Tuesday, July 31, 2007

sauce
The books warned me about vivid pregnancy dreams; one even hinted that they might be racy. Even so, I wasn’t quite prepared for threesomes in a health club with champagne flowing. Actually, fate, if you’re listening - I’d like to let you know that I’m always prepared for threesomes in a setting that involves a beautiful woman, champagne, soft lighting, warm water and lots of fluffy white towels. Also, I think TA could be persuaded too.
Still, expected or not, I woke up with a smile and then some sadness - come back sleep, come back sauce. The pupster curled up on my pillow and nuzzled into me. As nice as this was, it wasn't a patch on what my imagination had created earlier.

Monday, July 23, 2007

things fall apart
After three years of making suspicious whirring noises and never quite being as cool as you’d expect a machine with an ultra-cool system to be, TA’s custom-built whizz-bang PC has gone bang and will no longer whizz. TA is mourning it like a lost limb and wondering how the hell we are going to afford a new one.
Judging from the bereft phone call, he’s currently crying in a corner (possibly under his desk) feeling all the mixed emotions that go to make up grief: denial, anger, guilt, bone-crushing sadness. So far I have merely gritted my teeth, girded my loins and done a few web searches to gauge the level of financial pain this is going to engender. It’s going to hurt, a lot.
I’m trying to reassure TA – all his files are backed up on an external drive, he wanted a new machine anyway – but, frankly, we could have done without this setback. The pips at the bottom of my wallet were already squeaking at being squeezed so hard, I think they’re going to be pulverised by this turn of events.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

aka sprout
My brother asked in an e-mail (he writes maybe three times a year) if we were going to refer to sprout as increasingly large vegetables. I replied no, but it did get me thinking. TA suggested "turnip" for sprout's current girth.
We've been batting suggestions for a name back and forth. It was like this when we decided to get a puppy, this never quite agreeing, then TA would make a suggestion and I'd say "what about Deefer?". TA: "What about Max?" Me: "What about Bobbins. Bobbins the dog." TA: "No, no. I like Max." Me: "What about Deefer? What's wrong with Deefer?"
Now we lie in bed and discuss it with great earnestness.
TA: What about Ulysses?
Me: What's wrong with Tobias? I like Tobias, you used to like Tobias. Hmmm. I like Vita.
TA: Yuli for short.
Me: Yuli's a name on it's own. I think we should wait until we know, you know, which way it's going to pee.
TA: Maybe. What's the name of the one with the owl?
Me: Athena?
TA: Yep, what about Athena. Athena Vita?
Me: I think that's too many "ah" sounds. I like Athena though.
TA: Yeah, Athena.
Me: What about Vita. I like Vita. Vita Athene?
And so it goes on. On and on. I'll tell you one thing though - I like Vita. And Deefer. Deefer's the best name for a dog; not a daughter though, obviously, Deefer Daughter would just be cruel.

Monday, July 16, 2007

back in the saddle, sorta
Do you remember back in the day when I was all fired up about making massive life changes? Quitting my job, moving to Wales, building an earthship, breeding chickens and practising permaculture... I had big dreams. Somehow they shrivelled, didn’t they? Money worries. Practicalities. Other aspects of my personality. The necessity of compromise to maintain a happy and successful marriage. Fear of failure.
The dreams are back, which means that the frustration is edging in too. I’m writing, I’m quilting, growing a little person and nesting, but where is the garden? Where is the rural bliss? Now is the summer of my discontent: work is quiet and I have little else to think of. Oh, and those money worries, the crippling weight of responsibilities and all the other doubts and fears? They’re still with me in spades too. No wonder I’m feeling tired, trapped and resentful.
In other news, I’ve given TA the gift of my cold/fever. At least I think he might have got his illness from me, my only puzzlement is how it went from a nasty cold to plague in one transmission, particularly since he has only the cold to contend with (no anaemia, pregnancy, iron tablets or sickness).

