No Smiling I'm Half British

Lucy is now a whopping 10 weeks old, and you know what that means in the K household?

Passports!

Here's Lucy's picture, and below that Anna's, also taken at 10 weeks.















































What do you think? Sisters?

I think they look very alike, except Anna was a cheery old soul with a rounder face and a too-cute-to-be-true hair tuft and Lucy has the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders and has perfected her new-world-order economic-meltdown look of gloom.

As it happens I also have to renew my passport, which you can do out of the country if you can pony up one hundred million dollars and lure a current British passport holder to counter-sign your application. Amazingly I am able to do just that (well, the second half anyway) due to a freak birthing of my friend Mooks in England while her parents were studying Shakespeare in Stratford. I knew I liked her.

So there we were in Sears, Lucy frowning in to the camera perfecting her superior British scowl, apparently unaware she was posing for her American passport and cheerfulness was allowed. I gave my hair a cursory finger-comb, tried to look British and OH. MY. GOD. the chins, the eye-bags, the lank unstyled hair. Don't get your passport photo taken two months after you've had a baby.

Is it vanity to think your passport photo is so bad you want to rush to another photographer and have it retaken? Well yes of course it is, but bloody hell I'd even slapped a bit of lippy on, but obviously to no avail. I will grant you than any photo of me wearing white, against a white background leaves me looking pale at best and bizarrely suspended nostrils and eyelashes at worst but damn.

It isn't helped by the fact that my last passport photo is really rather good. So good that several INS workers have looked at it, looked at me, and concluded that either we're different people or that that was one hell of a bad flight.

You could think positively on the situation and conclude that, well, your age 35 photo is really shitty, but in 10 years time if you have a good photo taken then you'll actually look better than your 35 year old self. I couldn't look worse surely. However, I know what it's like to live with a shockingly bad passport photo.........

When I was sixteen my family were driving down to Harwich? to catch the ferry over to Belgium to spend Christmas with my Aunty and Uncle. It was a Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve. I think it was an overnight ferry and it was pretty late in the day as we were nearing the coast. That's when I casually asked my Dad - "since I'm 16 now don't I have to have my own passport?"

*Crickets*

The answer of course was, yes. The reality was, no, I did not have my own passport.

To cut a long story shockingly full of expletives short, we filled in some emergency passport forms, and I had my photo taken in a crappy WWII throwover photo booth. I think we boarded the ferry with an idea that we could certainly be able to leave the UK, but there were no guarantees I would be able to get back. From Belgium. I thought that was bad. Then I saw the photo.

This is the picture I carried with me as my only form of ID in the States for many years.....




























There's really no excuse for any of it. All I can say is, from the looks of that jumper, thank God it's a black and white photo.

Fast forward 10 years and we have this ethereal photo. As I said, pupils, nostrils and not much else.
























Quite a transformation from 16 to 25 don't you think? As a bouncer in SB said when reviewing my passport as ID 'hon, you've grown in to yourself well'. Well the degeneration from 25 to 35 is no less dramatic, and that's why I'm going back to get my photos retaken this afternoon.

Sibling Rivalry

I had wondered how Anna was going to react to her baby sister.

I hadn't been thorough enough to read any books on the topic, well, except for 'Angelina Ballerina Gets a Baby Sister' but I bought that at a yard sale before I was even pregnant so that hardly counts. People were more than generous with their advice though, and knowing that Anna had been on the pedestal of single child-hood for long enough I knew I should listen and listen hard.

The advice mainly fell in to two camps, what to do when first introducing your little dictator to her new sibling, and then what to do when real life begins and you get home. In the first case we were told by numerous wellwishers that it was imperative to have Lucy brought in to meet the three of us (LK, me and Anna) whilst in the hospital rather than have Anna walk in to my room and be confronted by the nuclear family unit of me, LK and Lucy. It was a feat of logistics let me tell you. LK called from the hospital lobby to say he and Anna were minutes away, I scrambled the nurse to whisk Lucy off my boob and into the nursery etc etc. but amazingly it all went like clockwork.

So what was Anna's first response to her new sibling?

She sneezed on her.

Best laid plans etc etc.

Lucy then developed a cold and spent the first few days at home sleeping upright in her car seat struggling with a noseful of baby boogers, while her evil sister, I mean doting sibling tried to hug the living daylights out of her. Lucy is clearly a survivor.

That has been the extent, so far, of the sibling rivalry. Anna is very attentive to her sister, constantly wanting to kiss her (we're on cold #2 and counting....), and squeeze the crap out of her. Her hugs may speak louder than her words as they do border on the 'aggressive' if I've been spending a little too much time nursing Lucy. As far as you could tell, she appears thrilled with the new addition, telling anyone within earshot that she has a baby sister who is very slow to learn to talk.

The backlash, it turns out, has all been directed my way.

