Sorry for the vague Robert the Bruce comment. It appears not everyone was schooled in this 'stick-to-it-iveness' legend as I was growing up.
What I meant to convey was, I will be telling Anna that 'if at first you don't succeed try, try again'. How does this relate to Robert the Bruce? Well, as I understand it whilst fighting the dreaded Sassanachs (the English) he found himself holed up in a cave nursing his wounds and many defeats. Whilst glumly examining his options he watched a spider trying to build a web in the corner of the cave. It tried and failed seven times - mirroring his successive defeats to the English - but on the 8th time the spider was successful, which our Robert took to be *a sign*, and, so I have been told, the origin of the phrase 'if at first you don't succeed....'.
For a better explanation, including those of you who want to know who the chuff Robert the Bruce was in the first place, and why he is responsible for killing ExpatKat's ancestors (and, what he has to do with the credit crunch) read here, and here.
Interesting point from that first article '............Bruce was at the lowest point of his life. He thought about leaving the country and never coming back'. Funny how history repeats itself.
So there. I can't help thinking that if it had been Roberta the Bruce holed up in a drafty cave somewhere in the Borders she would have said 'right, well, let's make the best of things and tidy this place up, that web's going for a start', and the spider would have been history rather than legend.
And so endeth the sermon for today. Dying with Dignity tomorrow. I'm sure you can hardly wait....
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
In Defence of the Imprudent
As if sitting in on an end-of-life lunch conference wasn't bad enough (and imagine trying to discreetly work your way through a pasta salad when discussing Terry Schiavo and feeding tubes) I had the joy of sitting next to two self-congratulatory muppets holding forth on the credit crunch.
I did not weigh in, although I may have given my broccoli spears an extra vicious stab or two. It's a refrain I hear too often these days, smug fixed-raters happy to lay the blame for the current financial meltdown squarely at the feet of those 'stupid enough to take the loans in the first place'. People who happily bought their homes five or more years ago that were lucky enough to find properties they could afford without incurring excessive risk.
We are certainly not in this happy group. We did end up buying at the wrong time and with a horror story of a loan. We probably do deserve everything we are likely to get served up to us. I am putting this down in defence of the imprudent, the stupid, the people who made their own beds and are now forced to lie in them. I am writing this so I can get it off my chest without engaging any self-righteous twits the likes of whom I sat next to this afternoon.
If Bridget Jones can have her 'smug marrieds' I can have my 'smug fixed-raters'.
In my (our) defence, we are not stupid. I had heard of negative equity well before the credit crunch. We were faced with a town where real estate was so ludicrously out of our reach that renting was the only option. In the time that we sat quietly, prudently squirreling away our nest egg, the most basic, squalid, 2-bedroom condos sky-rocketed by hundreds of thousands of dollars. Those people we watched take dodgy loans to get a foothold in the market were coming up smelling of roses. Santa Barbara real estate was always a safe bet, there had never been a downturn, if anything only a plateau, way back when the rest of the country took a bath. So we took a chance, because we'd already wasted so much time doing nothing. It was good advice, a sensible decision, and I am terminally sensible. It was the only chance we had.
I still think the decision we made was prudent. If things had gone faster, smoother, we would have been chuffing laughing. We bought an income property with the intent to switch four apartments in to four separately saleable condominiums. Divide and conquer. The City of Santa Barbara worked on our conversion application at a deliberately glacial pace. There were too many hurdles to mention (archeological surveys, sounds surveys, sewer lateral surveys, survey surveys), but we finally did get planning approval and permits issued.
Too late it appears, the financial tide had turned.
We are still in the fortunate position of being able to collect rents. Our position would have been infinitely worse if we'd bought a condo back in 2005. It still leaves us with a nuclear mushroom cloud of a loan, and a hell of a job trying to hang on, but you better believe we're getting creative on that end!! Who knows, you may see creature #2 on Ebay in the near future. At the very least I may be jogging for a 'tax baby' at the end of December.
So while you're busy patting yourselves on the back and applauding your fiscal good sense, perhaps take a moment to consider how much luck played in to your success. We are not all spendthrifts putting 'I want, I must have' things on credit because we feel we are entitled to a lifestyle above what we're prepared to work for. There are plenty of people in this mess, who through job-loss, illness, sky-rocketing interest rates or other unforeseen circumstance are no longer able to afford a basic right - a home.
And yes, in the words of Norman Tebbit, we can just get on our bikes. No-one made us live in this rich-man's town. Except it's my husband's home town, where he wanted to stay and raise children, and we tried to make it work. Trust me, nothing can put a strain on a marriage like running in to trouble fulfilling someone else's dream.
I don't blame our mortgage broker, he was only doing what every single loan broker in this town now denies doing; helping people into properties they knew they couldn't afford so that they could at least have a chance at taking a risk. I do blame the mortgage companies for allowing these loans, which caused property values to rise exponentially, and I'm sure they in turn have regulators they would like to slap. And yes, this is a 'correction' and people should be made to pay, capitalism will have it's pound of flesh. I see how unfair it is to take tax-payers monies to bail out those who made bad decisions. But this is bigger than that - this is everybody's savings, their pensions, their ability to get a loan to make a better life. This is scary. This is working hard and going backwards. You better believe I will be telling Anna the 'Robert the Bruce and the spider story' over the years to come.
See, this is what happens when I eavesdrop on other people's conversations instead of listening to this month's guest speaker on the topic of 'Advance Directives, How To Die With Dignity'.
I did not weigh in, although I may have given my broccoli spears an extra vicious stab or two. It's a refrain I hear too often these days, smug fixed-raters happy to lay the blame for the current financial meltdown squarely at the feet of those 'stupid enough to take the loans in the first place'. People who happily bought their homes five or more years ago that were lucky enough to find properties they could afford without incurring excessive risk.
We are certainly not in this happy group. We did end up buying at the wrong time and with a horror story of a loan. We probably do deserve everything we are likely to get served up to us. I am putting this down in defence of the imprudent, the stupid, the people who made their own beds and are now forced to lie in them. I am writing this so I can get it off my chest without engaging any self-righteous twits the likes of whom I sat next to this afternoon.
If Bridget Jones can have her 'smug marrieds' I can have my 'smug fixed-raters'.
In my (our) defence, we are not stupid. I had heard of negative equity well before the credit crunch. We were faced with a town where real estate was so ludicrously out of our reach that renting was the only option. In the time that we sat quietly, prudently squirreling away our nest egg, the most basic, squalid, 2-bedroom condos sky-rocketed by hundreds of thousands of dollars. Those people we watched take dodgy loans to get a foothold in the market were coming up smelling of roses. Santa Barbara real estate was always a safe bet, there had never been a downturn, if anything only a plateau, way back when the rest of the country took a bath. So we took a chance, because we'd already wasted so much time doing nothing. It was good advice, a sensible decision, and I am terminally sensible. It was the only chance we had.
I still think the decision we made was prudent. If things had gone faster, smoother, we would have been chuffing laughing. We bought an income property with the intent to switch four apartments in to four separately saleable condominiums. Divide and conquer. The City of Santa Barbara worked on our conversion application at a deliberately glacial pace. There were too many hurdles to mention (archeological surveys, sounds surveys, sewer lateral surveys, survey surveys), but we finally did get planning approval and permits issued.
Too late it appears, the financial tide had turned.
We are still in the fortunate position of being able to collect rents. Our position would have been infinitely worse if we'd bought a condo back in 2005. It still leaves us with a nuclear mushroom cloud of a loan, and a hell of a job trying to hang on, but you better believe we're getting creative on that end!! Who knows, you may see creature #2 on Ebay in the near future. At the very least I may be jogging for a 'tax baby' at the end of December.
So while you're busy patting yourselves on the back and applauding your fiscal good sense, perhaps take a moment to consider how much luck played in to your success. We are not all spendthrifts putting 'I want, I must have' things on credit because we feel we are entitled to a lifestyle above what we're prepared to work for. There are plenty of people in this mess, who through job-loss, illness, sky-rocketing interest rates or other unforeseen circumstance are no longer able to afford a basic right - a home.
And yes, in the words of Norman Tebbit, we can just get on our bikes. No-one made us live in this rich-man's town. Except it's my husband's home town, where he wanted to stay and raise children, and we tried to make it work. Trust me, nothing can put a strain on a marriage like running in to trouble fulfilling someone else's dream.
I don't blame our mortgage broker, he was only doing what every single loan broker in this town now denies doing; helping people into properties they knew they couldn't afford so that they could at least have a chance at taking a risk. I do blame the mortgage companies for allowing these loans, which caused property values to rise exponentially, and I'm sure they in turn have regulators they would like to slap. And yes, this is a 'correction' and people should be made to pay, capitalism will have it's pound of flesh. I see how unfair it is to take tax-payers monies to bail out those who made bad decisions. But this is bigger than that - this is everybody's savings, their pensions, their ability to get a loan to make a better life. This is scary. This is working hard and going backwards. You better believe I will be telling Anna the 'Robert the Bruce and the spider story' over the years to come.
See, this is what happens when I eavesdrop on other people's conversations instead of listening to this month's guest speaker on the topic of 'Advance Directives, How To Die With Dignity'.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Square Eyes
How do you know if your child is watching too much TV?
Not necessarily when they can name all of the Backyardigans, or when they say 'I've seen this episode'. It's when they say:
"Mom, would you like to get more for your money?"
at least it was that and not:
"Do you have embarrassing odour, that itch you can't scratch?"
Not necessarily when they can name all of the Backyardigans, or when they say 'I've seen this episode'. It's when they say:
"Mom, would you like to get more for your money?"
at least it was that and not:
"Do you have embarrassing odour, that itch you can't scratch?"
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Daddy's Girl
As a parent you're not supposed to play favourites. On the whole I'm finding that easy, considering one's still in utero, kicking me in the bladder and causing me to pee when I laugh, sneeze, and move too quickly.
No-one tells a 3 year old they can't play favourites though, and I'm rapidly being demoted to parent #2.
This morning while HRH was sitting in the bath I told her that I would be watching her while Dad was in the shower, but that once he was done, I was off to work and he was going to be looking after her. I usually drop her off at school, but for once he had a late start and was on Anna-duty.
'Oh great' she said, more to her turtles than to me 'I knew a Dadda day would come up soon'.
To save on childcare, we have arranged our schedules so that I have Friday thru Sunday off and LK has Sundays and Mondays off, so Anna only has to go to school 3 days a week. I don't get to see LK that much, but after almost 15 years of being together, *shoulder shrug*.
Monday is LK's favourite day of the week, he takes Anna to the beach, to the swimming pool, to the Sea Center, the carousel, all over. On Fridays I take Anna to the supermarket, to my gym, and we do laundry. Hmm, I wonder why LK is winning parent of the year.
I realize my issue is not so much with Anna (although Jesus Christ beotch, I nursed you for chuffing months, throw me a frickin' bone here), it's with LK. It's getting the balance right. I am more interested in her having a presentable ponytail and outfit when she leaves the house. LK never adheres to a schedule and doesn't care when she turns up somewhere or how she looks. He's also far more creative than me. If I take Anna to the beach, we will look for shells, or more often these days, I will park my giant bulk on a towel and she will hunt for sea-life herself. When LK takes her, they pretend to fish for marlin and barracuda, they design elaborate assault courses and then race til exhaustion. Exhaustion seems to hit me a little earlier these days.
I know this is only going to get worse when the new little one arrives and I'll have to spend half my life nursing. I've decided to up the ante while I can. This weekend, I'm playing dirty. Anna and I are making cupcakes, going bug-hunting, watching Dora ad nauseum and going swimming. I will save the errands for LK for Monday. Then we'll see who's parent of the month.
Bwa-ha-ha.
No-one tells a 3 year old they can't play favourites though, and I'm rapidly being demoted to parent #2.
This morning while HRH was sitting in the bath I told her that I would be watching her while Dad was in the shower, but that once he was done, I was off to work and he was going to be looking after her. I usually drop her off at school, but for once he had a late start and was on Anna-duty.
'Oh great' she said, more to her turtles than to me 'I knew a Dadda day would come up soon'.
To save on childcare, we have arranged our schedules so that I have Friday thru Sunday off and LK has Sundays and Mondays off, so Anna only has to go to school 3 days a week. I don't get to see LK that much, but after almost 15 years of being together, *shoulder shrug*.
Monday is LK's favourite day of the week, he takes Anna to the beach, to the swimming pool, to the Sea Center, the carousel, all over. On Fridays I take Anna to the supermarket, to my gym, and we do laundry. Hmm, I wonder why LK is winning parent of the year.
