Friday, September 28, 2007

bear necessities
TA came home grumbling. "You should get the word out, you could start an online rebellion." I could, I thought, but what if it leads back to TA. "That doesn't matter," he said. I questioned the wisdom of this but, remembering my feeble visitor stats, figured he was probably right.
So, if you're interested in a forthcoming movie that features fighting bears and is an adaptation of a well-known children's novel because you've read said book, I'd think carefully about going. It's not that it will be bad, exactly, but it will definitely be very different. Some, arguably key, plot strands will be noticable by their absence and, well, you'll be given a happy finish. There, that's done it. Start rebelling.

Friday, September 21, 2007

we're all doomed
After a summer of thumb twiddling, Evil Corp's crazy season is about to start. For some reason, all events, press tours and news announcements happen in the two months before the run up to Christmas. Also, my client has been given a new job with a worldwide remit, the essence of which is we will need a badger in every time zone to do what this badger does, but in the meantime perhaps I could just support those time zones myself? In previous years, as crunch time and 14-16-hour days approached, TA would help me cope by ensuring that I had nothing to worry about at home except sleeping, this will not be the case this year.
In a alternate universe, where I have more responsibilities than being a rich man's lackey and personal needs and such, my pelvis is telling me that stairs are soon going to be something that happen to other people. I'm slightly concerned about this as, well, we live at the top of quite a large number of stairs. Going down them is still fine, but going up? Well, that's something my pelvis does not like so much - add to the "my pelvis says no" file uncrossing my legs, walking, sitting, standing and lying down and perhaps you can understand my eagerness to see the physiotherapist.
The pup needs walks (TA has been MIA for two weeks now - damn those armoured polar bears) and also is not a big fan of stairs. Two days ago my pelvis and the pup squared up to each other. Pelvis: I am not carrying a dog as well as you up these stairs. Pup: Crap. We managed okay in the end: I sort of supported him via his harness over the first few stairs in each flight and then he was so scared he ran up the rest of them just to get it over with, but watching him cower spreadeagled on each landing was traumatic.
So, as you can probably tell, I'm watching the storm clouds build on the horizon. Stress is bad for Sprout, but I have two solid months of stress already booked on the calendar. I would like to have some more support at home, but there's no one available right now to provide it and anyway, financially and in every other way, we are better off having TA spend his days with the bears.
What on earth do other people do when there's no one at home to play wife and the corporate slave drivers come round with their whips?

