathetic. We clock up 2 x £80 fines.
On my to do list is the post office for Barnaby's passport application, and Boots for various pads for mother and baby. The child benefit cash when I finally apply will do well to cover absorbant gauze material alone. Barnaby of course has his eyes shut on the passport photos, as the studio at Snappy Snaps shuts before midnight. I will point this out to Barnaby when he's 5 and still using the same ID.
We are half way through our daddy-less week, and becoming far too familiar with the sport of Curling. The winter olympics would be our salvation in the middle of the night, could Barnaby register just how boring and sleep inducing watching live curling from a crap British Women's and Men's team was at 3am. His mum wonders what wrong turn Steve Cram has taken in his life to build up an encyclapedic knowledge of Curling tactics and rules. She will always be grateful to hear Hazel Irvine's voice signalling the olympic highlights round up, and more importantly the start of the day - and a chance to hand Barnaby over to granny and get a bit of shut eye.
There is a comfort in my antinatal NCT group network - where battles with reflux, colic, breast and wild screaming are shared on email, together with some lateral suggestions and pragmatic remedies. In these three cases they are: put the baby to sleep on their front, use some clever enzymes in the milk to break down the lactose; switch to formula; and move them into a different room with a dummy...Well when I phoned my sister who had a similar problem to us with her first boy - she said he just got better after 3 months. 3 MONTHS, I thought - I can't get through it.
'Just wait for the first smile' Helen from the NCT lot had said over lunch - it will all get better then'.
And it did.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
It's all about Barnaby
I knew it would be a long time before my next post. In fact as I write this I wonder when I'll finish it. I'm getting good at starting stuff, but getting to the finish line is another thing altogether. Not least because I am in the worst possible typing position, with a table that is too high, and a lump of Barnaby pulling at my back as he lies grunting in the sling. I am sat precariously on a cushion, arching just enough to not knock his nose on the edge of the table.
The last blog seems like a lifetime away - and in many ways it was. The labour itself felt like a lifetime. They say that the mum can forget it instantly when the hormones wash over her - and to be honest an element of that is true - but I also know that if I let my mind wonder I can go back to the darkness of each drawn out stage. Some of the hours go missing and when I try to reveal them in my mind's eye - a lid tugs down and tells me not to. But I can remember if I let myself - the trick I have learned is not to go back there - not a good idea if Barnaby is to have a sister or brother one day. You can talk stats with people - 5 days without sleep since the first contraction; 36 hours in hospital bracing for the pain every 3 mins; 6 hours in the birthing pool; 4 hours of being able to see his hairy head pop out and that final push, but not quite making it.....My way of moving forward is not to let my head remember the pain, the endurance, the fear he was never going to come out; but instead fast-forward to that overwhelming moment when he was passed to me - head covered in hair, little finger nails and knuckles bending so perfectly, round pink cheeks and lips immediately suckling as he settles on mummy's chest - knowing who I am, recognising my heartbeat. Somehow - he slides across my chest and finds my breast, opens his mouth wide - lungs doing their business and latches on with a greedy gaping mouth. I am completely hands free - unable to summon the energy to guide him myself. And despite my exhuasted physical, mental and injured state, a relieved happy smile tugged at my lips - and from that precise moment, I realised that my life had become all about Barnaby.
Alex got his moment too. After the pain of watching me go through that prolongued and agonising journey - his eyes so excited and desparate for the little fellow to come out - he is handed Barnaby to care for whilst I am whisked off to theatre. As they started to wheel me away - I caught a glimpse of Alex holding his mirrored son quitely and purposely pulling tongues at each other - and the smiled tugged at Alex's lips as well, and our little family unit begun.
The last blog seems like a lifetime away - and in many ways it was. The labour itself felt like a lifetime. They say that the mum can forget it instantly when the hormones wash over her - and to be honest an element of that is true - but I also know that if I let my mind wonder I can go back to the darkness of each drawn out stage. Some of the hours go missing and when I try to reveal them in my mind's eye - a lid tugs down and tells me not to. But I can remember if I let myself - the trick I have learned is not to go back there - not a good idea if Barnaby is to have a sister or brother one day. You can talk stats with people - 5 days without sleep since the first contraction; 36 hours in hospital bracing for the pain every 3 mins; 6 hours in the birthing pool; 4 hours of being able to see his hairy head pop out and that final push, but not quite making it.....My way of moving forward is not to let my head remember the pain, the endurance, the fear he was never going to come out; but instead fast-forward to that overwhelming moment when he was passed to me - head covered in hair, little finger nails and knuckles bending so perfectly, round pink cheeks and lips immediately suckling as he settles on mummy's chest - knowing who I am, recognising my heartbeat. Somehow - he slides across my chest and finds my breast, opens his mouth wide - lungs doing their business and latches on with a greedy gaping mouth. I am completely hands free - unable to summon the energy to guide him myself. And despite my exhuasted physical, mental and injured state, a relieved happy smile tugged at my lips - and from that precise moment, I realised that my life had become all about Barnaby.