This is a typical conversation between Anna and I these days:

Me: "Hey love, will you be a big helper and get Mummy a blanket for Lucy"
Anna: "No, I'm afraid I can do only small helps right now"
Me: "Please love"
Anna: "No, NO, NO!"



















It's a joy. To my every question, request, breath, her answer is 'no', and sadly the same is pretty much true of my responses to her. Because, her questions (if permission is ever asked) are usually along the lines of "can I draw with my crayons on the curtains", or "can I mix milk, water and playdough and form a paste to plaster on the couch". Yesterday I came downstairs after putting Lucy down to find Anna painting her toenails on the carpet.

Dear God she's behaving like a three year old!

That's what I have to remind myself. She's only three. Maybe this behaviour was always going to develop. I have heard that 'three is the new two' after all. LK swears she was getting pushier before Lucy arrived, but I think it coincided with late pregnancy when I was unable to do anything more interactive than lie on the couch with a tube of antacids. Clearly she's begun acting out in a desperate bid for attention.

I know the answer is to give LK a bottle of breastmilk (not for him, for the baby for God's sake.....) and spend a couple of hours alone with Anna doing something fun, just the two of us. She is after all, struggling to find her place in our new family.



















But quite frankly I think I'd rather poke my eyes out with a sharp stick.

Getting Lucky

Honestly, what were the chances that a child of LK's would arrive early?

I scheduled my induction for Sunday 11th January convinced that creature #2 would:

a) be late
b) the size of Lichtenstein

I hadn't posted much towards the end of my pregnancy, so to fill you in, it rapidly became clear that our '2-vessel-cord/possible growth-restricted baby' did not get the memo. At my 36 week ultrasound the specialist said she was measuring at the 89th percentile for growth and that there must be a third vessel hiding in the umbilical cord somewhere because *dear God almighty* was that a child or a turkey in there. OK, he didn't swear, but he did mention a 9-10lb full-term baby, which if you're 36 weeks pregnant is the same as saying *YOU ARE SO FUCKED*.

Trust me.

I'd also stopped gaining weight, which meant I was being cannibalized by my own spawn. She was taking 'lebensraum' to a whole new level, and measures needed to be taken. I had a foot permanently lodged under my right ribs and heartburn whenever I was 5º off vertical. In pregnancy, 7 months is pretty much optimal. You look like you've got a small basketball hiding under your t-shirt, everyone smiles at you and offers their congratulations, it's a wonderful thing. When you're full term people look at you with a mixture of fear, and abject terror. Grocery clerks scan your purchases faster in case you explode at their till, people are wary of you sitting on their newly-upholstered furniture. How many cases of spontaneous childbirth have there been? Not that many, babies usually err on the side of hours of pelvic-crushing pain, yet people still look at you as if you're going to lurch forwards gripping your stomach whilst instantaneously depositing a bloodied infant at their feet.

I was not taking late pregnancy well. In other words, I was ready.

Thursday morning I woke at about 4am to some mild cramping. Mild, but regular cramping. I allowed myself to get ever so slightly excited. I lay awake counting the minutes between my contractions, trying to concentrate on my book, attempting not to get swept away with the idea that today was the day. By 7am my contractions were about 6-8 minutes apart and getting a little stronger. The alarm clock went off and I asked LK if he could take Anna to school as I thought that perhaps I would have better things to do. Within 5 minutes he had canceled his entire day, alerted our on-call Anna-sitter and googled Jan 8th 'this date in history' to see who creature #2 might possibly share a birthday with. Breathless with excitement he told me; Elvis Presley, Stephen Hawking, and Sting.

Today had to be the day.

Then everything stopped, minutes stretched in to contraction-less hours. I had inadvertently activated the launch sequence and was left feeling like a total muppet while LK pretended to make himself useful in the garden and tried not to ask how I was feeling every 15 minutes.

I was so disappointed. I plonked my massive frame back on the couch and watched episode after episode of Mad Men while LK quietly answered a hundred and ten phonecalls with the whispered response 'false alarm, sorry'. The trouble with being the baby-carrier in question is that people expect you to know when the baby will arrive. Granted, you have slightly more information than a random person walking down the street, but not much. I was feeling frustrated, tremendously guilty, and very very pregnant.

We decided to lift the despondent mood and go for a walk. Now, I had tried walking this baby out. In my pursuit of a tax-baby I had been walking upwards of 5 miles a day up to the Mission and back, with Anna in her stroller, trying to bring on labour. Nothing. I had more or less proved that it is impossible to walk yourself in to labour. Still, it was a gorgeous day and clearly neither of us had anything better to do. Oh boy was I aware of that. We walked about 8 blocks and then I retired to bed for a nap. That's when I discovered that the only sure-fire way to bring on labour is to try and avoid the issue and get some rest. My contractions started again, and this time it was for real yo.