I realize my issue is not so much with Anna (although Jesus Christ beotch, I nursed you for chuffing months, throw me a frickin' bone here), it's with LK. It's getting the balance right. I am more interested in her having a presentable ponytail and outfit when she leaves the house. LK never adheres to a schedule and doesn't care when she turns up somewhere or how she looks. He's also far more creative than me. If I take Anna to the beach, we will look for shells, or more often these days, I will park my giant bulk on a towel and she will hunt for sea-life herself. When LK takes her, they pretend to fish for marlin and barracuda, they design elaborate assault courses and then race til exhaustion. Exhaustion seems to hit me a little earlier these days.
I know this is only going to get worse when the new little one arrives and I'll have to spend half my life nursing. I've decided to up the ante while I can. This weekend, I'm playing dirty. Anna and I are making cupcakes, going bug-hunting, watching Dora ad nauseum and going swimming. I will save the errands for LK for Monday. Then we'll see who's parent of the month.
Bwa-ha-ha.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Scent of a Woman
Someone outside my office, sitting in the patient’s waiting room, is wearing my Mum’s old perfume, and it’s amazing how strange a sensation that is. I don’t even know what my Mum’s current perfume is, I’m sure it’s changed. I think what I’m smelling, wafts of nostalgia fighting the usual smell of old people and antiseptic, is Magie Noire, but I’m not even sure of that. You can’t google a smell after all. I’m having to restrain myself from dashing out there and yelling ‘Mummy!’.
I doubt Anna will ever have the same experience. I am a perfume maverick, constantly flitting between a few faves. For my birthday LK bought me this Marc Jacobs, Daisy gift set.
I know, lucky me.
I’m embarrassed to say I like the bottle more than the smell, but only because I LOVE the bottle. If I could come back as a perfume bottle, this would be me. The scent is inoffensive, floral and sweet. It actually reminds me of Palma Violets:
Does anybody remember those?
It’s not the kind of perfume that people will walk up and ask what you’re wearing. Unless they’re a diabetic. Case in point, LK asked when I was going to start wearing it, while I was slathered in the stuff - 3 squirts of perfume and some glittery body lotion for good measure.
When I was in my early teens I went on a school trip to Italy and the South of France. One of our excursions was a day trip to a perfumery in Grasse. I learned a lot about perfume, and how they vary in intensity and ‘honesty’ with different skin types. I do remember being told that very fair people should always go for lighter fragrances. In perfume terms I am a willo’ the wisp WASP. No fun. Even so, I feel like Daisy is getting lost on me. I’m somehow absorbing rather than radiating it. Still, at least the bottle is gorgeous.
My greatest perfume successes have been Light Blue (huge hit – even Anna tells me I smell good when I wear it, DULL DULL DULL bottle) and Dune (definitely not a subtle scent). I had a love affair with Michael by Michael Kors, the only perfume I’ve come across that smells like a bottled tuberose. That seemed to smell better in the bottle than on me though. I got married in Eternity (ha, bloody ha) but it always smelled slightly chemical on me, and I will occasionally wear Burberry Brit.
I would KILL to smell like this:
Purple Orchid Tree. I regularly go out of
my way in order to walk under this tree near my office.
As for LK, my favourite of all his aftershaves (of which he has none) has to be Tide Original Scent. Yum. I once read that married woman 'mark' their husbands by making their clothes smell like Downy - as no self-respecting single man would take the time to put conditioner in his wash.
What about you lot? Any recommendations? Any scents that define you?
I doubt Anna will ever have the same experience. I am a perfume maverick, constantly flitting between a few faves. For my birthday LK bought me this Marc Jacobs, Daisy gift set.
I know, lucky me.
I’m embarrassed to say I like the bottle more than the smell, but only because I LOVE the bottle. If I could come back as a perfume bottle, this would be me. The scent is inoffensive, floral and sweet. It actually reminds me of Palma Violets:
Does anybody remember those?
It’s not the kind of perfume that people will walk up and ask what you’re wearing. Unless they’re a diabetic. Case in point, LK asked when I was going to start wearing it, while I was slathered in the stuff - 3 squirts of perfume and some glittery body lotion for good measure.
When I was in my early teens I went on a school trip to Italy and the South of France. One of our excursions was a day trip to a perfumery in Grasse. I learned a lot about perfume, and how they vary in intensity and ‘honesty’ with different skin types. I do remember being told that very fair people should always go for lighter fragrances. In perfume terms I am a willo’ the wisp WASP. No fun. Even so, I feel like Daisy is getting lost on me. I’m somehow absorbing rather than radiating it. Still, at least the bottle is gorgeous.
My greatest perfume successes have been Light Blue (huge hit – even Anna tells me I smell good when I wear it, DULL DULL DULL bottle) and Dune (definitely not a subtle scent). I had a love affair with Michael by Michael Kors, the only perfume I’ve come across that smells like a bottled tuberose. That seemed to smell better in the bottle than on me though. I got married in Eternity (ha, bloody ha) but it always smelled slightly chemical on me, and I will occasionally wear Burberry Brit.
I would KILL to smell like this:
Purple Orchid Tree. I regularly go out of
my way in order to walk under this tree near my office.
As for LK, my favourite of all his aftershaves (of which he has none) has to be Tide Original Scent. Yum. I once read that married woman 'mark' their husbands by making their clothes smell like Downy - as no self-respecting single man would take the time to put conditioner in his wash.
What about you lot? Any recommendations? Any scents that define you?
Monday, September 15, 2008
Make Me A Chuffing Baby
I stole this idea from A Girl and A Boy, and thought how interesting it would be to try when you already know the results.
What the chuff am I blathering about??
OK, sorry, makemebabies.com. A site where you take a picture of you:
(I have no pride)
then a picture of the alleged father:
(Woof!)
Plug the two photos in to the site, and lo and behold it produces your spawn:
What the chuff am I blathering about??
OK, sorry, makemebabies.com. A site where you take a picture of you:
(I have no pride)
then a picture of the alleged father:
(Woof!)
Plug the two photos in to the site, and lo and behold it produces your spawn:
A little uncanny, no? Certainly, her hair has never looked that presentable, but that's a pretty damn accurate photo-fit of our little 3 year old.
Hmmm.
So, it got me thinking. People are always saying that LK looks a little like Jon Bon Jovi, and quite frankly who am I to contradict - having spent most of my formative years in the library or watching Match of the Day, I wouldn't have known quite frankly. All I recognized was someone I knew I wouldn't want to kick out of bed in the next 50 years.
Ahem, anyway. So, I put it to the test. I plugged in my photo, and a photo of JBJ:
And, you will be as amazed as I was at the results. Look at our potential daughter:
Hmmm.
So, it got me thinking. People are always saying that LK looks a little like Jon Bon Jovi, and quite frankly who am I to contradict - having spent most of my formative years in the library or watching Match of the Day, I wouldn't have known quite frankly. All I recognized was someone I knew I wouldn't want to kick out of bed in the next 50 years.
Ahem, anyway. So, I put it to the test. I plugged in my photo, and a photo of JBJ:
And, you will be as amazed as I was at the results. Look at our potential daughter:
Quite.
I think the sunglasses may have thrown them off a little off (yah think?), either that or one of us has some latent African heritage that only this website can pick up on.
Anyway, it made me laugh. I think I'll settle for the DNA donor I've got thankyou very much.
....and Pete, you'll never know how much restraint it took for me not to try it for you and the missus. Feel free to share the results with me though, if you feel so inclined.....
I think the sunglasses may have thrown them off a little off (yah think?), either that or one of us has some latent African heritage that only this website can pick up on.
Anyway, it made me laugh. I think I'll settle for the DNA donor I've got thankyou very much.
....and Pete, you'll never know how much restraint it took for me not to try it for you and the missus. Feel free to share the results with me though, if you feel so inclined.....
Friday, September 12, 2008
Didn't See It Coming
Absence makes the heart grow stronger? No, well maybe not. Sorry for being AWOL for a while. I have been finding it hard to snatch the requisite five minutes to fling my thoughts into cyberspace.
Anna is on the cusp of giving up naps. She is a nap-tease. Running round a mile a minute throughout her normal nap time (approx 1pm-3pm, ahh, those were the days), eschewing sleep or even my suggestion of ‘quiet time’, ie get the chuff away from Mummy and for the love of God stop talking. Then she will more often than not crash at 5pm. Too early to be put to bed for good, but too late for any use.
I knew that naps were going to end at some point, I’d just hoped it would be closer to age 18.
In the meantime, we’ve had both anniversaries and birthdays. My birthday went swimmingly. As in, Anna crawled in to our bed at 4am, then at 5:15 we woke up swimming in toddler urine. Nothing says Happy Birthday! like a pre-dawn sheet-strip.
The sudden wake-up calls continued this morning when Anna and I witnessed a car plough into a moped right before our very eyes. There we were, happily chatting about whether ants cans dance (my argument, yes, but do they?, unlikely) when all of a sudden *bang* and a person flying across the tarmac.
You would think my first thoughts would have been, 'shit, a crash’ or ‘if I was going any faster I would have flattened that poor soul’, but no, I distinctly remember seeing the moped and rider sailing sideways and I thought ‘well, that’s odd’.
Someone is missing their pre-pregnancy cups of coffee, obviously.
It was all rather anti-climactic after that. The moped rider hobbled to the side of the road, some kind soul picked up her scooter and (fortunately for me) people swarmed to offer their witness assistance. I parked half a block later in front of Anna’s school and noticed that the driver of the car was getting out with a look that said ‘oh well, guess I’m going to be late for work’. No concern, no hurry, just an embarrassed half-smile, a rueful grin. Meanwhile I was really shaken. Anna was happily oblivious, wondering why the bike was parked in the street, and I'm trying to hold back the tears. Stupid baby hormones. I just can't seem to get a grip these days.
The 4-wheeler versus 2-wheeler scene must be repeated twenty times a day in this town, because for the last 6 months mopeds, vespas and the like have hit Santa Barbara like a swarm of locusts. A swarm of brightly coloured retro-locusts. It makes sense. Gas prices are high, nowhere in Santa Barbara is more than 15 minutes away, people here love to be seen to be green, and it very rarely rains. Whether or not these moped drivers are inexperienced is not the issue (and most, swerving, and buzzing their way around town with a baguette and a yoga mat in their basket seem to be), the truth is other drivers just don’t see them.
The same is true of bicycles. I went to University in a town swarming with bikes. A Medieval town with ridiculously car-unfriendly tiny streets and alleys, and practically no parking. You went everywhere by bike and people would blithely walk out in front of you all the time. Let me just tell you, it hurts like a mutha-fucka to get hit by a bike, and your pride is very often just as badly injured. Tourists were particular culprits, failing to realise we 'drove on the wrong side', looking the wrong way while stepping directly in your path, your bike bell sounding its futile tinkle.
All of these points I made repeatedly to Anna on our walk in to school. No murdercycles for you young lady! No not paying attention. No bad grammar!! Although I held off on really driving it home in case she was tempted to rebel and start a preschooler Hells Angels of her own, complete with Barbie trikes and streamers. Her princess posse riding off in to the sunset, flashing Incy-Wincy Spider gang signs for all to see.
Anna is on the cusp of giving up naps. She is a nap-tease. Running round a mile a minute throughout her normal nap time (approx 1pm-3pm, ahh, those were the days), eschewing sleep or even my suggestion of ‘quiet time’, ie get the chuff away from Mummy and for the love of God stop talking. Then she will more often than not crash at 5pm. Too early to be put to bed for good, but too late for any use.
I knew that naps were going to end at some point, I’d just hoped it would be closer to age 18.
In the meantime, we’ve had both anniversaries and birthdays. My birthday went swimmingly. As in, Anna crawled in to our bed at 4am, then at 5:15 we woke up swimming in toddler urine. Nothing says Happy Birthday! like a pre-dawn sheet-strip.
The sudden wake-up calls continued this morning when Anna and I witnessed a car plough into a moped right before our very eyes. There we were, happily chatting about whether ants cans dance (my argument, yes, but do they?, unlikely) when all of a sudden *bang* and a person flying across the tarmac.
You would think my first thoughts would have been, 'shit, a crash’ or ‘if I was going any faster I would have flattened that poor soul’, but no, I distinctly remember seeing the moped and rider sailing sideways and I thought ‘well, that’s odd’.
Someone is missing their pre-pregnancy cups of coffee, obviously.