Alex got his moment too. After the pain of watching me go through that prolongued and agonising journey - his eyes so excited and desparate for the little fellow to come out - he is handed Barnaby to care for whilst I am whisked off to theatre. As they started to wheel me away - I caught a glimpse of Alex holding his mirrored son quitely and purposely pulling tongues at each other - and the smiled tugged at Alex's lips as well, and our little family unit begun.
Friday, 29 January 2010
Brain food
Alex recalls how sweat had ran down my brow whilst eating a Chicken Korma in Clapham on one of our early dates. So I think he met my eyes with admiration and love when I managed to put away a Pork Vindaloo last night at the Goan curry house in Putney. Despite this great sacrifice of taste buds and spice endurance - the act didn't even yield a higher quota of farts, let alone a contraction.
You will gather that I've taken up baking, cleaning, and eating curry - all very de rigueur when you hit full term. Today I am taking a divergent track - less about stimulating the hormones to trigger the bump down and out, and more about exercising another part of the brain - which I fear will miss out terribly on exercise down the track.
I headed out to Waterstones last week to buy a trashy novel, yet found myself buying Noam Chomsky's 'Perilous Power - the Middle East and Foreign Policy'. A strange pretentious purchase, that I have finally tucked into today, in parallel with tuning into radio 5 to listen to Tony Blair put himself forward in the Iraq inquiry. I surprise even myself given the library of films and soap operas I've built up on sky + for inane TV passing of time.
I suspect the sub conscious is worried about those months ahead where conversation will revolve around babies, nipples, burping techniques, and who little orme looks like. I am fearful of the void of not working; intellectual stimulus, and lack of forum to voice my opinion on wider subjects than babies. 12 months off work - brilliant, terrifying.
On opinion - I'll try and summarise what I've heard so far -
Looking back I was anti war on Iraq - but I never came down with a forceful, coherent argument beyond the mockery that the US and UK made of an international process and complete lack of planning around the consequences of the action of war.
Back to the inquiry today, I want Blair to be given a hard time by the various Sir's, Lords and Baronesses who are asking the questions, and am slightly perturbed by the lack of fast witted lawyers on stage to challenge him. To that end I've only been impressed with the one female so far - Baroness Prashur.
The other person to impress is of course Blair himself. Where in the past he has been big on presentation and relatively loose on detail, he is now in complete command: his composition of answers, structure and the compelling conviction he conveys is impressive in the extreme. The only other time I've been taken by a politician in this way, was watching Clinton give a speech at the labour party conference in Blackpool. Doesn't mean Blair is right on each subject in my opinion - but it does show up Brown's inferiority further as the leader of this Country.
If I get back to the content - My take is that Blair was so thoroughly convinced that Sadam needed to be removed through credible rationale (see beeb summary)- that he seriously missed out on leverage with Bush on facilitating a Middle East Peace Deal. Instead he looked backward in gratitude for US support on Kossovo and slapped George on the shoulder and said we're with you - 1 year before the inevitable military attack. 5/10 on negotiation skills Tony.
Also, his conviction and dogmatic self belief prevented him from taking a more democratic process as momentum gathered i.e better informing cabinet and his own close advisors - who you would think would veer him away from war and towards a legal route via the security council. The thin line between confidence, leadership and arrogance.
Although I'd like lawyers to take chunks out of Blair and the decision for war - and however ineffective this inquiry might prove to be - at least it is taking place. We have never seen a US ex president up before an inquiry to answer to the public, (starting with Reagan in Nicaragua, and then the list is too long of 'interventions' that could all be argued to be terrorist acts in themselves).
