I was going to do a play on the whole 'apologies for the pregnant pause' thing, as it has been *a while* since my last post, but my sense of humour seems to have deserted me.
I am so chuffing pregnant.
So much for our tax baby. Apparently creature #2 gets her financial acumen from her father, and is showing no signs of arriving in a fiscally timely manner.
I have tried everything to get her out:
Walking: 4-5 miles a day over Christmas and the weekend. I thought this was more or less guaranteed, as I've convinced myself this was what brought on labour with Anna. But no, no baby for you!
Shagging: LK's response 'there's not enough gin'.
Trampolining: Yes I'm that desperate. No, it wasn't pretty, and I couldn't keep it up for more than 10 bounces at a time without needing to go to the loo. Come to think of it, the same happened with the shagging too.....
Breast Pump: Ahh, my old nemesis. Got milk? Yes. Baby? No.
Spicy Food: Indian food for lunch. I think the ensuing crampiness was indigestion though, although you should have seen LK's face when I told him I thought I felt a twinge. Possibly delight at welcoming a second child, or euphoria over not being approached to do the wild thing again.
Induction: My doctor's response 'but I'm not on call this week'. Me (under my breath as I'm terminally British) 'I don't care if it's you or not mate, any muppet can catch a baby'. When I tried a different tack and suggested that creature #2 is on the large side and that I didn't want a repeat of the great-rending-0f-2005 he said 'well, we know you're capable, you've done it before'. *Sigh*. Have decided not to wash my feet before my next appointment with him and the stirrups. That'll teach him!
Cleaning Floors: Nobody needs to have a baby that badly.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Advent-a-palooza
When we were growing up we had the same advent calendar every year. December 1st was always a picture of a Christmas pudding (I'm sure my Mum is looking at that very calendar right this minute thinking, *wow* she's right, maybe we should have splashed out on a new calendar every five years or so).
Times have changed, and also, this is America. No Christmas puddings, but also no cardboard advent calendars. Anna has a deluxe wooden model with individual doors begging to be stuffed with treats. Thanks to her ever-indulgent Nani, and the fact we thought she'd forgotten this year and had also bought a mini treat for each door, every day is opened to reveal a miniature cornucopia. Today she got a chocolate Santa, a plastic pig and a tiny wooden angel for the tree.
This isn't going to be a post about spoiling your children, or about American largess, mostly because I love Christmas and I'm absolutely crackers about advent calendars (opening the same doors, and alternating days with my brother year after year only served to pique my excitement it appears).
What I want to write about is Anna's face when she eats candy. Something I want to put down on paper before she grows up and I forget forever. I should really work on taking a photo. I love the fact that candy for her is tantamount to a religious experience. Too many of us grab a chocolate and wolf it down whilst absorbed with something else. When Anna unwraps and eats a candy, time stands still. Her whole face transparent with enjoyment and concentration, radiating happiness. You can practically see her tastebuds firing. I know that very soon she'll grow out of this phase, that candy will be gobbled down like a dog ploughing through it's dinner, but as I steadily inflate with each passing pregnant day, I will try and remember how she savours every second of chocolately goodness, and try to do likewise instead of absent-mindedly inhaling a packet of Trader Joes Peppermint O's whilst cooking dinner.
I also love the fact that nothing, nothing, will get a 3 year old out of bed on a school day faster than reminding her that she gets to open another door on her advent calendar. I know most of you have normal children who rise with the sun, but my child was doomed by her genetics and will happily sleep til 9 (unless it's a Sunday of course, then she's all sunshine and 'look Mummy morning is here').
Times have changed, and also, this is America. No Christmas puddings, but also no cardboard advent calendars. Anna has a deluxe wooden model with individual doors begging to be stuffed with treats. Thanks to her ever-indulgent Nani, and the fact we thought she'd forgotten this year and had also bought a mini treat for each door, every day is opened to reveal a miniature cornucopia. Today she got a chocolate Santa, a plastic pig and a tiny wooden angel for the tree.
This isn't going to be a post about spoiling your children, or about American largess, mostly because I love Christmas and I'm absolutely crackers about advent calendars (opening the same doors, and alternating days with my brother year after year only served to pique my excitement it appears).