It was all rather anti-climactic after that. The moped rider hobbled to the side of the road, some kind soul picked up her scooter and (fortunately for me) people swarmed to offer their witness assistance. I parked half a block later in front of Anna’s school and noticed that the driver of the car was getting out with a look that said ‘oh well, guess I’m going to be late for work’. No concern, no hurry, just an embarrassed half-smile, a rueful grin. Meanwhile I was really shaken. Anna was happily oblivious, wondering why the bike was parked in the street, and I'm trying to hold back the tears. Stupid baby hormones. I just can't seem to get a grip these days.
The 4-wheeler versus 2-wheeler scene must be repeated twenty times a day in this town, because for the last 6 months mopeds, vespas and the like have hit Santa Barbara like a swarm of locusts. A swarm of brightly coloured retro-locusts. It makes sense. Gas prices are high, nowhere in Santa Barbara is more than 15 minutes away, people here love to be seen to be green, and it very rarely rains. Whether or not these moped drivers are inexperienced is not the issue (and most, swerving, and buzzing their way around town with a baguette and a yoga mat in their basket seem to be), the truth is other drivers just don’t see them.
The same is true of bicycles. I went to University in a town swarming with bikes. A Medieval town with ridiculously car-unfriendly tiny streets and alleys, and practically no parking. You went everywhere by bike and people would blithely walk out in front of you all the time. Let me just tell you, it hurts like a mutha-fucka to get hit by a bike, and your pride is very often just as badly injured. Tourists were particular culprits, failing to realise we 'drove on the wrong side', looking the wrong way while stepping directly in your path, your bike bell sounding its futile tinkle.
All of these points I made repeatedly to Anna on our walk in to school. No murdercycles for you young lady! No not paying attention. No bad grammar!! Although I held off on really driving it home in case she was tempted to rebel and start a preschooler Hells Angels of her own, complete with Barbie trikes and streamers. Her princess posse riding off in to the sunset, flashing Incy-Wincy Spider gang signs for all to see.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Baby's First Christmas FROM HELL
Wow, who knew there were so many Capricorns out there? But, seeing as how you have so happily volunteered the information, I have a question. Can there be a worse time for a birthday?
I suppose I'm making sweeping religious assumptions here, but isn't having your birthday around Christmas a complete nightmare? For the length of time it took us to get baby #2 on board, the idea of quibbling about her birth date seems both churlish and absurd (although the idea of a late December 'tax baby' is not to be sneezed at). I do know people who have abstained from 'trying' in late March/early April for fear of conceiving a Christmas baby. We also know someone born on Christmas Day, which is both unfortunate, and a distinct possibility for us.
What I was surprised at, is how many other people I know who are also knocked up and expecting at the exact same time as us. LK's tennis partner is due the day after us, for example. Why is this time of year so popular? We all know that there are a lot of September birthdays because there are a lot of drunk people gettin' busy around the holidays, but surely no-one would aim to have a baby over the holidays?
I can only assume that it's only after the deed is done - for most people - that you start to think about the timing of the birth. Poor old Anna is early June, which if we stay here is no big deal, but if we ever moved back to the UK it would mean her birthday would fall during exam time for her entire school and University career. Thanks Mum! On the plus side, it's far enough away from the holidays to not have the dreaded 'double present' issue, and it's a week after the Nordstrom half-yearly sale, so she always ends up getting fabulous clothes as gifts.
This creature is highly likely to make landfall within a two-week radius of Christmas. I know they are unlikely to let me 'go long' as Anna was so big last time, and she's a little more likely to be born early due to me gifting her with a dodgey umbilical cord, so keep your fingers crossed (and I shall likewise keep my legs crossed) that it's not Christmas.
That aside, is it miserable to have a birthday that close to the holidays? Are you doomed to receive double presents? Does no-one come to your party? Are people hastily removing the 'New Years knockdown' price-tags from your gifts? Am I being completely insane?
You're probably just glad to be here at all - as I should be with creature #2, but I can't stop wondering. What's the story?
I suppose I'm making sweeping religious assumptions here, but isn't having your birthday around Christmas a complete nightmare? For the length of time it took us to get baby #2 on board, the idea of quibbling about her birth date seems both churlish and absurd (although the idea of a late December 'tax baby' is not to be sneezed at). I do know people who have abstained from 'trying' in late March/early April for fear of conceiving a Christmas baby. We also know someone born on Christmas Day, which is both unfortunate, and a distinct possibility for us.
What I was surprised at, is how many other people I know who are also knocked up and expecting at the exact same time as us. LK's tennis partner is due the day after us, for example. Why is this time of year so popular? We all know that there are a lot of September birthdays because there are a lot of drunk people gettin' busy around the holidays, but surely no-one would aim to have a baby over the holidays?
I can only assume that it's only after the deed is done - for most people - that you start to think about the timing of the birth. Poor old Anna is early June, which if we stay here is no big deal, but if we ever moved back to the UK it would mean her birthday would fall during exam time for her entire school and University career. Thanks Mum! On the plus side, it's far enough away from the holidays to not have the dreaded 'double present' issue, and it's a week after the Nordstrom half-yearly sale, so she always ends up getting fabulous clothes as gifts.
This creature is highly likely to make landfall within a two-week radius of Christmas. I know they are unlikely to let me 'go long' as Anna was so big last time, and she's a little more likely to be born early due to me gifting her with a dodgey umbilical cord, so keep your fingers crossed (and I shall likewise keep my legs crossed) that it's not Christmas.
That aside, is it miserable to have a birthday that close to the holidays? Are you doomed to receive double presents? Does no-one come to your party? Are people hastily removing the 'New Years knockdown' price-tags from your gifts? Am I being completely insane?
You're probably just glad to be here at all - as I should be with creature #2, but I can't stop wondering. What's the story?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Astrology
It's surprising how many people, otherwise seemingly sane people, have found out we're having another baby in early January and have said 'oh, you're having a Capricorn, good luck with that', or 'hmm, a Capricorn they'll have a lot of energy and drive' (to which I was thinking, well someone in this family could do with some).
Six months ago if you'd have asked me what star sign early January was, I'd have drawn a blank. I know Virgo (me), and Taurus (LK), and I know that Anna is a Gemini for the same reason that I now know creature #2 will be a Capricorn - because people told me. I also know that Virgo and Taurus are a good match, and hey we have 11 years of blood, sweat and tears to prove that.
I have this smug dismissive disinterest in horoscopes. Claptrap. This is despite the whole Virgo/Taurus lurve-match thing, and despite the fact that if I look up the characteristics of a Virgo (precise, meticulous, anal-retentive) it is ME, ME, ME (shrewd, witty, clever - seriously I'm just quoting the heavens....). Despite those uncanny accuracies I do not consult my horoscope, and will only read it if stuck in a doctors office with nothing better to do.
Fortunately for me, my latest rounds of tests and appointments and general medical shenanigans have left me plenty of time to exhaust this month's supply of People magazines and move on to something different. In fact, I was so aware that I would be stuck with June's 'Parenting' magazine at yesterday's OB appointment that I thought ahead and packed my own *guilty pleasure* Hello! (As a side note it is ri-dic-ulously expensive over here, but I share it with a Danish lady who works across the hall from me, she buys it one week, I buy the other. Fascinating.). It was a good job I'd packed it too as Dr. Beaver was called away to an emergency C-section and I was there for nearly an hour.
Anyhoo. This was the gist of my horoscope for the week:
"Don't argue. Just do as you are told. Knuckle under. Acquiesce. Agree. Surrender. Why are you so reluctant? Show a little gratitude and humility. Bow, curtsey or touch your forelock. If you won't demonstrate due deference to your superiors, you deserve all the trouble and conflict you are likely to get this week".
Interesting?
My mother-in-law arrives tonight for a three week visit.
What the chuff?!! Likelihood of advice being followed: nil, but still, a little close to home I fear. Maybe there's more to this mercury ascending stuff than meets the eye.
What about you lot? What are you, and do you believe?
Six months ago if you'd have asked me what star sign early January was, I'd have drawn a blank. I know Virgo (me), and Taurus (LK), and I know that Anna is a Gemini for the same reason that I now know creature #2 will be a Capricorn - because people told me. I also know that Virgo and Taurus are a good match, and hey we have 11 years of blood, sweat and tears to prove that.
I have this smug dismissive disinterest in horoscopes. Claptrap. This is despite the whole Virgo/Taurus lurve-match thing, and despite the fact that if I look up the characteristics of a Virgo (precise, meticulous, anal-retentive) it is ME, ME, ME (shrewd, witty, clever - seriously I'm just quoting the heavens....). Despite those uncanny accuracies I do not consult my horoscope, and will only read it if stuck in a doctors office with nothing better to do.
Fortunately for me, my latest rounds of tests and appointments and general medical shenanigans have left me plenty of time to exhaust this month's supply of People magazines and move on to something different. In fact, I was so aware that I would be stuck with June's 'Parenting' magazine at yesterday's OB appointment that I thought ahead and packed my own *guilty pleasure* Hello! (As a side note it is ri-dic-ulously expensive over here, but I share it with a Danish lady who works across the hall from me, she buys it one week, I buy the other. Fascinating.). It was a good job I'd packed it too as Dr. Beaver was called away to an emergency C-section and I was there for nearly an hour.
Anyhoo. This was the gist of my horoscope for the week:
"Don't argue. Just do as you are told. Knuckle under. Acquiesce. Agree. Surrender. Why are you so reluctant? Show a little gratitude and humility. Bow, curtsey or touch your forelock. If you won't demonstrate due deference to your superiors, you deserve all the trouble and conflict you are likely to get this week".
Interesting?
My mother-in-law arrives tonight for a three week visit.
What the chuff?!! Likelihood of advice being followed: nil, but still, a little close to home I fear. Maybe there's more to this mercury ascending stuff than meets the eye.
What about you lot? What are you, and do you believe?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Polo - Explained
On our way to the pool the other morning we happened to drive past some Polo players warming up before a match (it's a hard life, living in Santa Barbara, but someone's got to do it.....)
Me, lusting after those Argentines in their boots: "Mmmmm"
Anna, giggling: "Look Mummy, that's silly, those horsies are playing golf"
Me, lusting after those Argentines in their boots: "Mmmmm"
Anna, giggling: "Look Mummy, that's silly, those horsies are playing golf"
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Doing The Right Thing
Yesterday I read this lovely, thought-provoking post by Wife in the North. I was instantly reeled in because it was set in a tea-shop in York. Oh to be transported back to a Fat Rascal for a morning! Why am I yearning for a drizzly morning's cup of tea next to the Ouse when I am minutes away from a palm-tree fringed beach breakfast? Obviously those Chelsea Buns from my internationally famous actress friend have started something at the DNA level!!
The post, along with the comments, made me think about how often we see the right thing to do, but avoid it because it'll be too time-consuming, or potentially embarrassing (a very knee-jerk English response). I know lots of really lovely people, those that are always ready to lend a hand, proffer a Kleenex, ask the right questions, to friends and strangers alike. I am not one of those people. The other day I let a bloke go in front of me in the queue at Trader Joes because he was only buying 4 things and I had a full domestic-diva trolley-full. I spent the next five minutes avoiding his gaze in case he thought I fancied him. Nuts, me.
As a whole though, I tend to shy away from confrontation, from getting involved with other people's lives. I will always listen but I very rarely ask. I'm very rarely the person who steps forward if I see a toddler wandering around by herself in the street, or someone who needs help. I'm always praying someone else will step in first. The situation arises all the time in the office where I work, people need help getting their elderly spouses in and out of wheelchairs, christ, opening doors, how hard is that?
As all good posts are, this one of Wife in the North's was both well-written and thought-provoking. It also reminded me of my brother. My favourite memory of him (can I say memory, when he's alive and kicking and probably right this minute in the pub?!) is when he helped an old lady with a run-away rockery.
LK, my brother and I were walking in to town to meet his then girlfriend for lunch. We were chatting away, strolling past the huge gabled entrances to some of the formidable Victorian homes along Harrogate's Stray, when we noticed an elderly lady struggling to move a massive boulder that had made a bid for freedom from her rockery, and was now in the middle of her drive. I remember my brother doing a comic half-step, a swift turnaround, and all of a sudden he was taking over and rolling the stone back in to position. Such a simple action, completed before we'd even had time to adjust our pace.
I remember how effusively he was thanked 'what a lovely young man', how the red crept up his neck to his ears. I remember thinking what a top bloke he was. I did see the old lady, but it never even occurred to me to help. I tend to blame innate shyness, or awkwardness on my part, but that is, as you Americans would say, a very 'lame' excuse. I need to step up to the plate more. It is a trait I very much dislike in myself. A trait I would not like Anna to inherit, so I need to lead by example.
