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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
....and I'm spent...
Well, it's inescapable that this is the last day of NaBloPoMo, but it's also the last day of a lovely fat 4-day holiday. Something pretty rare in America. How many of you still have that LOTTD (list of things to do) hovering uncompleted? I have failed to transform our office in to a baby room, failed to write all my Christmas cards, sort through and wash Anna's baby clothes, tidy the chuffing house, wrap and post all my Christmas presents. Maybe the list was a little ambitious considering the time allotted, but four days off in this country? Such an unusual occurrence that you begin to think it's sufficient time to gut and remodel a kitchen, a house even.
When I first moved here I had many, many pre-conceived notions about America. I thought it was a land of rampant crime (and indeed my suitcase was almost stolen in front of my eyes the minute I landed at LAX), of oversized meals, people and free time. Some of which was true, but the free time part? Never in my wildest dreams did it occur to me that the land of 'leezure' could be such a workhouse on the sly.
My first shock was when I asked if we got both Friday and Monday off for Easter, or just Monday. A question met with polite laughter then incredulity. Two days off for Easter? What kind of bible-bashing work-shy country did I hail from? Now, I do applaud America for trying, in some instances, to separate church from State and for playing down the religious holidays - but please throw us a frickin' bone here - give us something in return. A lot of employers do not recognize Presidents Day, which means that you go from January 1st to the end of May without any recognizable public holiday. This is a country that typical offers only 5-10 paid vacation days a year in a new job.
The UK is considered the 'workhorse of Europe' for its lack of public holidays, but maybe it just seems to me that whenever I call home it's always a three-day bank holiday weekend. Either way, it was pretty lovely to call on Thursday to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving safe in the knowledge that it was just another Thursday of toil and freezing rain in North Yorkshire.
Maybe this pregnancy is wearing me out, but I want my Boxing Day! and don't even get me started on maternity leave.
When I first moved here I had many, many pre-conceived notions about America. I thought it was a land of rampant crime (and indeed my suitcase was almost stolen in front of my eyes the minute I landed at LAX), of oversized meals, people and free time. Some of which was true, but the free time part? Never in my wildest dreams did it occur to me that the land of 'leezure' could be such a workhouse on the sly.
My first shock was when I asked if we got both Friday and Monday off for Easter, or just Monday. A question met with polite laughter then incredulity. Two days off for Easter? What kind of bible-bashing work-shy country did I hail from? Now, I do applaud America for trying, in some instances, to separate church from State and for playing down the religious holidays - but please throw us a frickin' bone here - give us something in return. A lot of employers do not recognize Presidents Day, which means that you go from January 1st to the end of May without any recognizable public holiday. This is a country that typical offers only 5-10 paid vacation days a year in a new job.
The UK is considered the 'workhorse of Europe' for its lack of public holidays, but maybe it just seems to me that whenever I call home it's always a three-day bank holiday weekend. Either way, it was pretty lovely to call on Thursday to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving safe in the knowledge that it was just another Thursday of toil and freezing rain in North Yorkshire.
Maybe this pregnancy is wearing me out, but I want my Boxing Day! and don't even get me started on maternity leave.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
My Mom Is Having A Baby Sister
My pregnancy is inescapable these days. I've even started to do 'the waddle', the weight of my belly coupled with loosening pelvic ligaments means it's easier for me to move forward by lurching from side to side while swinging my legs forward than it is to walk normally. I let out an involuntarily 'oof' noise whenever I bend. The other day I dropped my car keys, and sighed, looking around as if to say 'anybody, help? please don't make me pick these up by myself'.
I look like a bad actor portraying a pregnant woman.
Obviously all this has not gone unnoticed by Anna. So the question is, how is she coping with the idea of being bumped along the food chain?
For months, apart from sporting her own phantom pregnancy, she really couldn't have cared less. In fact she could hardly be engaged on the subject. The first I heard of it was when one of her little school friends went crying to her Mum saying that Anna's Mom was going to have a baby sister and that she wanted one too. I was completely gobsmacked that Anna was even thinking about creature #2 let alone bragging. Things have changed though, and her baby sister is literally in her face. Nose to distended navel. We like to talk about how much work baby #2 is going to be, and how Anna will be my 'big helper'. She is assisting me in 'decorating' the baby's room which is beginning to take shape (although as you can tell by the photos below - we still need to paint). We bought a lovely changing table/dresser on Craigslist last weekend which Anna covered liberally in sea glass. How baby friendly! We have also unearthed all of Anna's old baby toys.
Now, several people have told me that when a new baby arrives your older child will regress in some way. Some will revert to toddler-style temper tantrums, others will lose ground with potty training (please God, no). Anna is embracing her babyhood. The arrival of all her old baby toys means that's all she wants to play with. She's even started to demand we watch her old 'Baby Einstein' DVDs again. We draw the line when she starts 'pretending' to be a baby. Lying on her back waving her limbs in the air talking gibberish. It's laughably transparent. "Look! We don't need to introduce a new baby - I can be all the baby you'll ever need!".
We're trying to let her know that we loved her when she was an infant, but we love her even more now - now that she's a big girl and so accomplished. We try to emphasize all the things she's capable of that 'Fahan' won't be able to do, like helping to bake cookies, running through puddles, and drawing monsters - all the important stuff. It doesn't seem to be working though.
Anyone have any advice or suggestions in this area? So far we're humouring her, I assume it's a phase that she'll just work her way through, but right now I'm wondering just how far this regression is going to go.
I look like a bad actor portraying a pregnant woman.
Obviously all this has not gone unnoticed by Anna. So the question is, how is she coping with the idea of being bumped along the food chain?
For months, apart from sporting her own phantom pregnancy, she really couldn't have cared less. In fact she could hardly be engaged on the subject. The first I heard of it was when one of her little school friends went crying to her Mum saying that Anna's Mom was going to have a baby sister and that she wanted one too. I was completely gobsmacked that Anna was even thinking about creature #2 let alone bragging. Things have changed though, and her baby sister is literally in her face. Nose to distended navel. We like to talk about how much work baby #2 is going to be, and how Anna will be my 'big helper'. She is assisting me in 'decorating' the baby's room which is beginning to take shape (although as you can tell by the photos below - we still need to paint). We bought a lovely changing table/dresser on Craigslist last weekend which Anna covered liberally in sea glass. How baby friendly! We have also unearthed all of Anna's old baby toys.
Now, several people have told me that when a new baby arrives your older child will regress in some way. Some will revert to toddler-style temper tantrums, others will lose ground with potty training (please God, no). Anna is embracing her babyhood. The arrival of all her old baby toys means that's all she wants to play with. She's even started to demand we watch her old 'Baby Einstein' DVDs again. We draw the line when she starts 'pretending' to be a baby. Lying on her back waving her limbs in the air talking gibberish. It's laughably transparent. "Look! We don't need to introduce a new baby - I can be all the baby you'll ever need!".