Where Chomsky gets me thinking is with regard to the whole strategy. Take a smaller state to war, and as that state cannot fight back with the same weaponry might, their only successful tact will be to go down the terrorist / WMD route. And that seems to be my whole frustration with the military approach to Iraq, Afghanistan and Israel's actions in Gaza - you stimiluate the very thing that you're trying to address.
A lunch date and lack of brain power prevents me from continuining with this train of thought, and I suspect I do inane commentary on what is happening to my bodily functions much better!
You will gather that I've taken up baking, cleaning, and eating curry - all very de rigueur when you hit full term. Today I am taking a divergent track - less about stimulating the hormones to trigger the bump down and out, and more about exercising another part of the brain - which I fear will miss out terribly on exercise down the track.
I headed out to Waterstones last week to buy a trashy novel, yet found myself buying Noam Chomsky's 'Perilous Power - the Middle East and Foreign Policy'. A strange pretentious purchase, that I have finally tucked into today, in parallel with tuning into radio 5 to listen to Tony Blair put himself forward in the Iraq inquiry. I surprise even myself given the library of films and soap operas I've built up on sky + for inane TV passing of time.
I suspect the sub conscious is worried about those months ahead where conversation will revolve around babies, nipples, burping techniques, and who little orme looks like. I am fearful of the void of not working; intellectual stimulus, and lack of forum to voice my opinion on wider subjects than babies. 12 months off work - brilliant, terrifying.
On opinion - I'll try and summarise what I've heard so far -
Looking back I was anti war on Iraq - but I never came down with a forceful, coherent argument beyond the mockery that the US and UK made of an international process and complete lack of planning around the consequences of the action of war.
Back to the inquiry today, I want Blair to be given a hard time by the various Sir's, Lords and Baronesses who are asking the questions, and am slightly perturbed by the lack of fast witted lawyers on stage to challenge him. To that end I've only been impressed with the one female so far - Baroness Prashur.
The other person to impress is of course Blair himself. Where in the past he has been big on presentation and relatively loose on detail, he is now in complete command: his composition of answers, structure and the compelling conviction he conveys is impressive in the extreme. The only other time I've been taken by a politician in this way, was watching Clinton give a speech at the labour party conference in Blackpool. Doesn't mean Blair is right on each subject in my opinion - but it does show up Brown's inferiority further as the leader of this Country.
If I get back to the content - My take is that Blair was so thoroughly convinced that Sadam needed to be removed through credible rationale (see beeb summary)- that he seriously missed out on leverage with Bush on facilitating a Middle East Peace Deal. Instead he looked backward in gratitude for US support on Kossovo and slapped George on the shoulder and said we're with you - 1 year before the inevitable military attack. 5/10 on negotiation skills Tony.
Also, his conviction and dogmatic self belief prevented him from taking a more democratic process as momentum gathered i.e better informing cabinet and his own close advisors - who you would think would veer him away from war and towards a legal route via the security council. The thin line between confidence, leadership and arrogance.
Although I'd like lawyers to take chunks out of Blair and the decision for war - and however ineffective this inquiry might prove to be - at least it is taking place. We have never seen a US ex president up before an inquiry to answer to the public, (starting with Reagan in Nicaragua, and then the list is too long of 'interventions' that could all be argued to be terrorist acts in themselves).
Where Chomsky gets me thinking is with regard to the whole strategy. Take a smaller state to war, and as that state cannot fight back with the same weaponry might, their only successful tact will be to go down the terrorist / WMD route. And that seems to be my whole frustration with the military approach to Iraq, Afghanistan and Israel's actions in Gaza - you stimiluate the very thing that you're trying to address.
A lunch date and lack of brain power prevents me from continuining with this train of thought, and I suspect I do inane commentary on what is happening to my bodily functions much better!
Thursday, 28 January 2010
The manatee
When I look down at my belly (which I do with un-erring regularity), I think I see a manatee staring back. The baby's bottom is the sticky out bit to the side of my ever deforming belly button which resembles the manatee's head.
I once went on a snorkel trip in Tampa, Florida searching for Manatees - but we didn't see any.
I'd like to...One day.
There were a lot of things on my to do list - I used to say 'before I die', but now it is 'before kids', and specifically 'before labour starts'. In the last week or so the ambition has been to build up sleep credit and relaxed kama; go to the cinema; have a civilised meal; sit idly in the pub - but now Alex and I have gone past that point and we're willing that first contraction on it's way....sitting on the precipice - now actively willing the tumble forward, however painful it is bound to be.
I truely hit that point yesterday - Wednesday 27th Jan - 3 days overdue - I had a good lie-in watching the French Open. By the time I got up, I felt ready - and as predicted - the nesting urge took over and I manically got a wash on, put the dishwasher on, dusted - yes dusted the tv in our bed room, cleaned the bath, cleaned the oven hob - all in a frenzied, illogical order. I phoned the living centre in Raynes Park to say that Neil's first reflexology session had not yielded the baby and I was ready for a second attempt. My mate - Felic - had recommended Neil, after he successfully triggered the birth of Lara when she was one week overdue, and likewise for another two of her friends. The statistics sounded good enough to me.
Now a word about Neil Woodrow....Neil is a small, squat little man - striking for his empathetic pose and hair style - which is dark brown, short with some peculiar long strands that stroke the back of his neck. He has a double chin and strong hands. The hair is Neil's way of telling the world that he's spent some time studying the spirital side of things in China. AKA - if he suggests that sticking pins in my ears and wrists and kneeding my feet in an alarmingly painful way is a better route to inducing a baby than the invasive techniques that they try at hospital - then I should give it a go....which I have now done - twice.
Such are Neil's alleged successful statistics with overdue women, that I kind-of thought the second session would be a free-be - a near guarantee of a baby popping out within 48 hours. Alas - no, but he definitely put his back into it - and with each trigger point, the baby moved a litte bit more - according to Neil - more than anyone else he has seen - I agree it triggered something. The theory is that he gets the pituitary gland working, which stimulates the endocrine glands which generally help to kick things off and the little one down and out.
So I left the funny looking man in Raynes Park with flushed cheeks and a sense that something was going to happen, and I should drive carefully and promptly home. Indeed, I only spent 20 mins in Wimbledon Village taking advantage of a distressed sale, before making it back. I could feel the tell tale back ache returning, so siezed the moment by consuming left over curry, half a pineapple and a a strong raspberry tea. When Alex returned home carrying chocolates for the midwives - I was hoola hooping on my birthing ball in front of the tv, announcing we were close.
And it felt exciting - we felt - ready..... Together.
..............
But today is a new day - now 4 days overdue.
Murray has managed another emphatic aus open win to make it the final - and all the signs of yesterday have gone. The text msgs still come in from enquiring friends and family - but there is NO NEWS - and I'm starting to wonder if the body's natural reflexes will do their thing - before a dreaded invasive intervention. For the time being - the manatee is pretty chilled out where it lies and like those in Tampa, has no compulsion to come to the surface to meet us just yet..
I once went on a snorkel trip in Tampa, Florida searching for Manatees - but we didn't see any.
I'd like to...One day.
There were a lot of things on my to do list - I used to say 'before I die', but now it is 'before kids', and specifically 'before labour starts'. In the last week or so the ambition has been to build up sleep credit and relaxed kama; go to the cinema; have a civilised meal; sit idly in the pub - but now Alex and I have gone past that point and we're willing that first contraction on it's way....sitting on the precipice - now actively willing the tumble forward, however painful it is bound to be.
I truely hit that point yesterday - Wednesday 27th Jan - 3 days overdue - I had a good lie-in watching the French Open. By the time I got up, I felt ready - and as predicted - the nesting urge took over and I manically got a wash on, put the dishwasher on, dusted - yes dusted the tv in our bed room, cleaned the bath, cleaned the oven hob - all in a frenzied, illogical order. I phoned the living centre in Raynes Park to say that Neil's first reflexology session had not yielded the baby and I was ready for a second attempt. My mate - Felic - had recommended Neil, after he successfully triggered the birth of Lara when she was one week overdue, and likewise for another two of her friends. The statistics sounded good enough to me.
Now a word about Neil Woodrow....Neil is a small, squat little man - striking for his empathetic pose and hair style - which is dark brown, short with some peculiar long strands that stroke the back of his neck. He has a double chin and strong hands. The hair is Neil's way of telling the world that he's spent some time studying the spirital side of things in China. AKA - if he suggests that sticking pins in my ears and wrists and kneeding my feet in an alarmingly painful way is a better route to inducing a baby than the invasive techniques that they try at hospital - then I should give it a go....which I have now done - twice.