Saturday, July 14, 2007

pumping iron
I'm not happy. I've got a cold with a fever and the bloodsucking sprout has given me anaemia. I was quite pleased when I found out because I innocently thought that if the anaemia was treated I'd feel a lot less tired. Ha! How little I knew. Iron tablets. Three of the little fuckers a day. To be taken on an empty stomach. And suddenly the retching and vomiting has made a return. It's been three days now and, honestly, I'm tempted to cut back to one tablet a day.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

yesterday in parliament
As past-it 30-somethings, TA and I enjoy listening to the Today programme on Radio 4 in the mornings. Humphreys and co burble along while I try to muster the enthusiasm and energy to leave the house. Conveniently, I know that if I accidently hear Thought for the Day I’ve stayed too long.
This morning I was eating yoghurt and TA was looking in the fridge for some butter while Ed Balls’s maiden speech to the house in his new ministerial role was being discussed. They cut to a sound bite, "Every child should be able read, write and masturbate an ass." My jaw dropped, TA looked up at me dumbfounded, we laughed and then I said, "I think he meant every child should be able to master basic maths."
Mr Balls, a policy wonk of outstanding ability you may be, but I think you need to work on your delivery.

Monday, July 09, 2007

taking the piss in baggy trousers
I’ve seen the future; it’s a pair of expanding-waistband trousers. Thank god for e-bay and women selling all their expensively bought, hardly used maternity clothes for next to nothing. I’ve now got more pairs of maternity jeans than I have ever had normal jeans and I love them, love them. Maternity clothes are fantastic: so comfy, so extensible. I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to normal clothes again.
I also love my little red funnel. I carry it with me everywhere these days as I never know when I’ll be required to produce a sample. The funnel takes all the anxiety and mess out of the sample-taking process - no more drips, no more tears of frustration, no more wet hands. Of course, one still has to be able to pee on demand, but I take the pupster as my inspiration - lots of little drinks results in the ability to do lots of little wees.
I’m officially one-third of the way through sprout’s gestation. This morning I had my first appointment with an obstetrician, not "my" obs though, a spare they had knocking about. He ushered me through a door marked "not in use" and apologised for taking me to what appeared to be a broom cupboard, saying that they were fully booked.
I sat staring at an unplugged screen while he muttered and mumbled his way through my notes.
"No chance of seeing my most recent blood results on screen, then?"
"Er, no."
He took my sample pot and, while testing the contents, managed to drip my wee on to the floor (luckily he missed his feet).
"Ah! Beautiful!" He said while gazing at a strip of mustard spots on the testing strip.
He stepped over the puddle to wash his hands at the basin and spilt water when the tap gushed unexpectedly. He then bent down and cleaned up the water - but left the spilt wee.
I won’t be seeing him again.

Monday, July 02, 2007

sprout comes second
We’ve been upstaged! TA is one of five and the second youngest, but we were smug: we were providing the first grandchild. We were wrong. One of TA’s sisters, not the one we used to share a house with, is pregnant, two weeks more pregnant than me. As we all know, when it comes to being a grandparent, a child in the same country is worth a multitude of overseas kiddies. Bah! Poor sprout, starting life in second place. But, looking on the bright side, how cool to have a cousin.
Actually, TA’s siblings are a bit like the Spice girls in that they come in lots of different flavours: mad sib, engineer sib (boy), sporty/navy sib and drama sib. It’s sporty/navy sib that’s having the sprog. I spent a few minutes pondering what kind of cousin will result from the couple whose interests include: fixing helicopters, running marathons, competing in iron man/woman competitions, sailing races, triathlons... At least if we somehow spawn a sporty sprout (shudder) rather than a bookish, artistic, creative type he or she will be able to run over(!) to the uncle and aunt’s house, once we move to Oz at least (not even the sportiest sporty person could swim, run to Australia).
Many thanks for your kind reassurances about the lard. Sadly I've spent the last few days clearing my wardrobe of all the clothes that no longer fit and trawling ebay for bundles of expanding waistband clothes. I think I'm all set now, apart from disposable knickers and nursing bras - what have I let myself in for?