We're trying to let her know that we loved her when she was an infant, but we love her even more now - now that she's a big girl and so accomplished. We try to emphasize all the things she's capable of that 'Fahan' won't be able to do, like helping to bake cookies, running through puddles, and drawing monsters - all the important stuff. It doesn't seem to be working though.
Anyone have any advice or suggestions in this area? So far we're humouring her, I assume it's a phase that she'll just work her way through, but right now I'm wondering just how far this regression is going to go.
Friday, November 28, 2008
I Blame Go, Diego Go
Yesterday, when walking in to town as a family, we heard a dog barking hoarsely in the background.
Anna: "Mom! Did you hear that?"
Me: "Mmm?"
Anna: "That's a tapir!"
Quickly followed by this gem at the Thanksgiving dinner table:
(Anna had just performed a rousing rendition of 'the peanut song' to a packed crowd of four older friends of my father-in-law - much clapping and encoring ensued).
Anna: "You're welcome big butt!"
Crowd "......"
Elderly lady #1: "I think she said you're welcome big bud"
Anna (to a lady with a large arse): "NO! You're welcome BIG BUTT"
LK & I in unison: "Anna - please say you're sorry, you can't say things like that"
Anna (genuinely perplexed): "Why not? It's just real life"
Anna: "Mom! Did you hear that?"
Me: "Mmm?"
Anna: "That's a tapir!"
Quickly followed by this gem at the Thanksgiving dinner table:
(Anna had just performed a rousing rendition of 'the peanut song' to a packed crowd of four older friends of my father-in-law - much clapping and encoring ensued).
Anna: "You're welcome big butt!"
Crowd "......"
Elderly lady #1: "I think she said you're welcome big bud"
Anna (to a lady with a large arse): "NO! You're welcome BIG BUTT"
LK & I in unison: "Anna - please say you're sorry, you can't say things like that"
Anna (genuinely perplexed): "Why not? It's just real life"
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving
You've got to love a holiday that's based around being thankful, and food. I have certainly embraced Turkey Day - a wonderful stress-free holiday if 50% of your family consider it to be just another Thursday. No guilt about where to spend the holiday, only the joy of too many calories with hopefully someone else cooking.
This year we have a lot to be thankful for. Creature #2 appears to be thriving. We did not lose our house. We will be able to provide food and shelter for our daughters for a few more months at least - something that was not a given six months ago. We have truly amazing friends and family.
Now lets talk about food. When I first moved to this country I volunteered to host Thanksgiving dinner. How hard could it be, right? Lance told me what we'd need to cook:
Turkey
Gravy
Mashed Potatoes
Candied Yams
Green bean casserole
Corn bread
Stuffing
Pumpkin Pie
Pecan Pie
Roast Elephant stuffed with quails.....
You get the point.
I looked at him dumbfounded, of the entire menu I'd heard of the first three items. It was just going to be me, him, his Mom and her then boyfriend. They were bringing the wine. I had NO idea what I'd signed up for. Americans do not do things by halves, and you only have to look at a Thanksgiving meal as proof.
I sweated through 15 main dishes in 80º heat. Welcome to Thanksgiving in Southern California. I quickly learned that the best Thanksgivings are potlucks where everyone brings a dish and you don't end up wishing you'd just gone out for Chinese.
This year we're going to LK's Dad's house. I am bringing the pie. Not hard right? Well, you should see the sizeable burn on the back of my right hand - I am not a natural in the kitchen, but even I can't mess up this recipe for the perfect Thanksgiving pie, seriously, give it a try. It's really easy and is the best pie I've ever tasted. Perfectly sweet and tart, with a lovely crunchy topping. I substitute brandy-soaked cherries for currants because I'm not a big fan of raisins/sultanas/currents and their ilk, and the result is this:
Quickly followed by this:
A large gut (not pregnancy).
This year we have a lot to be thankful for. Creature #2 appears to be thriving. We did not lose our house. We will be able to provide food and shelter for our daughters for a few more months at least - something that was not a given six months ago. We have truly amazing friends and family.
Now lets talk about food. When I first moved to this country I volunteered to host Thanksgiving dinner. How hard could it be, right? Lance told me what we'd need to cook:
Turkey
Gravy
Mashed Potatoes
Candied Yams
Green bean casserole
Corn bread
Stuffing
Pumpkin Pie
Pecan Pie
Roast Elephant stuffed with quails.....
You get the point.
I looked at him dumbfounded, of the entire menu I'd heard of the first three items. It was just going to be me, him, his Mom and her then boyfriend. They were bringing the wine. I had NO idea what I'd signed up for. Americans do not do things by halves, and you only have to look at a Thanksgiving meal as proof.
I sweated through 15 main dishes in 80º heat. Welcome to Thanksgiving in Southern California. I quickly learned that the best Thanksgivings are potlucks where everyone brings a dish and you don't end up wishing you'd just gone out for Chinese.
This year we're going to LK's Dad's house. I am bringing the pie. Not hard right? Well, you should see the sizeable burn on the back of my right hand - I am not a natural in the kitchen, but even I can't mess up this recipe for the perfect Thanksgiving pie, seriously, give it a try. It's really easy and is the best pie I've ever tasted. Perfectly sweet and tart, with a lovely crunchy topping. I substitute brandy-soaked cherries for currants because I'm not a big fan of raisins/sultanas/currents and their ilk, and the result is this:
Quickly followed by this:
A large gut (not pregnancy).
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Maternity Wardrobe That Works
This is going to sound like a shameless plug, except I'm not getting paid a dime, and after all, this is a lot of what blogging means to me personally - sharing stories, advice and ideas.
It's not easy to dress for work when you've got a belly the size of a regular at the Rovers Return. When I was pregnant with Anna I was tearing my hair out looking for reasonably-priced maternity trousers that had more than a 32" inseam (go ahead - hate me). In borrowed maternity 'pants' I looked like a pregnant sailor, even in flats. Fortunately it was early summer and I could resort to capris and skirts. Now I'm in the depths of November, and even in Southern California capris could leave you feeling a little exposed around the ankles. It is after all raining today.
I was truly dreading a return to maternity trousers. I know that vanity would seem to be the first thing out the window during pregnancy, but every little helps in terms of self-esteem, and not having to wear clown trousers was a big deal to me. I hated them with a passion, and I thought they were unavoidable. Apparently not though, and why? - because several months ago I read this post from agirlandaboy, and thought, hmm, crazy, but that might just work.
I bought two 'Bella Bands' at a local maternity shop, one black, one white, and while it does seem a little pricey for a tube of elasticated material these things have quite literally saved my maternity wardrobe, my dignity and my self-esteem. (I swear I'm not getting paid to say this).
I am 8 months pregnant and still wearing my normal work trousers.