Such are Neil's alleged successful statistics with overdue women, that I kind-of thought the second session would be a free-be - a near guarantee of a baby popping out within 48 hours. Alas - no, but he definitely put his back into it - and with each trigger point, the baby moved a litte bit more - according to Neil - more than anyone else he has seen - I agree it triggered something. The theory is that he gets the pituitary gland working, which stimulates the endocrine glands which generally help to kick things off and the little one down and out.
So I left the funny looking man in Raynes Park with flushed cheeks and a sense that something was going to happen, and I should drive carefully and promptly home. Indeed, I only spent 20 mins in Wimbledon Village taking advantage of a distressed sale, before making it back. I could feel the tell tale back ache returning, so siezed the moment by consuming left over curry, half a pineapple and a a strong raspberry tea. When Alex returned home carrying chocolates for the midwives - I was hoola hooping on my birthing ball in front of the tv, announcing we were close.
And it felt exciting - we felt - ready..... Together.
..............
But today is a new day - now 4 days overdue.
Murray has managed another emphatic aus open win to make it the final - and all the signs of yesterday have gone. The text msgs still come in from enquiring friends and family - but there is NO NEWS - and I'm starting to wonder if the body's natural reflexes will do their thing - before a dreaded invasive intervention. For the time being - the manatee is pretty chilled out where it lies and like those in Tampa, has no compulsion to come to the surface to meet us just yet..
Monday, 25 January 2010
2 days overdue
Since the day I stopped work - now 1 month ago, life has changed irrevokably.The commute has been replaced by putting the washing on; meetings exchanged for downloading recipes and baking; project plans for shopping to do lists. I sit here - now 1 day overdue - in my holding pattern, before the event that will really rock our world.
Each night I sit with my husband Aex and we watch the fairly violent kicking distorting my belly. I'll say "there's a big baby in there and it's got to come out somehow". "bloody hell" we say aloud or think it. "aghhh" says alex, and we smile with excitement at the same time as pondering with that apprehension and terror. We are sitting on the precipice and we know it.
It's January - not a bad month to do very little - but not working is very strange - I've been wracked with sub conscience guilt that I'm skiving off sick, or should be looking for a job. Each day my to do list gets thinner and I'm fearful that I will lose an afternoon or 2 to some rubbish mindless daytime tv. I am however completely ok with losing an afternoon to good tv, made possible by recording anything decent through the night on sky +.
Yesterday felt like my birthday - it was in fact my due date. Texts rolled in - anything happening? It's a no -win situation - call or text back and the recipient is convinced you have some news - stay quiet and they are sure you are starting the long process. But it is nice to reconnect with so many people who are thinking of you, especially those who have been off the radar themselves since having kids, but now you are almost in their club, and have at least discovered their language thanks to NCT classes.
I have to say my pregnancy been's pretty good. Aside from this growing bond with my hubby pre becoming our own little family unit - Good things in chronological order include: guilt free greed;healthy thick hair, easy tanning on summer hol; de pressured work environment; seats on train; no hangovers; not lifting a finger at christmas; lie ins; small talk conversation with strangers.
Bad stuff they don't really tell you about:
Each night I sit with my husband Aex and we watch the fairly violent kicking distorting my belly. I'll say "there's a big baby in there and it's got to come out somehow". "bloody hell" we say aloud or think it. "aghhh" says alex, and we smile with excitement at the same time as pondering with that apprehension and terror. We are sitting on the precipice and we know it.
It's January - not a bad month to do very little - but not working is very strange - I've been wracked with sub conscience guilt that I'm skiving off sick, or should be looking for a job. Each day my to do list gets thinner and I'm fearful that I will lose an afternoon or 2 to some rubbish mindless daytime tv. I am however completely ok with losing an afternoon to good tv, made possible by recording anything decent through the night on sky +.
Yesterday felt like my birthday - it was in fact my due date. Texts rolled in - anything happening? It's a no -win situation - call or text back and the recipient is convinced you have some news - stay quiet and they are sure you are starting the long process. But it is nice to reconnect with so many people who are thinking of you, especially those who have been off the radar themselves since having kids, but now you are almost in their club, and have at least discovered their language thanks to NCT classes.
I have to say my pregnancy been's pretty good. Aside from this growing bond with my hubby pre becoming our own little family unit - Good things in chronological order include: guilt free greed;healthy thick hair, easy tanning on summer hol; de pressured work environment; seats on train; no hangovers; not lifting a finger at christmas; lie ins; small talk conversation with strangers.
Bad stuff they don't really tell you about:
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