Oh the horror.
The post, along with the comments, made me think about how often we see the right thing to do, but avoid it because it'll be too time-consuming, or potentially embarrassing (a very knee-jerk English response). I know lots of really lovely people, those that are always ready to lend a hand, proffer a Kleenex, ask the right questions, to friends and strangers alike. I am not one of those people. The other day I let a bloke go in front of me in the queue at Trader Joes because he was only buying 4 things and I had a full domestic-diva trolley-full. I spent the next five minutes avoiding his gaze in case he thought I fancied him. Nuts, me.
As a whole though, I tend to shy away from confrontation, from getting involved with other people's lives. I will always listen but I very rarely ask. I'm very rarely the person who steps forward if I see a toddler wandering around by herself in the street, or someone who needs help. I'm always praying someone else will step in first. The situation arises all the time in the office where I work, people need help getting their elderly spouses in and out of wheelchairs, christ, opening doors, how hard is that?
As all good posts are, this one of Wife in the North's was both well-written and thought-provoking. It also reminded me of my brother. My favourite memory of him (can I say memory, when he's alive and kicking and probably right this minute in the pub?!) is when he helped an old lady with a run-away rockery.
LK, my brother and I were walking in to town to meet his then girlfriend for lunch. We were chatting away, strolling past the huge gabled entrances to some of the formidable Victorian homes along Harrogate's Stray, when we noticed an elderly lady struggling to move a massive boulder that had made a bid for freedom from her rockery, and was now in the middle of her drive. I remember my brother doing a comic half-step, a swift turnaround, and all of a sudden he was taking over and rolling the stone back in to position. Such a simple action, completed before we'd even had time to adjust our pace.
I remember how effusively he was thanked 'what a lovely young man', how the red crept up his neck to his ears. I remember thinking what a top bloke he was. I did see the old lady, but it never even occurred to me to help. I tend to blame innate shyness, or awkwardness on my part, but that is, as you Americans would say, a very 'lame' excuse. I need to step up to the plate more. It is a trait I very much dislike in myself. A trait I would not like Anna to inherit, so I need to lead by example.
Oh the horror.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Single Umbilical Artery
S.U.A.
She's. Utterly. Appropriate.
The results are in and she's fine. I feel like screaming "I'm going to have a baby!!"
Huge sigh of relief. We called everyone we could that were in appropriate time-zones and then I collapsed in complete exhaustion, the released pent-up fear of the last week (months?) leaving me like a punctured blow-up doll.
It was so disconcerting to feel the squirms and kicks of this daughter-to-be whilst not knowing her fate. Almost as if I couldn't allow myself to continue bonding.
It's amazing how quickly that feeling of euphoria at the results was followed by a sudden willingness to accept the cold, hard facts of the situation. Well of course everything was fine, the doctor said as much, and my bloodwork was excellent. Why the anxiety? The fact that I may still have a small baby (ha!) or an early baby (please not Christmas) or that she may have kidney problems seem so trivial, so, fixable that I am on cloud nine.
I'm having a chuffing baby!
She's. Utterly. Appropriate.
The results are in and she's fine. I feel like screaming "I'm going to have a baby!!"
Huge sigh of relief. We called everyone we could that were in appropriate time-zones and then I collapsed in complete exhaustion, the released pent-up fear of the last week (months?) leaving me like a punctured blow-up doll.
It was so disconcerting to feel the squirms and kicks of this daughter-to-be whilst not knowing her fate. Almost as if I couldn't allow myself to continue bonding.
It's amazing how quickly that feeling of euphoria at the results was followed by a sudden willingness to accept the cold, hard facts of the situation. Well of course everything was fine, the doctor said as much, and my bloodwork was excellent. Why the anxiety? The fact that I may still have a small baby (ha!) or an early baby (please not Christmas) or that she may have kidney problems seem so trivial, so, fixable that I am on cloud nine.
I'm having a chuffing baby!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Faith
They say there are no atheists in foxholes.
This would have been a good week to believe in God, but I don't, so I have to cling to what few strange beliefs I do have.
In times of trouble I tend to look at my engagement ring that used to belong to my Nanna, and I ask for her help. I'm sure she's not happy that we mostly talk during turbulence on aircraft. I asked for her help when I was lying on the exam table not looking at the amnio needle. I knew that she would certainly listen to a plea offered up on behalf of a baby.
I have been thinking how reassuring it would be, in these interminable 10 days (10 working days, 10 earth days? what? when?) to have the security of faith, or a belief-system. It must help to put your trust in some higher power, it would certainly take the pressure off a little. It is hard to derive the same amount of reassurance from a belief in your statistical chances of a good outcome. I know a lady through work who recently had to undergo a termination as her baby was diagnosed with a terminal condition. She wryly said she believes she took the 'statistical hit' for all pregnancies in Santa Barbara, as the chances of a baby with her condition were 1 in tens of thousands. It was nice of her to say that. It would be nice to think that. That lightning won't strike you if you know someone who's been struck. Statistics don't work like that though do they.
I will admit to being an agnostic. I don't not believe, I just don't believe in any set doctrines. I certainly believe in the power of positive thinking. That all of you fantastic people who have written such lovely things, who have offered up hopes and prayers on my behalf are doing your bit to sway the cosmic outcome.
Then of course, there are those lovely people who have sent these in the last couple of days:
Chelsea buns direct from Fitzbillies in Cambridge with a note that read:
'Nothing in life is so bad that it can't be fixed by a Fitzbillie's Chelsea Bun!'
.......and Laker flowers from Fluffy.
Thankyou!!!!
How can you not smile when you see these?
It has been so helpful to read of other people having gone through tough times with their babies, their families. I cried when I posted a question on some random internet message board about SUA and got so many messages back of personal stories, hope, and positive outcomes. I also cried while out walking yesterday and heard a song that said 'I've built my dreams around you'. I am a mess. If you can burst in to tears while listening to the Pogues you are a certifiable muppet.
So, no religion, but what I do pay credence to, stupidly, are 'signs'. It's embarrassing to admit, but I've always been obsessed with childish games like 'if I can get through this traffic light without it turning red things will be OK'. Smart huh? If I see a clock that reads 9:11 it means bad luck. 9.10 means good luck.
On the way to my perinatal appointment I was flicking through the radio channels and was horrified to catch a song 'baby I'm gonna lose you'. By the time I got to my appointment I was convinced something was wrong, and my pulse was over 120 - which the nurse picked up on. LK gave her this look like 'no, she's not ill, just insane'.
So far I have managed to convince myself that things will be OK, that we will be able to handle whatever is thrown at us, and that perhaps I need to relax and laugh a little more. Something I discovered when I went to our office storage facility this week. A place where we keep old patient charts, filed alphabetically of course, a place I go at least once a week and until now have never spotted this gem:
Someone somewhere is telling me to relax and laugh a little I think.
This would have been a good week to believe in God, but I don't, so I have to cling to what few strange beliefs I do have.
In times of trouble I tend to look at my engagement ring that used to belong to my Nanna, and I ask for her help. I'm sure she's not happy that we mostly talk during turbulence on aircraft. I asked for her help when I was lying on the exam table not looking at the amnio needle. I knew that she would certainly listen to a plea offered up on behalf of a baby.
I have been thinking how reassuring it would be, in these interminable 10 days (10 working days, 10 earth days? what? when?) to have the security of faith, or a belief-system. It must help to put your trust in some higher power, it would certainly take the pressure off a little. It is hard to derive the same amount of reassurance from a belief in your statistical chances of a good outcome. I know a lady through work who recently had to undergo a termination as her baby was diagnosed with a terminal condition. She wryly said she believes she took the 'statistical hit' for all pregnancies in Santa Barbara, as the chances of a baby with her condition were 1 in tens of thousands. It was nice of her to say that. It would be nice to think that. That lightning won't strike you if you know someone who's been struck. Statistics don't work like that though do they.
I will admit to being an agnostic. I don't not believe, I just don't believe in any set doctrines. I certainly believe in the power of positive thinking. That all of you fantastic people who have written such lovely things, who have offered up hopes and prayers on my behalf are doing your bit to sway the cosmic outcome.
Then of course, there are those lovely people who have sent these in the last couple of days:
Chelsea buns direct from Fitzbillies in Cambridge with a note that read:
'Nothing in life is so bad that it can't be fixed by a Fitzbillie's Chelsea Bun!'
.......and Laker flowers from Fluffy.
Thankyou!!!!
How can you not smile when you see these?
It has been so helpful to read of other people having gone through tough times with their babies, their families. I cried when I posted a question on some random internet message board about SUA and got so many messages back of personal stories, hope, and positive outcomes. I also cried while out walking yesterday and heard a song that said 'I've built my dreams around you'. I am a mess. If you can burst in to tears while listening to the Pogues you are a certifiable muppet.
So, no religion, but what I do pay credence to, stupidly, are 'signs'. It's embarrassing to admit, but I've always been obsessed with childish games like 'if I can get through this traffic light without it turning red things will be OK'. Smart huh? If I see a clock that reads 9:11 it means bad luck. 9.10 means good luck.
On the way to my perinatal appointment I was flicking through the radio channels and was horrified to catch a song 'baby I'm gonna lose you'. By the time I got to my appointment I was convinced something was wrong, and my pulse was over 120 - which the nurse picked up on. LK gave her this look like 'no, she's not ill, just insane'.
So far I have managed to convince myself that things will be OK, that we will be able to handle whatever is thrown at us, and that perhaps I need to relax and laugh a little more. Something I discovered when I went to our office storage facility this week. A place where we keep old patient charts, filed alphabetically of course, a place I go at least once a week and until now have never spotted this gem:
Someone somewhere is telling me to relax and laugh a little I think.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
What Were You Thinking?
*****I wrote this a few days ago, before the whole single uterine artery ultrasound debacle. The good news is, everything else we're dealing with is certainly helping to distract from the 'what ifs' of waiting for our amnio results. If you needed telling though, this post goes a long way to explain how attached I am already to this fledgling creature of ours, how devastating a blow the news was on Monday, and how much we have vested in her health and survival.
Thankyou all for your overwhelmingly kind thoughts and personal stories (by way of iVillage). I may have dissolved in to tears at the mere mention of this with some of you, (isn't it so much easier to hide behind a computer?), but I have appreciated your support nonetheless.********
*************************************************
One question I'm surprised I haven't been asked during this pregnancy is, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!
Or maybe it's just that no-one's said it to my face.
It would be perfectly understandable, given how much time I've devoted lately to bemoaning our financial state of affairs and generally uncertain future.
Why would anyone choose to have another child when things were looking so grim? And yes, we did choose to get pregnant. As I once said to LK 'what if I accidentally get pregnant?' and he replied 'Mrs K, I've seen how you behave with our bank account, you're never going to be accidentally anything'.
That is the crux of the issue believe it or not. No, it's certainly not the best of times to be adding a new addition to this sinking ship, but given how long it took to add this creature I can't for one minute feel bad about this pregnancy.
Getting pregnant with Anna took all of 14 days. We'd decided to 'stop trying not to get pregnant' after I finished the SB Triathlon - I'd decided I didn't want to run the race pregnant after all, I'm physically challenged enough as it is. Literally 4 weeks after the race I told LK we were knocked up and he could not believe it. Dreams of months of 'practice' suddenly turned in to months of 'don't touch or I'll slap you'.
Me saying 'he shoots he scores' was poor consolation.
Naturally, when it came time to think about a sibling for Anna we were cautious. Old fertile Myrtle here could plan sprog-dropping to the very week. Or so I thought.
One year plus of failing to produce was probably a very long-overdue wake-up call, teaching me to respect the miracle that is conception and gestation.
I can say that now of course. For an entire year, I smiled but couldn't quite look in the eye the countless millions of pregnant women I encountered on a daily basis. When people would ask if we were going to have any more I would say 'yes, but not right now', and would then have to sit through their well-meant assvice about siblings not being too far apart in age etc. In actual fact I would have loved Anna to be closer in age to her brother/sister. My brother and I are only 13 months apart, and after 16 years of blood, sweat and tears we are now close. Or maybe that's just because we're 8,000 miles apart?!
I also had 'suggestions' that while our decision to have children 'later' in our marriage 'on many levels looks like a good idea, no-one who does that ever thinks about the grandparents and the fact that they miss out on seeing their grandkids grow up'. What a fantastic guilt trip. Maybe we were thinking about the grandparents during conception. Maybe that was the problem....