I know - no ridiculous sums of money spent on hideous polyester trousers that just barely graze my ankle. Every single day I am gobsmacked that these giant elastic bands are holding up the impossible. They seem to defy the laws of physics. My fly is wide open but covered with elastic and I have yet to cause people to scream or faint at the sight of the unthinkable. I'll agree that it's much easier with some trousers than others (some with an exposed zip that can rub bare flesh are an obvious no-no even if you do like wearing Granny knickers) but most quality tailored trousers have some fabric between the zipper and your flesh, so wearing the zip down all day is perfectly comfortable. The same goes for button-jeans. I suppose the principle doesn't apply if your arse has grown as astronomically as your belly, but fortunately that doesn't seem to be the case for me - either that or I had naturally roomy-in-the-arse work trousers.
I've heard tell that the same product can be bought for half the price at Motherhood Maternity - but everything I've ever bought there has been a complete travesty of polyester and poor fit, so I couldn't tell you.
Anyway, in conclusion, if you know any leggy pregnant women, suggest the Bella Band, it'll save them hundreds of dollars in embarrassing pant-age.
End of gratuitous plug.
It's not easy to dress for work when you've got a belly the size of a regular at the Rovers Return. When I was pregnant with Anna I was tearing my hair out looking for reasonably-priced maternity trousers that had more than a 32" inseam (go ahead - hate me). In borrowed maternity 'pants' I looked like a pregnant sailor, even in flats. Fortunately it was early summer and I could resort to capris and skirts. Now I'm in the depths of November, and even in Southern California capris could leave you feeling a little exposed around the ankles. It is after all raining today.
I was truly dreading a return to maternity trousers. I know that vanity would seem to be the first thing out the window during pregnancy, but every little helps in terms of self-esteem, and not having to wear clown trousers was a big deal to me. I hated them with a passion, and I thought they were unavoidable. Apparently not though, and why? - because several months ago I read this post from agirlandaboy, and thought, hmm, crazy, but that might just work.
I bought two 'Bella Bands' at a local maternity shop, one black, one white, and while it does seem a little pricey for a tube of elasticated material these things have quite literally saved my maternity wardrobe, my dignity and my self-esteem. (I swear I'm not getting paid to say this).
I am 8 months pregnant and still wearing my normal work trousers.
I know - no ridiculous sums of money spent on hideous polyester trousers that just barely graze my ankle. Every single day I am gobsmacked that these giant elastic bands are holding up the impossible. They seem to defy the laws of physics. My fly is wide open but covered with elastic and I have yet to cause people to scream or faint at the sight of the unthinkable. I'll agree that it's much easier with some trousers than others (some with an exposed zip that can rub bare flesh are an obvious no-no even if you do like wearing Granny knickers) but most quality tailored trousers have some fabric between the zipper and your flesh, so wearing the zip down all day is perfectly comfortable. The same goes for button-jeans. I suppose the principle doesn't apply if your arse has grown as astronomically as your belly, but fortunately that doesn't seem to be the case for me - either that or I had naturally roomy-in-the-arse work trousers.
I've heard tell that the same product can be bought for half the price at Motherhood Maternity - but everything I've ever bought there has been a complete travesty of polyester and poor fit, so I couldn't tell you.
Anyway, in conclusion, if you know any leggy pregnant women, suggest the Bella Band, it'll save them hundreds of dollars in embarrassing pant-age.
End of gratuitous plug.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Handwriting
Having just churned out 15 lovingly personalized thankyou notes I would just like to say two things; firstly, people who buy thankyou notes as baby shower gifts are chuffing brilliant and secondly, my handwriting is appalling.
I can guarantee my college friends are laughing in agreement right now.
The fabulous Mrs H had to copy many a lecture from me that consisted of nothing but nnnns and mmmss. What at first glance looks to be neatly ordered tiny writing on closer inspection resembles a march of miniature caterpillars. Completely illegible. Not as bad as J's lecture notes though - as J had taken Economics A-level, and while his script was legible, unlike the rest of us he knew various cunning economic symbols and used them rampantly. Borrowing his lecture notes would mean copying down phrases such as 'the economy showed increasing ∆ after the Bretton Woods agreement'. Useful! Reminds me of a love letter I received from a boyfriend whilst at College. I read it on the way to a lecture (I did attend a smattering), crossing through Corpus courtyard hungrily eating up every word. I hadn't counted on the effect of rain upon fountain pen though and was somewhat dismayed to read 'you are the most *rain splat* person I have ever met'. I never did find out what. That has never happened to me in California I might add.
I also think my handwriting's getting worse (groans from all those due to receive a thankyou note in the next few days). I spend 95% of my time typing, both at work and at home, and the remaining 5% which is handwritten is done at a doctor's office, so you can understand the inevitable decline. It feels so alien to write more than a few lines, I feel like I'm losing the skill. Anybody else feel like this?
Also, as an aside, have I managed to go an entire lifetime thinking that thankyou is a word. Why is blogger constantly underlining it in red, is it only ever thank you?
I can guarantee my college friends are laughing in agreement right now.
The fabulous Mrs H had to copy many a lecture from me that consisted of nothing but nnnns and mmmss. What at first glance looks to be neatly ordered tiny writing on closer inspection resembles a march of miniature caterpillars. Completely illegible. Not as bad as J's lecture notes though - as J had taken Economics A-level, and while his script was legible, unlike the rest of us he knew various cunning economic symbols and used them rampantly. Borrowing his lecture notes would mean copying down phrases such as 'the economy showed increasing ∆ after the Bretton Woods agreement'. Useful! Reminds me of a love letter I received from a boyfriend whilst at College. I read it on the way to a lecture (I did attend a smattering), crossing through Corpus courtyard hungrily eating up every word. I hadn't counted on the effect of rain upon fountain pen though and was somewhat dismayed to read 'you are the most *rain splat* person I have ever met'. I never did find out what. That has never happened to me in California I might add.
I also think my handwriting's getting worse (groans from all those due to receive a thankyou note in the next few days). I spend 95% of my time typing, both at work and at home, and the remaining 5% which is handwritten is done at a doctor's office, so you can understand the inevitable decline. It feels so alien to write more than a few lines, I feel like I'm losing the skill. Anybody else feel like this?
Also, as an aside, have I managed to go an entire lifetime thinking that thankyou is a word. Why is blogger constantly underlining it in red, is it only ever thank you?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Flushed Away
Thanks for all your suggestions on how to dispose of Lester. In the end we decided to be very matter-of-fact with Anna. We told her that Lester had had good life, but that unfortunately he'd died overnight and that we were going to flush him down the loo to the ocean (thankyou finding Nemo!).