What I want to write about is Anna's face when she eats candy. Something I want to put down on paper before she grows up and I forget forever. I should really work on taking a photo. I love the fact that candy for her is tantamount to a religious experience. Too many of us grab a chocolate and wolf it down whilst absorbed with something else. When Anna unwraps and eats a candy, time stands still. Her whole face transparent with enjoyment and concentration, radiating happiness. You can practically see her tastebuds firing. I know that very soon she'll grow out of this phase, that candy will be gobbled down like a dog ploughing through it's dinner, but as I steadily inflate with each passing pregnant day, I will try and remember how she savours every second of chocolately goodness, and try to do likewise instead of absent-mindedly inhaling a packet of Trader Joes Peppermint O's whilst cooking dinner.
I also love the fact that nothing, nothing, will get a 3 year old out of bed on a school day faster than reminding her that she gets to open another door on her advent calendar. I know most of you have normal children who rise with the sun, but my child was doomed by her genetics and will happily sleep til 9 (unless it's a Sunday of course, then she's all sunshine and 'look Mummy morning is here').
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
A Rose By Any Other Name
Generally I don't give much thought to any of LK's old girlfriends - if anything most of them did me a huge favour by treating him so badly that any half decent wifely behaviour on my part leaves him shocked and grateful. At least I'll tell myself that until he asks for a divorce.
However, many years ago one of his ex-girlfriends did a complete number on him, and has left me paying the price.
Apparently, early in their relationship she told him she'd one day like them to have two golden retrievers and their names would be blah and blah. Now as any pre-pubescent scholar of Cosmo will tell you, never ever breathe of future domesticity until you're walking the other way down the aisle. And even then let him think it was his idea. This offhand comment on her part (and she's probably still wondering why he ran screaming - maybe she concluded he had a pet dander allergy), left him completely unable to commit to naming something. Fine if you're talking about hypothetical dogs - not so great if you're 8 months pregnant with his child.
We named Anna in the delivery room. I do not intend for that to happen again.
If necessary I will be going in to labour with a fully executed Advance Directive - not in case of emergencies, just in case in the throes of animal pain he manages to persuade me that Waltrout is a great name. For days after naming Anna I was left wondering if 'we'd' made the right decision. We had three top picks if it was to be a girl (we left the gender unknown last time), Anna, Lucy and Elsa/Elsie. The only thing we had agreed on was a middle name - Rose - for English Rose. While in labour 'we' picked Anna because it best matched her middle name. Not such a bad choice as it happens, and it did honour both sides of the family and soften his incredibly Teutonic last name. Still, the point is, I don't want to be naming another child while hopped up on drugs, yet he resolutely refuses to discuss the issue leaving me hopelessly frustrated. Instead he says he wants to 'name her when he sees her' (in which case she'll probably be called 'whopper' or 'tore Mummy a new one').
So, I'm reaching out to you dear internet - let's discuss baby names! Humour me - any favourites, suggestions, names to avoid? I generally go for traditional names, but all suggestions will be met with complete respect - unless you're called Waltrout of course.
However, many years ago one of his ex-girlfriends did a complete number on him, and has left me paying the price.
Apparently, early in their relationship she told him she'd one day like them to have two golden retrievers and their names would be blah and blah. Now as any pre-pubescent scholar of Cosmo will tell you, never ever breathe of future domesticity until you're walking the other way down the aisle. And even then let him think it was his idea. This offhand comment on her part (and she's probably still wondering why he ran screaming - maybe she concluded he had a pet dander allergy), left him completely unable to commit to naming something. Fine if you're talking about hypothetical dogs - not so great if you're 8 months pregnant with his child.
We named Anna in the delivery room. I do not intend for that to happen again.
If necessary I will be going in to labour with a fully executed Advance Directive - not in case of emergencies, just in case in the throes of animal pain he manages to persuade me that Waltrout is a great name. For days after naming Anna I was left wondering if 'we'd' made the right decision. We had three top picks if it was to be a girl (we left the gender unknown last time), Anna, Lucy and Elsa/Elsie. The only thing we had agreed on was a middle name - Rose - for English Rose. While in labour 'we' picked Anna because it best matched her middle name. Not such a bad choice as it happens, and it did honour both sides of the family and soften his incredibly Teutonic last name. Still, the point is, I don't want to be naming another child while hopped up on drugs, yet he resolutely refuses to discuss the issue leaving me hopelessly frustrated. Instead he says he wants to 'name her when he sees her' (in which case she'll probably be called 'whopper' or 'tore Mummy a new one').
So, I'm reaching out to you dear internet - let's discuss baby names! Humour me - any favourites, suggestions, names to avoid? I generally go for traditional names, but all suggestions will be met with complete respect - unless you're called Waltrout of course.
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