More likely the issue was stress. That would certainly explain why I finally got pregnant within days of coming home from holiday. Or perhaps it was the fact that Anna was sleeping in our bed until just before she turned 3.
Either way, finding out you can't get pregnant when you want to is soul-destroying. Many finer writers than me have more eloquently described their battles. Fertility issues that make our year-long silent struggle a blip on the radar, a petulant cough in the face of full blown pneumonia. This brilliant card from the amazing a little pregnant continues to crack me up, especially as it now sounds rather like us.
How easy to write about it now. It feels a bit like cheating really, and I know that what we went through is absolutely nothing compared to the lengths some people have to go to in order to conceive a healthy child. I stopped going to my Mum's group because after the first year it became BYOB (and not the good kind). I think there were 3 Mum's out of a pool of 40 who were not pregnant within 2 years of having their first. The Bring Your Own Baby crowd rightly needed each other, but to my insecure mind it became an impenetrable fertility club.
I kept telling myself that some of my very favourite people came from families, close families, with 5 year plus age gaps between kids, or no siblings at all. Hi Mooks! Hi Jen! It is so hard to maintain perspective though. Something I've realized now that our kids will be 3.5 years apart and so many people are seeming to crawl out of the woodwork with the children of the same age gap. Where were you all six months ago? It's not that they've suddenly appeared, they were just hiding in plain sight. I could not see them because I'd become so obsessed with not conceiving.
I can't imagine what if must be like to not be able to conceive and carry a much-wanted first child. Unless you had problems first time round no-one ever assumes a second child will be an issue. A 3 year plus age difference is assumed to be a willful act. Unless you advertise the fact that it's not all plain sailing, people will assume you've made the decision not to have another child straight away. I had one Mum at Anna's preschool describe her as an 'only child' when she wasn't even 3. A throwaway comment to her no doubt, but it just added to my feeling of panic. With each passing month I would see Anna's chance of a meaningful relationship with her future sibling become more and more unlikely.
I made the fatal error of researching fertility on the internet. There is an entire class of infertility called 'secondary infertility' for the unexplained inability to conceive a second child. A type of infertility that makes up 60% of all recorded cases. How's that for scaring you shitless?
So I booked an appointment with my doctor to discuss our 'infertility' and promptly arrived at her office, the requisite 6 weeks later, pregnant with this creature.
There have been many times within the last two years where I have been very thankful that we have not added a screaming infant, another childcare payment and time off work in to the mix. Who knows if it's pregnancy hormones, or just a long overdue sigh of relief but I have not once thought twice about this creature nor looked forward to it's arrival without immense joy. It's even more sweet given what we've been through, especially because I spent most of my pregnancy with Anna in bewildered apprehension about what was to come.
I realize that we still have a long way to go until I have this little one in my arms, but I could not be happier at the thought.
Thankyou all for your overwhelmingly kind thoughts and personal stories (by way of iVillage). I may have dissolved in to tears at the mere mention of this with some of you, (isn't it so much easier to hide behind a computer?), but I have appreciated your support nonetheless.********
*************************************************
One question I'm surprised I haven't been asked during this pregnancy is, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!
Or maybe it's just that no-one's said it to my face.
It would be perfectly understandable, given how much time I've devoted lately to bemoaning our financial state of affairs and generally uncertain future.
Why would anyone choose to have another child when things were looking so grim? And yes, we did choose to get pregnant. As I once said to LK 'what if I accidentally get pregnant?' and he replied 'Mrs K, I've seen how you behave with our bank account, you're never going to be accidentally anything'.
That is the crux of the issue believe it or not. No, it's certainly not the best of times to be adding a new addition to this sinking ship, but given how long it took to add this creature I can't for one minute feel bad about this pregnancy.
Getting pregnant with Anna took all of 14 days. We'd decided to 'stop trying not to get pregnant' after I finished the SB Triathlon - I'd decided I didn't want to run the race pregnant after all, I'm physically challenged enough as it is. Literally 4 weeks after the race I told LK we were knocked up and he could not believe it. Dreams of months of 'practice' suddenly turned in to months of 'don't touch or I'll slap you'.
Me saying 'he shoots he scores' was poor consolation.
Naturally, when it came time to think about a sibling for Anna we were cautious. Old fertile Myrtle here could plan sprog-dropping to the very week. Or so I thought.
One year plus of failing to produce was probably a very long-overdue wake-up call, teaching me to respect the miracle that is conception and gestation.
I can say that now of course. For an entire year, I smiled but couldn't quite look in the eye the countless millions of pregnant women I encountered on a daily basis. When people would ask if we were going to have any more I would say 'yes, but not right now', and would then have to sit through their well-meant assvice about siblings not being too far apart in age etc. In actual fact I would have loved Anna to be closer in age to her brother/sister. My brother and I are only 13 months apart, and after 16 years of blood, sweat and tears we are now close. Or maybe that's just because we're 8,000 miles apart?!
I also had 'suggestions' that while our decision to have children 'later' in our marriage 'on many levels looks like a good idea, no-one who does that ever thinks about the grandparents and the fact that they miss out on seeing their grandkids grow up'. What a fantastic guilt trip. Maybe we were thinking about the grandparents during conception. Maybe that was the problem....
More likely the issue was stress. That would certainly explain why I finally got pregnant within days of coming home from holiday. Or perhaps it was the fact that Anna was sleeping in our bed until just before she turned 3.
Either way, finding out you can't get pregnant when you want to is soul-destroying. Many finer writers than me have more eloquently described their battles. Fertility issues that make our year-long silent struggle a blip on the radar, a petulant cough in the face of full blown pneumonia. This brilliant card from the amazing a little pregnant continues to crack me up, especially as it now sounds rather like us.
How easy to write about it now. It feels a bit like cheating really, and I know that what we went through is absolutely nothing compared to the lengths some people have to go to in order to conceive a healthy child. I stopped going to my Mum's group because after the first year it became BYOB (and not the good kind). I think there were 3 Mum's out of a pool of 40 who were not pregnant within 2 years of having their first. The Bring Your Own Baby crowd rightly needed each other, but to my insecure mind it became an impenetrable fertility club.
I kept telling myself that some of my very favourite people came from families, close families, with 5 year plus age gaps between kids, or no siblings at all. Hi Mooks! Hi Jen! It is so hard to maintain perspective though. Something I've realized now that our kids will be 3.5 years apart and so many people are seeming to crawl out of the woodwork with the children of the same age gap. Where were you all six months ago? It's not that they've suddenly appeared, they were just hiding in plain sight. I could not see them because I'd become so obsessed with not conceiving.
I can't imagine what if must be like to not be able to conceive and carry a much-wanted first child. Unless you had problems first time round no-one ever assumes a second child will be an issue. A 3 year plus age difference is assumed to be a willful act. Unless you advertise the fact that it's not all plain sailing, people will assume you've made the decision not to have another child straight away. I had one Mum at Anna's preschool describe her as an 'only child' when she wasn't even 3. A throwaway comment to her no doubt, but it just added to my feeling of panic. With each passing month I would see Anna's chance of a meaningful relationship with her future sibling become more and more unlikely.
I made the fatal error of researching fertility on the internet. There is an entire class of infertility called 'secondary infertility' for the unexplained inability to conceive a second child. A type of infertility that makes up 60% of all recorded cases. How's that for scaring you shitless?
So I booked an appointment with my doctor to discuss our 'infertility' and promptly arrived at her office, the requisite 6 weeks later, pregnant with this creature.
There have been many times within the last two years where I have been very thankful that we have not added a screaming infant, another childcare payment and time off work in to the mix. Who knows if it's pregnancy hormones, or just a long overdue sigh of relief but I have not once thought twice about this creature nor looked forward to it's arrival without immense joy. It's even more sweet given what we've been through, especially because I spent most of my pregnancy with Anna in bewildered apprehension about what was to come.
I realize that we still have a long way to go until I have this little one in my arms, but I could not be happier at the thought.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Tempting Fate
Well, we didn't quite get what we were hoping for with the ultrasound.
It's a girl, which makes me very happy.
Unfortunately there were issues present which resulted in me having an amnio this morning. We discovered the baby had a two vessel cord, or single umbilical artery. A link not for the faint of heart I might add.
My blood test results were fantastic, apparently I screen as if I'm a 19 year old woman (a fact that caused a raised eyebrow from LK I can assure you). The other potential markers for abnormalities were good. Baby K looked like a perfect little foetus, all except for that umbilical cord. An amnio was given as an option, but not pushed on us. The doctor and staff were lovely. It was an incredibly hard decision to make, but I knew that I would not be able to stand the uncertainty of the next few months, and LK with a wry smile admitted he would not be able to live with me if I did not know.
The procedure itself was *holy fucking shit* painful. It's not supposed to be that bad unless you are gripped with contractions, and I won the lottery on that one too.
I have so many conflicting emotions right now. I am uncomfortably numb. Obviously there is nothing to do but keep our fingers crossed. Much, much worse things have happened to far nicer people.
I was in half a mind whether to write this, but I will tempt fate and put it out there for the record, hoping that in 6 months time someone else will google this and will come away reassured that we were one case where everything turned out fine.
Or maybe our story will provide support for people that are faced with having to make an unthinkable decision.
I can't tell you hard this is to write when Anna is bouncing next to me explaining how we 'get our babies out by jumping super high and then pooping them out'.
It's a girl, which makes me very happy.
Unfortunately there were issues present which resulted in me having an amnio this morning. We discovered the baby had a two vessel cord, or single umbilical artery. A link not for the faint of heart I might add.
My blood test results were fantastic, apparently I screen as if I'm a 19 year old woman (a fact that caused a raised eyebrow from LK I can assure you). The other potential markers for abnormalities were good. Baby K looked like a perfect little foetus, all except for that umbilical cord. An amnio was given as an option, but not pushed on us. The doctor and staff were lovely. It was an incredibly hard decision to make, but I knew that I would not be able to stand the uncertainty of the next few months, and LK with a wry smile admitted he would not be able to live with me if I did not know.
The procedure itself was *holy fucking shit* painful. It's not supposed to be that bad unless you are gripped with contractions, and I won the lottery on that one too.
I have so many conflicting emotions right now. I am uncomfortably numb. Obviously there is nothing to do but keep our fingers crossed. Much, much worse things have happened to far nicer people.
I was in half a mind whether to write this, but I will tempt fate and put it out there for the record, hoping that in 6 months time someone else will google this and will come away reassured that we were one case where everything turned out fine.
Or maybe our story will provide support for people that are faced with having to make an unthinkable decision.
I can't tell you hard this is to write when Anna is bouncing next to me explaining how we 'get our babies out by jumping super high and then pooping them out'.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Pink or Blue?
We are approaching D-Day, the big ultrasound. The one where you find out the flavour of the child-to-be. Pink or blue, hamburger or hot dog.
We didn't find out with Anna and believe it or not that was an easy decision to make and stick with. I had a few harumph moments when stocking up for the baby-to-be, but mostly because the vast majority of parents find out the sex of their child in this country, so newborn stuff comes in pink, blue or ducks. After a while I tired of ducks.
I think we may break with principle this time and find out, although in all honesty all I want to discover next week is whether the creature has an appropriate number of limbs, heart chambers etc. A skinny neck would be a plus too.
The reason we may find out is for Anna's sake. We think that it will help her warm to the idea of a new sibling if she can talk to baby Pink or Blue as a future sister or brother. Thus far she has been heart-achingly wonderful about 'Fa'an' as she has called my bump. Chattering away to my midriff about teaching 'her' to paint, to bead, to hunt for bugs. All life's critical lessons. She has decided that I am having a boy, that she is having a girl, but interestingly always refers to Fahan as a she.
On the cusp of finding this out, what do we think, and more importantly do we care if we're faced with a hamburger or a hot dog?
The obvious answer is no, other than a complete and healthy foetus we don't care in the slightest. I am surprised at the number of people who have told us their hopes that we will 'get our boy'.
I think secretly LK would prefer a boy, he is after all the last male K, and I know for certain that his Dad wants us to have a little lad.
I have enjoyed having a girl so much that I would err on the side of girl. We have the stuff, Anna would possibly bond with a female sibling more readily, and I see how close my Mum is with her sisters and her Mum and I would like that in my future. I miss my Mum. Plus ALL of our friends in town have girls. All of them. It would appear that LK's High School class is incapable of producing a solid Y chromosome between them. Oh, and I also don't want to have to make this decision.