We made a solemn grouping around the toilet, Lester hanging limply in a fishing net. LK spoke about how pretty he was, how he was always eager to zoom up and grab a pellet. Meanwhile I'm thinking, *damn* the only two things I could say about the bloody fish and you've already mentioned them. I gave a suitably sombre pause and waxed lyrical about how he'd always been a good friend to Anna and that we'd been lucky to have him as a member of our family. Anna was last. More than anything she wanted to flush him down, but we suggested she say something nice by way of a goodbye. She said 'I want you to come back from the ocean alive so that I can play with you'.
*Ouch*
Then it way bye-bye Lester, two of his mourners praying vehemently that he wasn't going to break up in the watery vortex.
In relaying the story to my Mum and Dad later that day, my Dad said 'she'll be looking for him whenever you go to the beach you know'. If only that were true! He was right in that she is looking for him, newly reincarnated from his trip to the ocean, but at his point of departure. She is fully expecting him to reappear in the toilet, ready to play. Honestly, best laid plans etc etc. We are going to have one seriously constipated 3 year old on our hands at this rate.
We made a solemn grouping around the toilet, Lester hanging limply in a fishing net. LK spoke about how pretty he was, how he was always eager to zoom up and grab a pellet. Meanwhile I'm thinking, *damn* the only two things I could say about the bloody fish and you've already mentioned them. I gave a suitably sombre pause and waxed lyrical about how he'd always been a good friend to Anna and that we'd been lucky to have him as a member of our family. Anna was last. More than anything she wanted to flush him down, but we suggested she say something nice by way of a goodbye. She said 'I want you to come back from the ocean alive so that I can play with you'.
*Ouch*
Then it way bye-bye Lester, two of his mourners praying vehemently that he wasn't going to break up in the watery vortex.
In relaying the story to my Mum and Dad later that day, my Dad said 'she'll be looking for him whenever you go to the beach you know'. If only that were true! He was right in that she is looking for him, newly reincarnated from his trip to the ocean, but at his point of departure. She is fully expecting him to reappear in the toilet, ready to play. Honestly, best laid plans etc etc. We are going to have one seriously constipated 3 year old on our hands at this rate.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
RIP Lester
When I was about 8 or 10, Mum told my brother and I over breakfast that there'd been a death in the family. Cereal spoons paused in mid-air. We went through our list of pets, which at that point in a child's life is always lengthy. It wasn't my gerbil, it wasn't my brother's gerbil, it wasn't their myriad (named) babies. It wasn't even the stray carrier pigeon which had taken to 'resting' on our back steps for the last couple of weeks.
We racked our brains, and I started to get worried.
'It's not Dad is it?'.
If you know her, you know my Mum is not exactly effusive, and having gone through our list of nearest and dearest fluffy creatures, he was the only available candidate.
Well, obviously it wasn't. Not even a Mancunian mother is that heartless. It was a goldfish, I'm not sure we even had a name.
Anna's beta fish on the other hand does have a name, Lester, and Lester's 'sleeping' right now on the bottom of his bowl.
Lester was a present from Anna's Nani, for Anna's first Easter which would have made him about 3 years old. It was a daunting to add another creature that required regular nurturing to a household already straining to cope with a doddery old guinea pig and a demanding 9 month old. Yet despite almost pathological neglect, Lester thrived. We tried to remember to feed him regularly, we even washed his bowl out once or twice, and he kept puttering along, much to Anna's delight. He even survived her increasingly inquisitive toddler and pre-schooler stages. He was frequently given 'apple juice to drink' or goldfish crackers were found bobbing on the surface of his bowl. She would introduce 'friends' or 'treasures' to his bowl - small plastic creatures or even worse, unsterlised beach glass and shells. More often than not though he would be found swimming for his life as she attempted to 'pet' him.
Lester was a survivor, until last night. We haven't broken it to Anna yet. Should you confront a 3 year old with the realities of death? Should he just disappear? We're not mad enough to replace him. Our household budget could barely stretch to those 4 pellets a day. Should we have an elaborate flushing funeral? Suggestions are very welcome as she's going to get a tad suspicious pretty soon - even Mummy doesn't sleep that long.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
NaBloPoMo Fuels The Fire
To think I was actually a bit worried whether I'd find enough to write about for NaBloPoMo. I was a bit concerned that after the first flurry of posts I'd be down to 'God I'm tired today, no really, I'm so bloody tired'. All of which is still true, but life is happily throwing material my way - as if it's goal is to try and get me to pop this sprog early.
Last night I was heading to a jewelry party with my friend Mooks. Riveting so far, huh? One minute we're happily driving down the street, the next minute a complete muppet of a driver has pulled out of a driveway, crossed traffic and is feet from my 30mph car. There is no way he could have been looking in my direction because at the point he bolted from his driveway I was already close enough to tell you how recently he'd washed his car. I slammed on the brakes and for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a matter of 10 seconds my car screamed and juddered to a halt (who knew brakes made a grinding sound - and does anybody know, if you've reduced your brakes to a shuddering grind do you need to get them checked out afterwards?).
It wasn't pretty. I have to seriously thank some high quality Honda engineering and anti-lock brakes because in the space it took me to try and stop we went from certain catastrophic collision, to likely nasty crash, to we'll be lucky to get away with just a fender-bender, to, well, nothing. We must have stopped within an inch of his car. Even Mooks turned to me and said 'did we hit him or not?'. Unbelievably there was no impact, and yet again a near-death experience failed to induce labour. I'm beginning to wonder if bungee-jumping would get this kid to descend the birth canal.
He drove off, I honked and that's the end of the tale really. I suppose you had to be there. Not just in the car, but in my head. Because while I'm sure I was screaming for my life Mooks assures me I just said 'Fuck'. Like a friend of ours who on re-watching her birth video was surprised to find that in the final 'ring of fire' moment when she was convinced she was screaming expletives for the world to hear, she actually just said 'this is really uncomfortable'.
Last night I was heading to a jewelry party with my friend Mooks. Riveting so far, huh? One minute we're happily driving down the street, the next minute a complete muppet of a driver has pulled out of a driveway, crossed traffic and is feet from my 30mph car. There is no way he could have been looking in my direction because at the point he bolted from his driveway I was already close enough to tell you how recently he'd washed his car. I slammed on the brakes and for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a matter of 10 seconds my car screamed and juddered to a halt (who knew brakes made a grinding sound - and does anybody know, if you've reduced your brakes to a shuddering grind do you need to get them checked out afterwards?).
It wasn't pretty. I have to seriously thank some high quality Honda engineering and anti-lock brakes because in the space it took me to try and stop we went from certain catastrophic collision, to likely nasty crash, to we'll be lucky to get away with just a fender-bender, to, well, nothing. We must have stopped within an inch of his car. Even Mooks turned to me and said 'did we hit him or not?'. Unbelievably there was no impact, and yet again a near-death experience failed to induce labour. I'm beginning to wonder if bungee-jumping would get this kid to descend the birth canal.