LK happily ran around humming 'Love Me Tender' whilst reactivating the launch sequence. I tried to feign interest in the 'Friday Night Knitting Club' but was far more engrossed in writing the time of each contraction at the top of every page. We started making phonecalls to let people know we'd probably be headed to the hospital at some point that afternoon or early evening. It started to become necessary for me to dial someone immediately after a contraction had just hit, because as it turns out, when you call someone to tell them you might be about to birth a baby they are not apt to talk for less than 4 minutes, inevitably leaving me going 'urrggnnnhh, fuck, breathe, breathe' halfway through the conversation. It was while I was on the phone with my friend Jen that she helpfully pointed out 'you know, you keep saying these contractions are every 4 minutes, but I've been looking at my kitchen clock while we've been talking, and you've had at least 3 contractions in the last 6 minutes. Hadn't you better go to the hospital?'. It took me a minute to reply - because I was having a contraction - and I agreed I'd better get that bag packed. I told LK we'd better get on the road, 3 minutes later I was doubled over at the foot of the stairs, car keys in hand *urging him* to get a move on.

That man can move fast when motivated let me tell you.

Fortunately the hospital is only a five minute drive away, which would make that only 2-3 contractions worth. In the lift on the way up to the delivery floor a kindly older lady insisted on asking 'are you here to have your baby today love? how exciting!' - my white knuckles and contorted face were probably answer enough. It's hard to make small talk while your body is trying to squeeze out a principality.

Nurses however do understand the 'I need a bed and an epidural now please' grimace, and with lightning speed we were shown to a room and LK started unpacking the iPod dock and the portable DVD player. Apparently the 10 hour labour with Anna wasn't quite as riveting for him as it had been for me - he'd come prepared.

The nurse checked me declared me to be 4cm dilated, epidural territory, hooray! The anaesthetist was paged and LK switched his playlist from The Beatles to Beethoven so as not to distract the doctor.

During Anna's birth I was completely delirious with pain by the time the anaesthetist arrive. As far as I recall he arrived on a cloud, descended on feathery angel wings, told me I'd died and gone to heaven and *poof* disappeared in a haze of pain-relief. This time round the chap was very, very chatty. LK described him as the Mr. Rogers of pain relief. Every action was thoughtfully explained, every potential poke, prod, piece of tape described at length. We were getting on like a house on fire, everything went perfectly smoothly (as an aside, it always cracks me up when people ask if getting an epidural is painful - it's not fun, particularly if you happen to glance at the needle, but honestly, if you're worried about the epidural then you are going to be so, very, very disappointed with the concept of a painful contraction. Muppet).

So there we were, epidural in place, everyone happy - until it became clear he'd left the room and the epidural hadn't taken. The pain was certainly more muted, but each contraction still left me speechless (quite a feat) and having to concentrate on surviving the pain. Not good. I started to get a tad anxious. I was having contractions every other minute and I knew with absolute certainty that if the epidural didn't 'take' soon, or if I didn't get it re-done really chuffing soon that I would be birthing creature #2 with squeezing LK's hand being the only available pain relief. Not an option for either of us.

LK started looking for some 'Mahler' on his playlist.

This is where I say a big thankyou for birthing my babies in Santa Barbara, in a hospital large enough to keep an anaesthetist busy for his/her entire call schedule. Elvis had not left the building, and fortunately for me he was back in Labour & Delivery before I could start screaming obscenities. The second epidural was done with apologetic efficiency, and *Lord have mercy on my soul* worked like a charm. I was feeling great, 'feeling' nothing in actual fact. Modern medicine has a fan in me. In fact, I was chatting away to a friend, asking how Anna was coping without us (very well) when I felt a peculiar warm sensation at my feet and the slightest suggestion of pressure. 'I have to go, I think my waters just broke' I told my friend - incidentally, a great way to get people off the phone - and indeed they had, and lo and behold I was 10cm and creature #2 was prepared for landing.

The nurses told me not to push and set about calling the doctor. Stat. She arrived about 10 minutes later, and after four pushes, *voila*, baby. The doctors final words before Lucy arrived were 'you're crowning, with the next push you'll see your baby, aren't epidurals great'. Ab-so-chuffing-lutely. I felt like I'd just had my neighbour birth our baby, whilst still being completely involved in the event. Unlike when Anna was born when I was so high from exhaustion my first thought was 'oh, a baby', this time I was able to coo and marvel along with everyone else.

Lucy Jane was 7lbs 7oz, compared to her 8lbs 10oz sister she seemed miniscule. Let me just tell you though, that extra 1lb 30z made a difference Ladies and Gentleman. Small babies, highly recommend them. I was up and about in no time.

The rest will be detailed whenever I get chance and both girls are sleeping. *Never*. Suffice to say that Lucky was born on the King's birthday, at 9pm, just in time for cocktails. It was love at first sight.

Introducing Lady Luck

Lucy Jane, born on the King's birthday, 7lbs 7oz, 21 inches, arrived sunny side up with a smile on her face.

Lucky when she's good, Lucifer when she's bad.