So what do I think next week's tests will show? (Hopefully not LK's prominent Scandinavian jaw if it is a girl.....). I suppose one way to answer that, a question posed to me a lot recently, is Do I feel different?
Have I been sicker than last time? I would say yes, but I attribute that to stress and fatigue more than hormones. Have I mentioned the stress lately?! Plus I only threw up once with both pregnancies. Weird but true, so that would make it a girl.
Am I carrying lower? Yes. Which would make it a boy (allegedly), although I think only my bladder and existing scar tissue are stopping my uterus from hanging around my knees after birthing our first watermelon of a child.
Am I craving sweets or meats/cheeses? Yes. Which would make me a fat cow. I've been craving the same as last time really, yogurt. Mmm yogurt. The only difference being last time it was strawberry or cherry and now I'm favouring peach. I've also gone off meat, particularly roast chicken and red meat, same as last time. Which would make it a girl. I also had to break off from writing at this point to go and get a yogurt. Mmm.
Rapid growth of the chest? Yes, or rather HELL YES. This is apparently also an indicator of a girl.
Headaches? Definitely more than last time. Which means a boy apparently. Although it might also indicate the height of summer in Southern California and me never remembering to drink enough water.
Carrying out front or on the bum and hips? LK will confirm that I have officially 'never had an arse' so out front again. Apparently this is a girl.
Heartrate? I happen to think this could be an accurate marker of the sex (Anna's was always very high), this creature's was also high, but I only got one reading very early on so not a definitive reply I'm afraid, more of a faint girl.
Sod's Law? I have a girl's name already chosen so sod's law dictates that this must and shall be a boy.
Genes? Family history would tend to indicate a girl followed by a boy, especially on LK's side, which is after all the genetically critical side.
So in that brief and highly dodgy survey the results are:
Pink Team = 5, Blue Team = 4
What's your guess? Any gut feelings? (pardon the pun). Any old wives tales suggestions that I've missed?
We didn't find out with Anna and believe it or not that was an easy decision to make and stick with. I had a few harumph moments when stocking up for the baby-to-be, but mostly because the vast majority of parents find out the sex of their child in this country, so newborn stuff comes in pink, blue or ducks. After a while I tired of ducks.
I think we may break with principle this time and find out, although in all honesty all I want to discover next week is whether the creature has an appropriate number of limbs, heart chambers etc. A skinny neck would be a plus too.
The reason we may find out is for Anna's sake. We think that it will help her warm to the idea of a new sibling if she can talk to baby Pink or Blue as a future sister or brother. Thus far she has been heart-achingly wonderful about 'Fa'an' as she has called my bump. Chattering away to my midriff about teaching 'her' to paint, to bead, to hunt for bugs. All life's critical lessons. She has decided that I am having a boy, that she is having a girl, but interestingly always refers to Fahan as a she.
On the cusp of finding this out, what do we think, and more importantly do we care if we're faced with a hamburger or a hot dog?
The obvious answer is no, other than a complete and healthy foetus we don't care in the slightest. I am surprised at the number of people who have told us their hopes that we will 'get our boy'.
I think secretly LK would prefer a boy, he is after all the last male K, and I know for certain that his Dad wants us to have a little lad.
I have enjoyed having a girl so much that I would err on the side of girl. We have the stuff, Anna would possibly bond with a female sibling more readily, and I see how close my Mum is with her sisters and her Mum and I would like that in my future. I miss my Mum. Plus ALL of our friends in town have girls. All of them. It would appear that LK's High School class is incapable of producing a solid Y chromosome between them. Oh, and I also don't want to have to make this decision.
So what do I think next week's tests will show? (Hopefully not LK's prominent Scandinavian jaw if it is a girl.....). I suppose one way to answer that, a question posed to me a lot recently, is Do I feel different?
Have I been sicker than last time? I would say yes, but I attribute that to stress and fatigue more than hormones. Have I mentioned the stress lately?! Plus I only threw up once with both pregnancies. Weird but true, so that would make it a girl.
Am I carrying lower? Yes. Which would make it a boy (allegedly), although I think only my bladder and existing scar tissue are stopping my uterus from hanging around my knees after birthing our first watermelon of a child.
Am I craving sweets or meats/cheeses? Yes. Which would make me a fat cow. I've been craving the same as last time really, yogurt. Mmm yogurt. The only difference being last time it was strawberry or cherry and now I'm favouring peach. I've also gone off meat, particularly roast chicken and red meat, same as last time. Which would make it a girl. I also had to break off from writing at this point to go and get a yogurt. Mmm.
Rapid growth of the chest? Yes, or rather HELL YES. This is apparently also an indicator of a girl.
Headaches? Definitely more than last time. Which means a boy apparently. Although it might also indicate the height of summer in Southern California and me never remembering to drink enough water.
Carrying out front or on the bum and hips? LK will confirm that I have officially 'never had an arse' so out front again. Apparently this is a girl.
Heartrate? I happen to think this could be an accurate marker of the sex (Anna's was always very high), this creature's was also high, but I only got one reading very early on so not a definitive reply I'm afraid, more of a faint girl.
Sod's Law? I have a girl's name already chosen so sod's law dictates that this must and shall be a boy.
Genes? Family history would tend to indicate a girl followed by a boy, especially on LK's side, which is after all the genetically critical side.
So in that brief and highly dodgy survey the results are:
Pink Team = 5, Blue Team = 4
What's your guess? Any gut feelings? (pardon the pun). Any old wives tales suggestions that I've missed?
Monday, August 04, 2008
Vegas, Baby
I love Las Vegas.
For about 36 hours then I'm done, done, done. I angrily snatch up my remaining coins and even the marathon 6 hour drive back home through the desert seems better than one more minute in an air-conditioned den of thieves.
That's right, I didn't win.
I still remember that time I did though, every time I sit down at that slot machine I remember July 2003. I was waiting for some friends at the front door of the Flamingo and we were heading on to the Strip. Someone gave me $5 and I was sitting by a $1 slot machine. I never play $1 slots, that's for you 'high rollers'. But this wasn't my money so it was fair game. First try I won $20, second spin I won $230 and I kept crying, 'holy shit, this isn't just quarters, this is dollars, this is real money'.
My friend Christy sauntered up and I gleefully relayed my news; she said 'you fucking bitch'. Spoken like a true friend.
Not this time though, even though I try and replicate the moment by playing machines near a doorway (guaranteed higher odds due to higher visibility winning!!) and at about 8pm (peak time!!). It's all a load of rubbish isn't it? I should know, I got my A in Maths with Statistics. I can throw down a Poisson Distribution with the best of them. I get lulled by the enticing burbling of the machines, by the omnipresent 'ca-ching-ching-ching' of someone else striking it rich (no doubt piped into the room along with the oxygenated air). Fortunately this time I'd blown most of my play money on Anna's trip to the ER so I was saved the ignominy of LK going 'see all that construction going on, all those new hotels? Paid for by my wife everybody. Thankyou muppet, please come again'.
So much for the recession I thought. Vegas was packed, and people were still happily pouring their money out on to the tables or into the machines (ca-ching-ching-ching). So much for the sub-prime mortgage crisis, that apparently was only our concern. Until I noticed something. There were not very many Americans there. In fact, the place was crawling with Brits. Apparently the sliding dollar is enticing them here in droves.
Do you know how you can tell a Brit from an American?
The accents.
Oh ha ha, or the fact that they're asking the bemused Starbucks 'barrista' where the 'serviettes' are (I stepped in on this one - translator extraordinaire that I am).
No, the dead give away that you're looking at a Brit in America is that they're not wearing socks with their trainers/sneakers. Before I moved here I used to think all Americans were hopelessly unfashionable with their obsession for wearing white socks and trainers with everything. Now I take one look at all those pale British ankles in their Fila trainers and I think - that might work in Kirklees when it's a constant drizzly 55º in summer, but in 105º heat in Vegas, dear God man let me buy you some socks.
Despite all that, and even being pregnant and with a 3 year old in tow, we still had a good time. 36 hours in Vegas is perfect. Long enough to have fun in your hotel room (even 3 year olds sleep occasionally), long enough to show Anna the real! live! lions! at the MGM, LK taught her to say 'that's fake, that roaring, that's fake'. Our little party pooper. She loved the pools and I tried to blinker myself from the seductive looking bars with their luscious overpriced martinis and consoled myself with the thought that for once, I could out-boob anyone. Take that Vegas! Thanks for the mammories!
For about 36 hours then I'm done, done, done. I angrily snatch up my remaining coins and even the marathon 6 hour drive back home through the desert seems better than one more minute in an air-conditioned den of thieves.
That's right, I didn't win.
I still remember that time I did though, every time I sit down at that slot machine I remember July 2003. I was waiting for some friends at the front door of the Flamingo and we were heading on to the Strip. Someone gave me $5 and I was sitting by a $1 slot machine. I never play $1 slots, that's for you 'high rollers'. But this wasn't my money so it was fair game. First try I won $20, second spin I won $230 and I kept crying, 'holy shit, this isn't just quarters, this is dollars, this is real money'.
My friend Christy sauntered up and I gleefully relayed my news; she said 'you fucking bitch'. Spoken like a true friend.
Not this time though, even though I try and replicate the moment by playing machines near a doorway (guaranteed higher odds due to higher visibility winning!!) and at about 8pm (peak time!!). It's all a load of rubbish isn't it? I should know, I got my A in Maths with Statistics. I can throw down a Poisson Distribution with the best of them. I get lulled by the enticing burbling of the machines, by the omnipresent 'ca-ching-ching-ching' of someone else striking it rich (no doubt piped into the room along with the oxygenated air). Fortunately this time I'd blown most of my play money on Anna's trip to the ER so I was saved the ignominy of LK going 'see all that construction going on, all those new hotels? Paid for by my wife everybody. Thankyou muppet, please come again'.
So much for the recession I thought. Vegas was packed, and people were still happily pouring their money out on to the tables or into the machines (ca-ching-ching-ching). So much for the sub-prime mortgage crisis, that apparently was only our concern. Until I noticed something. There were not very many Americans there. In fact, the place was crawling with Brits. Apparently the sliding dollar is enticing them here in droves.
Do you know how you can tell a Brit from an American?
The accents.
Oh ha ha, or the fact that they're asking the bemused Starbucks 'barrista' where the 'serviettes' are (I stepped in on this one - translator extraordinaire that I am).
No, the dead give away that you're looking at a Brit in America is that they're not wearing socks with their trainers/sneakers. Before I moved here I used to think all Americans were hopelessly unfashionable with their obsession for wearing white socks and trainers with everything. Now I take one look at all those pale British ankles in their Fila trainers and I think - that might work in Kirklees when it's a constant drizzly 55º in summer, but in 105º heat in Vegas, dear God man let me buy you some socks.
Despite all that, and even being pregnant and with a 3 year old in tow, we still had a good time. 36 hours in Vegas is perfect. Long enough to have fun in your hotel room (even 3 year olds sleep occasionally), long enough to show Anna the real! live! lions! at the MGM, LK taught her to say 'that's fake, that roaring, that's fake'. Our little party pooper. She loved the pools and I tried to blinker myself from the seductive looking bars with their luscious overpriced martinis and consoled myself with the thought that for once, I could out-boob anyone. Take that Vegas! Thanks for the mammories!
Friday, August 01, 2008
Shaken But Not Stirred
Loved the comments on my last post. Almost American, I had to laugh when I read what your brother had written, because it reminded me of the London bombings (not funny) and everyone in the States asking me 'if my family was OK' when they were comfortably hundreds of miles away in the wilds of Yorkshire. Or so I thought, until I got an email from my brother who'd been down in London on business or some such and wrote a rather clipped email along the lines of 'don't worry everyone, I'm fine, in case you cared of course....'. Apparently he'd spent the entire day with colleagues who'd been barraged with phone-calls from concerned relatives, and he hadn't received a peep from any of his clan.
Anyway, your comments brought up a good question - how do you 'live' with the idea of the constant threat of earthquakes? I'll admit I used to think the same thing when watching some National Geographic documentary about the San Francisco quake, or Northridge, or some other recent disaster. It's the same with people living on the slopes of an active volcano. Muppets, right?
I liked Skeletor's rationale, that yes, the Big One is statistically going to hit at some point in the next 30 years, but California is vast, and the chances that you will be at the epicentre, slim. Plus I know two very good friends who've lived through a big earthquake, and even though in one case their home was completely destroyed (hi Chilly!), they still live in California and are able to make great dinner conversation. After all, would you rather get flattened in an earthquake in gorgeous Santa Barbara or hit by a bus in Bury?
Hovering over a fault line as we are (one runs straight through Santa Barbara), how much time do we devote to thinking about earthquakes? Are our large pieces of furniture strapped to the walls? No. Do I have an earthquake kit? No. Idiotic I know, but I used to console myself that we always had a flat of water in the house, but ever since drinking out of a plastic bottle became tantamount to clubbing a baby seal to death, the only liquids we have are chocolate milk and wine. At least two thirds of this household would be happy in the event of an emergency....
This is as much thought as I give to earthquakes on a daily basis:
That's about it really. Hopefully I'll never find out , but it's not looking likely.
Anyway, your comments brought up a good question - how do you 'live' with the idea of the constant threat of earthquakes? I'll admit I used to think the same thing when watching some National Geographic documentary about the San Francisco quake, or Northridge, or some other recent disaster. It's the same with people living on the slopes of an active volcano. Muppets, right?
I liked Skeletor's rationale, that yes, the Big One is statistically going to hit at some point in the next 30 years, but California is vast, and the chances that you will be at the epicentre, slim. Plus I know two very good friends who've lived through a big earthquake, and even though in one case their home was completely destroyed (hi Chilly!), they still live in California and are able to make great dinner conversation. After all, would you rather get flattened in an earthquake in gorgeous Santa Barbara or hit by a bus in Bury?
Hovering over a fault line as we are (one runs straight through Santa Barbara), how much time do we devote to thinking about earthquakes? Are our large pieces of furniture strapped to the walls? No. Do I have an earthquake kit? No. Idiotic I know, but I used to console myself that we always had a flat of water in the house, but ever since drinking out of a plastic bottle became tantamount to clubbing a baby seal to death, the only liquids we have are chocolate milk and wine. At least two thirds of this household would be happy in the event of an emergency....
This is as much thought as I give to earthquakes on a daily basis:
- I always think about them when stuck in traffic under a freeway overpass.
- I always think about them when standing next to a large plate glass window, or a shop full of china and glass.
- I keep my fingers crossed that one doesn't hit when I'm in labour.
- I always think about them if I go to bed naked, or plastered, or in any way compromised should 'the big one' hit. I have a morbid fear of them pulling my pasty, naked body out of a pile of rubble bum first. One must always dress for earthquakes.
- I try not to think about them now that Anna is sleeping in her own bed on the other side of the house, or when she's not with me.
- I should have at least a rudimentary earthquake kit. That does NOT include me 'knowing where the candles are'.
- I have asked LK where, structurally, he would recommend I stand if one hits and I'm at home (after watching countless Blitz films, I thought under the stairs, but he says our house is practically made of out of papier mache and feathers, so it's much better to stand under the big steel beam in our living room).
That's about it really. Hopefully I'll never find out , but it's not looking likely.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Did The Earth Move For You?
We had another earthquake in Santa Barbara this morning. A 5.4, fortunately centred nearly 200 miles away near Pomona. It was just a knee-trembler for us. In my *vast* experience of earthquakes there seem to be two distinct types, the 'shaker' and the 'roller'. This one was a roller; suddenly my office seemed to pitch and roll very gently, as if we were suddenly transplanted on board an ocean liner (well, a girl can dream). If I wasn't sitting at my desk I would have thought 'hmm, when was the last time I ate - feeling a little light-headed'. One look at the potted plant on my filing cabinet suddenly coming to life like a Triffid made me think otherwise though. Well, that and my assistant running in from next day going 'fucking hell did you feel that?' Perfect etiquette in front of our waiting room full of elderly patients, all no doubt in for vertigo who were probably thinking 'welcome to my world young lady'.
It was all over in a flash, like most things that end with a bloke saying 'did the earth move for you'. A quick google of 'recent earthquakes' confirmed this:
Moments later people were pretending they hadn't just been blindly running between door jambs trying to pick the most structurally sound, and instead started pontificating on the theme of 'small earthquakes are good because they relieve pressure'. Not content with this, I googled a bit further and found this:
There is a 99 percent chance of California experiencing a quake of magnitude 6.7 or larger within the next 30 years, according to the Uniform California Earthquake Rupture Forecast, sponsored by the U.S. Geological Survey, the California Geological Survey and the Southern California Earthquake Center and published in Science Daily in April.
I'm sorry what? A 99% chance in the next 30 years. When was the article published???. Plane ticket for the UK right here please! I have been wondering lately whether a 1 in 4000 chance of a baby with Downs was acceptable odds (a different post entirely). A 99 out of 100 chance of a massive earthquake, 'the big one' within my lifetime? Sweet dreams everyone!
It was all over in a flash, like most things that end with a bloke saying 'did the earth move for you'. A quick google of 'recent earthquakes' confirmed this:
Moments later people were pretending they hadn't just been blindly running between door jambs trying to pick the most structurally sound, and instead started pontificating on the theme of 'small earthquakes are good because they relieve pressure'. Not content with this, I googled a bit further and found this:
There is a 99 percent chance of California experiencing a quake of magnitude 6.7 or larger within the next 30 years, according to the Uniform California Earthquake Rupture Forecast, sponsored by the U.S. Geological Survey, the California Geological Survey and the Southern California Earthquake Center and published in Science Daily in April.
I'm sorry what? A 99% chance in the next 30 years. When was the article published???. Plane ticket for the UK right here please! I have been wondering lately whether a 1 in 4000 chance of a baby with Downs was acceptable odds (a different post entirely). A 99 out of 100 chance of a massive earthquake, 'the big one' within my lifetime? Sweet dreams everyone!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
16 Weeks
16 weeks pregnant with Anna
16 weeks pregnant with creature #2
Can you spot the difference? That's right - I'm considerably more tanned this time round!!
Thanks for all your comments on this post. I have decided to repeat the pregnancy photo essay with creature #2, you were right, it does seem the only fair way.
Clearly I have no shame.
Don't worry though, it is still safe to eat food while surfing the web, I will not be broadcasting my belly on a week basis.
It appears that I'm about 3-4 weeks further along in terms of showing than last time. Case in point, my 19 week photo from last time, compared to 16 weeks this time:
Oh who am I kidding, there is clearly much more lard in photo #2, and I'm definitely 'carrying lower' (read stomach muscles not even pretending to put up a fight). But do I care? No. I am strutting this belly round like a poor man's Angelina Jolie and I don't even flinch when Anna says 'I saved a spot for you Momma, for you and your big butt'.
Nice.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Bloody Utah
It was a great trip. No pun intended. We didn't win the jackpot, but when Anna went face-first into the gravel at Cedar Breaks National Park (moments after the photo below was taken) and ended up not needing stitches, I felt like we'd won the lottery.
I'm sure if we had a 3 year old boy visits to the ER would be second nature, but Anna has never done anything worse than scrape up her knees or poop a barrette, so this was a new experience.
I kept telling myself that head wounds bleed a lot, but that still doesn't prepare you for the moment when your hands are dripping with your child's blood. Plus, we had nothing in the car to take care of it, no antiseptic, no band-aids, only beef jerky and M&Ms.
Excellent parenting!
We patched her up as best we could, and within about 3 minutes she'd stopped crying and was starting to specify what colour M&Ms she wanted. While the bleeding had all but stopped though, the wound looked like the petulant mouth of a Hollywood movie star and we knew it would need putting back together. We headed out of the wilderness and well over an hour later ended up at the fantastic hospital in St George Utah. Brand spanking new, and we were the only people there. Not so implausible when you consider that driving through St. George there are no signs to the hospital?! WTF St. George. You were inviting us to any number of fast food restaurants, places to fill up with gas and get a comfy bed for the night, but emergency services? Nada. After driving through the entire town we had to pull off and ask for directions at a gas station. A little less alarming if your 3 year old is happily asleep in the back of the car, head wound gently weeping , but not so great in a true emergency. Come on St. George Hospital, splash out on a sign!
Anna was a star. She was happily oblivious to the weeping gash above her right eye, probably because she couldn't see it, and we were careful to keep our blood-stained clothing away from her. Of the 5 medical professionals we saw (welcome to a hospital in the United States) the only one who didn't question her footwear was the registration nurse, and then probably because she was also wearing crocs. We must have been asked at least four times if 'those were the shoes she had been hiking in'. A little unfair considering we were actually on a road trip and had only popped out of the car at a 'look-out point' to take a photo. *Whatever*. Apparently, crocs aren't considered suitable hiking attire. Imagine that.
Throughout the entire procedure I sat there with a grin as frozen as a 50 year old air hostess and LK kept shooting me covert glances that read 'if you freak out or freak her out you're leaving you know that don't you'. I managed to keep my maternal and pregnant hormones in check through giant force of will but the entire time I felt like excusing myself to go and have a massive cry. Nerves of steel, me. Meanwhile Anna is having a whale of time saying 'this bed has paper on it, that's silly' and 'can we go back outside and get those Skittles from that machine. I looovvee Skittles'. The docs kept asking if she'd lost consciousness but Ms. K. performed like her usual precocious self and when asked her name said 'Anna Rose, A-N-N-A'. Many points on the Glasgow coma scale I think you'll find.
The end result was her forehead glued back together and stern warnings not to get the wound wet for 5 days, which was a little sad as one of the highlights of the trip, the pool and lazy river at the MGM Grand in Vegas was yet to come. So in true Vegas style we kitted our daughter out like a chuffing freak in two waterproof band-aids, shower cap (oh yes), a sun hat, armbands and ladybird water ring. She looked like a moron:
.....but a good time was had by all.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Intervention
In the past week I have;
People have been kind enough to blame my sudden, terrifying outbursts on pregnancy hormones, but I think we all really know that that's not the truth. I feel like I'm about to lose my mind.
The sad thing is, our current situation is one that could leave me counting my blessings. Looking at my long-suffering husband, brilliant child and baseball-sized child-to-be and I could reflect that I have all I will ever really need. Except that's the problem. I'm scared to death that not only is this mess we find ourselves in sapping my will to fight, it's also leaving me a nastier person. Someone I don't want to be. Someone who thinks the bottom line is the bottom line. I am failing to cope in an insecure world and I don't like myself for it.
There are no easy solutions, and I hate whiny posts, so we're going on a road trip. That great American cure-all. We are attempting to replicate our abortive 10th anniversary trip from last year. Vegas for a couple of nights followed by LK's family cabin in Utah. A long weekend of escapism.
If we hit the jackpot the drinks are on me.
- Screamed abuse at my husband (whose eyebrows almost shot off his head with the speed of their upward trajectory),
- I have been painfully blunt with my mother-in-law (never, ever a good thing)
- I have reprimanded staff at my office with the choice words 'I'm so disappointed in both of you, you're both being ridiculously childish'. They are in their early 50s and early 60s respectively. Brilliant, Ali, *well done*.
People have been kind enough to blame my sudden, terrifying outbursts on pregnancy hormones, but I think we all really know that that's not the truth. I feel like I'm about to lose my mind.
The sad thing is, our current situation is one that could leave me counting my blessings. Looking at my long-suffering husband, brilliant child and baseball-sized child-to-be and I could reflect that I have all I will ever really need. Except that's the problem. I'm scared to death that not only is this mess we find ourselves in sapping my will to fight, it's also leaving me a nastier person. Someone I don't want to be. Someone who thinks the bottom line is the bottom line. I am failing to cope in an insecure world and I don't like myself for it.
There are no easy solutions, and I hate whiny posts, so we're going on a road trip. That great American cure-all. We are attempting to replicate our abortive 10th anniversary trip from last year. Vegas for a couple of nights followed by LK's family cabin in Utah. A long weekend of escapism.
If we hit the jackpot the drinks are on me.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Follow Through
I'm notoriously bad at this, so here's my attempt at actually following through on some things:
Fire:
Good news, it's mostly out. Despite the heatwave that seems to be raging throughout the rest of the state we have been socked in with our traditional summer fog. Never has a town been so excited to see our usual 'June Gloom'.
The coverage on the fire has been worse than useless. In the first couple of days we had one or two 'reverse 911 calls' where the authorities call your home to give you an update on evacuation orders, necessary precautions etc. That was useful, but not so much when the power is out and the phones are down. We have an old-fashioned non-electric phone somewhere but trying to find that in the dark in the attic with a candle? Not going to happen. The TV channels were regurgitating the same old information from 12+ hours ago (not very useful when it comes to something that moves like, well, wildfire....) and most of Santa Barbara went about it's business trying to ignore the giant gorilla hovering in the background.
We were never under any real threat from the fire as it happens. Despite it's apparent proximity and the 60-100ft flames making it look much closer than reality we had nothing more than some poor air quality and a flurry of ash making it look like 'Cuhmissmass' in July per Anna.
On the plus side. Firemen!! Over the weekend the town was absolutely crawling with them, you couldn't reach a coffee shop without tripping over a pack of grubby yet charming out of town firefighters. No bad thing. Hard to hide the toddler, the wedding ring and the baby bump but you know I tried....
Baby
Just when you thought it was safe to return to these waters...I'm going to start talking about the foetus again. I'm starting to show and a couple of people have done the comedy 'I know I'm going to regret asking this, but are you, possibly, I mean, you're usually on the slimmer side, so' etc etc. I like to watch them squirm. I'm generally giving it away by subconsciously caressing my stomach at every given opportunity. Mother Nature is working her wily ways and almost despite myself I'm giving creature #2 a gentle pat every, oh, 3 seconds or so. I swear I don't even realize I'm doing it. I'm not that affected honest.
I'd been feeling better until suddenly out of the blue on Tuesday I started throwing up like a cholera victim. (Do they throw up or just leak bodily fluids? If only I had the time and energy to research..). Poor old Anna got to witness the entire display with eyes like dinner plates while I gently urged her to please (urrgghh) go downstairs (urrggghhhh!) to Dada (bleurrrgghh). This is the first and only time I've thrown up this pregnancy. I only threw up once last time too so hopefully I'm done.
Anna
Currently at home from school with a nasty cold which I can feel heading my way considering how many times she's sneezed up my nose in the last 24 hours. Something about her feeling poorly makes her want to squash her little mucous-ridden face next to mine and share my breath for an entire night.
So that's all folks. No flambe'd K household. Baby still plumping and growing. Toddler sneezing and watching Go Diego Go.
Why don't more people read this blog?!
Fire:
Good news, it's mostly out. Despite the heatwave that seems to be raging throughout the rest of the state we have been socked in with our traditional summer fog. Never has a town been so excited to see our usual 'June Gloom'.
The coverage on the fire has been worse than useless. In the first couple of days we had one or two 'reverse 911 calls' where the authorities call your home to give you an update on evacuation orders, necessary precautions etc. That was useful, but not so much when the power is out and the phones are down. We have an old-fashioned non-electric phone somewhere but trying to find that in the dark in the attic with a candle? Not going to happen. The TV channels were regurgitating the same old information from 12+ hours ago (not very useful when it comes to something that moves like, well, wildfire....) and most of Santa Barbara went about it's business trying to ignore the giant gorilla hovering in the background.
We were never under any real threat from the fire as it happens. Despite it's apparent proximity and the 60-100ft flames making it look much closer than reality we had nothing more than some poor air quality and a flurry of ash making it look like 'Cuhmissmass' in July per Anna.
On the plus side. Firemen!! Over the weekend the town was absolutely crawling with them, you couldn't reach a coffee shop without tripping over a pack of grubby yet charming out of town firefighters. No bad thing. Hard to hide the toddler, the wedding ring and the baby bump but you know I tried....
Baby
Just when you thought it was safe to return to these waters...I'm going to start talking about the foetus again. I'm starting to show and a couple of people have done the comedy 'I know I'm going to regret asking this, but are you, possibly, I mean, you're usually on the slimmer side, so' etc etc. I like to watch them squirm. I'm generally giving it away by subconsciously caressing my stomach at every given opportunity. Mother Nature is working her wily ways and almost despite myself I'm giving creature #2 a gentle pat every, oh, 3 seconds or so. I swear I don't even realize I'm doing it. I'm not that affected honest.
I'd been feeling better until suddenly out of the blue on Tuesday I started throwing up like a cholera victim. (Do they throw up or just leak bodily fluids? If only I had the time and energy to research..). Poor old Anna got to witness the entire display with eyes like dinner plates while I gently urged her to please (urrgghh) go downstairs (urrggghhhh!) to Dada (bleurrrgghh). This is the first and only time I've thrown up this pregnancy. I only threw up once last time too so hopefully I'm done.
Anna
Currently at home from school with a nasty cold which I can feel heading my way considering how many times she's sneezed up my nose in the last 24 hours. Something about her feeling poorly makes her want to squash her little mucous-ridden face next to mine and share my breath for an entire night.
So that's all folks. No flambe'd K household. Baby still plumping and growing. Toddler sneezing and watching Go Diego Go.
Why don't more people read this blog?!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Surprise Ingredient
I'm starting to feel human again. Anything that smells more pungent than boiled water is no longer abhorrent to me. At the time I thought I was doing OK, just a little off colour, a little sensitive to smell, that was all. Now that I'm feeling better I realize just how out of whack my system was. For example, I can now open the fridge without experiencing an overwhelming wave of nausea. I can go five minutes without reaching for dry crackers. Excellent progress. My diet has now progressed beyond plain pasta with cheese on top. I am able to contemplate chicken, even red meat without breaking into a sweat.
As usual though, it takes a family member to bring me grinding to a halt.
We went to LK's Dad's last night for dinner. His Dad is an amazing cook. Resolutely refusing to enter the kitchen during his entire 20 year marriage to LK's Mum, he overnight transformed into a dedicated and creative gourmet. Much to her chagrin I'm sure.
It's not entirely easy being his daughter-in-law, when you go over for dinner and are presented with a handcrafted cioppino, clams freshly dug that morning, just the right amount of saffron infusing the sauce. Makes it a little difficult to reciprocate with 'that chicken recipe' I do. Or possibly 'that thing involving salmon'. Anyway. Despite his very teutonic heritage he is a remarkable cook (and I can say that, because us Brits aren't exactly known for our culinary history either....).
Sometimes though he can err on the side of dude, what the fuck were you thinking.
Take last night. Homemade ribs boiled in apple juice then charcoal grilled with his own special sauce. On the side we had a beet salad. His latest creation. Now I love beetroot. Pickled beetroot was somewhat of a staple at our house. In fact my brother had an unfortunate incident with a surfeit of beetroot and some purple wee as I recall.... So I was game for beet salad.
'I want to see if you guys can guess the secret ingredient' LK's Dad smirked. We'd already failed to guess the secret addition of turmeric to the garlic bread (the vivid yellow colour should have been our first clue). We all took a big bite to see if we could guess.
Can you guess? What the secret ingredient in his beet salad was?
Pickled Herring!!!
I was surprised!!
Not exactly what my newly recovered appetite was yearning for I have to say. Two weeks ago I think I would have curled up a died.
Don't you think that's a bit odd? I know the northern Europeans have a predilection for things pickled and fishy - even in the north of England you can get a 'roll mop' at almost any supermarket. Not that I have of course.
I'm plotting my revenge. I'm thinking of having them over for dinner next week, cooking up a quick something for dessert, like maybe a chocolate mousse, and slipping a sly anchovy into the mix.
Surprise!!
As usual though, it takes a family member to bring me grinding to a halt.
We went to LK's Dad's last night for dinner. His Dad is an amazing cook. Resolutely refusing to enter the kitchen during his entire 20 year marriage to LK's Mum, he overnight transformed into a dedicated and creative gourmet. Much to her chagrin I'm sure.
It's not entirely easy being his daughter-in-law, when you go over for dinner and are presented with a handcrafted cioppino, clams freshly dug that morning, just the right amount of saffron infusing the sauce. Makes it a little difficult to reciprocate with 'that chicken recipe' I do. Or possibly 'that thing involving salmon'. Anyway. Despite his very teutonic heritage he is a remarkable cook (and I can say that, because us Brits aren't exactly known for our culinary history either....).
Sometimes though he can err on the side of dude, what the fuck were you thinking.
Take last night. Homemade ribs boiled in apple juice then charcoal grilled with his own special sauce. On the side we had a beet salad. His latest creation. Now I love beetroot. Pickled beetroot was somewhat of a staple at our house. In fact my brother had an unfortunate incident with a surfeit of beetroot and some purple wee as I recall.... So I was game for beet salad.
'I want to see if you guys can guess the secret ingredient' LK's Dad smirked. We'd already failed to guess the secret addition of turmeric to the garlic bread (the vivid yellow colour should have been our first clue). We all took a big bite to see if we could guess.
Can you guess? What the secret ingredient in his beet salad was?
Pickled Herring!!!
I was surprised!!
Not exactly what my newly recovered appetite was yearning for I have to say. Two weeks ago I think I would have curled up a died.
Don't you think that's a bit odd? I know the northern Europeans have a predilection for things pickled and fishy - even in the north of England you can get a 'roll mop' at almost any supermarket. Not that I have of course.
I'm plotting my revenge. I'm thinking of having them over for dinner next week, cooking up a quick something for dessert, like maybe a chocolate mousse, and slipping a sly anchovy into the mix.
Surprise!!
Friday, July 04, 2008
For Once This Is Not About The Baby...
Last year when wildfires threatened our home, I packed our 'grab-n-go' box and found $600 in my travel wallet that I'd forgotten about from our trip to the UK a few months earlier. Nice one! No such luck this time. I am acutely aware of the state of our finances, to the very penny picked up off the street. So aware, that I'm a little disappointed that this weekend's fire isn't a tad closer to our house.
I'm only half joking.
We went out to a concert last night (as you do, if a major wildfire threatens to engulf your town - and as you can see we weren't the only ones), the fire looming in the background, and we discussed what we'd pack.
We decided on:
Anna
The Hard Drive (a close second)
Passports/ID cards/Birth Certificates etc
Deed to the apartment building
Insurance policy
The jewelery that I wear every day.
Photos
Paintings
I would have been sad to leave our bed behind (it belonged to LK's grandparents, funky carved wood from the 1950s), but LK reassured me he could easily handcraft another one from memory (?!).
That was IT.
The rest is just stuff. Replaceable stuff. Rather humbling and freeing actually.
I'm sure it would be very different if (when?) the fire is 500 yards from our house instead of 5-10 miles but still it was amazing how short our list was and how completely in agreement we were on our choices.
Whoops, I forgot the guinea pig. Sorry Louis.
The fish is on his own.
Right now the fire is 10% contained and despite the massive infernos raging in Big Sur the Goleta fire is ranked #1 in terms of emergent threat because of its proximity to a major urban area (us). The TV crew were oddly jubilant about that fact on last night's emergency broadcast.
I was nervous last night as the fire hit a sub-station and our power went out. It was also alarming to see the DC-10s lumbering across the sky this morning to dump water on the fire. I will also be worried tonight as the sundowner winds pick up and we discover which direction the fire will spread. The firefighters do an amazing job, but faced with wind, fire is an unstoppable force. About 20 years ago the Painted Cave Fire tore through Santa Barbara with the force and sound of a freight train. It was so powerful it jumped six lanes of freeway and burned all the way to the ocean. There are no guarantees that won't happen again. It is also rather alarming to note that there is one road in to Santa Barbara and one road out (now that the 154 is closed due to the fire). It will be hard to swim with a hard-drive. The guinea pig will be on his own. The fish will be fine.
So tonight, as we stand on a friend's balcony watching the 4th of July fireworks (amazingly still going ahead - a little inappropriate perhaps?!), we will be looking over our shoulder at the more impressive display behind us and keeping our fingers crossed.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Belly Shots
Those days when a belly shot involved my navel and alcohol are sadly long gone (oh who am I kidding, we never did that in the College library...).
When I was pregnant with Anna I took a photo of my ever-growing belly every Saturday morning. Or rather LK did, with varying degrees of reluctance.
When I was pregnant with Anna I took a photo of my ever-growing belly every Saturday morning. Or rather LK did, with varying degrees of reluctance.
I started at 4 months because there were no real changes before then. Here's the final progression with the last shot at 40 weeks. Despite the gargantuan size of the final belly I think I'm honestly more terrified at the array of casual clothing detailed in the shots. Must strive for more tasteful apparel this pregnancy. In my defence the heinous red pyjama bottoms in photo #2 were my attempt to celebrate Christmas. I will burn them I promise.....
I'm in two minds about whether to do it again this time (the photos, not the pregnancy). At 12 weeks plus I'm already approaching the 17 week mark from last time. One month ahead of the game - clearly my stomach muscles are not as excited about this pregnancy as I am. On the other hand, I don't want to deprive creature #2 of it's own moment in the sun (literally in the sun as the florid sunburn in the second to last photo shows).
What do you think? Should I restart at week 16 for continuity's sake? Should I, for the love of God cover the damn thing up as you're trying to start the day and are now feeling nauseous?
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