He drove off, I honked and that's the end of the tale really. I suppose you had to be there. Not just in the car, but in my head. Because while I'm sure I was screaming for my life Mooks assures me I just said 'Fuck'. Like a friend of ours who on re-watching her birth video was surprised to find that in the final 'ring of fire' moment when she was convinced she was screaming expletives for the world to hear, she actually just said 'this is really uncomfortable'.
Friday, November 21, 2008
All I Want For Christmas
Driving home from school last night I asked Anna what she wanted for Christmas. I explained that sometimes people wrote letters to Father Christmas (I'm still labouring under the delusion that she'll say F.C. instead of 'Santa Claus' - it's not working). That if you explained to Father Christmas (say Father Christmas, say Father Christmas!!!!) what you thought you might like, then he would know what to tell the elves to make. The lies start early.
Her eyes grew round with the possibilities.
This is Anna's Christmas list:
I was going to write 'if only it was this easy every year' but seriously, where am I going to find a small plastic squirrel?
Her eyes grew round with the possibilities.
This is Anna's Christmas list:
- Candy
- Choclit
- A big bag of candy
- A small plastic squirrel
- A pink present with stripes and polka dots with candy inside
I was going to write 'if only it was this easy every year' but seriously, where am I going to find a small plastic squirrel?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Never Wear Sweats to Book Club
First the fire, then the news that I'm gestating a butterball of a baby - it appears third time's the charm when it comes to surprises.
The other night was book club. Like 85% of women over the age of 30 I have found this book club to be a complete salvation - even though as a rule I would say I was uncomfortable with large gaggles of women. My friend Mooks and I started the club when Anna was a paltry 4 months old and it has got me out of the house for some much needed wine and nattering pretty much every month ever since. Well, Tuesday night the lure of wine and women just wasn't cutting it for me. I've been battling a cold since we were evacuated, and that coupled with the exhaustion of lugging this bulk around left me thinking my couch would be the better option. In the end LK told me to get off my ass and go to book club, that the guys were going to be escaping the oestrogen overload by watching the Lakers at our house, and that if I did stay all their daughters would want to pile in to bed with me and watch fluffy the kitten and her wild adventures in fairyland. Or some such.
The decision was clear.
I scraped my hair back in to some semblance of a ponytail, gave my Target maternity sweats a cursory once-over for embarrassing stainage, grabbed a bottle of wine and fled.
To my surprise baby shower.
Funnily enough as I pulled up to J's house and surveyed the parked cars I thought 'that's funny everyone seems to be here already'. I didn't think I was late. In fact I remember sending the email out saying 7pm, so I knew I wasn't late. I also thought 'hmm, strange, the curtains are closed'. Three seconds later I was thinking 'hmm, that's odd, a whole room full of women screaming surprise, and oh look a big sign saying 'welcome creature #2'.
Pregnancy has not sharpened my mental capacities.
Instead of immediately going 'oh you guys, what an amazing surprise, thankyou, you're all diamonds' I just stood there looking gormless thinking 'what the chuff?' and 'why didn't I slap a bit of make-up on'.
To say I was completely overwhelmed is a huge understatement. It took me a good five minutes to notice this large gift sitting in the corner bedecked with balloons:
How lucky am I to have friends like that?
Thanks to all your comments on this post, I had decided that a double jogger even with a 3 year old was a must, and unbeknownst to me J. was having kittens that I'd made my mind up and was all set to buy one. You see, while I was thinking that LK was taking a loving interest in whether or not we needed a double stroller (ha!), it was all a cunning ruse on the part of my friends. Apparently J. had decided I needed the Phil & Teds stroller and had roped LK in to talk about it to see if the idea would fly. So when LK said 'someone at work told me you should check out the Phil and Ted's stroller instead of the double Bob' I fell for it hook, line and sinker. How could I have been so daft to not see straight through that statement? Did I think he would next be asking what brand of breast-pump I was intending on using? Have 11 years of marriage taught me nothing?
What she didn't count on was my nesting instinct going in to overdrive, and NaBloPoMo meaning I would blog about the chuffing thing, spurring me on (she thought) to go straight out and buy one. Then, to add insult to injury we evacuate to her house seriously compromising her ability to plan my party. Not that you would have noticed as the party was brilliant. Champagne, shepherds pie (yum!), English cheeses, fabulous people, flowers in baby bottles, the works. If I was a better writer I'd be able to do it justice, but all I can leave you with is this:
How ironic that I actually thought LK cared.
The other night was book club. Like 85% of women over the age of 30 I have found this book club to be a complete salvation - even though as a rule I would say I was uncomfortable with large gaggles of women. My friend Mooks and I started the club when Anna was a paltry 4 months old and it has got me out of the house for some much needed wine and nattering pretty much every month ever since. Well, Tuesday night the lure of wine and women just wasn't cutting it for me. I've been battling a cold since we were evacuated, and that coupled with the exhaustion of lugging this bulk around left me thinking my couch would be the better option. In the end LK told me to get off my ass and go to book club, that the guys were going to be escaping the oestrogen overload by watching the Lakers at our house, and that if I did stay all their daughters would want to pile in to bed with me and watch fluffy the kitten and her wild adventures in fairyland. Or some such.
The decision was clear.
I scraped my hair back in to some semblance of a ponytail, gave my Target maternity sweats a cursory once-over for embarrassing stainage, grabbed a bottle of wine and fled.
To my surprise baby shower.
Funnily enough as I pulled up to J's house and surveyed the parked cars I thought 'that's funny everyone seems to be here already'. I didn't think I was late. In fact I remember sending the email out saying 7pm, so I knew I wasn't late. I also thought 'hmm, strange, the curtains are closed'. Three seconds later I was thinking 'hmm, that's odd, a whole room full of women screaming surprise, and oh look a big sign saying 'welcome creature #2'.
Pregnancy has not sharpened my mental capacities.
Instead of immediately going 'oh you guys, what an amazing surprise, thankyou, you're all diamonds' I just stood there looking gormless thinking 'what the chuff?' and 'why didn't I slap a bit of make-up on'.
To say I was completely overwhelmed is a huge understatement. It took me a good five minutes to notice this large gift sitting in the corner bedecked with balloons:
How lucky am I to have friends like that?
Thanks to all your comments on this post, I had decided that a double jogger even with a 3 year old was a must, and unbeknownst to me J. was having kittens that I'd made my mind up and was all set to buy one. You see, while I was thinking that LK was taking a loving interest in whether or not we needed a double stroller (ha!), it was all a cunning ruse on the part of my friends. Apparently J. had decided I needed the Phil & Teds stroller and had roped LK in to talk about it to see if the idea would fly. So when LK said 'someone at work told me you should check out the Phil and Ted's stroller instead of the double Bob' I fell for it hook, line and sinker. How could I have been so daft to not see straight through that statement? Did I think he would next be asking what brand of breast-pump I was intending on using? Have 11 years of marriage taught me nothing?
What she didn't count on was my nesting instinct going in to overdrive, and NaBloPoMo meaning I would blog about the chuffing thing, spurring me on (she thought) to go straight out and buy one. Then, to add insult to injury we evacuate to her house seriously compromising her ability to plan my party. Not that you would have noticed as the party was brilliant. Champagne, shepherds pie (yum!), English cheeses, fabulous people, flowers in baby bottles, the works. If I was a better writer I'd be able to do it justice, but all I can leave you with is this:
How ironic that I actually thought LK cared.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tea Fire Photo
Thanks to Chilly for forwarding this pic - taken from behind our street on the night of the fire.
This is what it looks like to open your bedroom curtains and come face to face with a raging wildfire.
I'm amazed creature #2 wasn't born that night.
This is what it looks like to open your bedroom curtains and come face to face with a raging wildfire.
I'm amazed creature #2 wasn't born that night.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
She Didn't Get The Memo
What kind of mother criticizes her daughter's weight? One that still has to push her out through her unmentionables, that's who. I finally had my rescheduled ultrasound yesterday. Just goes to show there's no point worrying about something, because as soon as you do the cosmic joker will hand you something much more impressive to get your knickers in a twist about.
Did I mention the fire?
Sorry, old news.
Well, apparently creature #2 did not get the memo about a two-vessel umbilical cord hindering growth. She is already 4lbs 130z by their estimates. A whopping 1lb heavier than the 'average' baby at this point. My perineum is already waving the white flag.
How did she and I manage this??! I appreciate that ultrasound is a notoriously inaccurate way to measure approximate foetal weight, but I have to give the doctor credit, all signs point to yes on this one. I have revised my Christmas plans and now intend to start high-intensity aerobics the minute the turkey has been carved. I am not planning on a 10lb baby. As LK and I walked & waddled back from the appointment I let him know that this will be our last child. If I can produce a potential 10lb baby with a dodgy cord and no sign of gestational diabetes then I will not risk a 15 pounder next time. Good grief. Am I gestating babies or turkeys?
After the initial shock that I was harbouring an elephant had waned, there was a little disappointment in that I'd expected to see more of her, but she is so squashed in there that he couldn't get a decent facial shot. This is the best they could do:
Is it just me or is she scowling?
Anyway, gorgeous I think you'll agree. For an elephant.
Did I mention the fire?
Sorry, old news.
Well, apparently creature #2 did not get the memo about a two-vessel umbilical cord hindering growth. She is already 4lbs 130z by their estimates. A whopping 1lb heavier than the 'average' baby at this point. My perineum is already waving the white flag.
How did she and I manage this??! I appreciate that ultrasound is a notoriously inaccurate way to measure approximate foetal weight, but I have to give the doctor credit, all signs point to yes on this one. I have revised my Christmas plans and now intend to start high-intensity aerobics the minute the turkey has been carved. I am not planning on a 10lb baby. As LK and I walked & waddled back from the appointment I let him know that this will be our last child. If I can produce a potential 10lb baby with a dodgy cord and no sign of gestational diabetes then I will not risk a 15 pounder next time. Good grief. Am I gestating babies or turkeys?
After the initial shock that I was harbouring an elephant had waned, there was a little disappointment in that I'd expected to see more of her, but she is so squashed in there that he couldn't get a decent facial shot. This is the best they could do:
Is it just me or is she scowling?
Anyway, gorgeous I think you'll agree. For an elephant.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Anatomy of an Evacuation
The conditions were perfect. It hadn't rained in months and one of the docs I work for had called our office just before we all left at 5:30pm to say be careful driving home as he'd just cycled to the top of the mountain and there were 70mph winds up there. We thought nothing of it (particularly as downtown was dead calm) and headed home.
I had just made Anna her dinner and we were in the middle of 'Wow Wow Wubbzy' (a true horror of a kids TV show) when the phone rang.
My friend R. asked if I'd any idea what was going on behind our house. She told me to turn the TV on. Not wanting to risk a preschooler meltdown by changing channels I dragged my bulk upstairs and switched on channel 3. Fire on the Riviera. I walked to the back of the house, opened the curtains and. just. about. died.
This BBC report is a different fire - and in daylight, but this footage is precisely what I saw - and how close - when I opened our bedroom curtains. It was about 6 o'clock, fifteen minutes after the fire is predicted to have started. The sun was already long gone from the sky, and all I could see was a giant plume of orange smoke, flames shooting nearly a hundred feet in the air, and the full moon a terrifying blood-orange colour. Within minutes the moon was completely obscured by the smoke, and it began raining ash.
I raced for the suitcases and starting throwing things in as fast as possible. Birth certificates, passports, clothes, shoes, desperately trying to formulate 'outfits' in my head as I pulled open drawers and grabbed stuff. I was frantically trying to remember this list from a previous fire post. What had I decided I needed to pack? I was unplugging the hard drive (which because of the battery back-up was refusing to die rather like an electronic headless chicken), and ruing the flippancy of my previous thoughts on fires.
I will never forget the sheer terror of opening those curtains and seeing flames roaring within blocks of our house.
I was desperately calling LK at work, but he wasn't answering his cell. I finally got through to his receptionist, practically sobbing at her to find him as I could already see the traffic pouring off the Riviera and I knew that if he didn't leave work now he would not be able to get to us. She said 'what fire?'. It suddenly occurred to me that if my friend had not phoned I would still be oblivious myself.
LK finally called me back and promised to get home as fast as possible. I kept remembering things I should pack. In an absurd parody of the 'Generation Game', I would keep repeating the same thing twice 'cuddly toy!' and forgot the critical stuff, like our insurance policy.
In the end we did come away with three cuddly toys.
The entire time I was racing around upstairs Anna was happily oblivious downstairs. I was having contraction after contraction - nothing serious, just warnings that I was overdoing it (lugging a 30lb hard drive down the stairs then racing back upstairs to collect another cuddly toy and check on the fire's progress). Yet every time I would sit down and try and gather my thoughts I'd remember something else I should pack, and race off again.
I was so happy to see LK walk through the door, until he announced his intention to drive up the Riviera to the house of some good friends who were out of town. He'd called them to see if they wanted anything rescuing as their house was even closer to the inferno. They were understandably a little taken aback by the urgency of his tone. Imagine sitting by the pool in the Bahamas and answering a phone-call from someone screaming 'your house is going to burn down what do you want me to grab'. It would take a little time to collect your thoughts. In the end LK raced up the hill to rescue their passports, and a split second after he left the power went out.
Now I have previously patted myself on the back for keeping all my candles and matches in one easily accessible (except to a child) place. It's no joke trying to locate that place in the pitch black however. Plus, Anna was not at all happy to have Wow Wow Wubbzy disappear from her life. I tried manfully to remain cheery as I blundered through the dark across a minefield of legos and plastic animals to fish out the candles, the entire time answering a barrage of questions about why there weren't any lights, why she couldn't go and watch TV upstairs, what electricity was, why we couldn't go and buy some, why she couldn't watch her DVD instead..... I went around the living room lighting candles, trying to explain why she couldn't blow them out, trying to keep her from playing with them, knowing I couldn't race upstairs to get the old telephone from under the bed as our cordless phones were now dead, as I couldn't leave Anna alone downstairs with 15 candles. It was certainly eerie to be plunged in to darkness, the only sounds being the screaming and honking of sirens from outside and the endless, endless suggestions from Anna as to how I could restore her TV program. I would have killed for a battery powered radio, I felt so isolated not knowing what was going on, sitting in the dark with my daughter waiting for the police or LK to come to our door.
I thought I was doing well, not scaring her unduly, not once mentioning the raging inferno outside our windows, but apparently I mustn't have maintained the composure I was trying so hard for in front of her, because when LK finally returned, passports in hand, the first thing Anna said to him was:
"FUCK! The lights"
LK looked at her and said 'what did you say?'
and she said "FUCK! THE LIGHTS!"
"Yes, that's what I thought you said" he laughed and raised his eyebrows at me.
..............................
In the end we all piled in to the car, LK having remembered our guinea pig as we were pulling out of the driveway. The traffic was diabolical, not just because all the traffic lights were out, but because people were just standing in the streets watching the fire. There were fender benders galore, and our friend reported seeing someone trying to cross a major junction with two horses in tow. We made it to our good friends house, a little further from the fire but still ironically within the evacuation warning zone - happy to find they at least had power - and we all sat glued to the (appalling) TV coverage which played and replayed the same footage whilst feeding misinformation about other fires being reported only blocks from where we were sitting. One minute we'd be slowly relaxing thinking the worst was over, then a couple of seconds later they'd report a burning house blocks from ours and the panic would grip us all over again.
I can't believe I managed to fall asleep, but the exhaustion and no doubt the baby took over. The last thing I remember is curling up next to Anna, trying not to think about all the things I hadn't packed, listening to the same reporter repeat the same information on the TV while helicopters thrummed incessantly overhead.
It seems amazing now that more homes weren't destroyed, that the 70 mph winds managed to subside before the fire tore a path straight through our town. Even more amazing that life could spring back to normal so quickly for the majority of the city after we were so close to losing everything. It's easy to be flippant about the housing market, and a house burning down being a gift from God if you have a mortgage from hell. When I think that we had the luxury of an hour to evacuate, compared to the people who just had to grab their kids and run, that we have the chance to return to our home and our lovely shitty furniture and equally shitty mortgage. That all those Christmas presents and things for the baby are still sitting in my wardrobe where I left them. I am just tremendously thankful for our good fortune, and so very sorry for those who did lose everything as I feel that now I got the smallest taste of what that must feel like.
I had just made Anna her dinner and we were in the middle of 'Wow Wow Wubbzy' (a true horror of a kids TV show) when the phone rang.
My friend R. asked if I'd any idea what was going on behind our house. She told me to turn the TV on. Not wanting to risk a preschooler meltdown by changing channels I dragged my bulk upstairs and switched on channel 3. Fire on the Riviera. I walked to the back of the house, opened the curtains and. just. about. died.
This BBC report is a different fire - and in daylight, but this footage is precisely what I saw - and how close - when I opened our bedroom curtains. It was about 6 o'clock, fifteen minutes after the fire is predicted to have started. The sun was already long gone from the sky, and all I could see was a giant plume of orange smoke, flames shooting nearly a hundred feet in the air, and the full moon a terrifying blood-orange colour. Within minutes the moon was completely obscured by the smoke, and it began raining ash.
I raced for the suitcases and starting throwing things in as fast as possible. Birth certificates, passports, clothes, shoes, desperately trying to formulate 'outfits' in my head as I pulled open drawers and grabbed stuff. I was frantically trying to remember this list from a previous fire post. What had I decided I needed to pack? I was unplugging the hard drive (which because of the battery back-up was refusing to die rather like an electronic headless chicken), and ruing the flippancy of my previous thoughts on fires.
I will never forget the sheer terror of opening those curtains and seeing flames roaring within blocks of our house.
I was desperately calling LK at work, but he wasn't answering his cell. I finally got through to his receptionist, practically sobbing at her to find him as I could already see the traffic pouring off the Riviera and I knew that if he didn't leave work now he would not be able to get to us. She said 'what fire?'. It suddenly occurred to me that if my friend had not phoned I would still be oblivious myself.
LK finally called me back and promised to get home as fast as possible. I kept remembering things I should pack. In an absurd parody of the 'Generation Game', I would keep repeating the same thing twice 'cuddly toy!' and forgot the critical stuff, like our insurance policy.
In the end we did come away with three cuddly toys.
The entire time I was racing around upstairs Anna was happily oblivious downstairs. I was having contraction after contraction - nothing serious, just warnings that I was overdoing it (lugging a 30lb hard drive down the stairs then racing back upstairs to collect another cuddly toy and check on the fire's progress). Yet every time I would sit down and try and gather my thoughts I'd remember something else I should pack, and race off again.
I was so happy to see LK walk through the door, until he announced his intention to drive up the Riviera to the house of some good friends who were out of town. He'd called them to see if they wanted anything rescuing as their house was even closer to the inferno. They were understandably a little taken aback by the urgency of his tone. Imagine sitting by the pool in the Bahamas and answering a phone-call from someone screaming 'your house is going to burn down what do you want me to grab'. It would take a little time to collect your thoughts. In the end LK raced up the hill to rescue their passports, and a split second after he left the power went out.
Now I have previously patted myself on the back for keeping all my candles and matches in one easily accessible (except to a child) place. It's no joke trying to locate that place in the pitch black however. Plus, Anna was not at all happy to have Wow Wow Wubbzy disappear from her life. I tried manfully to remain cheery as I blundered through the dark across a minefield of legos and plastic animals to fish out the candles, the entire time answering a barrage of questions about why there weren't any lights, why she couldn't go and watch TV upstairs, what electricity was, why we couldn't go and buy some, why she couldn't watch her DVD instead..... I went around the living room lighting candles, trying to explain why she couldn't blow them out, trying to keep her from playing with them, knowing I couldn't race upstairs to get the old telephone from under the bed as our cordless phones were now dead, as I couldn't leave Anna alone downstairs with 15 candles. It was certainly eerie to be plunged in to darkness, the only sounds being the screaming and honking of sirens from outside and the endless, endless suggestions from Anna as to how I could restore her TV program. I would have killed for a battery powered radio, I felt so isolated not knowing what was going on, sitting in the dark with my daughter waiting for the police or LK to come to our door.
I thought I was doing well, not scaring her unduly, not once mentioning the raging inferno outside our windows, but apparently I mustn't have maintained the composure I was trying so hard for in front of her, because when LK finally returned, passports in hand, the first thing Anna said to him was:
"FUCK! The lights"
LK looked at her and said 'what did you say?'
and she said "FUCK! THE LIGHTS!"
"Yes, that's what I thought you said" he laughed and raised his eyebrows at me.
..............................
In the end we all piled in to the car, LK having remembered our guinea pig as we were pulling out of the driveway. The traffic was diabolical, not just because all the traffic lights were out, but because people were just standing in the streets watching the fire. There were fender benders galore, and our friend reported seeing someone trying to cross a major junction with two horses in tow. We made it to our good friends house, a little further from the fire but still ironically within the evacuation warning zone - happy to find they at least had power - and we all sat glued to the (appalling) TV coverage which played and replayed the same footage whilst feeding misinformation about other fires being reported only blocks from where we were sitting. One minute we'd be slowly relaxing thinking the worst was over, then a couple of seconds later they'd report a burning house blocks from ours and the panic would grip us all over again.
I can't believe I managed to fall asleep, but the exhaustion and no doubt the baby took over. The last thing I remember is curling up next to Anna, trying not to think about all the things I hadn't packed, listening to the same reporter repeat the same information on the TV while helicopters thrummed incessantly overhead.
It seems amazing now that more homes weren't destroyed, that the 70 mph winds managed to subside before the fire tore a path straight through our town. Even more amazing that life could spring back to normal so quickly for the majority of the city after we were so close to losing everything. It's easy to be flippant about the housing market, and a house burning down being a gift from God if you have a mortgage from hell. When I think that we had the luxury of an hour to evacuate, compared to the people who just had to grab their kids and run, that we have the chance to return to our home and our lovely shitty furniture and equally shitty mortgage. That all those Christmas presents and things for the baby are still sitting in my wardrobe where I left them. I am just tremendously thankful for our good fortune, and so very sorry for those who did lose everything as I feel that now I got the smallest taste of what that must feel like.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Thankyou Firefighters
The evacuation warning has been lifted and we are home again.
Without giving out too many personal details (and an invitation to come and knock at our door), here is a map of the fire, and I can tell you it reached within blocks of our house (yes, Almost American - the ghetto was threatened!!). The fire is not yet completely contained, but a good sign is that the hundreds and hundreds of firefighters who converged on SB seem to have headed home. It was quite a sight to be heading north on the freeway on Friday while the route south was crammed with fire trucks from every conceivable Northern California town headed to save our neighbourhood. Quite humbling really. I shall try and remember that next time I pay my taxes.
The red portion shows the 'active' fire area. Our house lies within blocks of the most southerly point (click on the map for more detail).
As it happens, we had a fantastic mini-vacation. An unplanned spending of gobs of cash, but you'd be hard pressed to find a better excuse I feel.
On a whim we decided to head north with what we'd rescued from the fire. That is how we ended up on holiday with no toothpaste and no toiletries, but instead, our wedding photos, the bottom drawer of our filing cabinet, our hard drive (but no keyboard & monitor) and that accompaniment for every well-seasoned traveler - a guinea pig. Try smuggling one of those in to a Hilton (and I don't mean Paris Hilton) - not easy.
We were clearly not the only people with the same bright idea. We bumped in to one of Anna's former Kindermusik classmates at the Monterey Aquarium this afternoon, which was more than a little bizarre. They too had fled the fire with trash bags filled with belongings and no real plan of where they were headed.
I am beyond exhausted, but happy to be home. I will regale with you stories of our hurried departure another time, but for now, sleep.
Without giving out too many personal details (and an invitation to come and knock at our door), here is a map of the fire, and I can tell you it reached within blocks of our house (yes, Almost American - the ghetto was threatened!!). The fire is not yet completely contained, but a good sign is that the hundreds and hundreds of firefighters who converged on SB seem to have headed home. It was quite a sight to be heading north on the freeway on Friday while the route south was crammed with fire trucks from every conceivable Northern California town headed to save our neighbourhood. Quite humbling really. I shall try and remember that next time I pay my taxes.
The red portion shows the 'active' fire area. Our house lies within blocks of the most southerly point (click on the map for more detail).
As it happens, we had a fantastic mini-vacation. An unplanned spending of gobs of cash, but you'd be hard pressed to find a better excuse I feel.
On a whim we decided to head north with what we'd rescued from the fire. That is how we ended up on holiday with no toothpaste and no toiletries, but instead, our wedding photos, the bottom drawer of our filing cabinet, our hard drive (but no keyboard & monitor) and that accompaniment for every well-seasoned traveler - a guinea pig. Try smuggling one of those in to a Hilton (and I don't mean Paris Hilton) - not easy.
We were clearly not the only people with the same bright idea. We bumped in to one of Anna's former Kindermusik classmates at the Monterey Aquarium this afternoon, which was more than a little bizarre. They too had fled the fire with trash bags filled with belongings and no real plan of where they were headed.
I am beyond exhausted, but happy to be home. I will regale with you stories of our hurried departure another time, but for now, sleep.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Phoning It In
I've been seriously considering winning the 'best excuse for not posting' award as I'm sure being evacuated from a wildfire would qualify me. Instead I'm sitting at a pay-per-minute internet cafe in Monterey (this post will be brief) in order to keep the NaBloPoMo spirit alive.
We decided to get the hell out of dodge. As far as we can glean, we still have a home, although it's too smoky to have a 3 year old and an about-to-pop pregneto spending any length of time there. I'm really looking forward to cleaning up all that ash when we get back.....
I promise longer posts on our return.
We decided to get the hell out of dodge. As far as we can glean, we still have a home, although it's too smoky to have a 3 year old and an about-to-pop pregneto spending any length of time there. I'm really looking forward to cleaning up all that ash when we get back.....
I promise longer posts on our return.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Evacuation Warning
We are under an evacuation warning - not sure if we could even get back to our house if we needed to (note - don't pack jogging trousers if you think it's going to be 80º the next day). If you examined the stuff I threw in a bag in a frenzied 15 minutes of packing and contractions during the power outage last night, a mini flashlight clutched between my teeth, you would laugh. 15 pairs of knickers 1 t-shirt and a pair of high heeled work shoes. WTF???
We spent a fraught night at a friends house (where they have power - and a laptop). Our neighbourhood looks like a warzone. They are using the school across from us as a helicopter and emergency vehicle staging area. That much I can see from the TV. The air is thick with ash and smoke and they are predicting Santa Ana winds for the remainder of the day (hot, fry off-shore winds - basically fanning the fire down towards us).
I could really do with a pair of shorts and some eye-liner. And a cup of tea. Ironic really as it's called the Tea Fire - obviously out to get all heavily pregnant Brits in the area.
Will try and keep you posted.
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