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

I had my second appointment with an obstetrician today. I wasn’t holding out much for a pleasant experience as the clinic is held in a community centre that has not seen any NHS investment and the scheduling and time management is crap. Also, it’s pikey central - I don’t like to judge the overweight, bleached hair, teenage sarf lundun mothers, but of course I do.
So, having filled my sample pot, I stewed in my low expectations for half an hour while waiting to see whichever obstetrician picked up my file (they seem to operate a rush goalie system). A woman younger than me called my name - perhaps newly qualified, I thought. I tried to discuss my bendy pelvis and the pain, got some response but no definite idea as to whether she would be referring me to a physiotherapist. Two minutes into the appointment - answering all the same questions I’ve already answered at every previous brush with the medical profession since getting knocked up - a toad-like man entered the room. He didn’t introduce himself, but from the dynamic in the room I guessed he was a senior consultant.
Suddenly he’s all over my notes. He quizzes me about how my hydrocephalus was treated. He doesn’t listen to the answers. He repeats back what I’ve told him, but with key details muddled. He tells me that I must be mistaken about aspects of my previous treatment. Up until I nearly shouted at him, he was convinced that I’d had a check up on my shunt at seven and 12 weeks pregnant. No! I said it again for the third time - I was seven and 12 YEARS OLD. I’ve been completely discharged for the last 18 years. I do not need my shunt any more - it is redundant hardware. There was no getting through to him.
I laid on the couch and the woman ran the Doppler over Sprout - he’s still in there, heart beating, limbs flailing. The toad came back, what kind of editor am I, he asked. I explained about doing PR for evil software corp. He asked what was in the news recently. I said, well, today, evil corp has lost its appeal in the EC Court of First Instance. He tried to look knowledgeable and failed. Later I wondered if he was testing to see if I am mentally deficient.
The last painful minutes of the appointment, which had dragged on quite long enough, were spent with him dictating a letter to my GP requesting that in light of my hydrocephalus I be treated normally. He kept rewinding the Dictaphone, replaying a sentence and then deciding to tape over it. I learnt that I am to be allowed a normal second stage and that the use of instruments will only be considered after two hours, in other words a normal delivery. So much for birth plans, my right to choose and so forth.
I came out nearly weeping in rage. The one thing I need help with - my fucked-up pelvis - was ignored. Everything I told him was ignored. I was patronized and talked over. And now I have to make yet another appointment with my doctor to request the treatment that I was denied at this appointment. Jesus Fucking Christ. I love the NHS, I defend it to the hilt every time I get stuck in one of those conversations with moaners - it offers excellent free-at-the-point-of-delivery services to everyone who needs them. The treatment I have received has saved my life more than once. Yes you have to wait, yes, some drugs aren’t available...etc the fact remains though that 90 per cent of the service is excellent. St Thomas’s Hospital seems wonderful... That said, it only takes one idiot, arrogant consultant who has no real clue about medicine outside his specialism and clearly lacks listening skills to push me over the edge. Just remembering the whole sorry incident has reduced me to impotent raging tears all over again - why, why, why didn’t I stand my ground better at the time? I swear, I’m never going to mention hydrocephalus on any form ever again.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Which is to say, still, wooyay, but ugh I’m knackered. It is, as we feared, hard to have TA working (long, long hours) on a fantastic, high-profile film project and balance the needs of the pupster and me. After some push back from the lovely HR department, I’ve managed to change my schedule to a more flexible work-from-home arrangement, meaning that the pup is only home alone for half the day. Not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but better than all the alternatives.
TA and I get up - I prepare his lunch, he walks the pup; we try to get out of the door within an hour. I rush in to be here at 8am (kissing TA goodbye on the bus) I rush home at 12 to be with the pup. I log back on to work, but spend an hour feeding myself and pup, doing dishes and giving him a cuddle before starting work again at 2pm. At 6pm I log off, if I can, and run to the park with Skye, prepare dinner and get groceries, if needed. TA gets home at 7.45pm, if we’re lucky. We eat. We stare at each other glassy eyed and try to summon the energy for watching a film or doing something with the evening, we fail. If the pup is lucky, TA takes him out for a quick stroll round the block. By 9pm we are in bed. The alarm goes off and it starts all over again.
Last weekend, which seems an aeon ago, TA worked both days and I did chores, preparing to the best of my ability for the week ahead by batch cooking and ensuring that the Sett was immaculate (fleetingly). I realise that this is how other people live all the time. My heart bleeds for TA who has no time to breathe let alone relax and I struggle to make it so that all he has to do outside of work is play with the pup. But I have been spoilt by the last few years of having him at home full time and am unused to having to get groceries, do all the chores and cook every day as well as work, and now I am at the cusp of the third trimester I’d like to be slowing down, not speeding up.
We are surviving on adrenaline and the excitement of being - for one last hurrah - dual income and no kids, but not extravagantly: we are paying off loans and clearing credit cards. Even if TA’s sudden promotion to the well-paid world of post-production doesn’t last we will face 2008 in a much better financial position than we started 2007.
In other news, Sprout is a boy! We had our final scan at the end of last week and he is very much a boy.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Which is my rubbishy way of annotating woo to the power of yay in a headline format because my HTML skills in no way allow me to figure out a superscript option. But still, woo, yay.
TA got the gig! He starts on Friday, yes, the day after tomorrow. He will, pro rata, be earning much more than me. This should be a woo-yay thing, but somehow I resent it. "Come back after a year and a half of full-time work and we'll talk!" I think to myself. But also, I think: shoes, clothes, food, the living is easy, holiday! And have to be talked off the consumerism ledge gently and reminded of sensible things like surviving during my maternity leave and the fickle nature of post-production houses' employment policies.
And what about the pupster! This is not a woo-yay thing for him. I'm going to have to be very cunning to swing a work from home schedule that will allow me to spend a part of each day with him - it may be a case of blaming Sprout. Also, I will probably have to modify my chore-delegating behaviour, not that TA ever paid too much attention to the list of chores to be done, but still.
However, the fact remains: woo x yay. And here's a picture to celebrate: