June 20th, 2011 | 2 Comments »

So, yeah. I had a baby.

baby-bat

Not that one. That one’s a bat.

It probably would have been easier, though. Maybe next time I’ll have a bat.

Anyhoo. Baby. Yus. Miles David. Nine pounds six, if you don’t mind. Cute in the face, poops a lot, not a tooth in his head, and doesn’t know squat about the South Beach diet; in which respects he reminds me strikingly of his dear papa. I would show you a photo of his newborn self, but my midwife took them and managed to include the more salacious parts of a Smokey in every single shot; not to mention the waters of the birth pool, which are enough to convert one to dry-cleaning for life.

Miles is coping well with life. Between the civilising atmosphere of the birth centre and our natural desire to impress him with our excellence as parents, we have been unusually polite in the face of his sometimes unreasonable demands; and he has responded by being as amenable as his digestion allows. It is an artificial and probably short-lived truce, but it works.

MILES [2AM]: Parents, I have a complaint.

US: What is it, my sweet sugar lumpkin? Do your insides pesk you? Let us walk you around and pat you lovingly on the back.

MILES: Boip. Boip. BOIP. Boip.

US: Oh dear, you have the boips. You are brave and soulful in the face of adversity. Have you perhaps completed the boips?

MILES: No. Yes. …Boip.

US: What a clever and precocious child you are! A spot of milks?

MILES: Thanks. I will.

[All slumber.]

MILES [2:25AM]: I’m sorry to bother you again, but I think I may have pooped.

US: What an admirable boy! We shall turn on the lights and leap to your sanitary aid.

HELPDESK MAN: Let me, wife of my bosom, for you are weary with the exertion of birthing our marvellous boy.

ME: K.

MILES: AAAAH! MURDER! TREACHERY! MAYHEM!

US: Ach, tish and piffle, little sweetness; coochy coochy, hey nonny nonny etc.

MILES: Sorry! Sorry! I don’t like having my nappy changed.

US: Think nothing of it, son and heirling; it is a distressing event indeed. Come, let us sleep. Have some more milks.

[All slumber.]

MILES [2:40AM]: I have more boips. Also, I was sick on your face.

[Etc.]

As you see, this pleasant interchange is unlikely to continue for more than a few days - I’m ballparking Helpdesk Man’s breaking point as Wednesday - but it is merry while it lasts.

Posted in Uncategorized, havers
June 3rd, 2011 | 4 Comments »

Last night my computer died. We were innocently watching an episode of QI when it let out a long-drawn-out scream, went “kbbbpt” and perished. According to Flatmate Man, who knows these things, it’s either the power pack or the motherboard; either way, it don’t sing no more, and I am reduced to typing this on Helpdesk Man’s laptop, which I despise.

On the bright side, the loss of easy entertainment did mean I accomplished things last night. I sewed a good portion of a baby shirt, and then spent an amusing half-hour trawling through my past, in the form of a bag full of childhood memorabilia foisted upon me by my mother, who is moderately sentimental about such things but has, after all, six mostly-grown-up children, and who has the time?

The contents were as you might expect: immunisation records, a second prize for needlework, recommendations as to my character wheedled out of parishioners. There were a large sheaf of school reports, all of which stated that I was bright - which was probably true - and a pleasure to have in the class - which was at worst and likeliest a bare-faced lie, and at best teacher-parlance for “has not yet actively committed arson”. There was also a fulsomely enthusiastic assessment of my brainials by a child psychologist, which might have been more flattering if I hadn’t been sent to see him on account of my temper tantrums; but still. Apparently most of my problems were due to the ineptitude of my peers. Yes, you. I hope you’re sorry.

Lest all this praise go to my head, I also discovered two sobering truths about myself.

1. A while back I started toying with the idea that I had had, as a teenager, a mild form of body dysmorphic disorder; a psychological condition in which one views oneself as far more hideous than objectively warranted. Aside from the natural pleasure of diagnosing oneself with a condition of any kind - this year I found out I have megalophobia, and the pleasure this gave me almost outweighed the crippling paranoia I get upon seeing the Free Willy DVD case at the shop - it explained, I thought, why I spent my adolescent yeas hiding behind my hair, unable to respond to personal compliments from Helpdesk Man for the first two years of our relationship with anything other than a muttered denial and ungracious scowl.

Unfortunately, last night I happened upon some photos of my teenage self, and let it be sadly stated for the record:

I did not have body dysmorphic disorder. Just a hella unfortunate face.

2. From somewhat earlier in my lifetime, but perhaps foreshadowing Point Number 1, I came across my birth notes. I have a bit of a thing for birth notes; I find them fascinating; so naturally I perused mine with great interest. The snortlepig’s moment of birth, for the record, was heralded by my lovely midwife with the words “Baby girl born at 6:33; well done Mum! Beautiful girl; welcome [name of snortlepig]“. Not strictly scientific, perhaps, but charming. What did my OB-GYN have to say, in the section marked “notes on newborn”?

“Vernixy”.

That was it. A single, dismissive word, dripping with disgust. One could imagine him dangling my infant self distastefully by one arm, remarking to the nurses that he would skip lunch after all; perhaps then striding down the hallway with a pained expression on his face, heading for the dispensary for the first time since he promised the wife. Maybe he jumped off the carpark. I don’t know; but it seems he could have reflected a little on the ignominity of being thusly summed up in one’s earliest moments of life. “Vernixy”. I should put it on my tombstone.

So there that is. In other news, I am now officially 39 weeks and 1 day pregnant; and if I make it four more days without giving birth, I shall be the most pregnant I’ve ever been. Oddly enough I’m not, as pregnant women are expected to be, impatient to meet the baby. I have a lot of sewing to do; all my Hypnobabies practice has yet to convince me that childbirth will be a fun and Christmassy event; and when it comes down to it, in the words of the immortal Jean Kerr, whoever she was - “Now the thing about having a baby - and I can’t be the first person to have noticed this - is that thereafter, you have it”.

Well said, lady. Anyway, Super 8 comes out on my due date, and I want to see it. And I stood on a small sharp shard of something the other day and cut my foot, and I object to going into labour with a cut foot; it might throw off my whole vibe. (I felt similarly about last week’s flu, but that seems to have mostly disappeared, save for a hacking cough; thank you for asking.) Worse things do happen; I know a lady online who broke her leg a few weeks before going into labour, and can you imagine? Horrid. Even a bad sunburn, really, would put a damper on things. Or ebola.

plagueplaque

May 21st, 2011 | 6 Comments »

You know what pretty much defines misery? Running out of Gaviscon in the middle of the night, while coming down with a sore throat. Not just a sore throat, neither, but a full-blown leak-from-the-face teeth-aching winter cold. When desperately wishing to sleep, however, it is the combination of a throat rasping with infection at the top end and being sizzled away by gastric juices at the bottom end that really makes life worth living.

So this morning, I sent Helpdesk Man out on a mission to bring me back pizza, which I was inexplicably craving, and enough Gaviscon to neutralise a citrus grove. Poor man, he tried. First he went to the Warehouse, which didn’t have any; but brought back the pizza as a peace offering, which the pig and I contentedly ate. It was a good one - pine nuts, apricot sauce and cubes of cream cheese. Then he kindly took the pig for a walk to the pharmacy. It was shut. In a burst of right-brained brilliance he headed for the local Indian grocer. The woman did not stock Gaviscon, but pressed upon Helpdesk Man a number of Indian herbal heartburn tablets. Unfortunately she did not specify what was in them, nor whether they were safe for pregnancy, so I didn’t quite fancy them (and Helpdesk Man, having been forced to taste one by the lady, was sympathetic. Apparently they were vile.) So he valiantly made a fourth trip to the supermarket, where the life-giving elixir was finally found and brought to justice.

That was several hours ago. Thanks to the Gaviscon, I managed a few hours of fitful, fevered sleep in a semi-upright position. Then I woke up rather suddenly, bleated a shrill and unwifely demand at Helpdesk Man, and was flamboyantly sick all over the bed while he was hunting around the kitchen for a bucket.

I do not reveal all this out of a base desire for pity, Gentle Reader. Rather, it is mere preamble to the next event, which was probably the highlight of my year so far. Several minutes after divesting my innards of chunder, I blew my nose in a fretful way… and a pine nut flew out.

Helpdesk Man is a lucky guy, I like to think.

bunny

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Posted in Uncategorized, havers
May 18th, 2011 | 4 Comments »

For the past few weeks I have been craving custard like a fiend from hell. I made some delicious baked caramel custards the other day, and they didn’t last twenty-four hours between them. I figure there are less nutritious, more toxic things to crave during pregnancy, but the craving does serve to depressingly illustrate where my life is at. If I were to meet Joss Whedon in a lift, for instance, the conversation would go like this:

JOSS: I’m Joss Whedon. I make cult TV shows, write and direct movies and write comic books. At my Comic-con appearances I am hailed as a very god.

ME: I’m really into custard in a big way.

And there’s not a lot of places the conversation can go from there, is it? No commonality of minds. No equality. No “You seem a likely wench, come join the creative team on my new ill-fated scifi series”. I’d be better off as an actual sicko. For instance:

JOSS: I’m Joss Whedon. I make cult TV etc etc.

ME [with a curt tip of the head]: Smokering. Arson.

He’d probably respect that. He ought to.

In other news, my vile baby has gone transverse on me. Off to try a forward-leaning inversion.

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May 6th, 2011 | 11 Comments »

So I finally got around to making a birth plan. The rules for a good birth plan, according to many a noble blog, are simple: state wishes unequivocally yet tactfully, keep it succinct, bold key phrases, and stick to important issues rather than nitpicking over minor things. I think I have done a good job.

Smokering’s Birth Plan

Congratulations on being privileged to attend the birth of our miracle baby! To enhance the experience of Smokering and her husband during this sacred time, we ask that all staff read and comply with these guidelines (under penalty of a vague legal threat).

-Smokering would prefer dim lighting during the birth. For her comfort, the walls of the birthing room should be a subdued olive green.

- As Smokering will be Hypnobirthing, all staff are requested not to use negative childbirth terminology - “labour”, “contractions”, “rectal prolapse”, “haemmorhage”, “woman” and so forth. Guidelines for positive birth terminology are as follows:

  • Contractions are to be referred to as “squeezles”.
  • A first- to third-degree tear shall be referred to as a “love nick”. Staff are, however, permitted to refer to a fourth-degree tear as a “boo-boo”.
  • For reasons Smokering does not wish to discuss, the cervix shall euphemistically be referred to as the “uterus” and vice versa. The umbilical cord shall be called the “spleen“.
  • Speaking of the baby’s “descent” invokes images of a horrific hell dimension. Please speak instead of the baby “reverse ascending“.
  • Conversely, any staff member wishing to discuss vaccinations or silver nitrate with Smokering must refer to them respectively as “death stabs” and “lava goop“.

-In the case of emergent transfer (or “baby’s first holiday“), Smokering is concerned that the baby not be exposed to the harsh sound of an ambulance siren. She therefore requests that the birth centre keep an ice cream truck on standby during labour.

-Smokering wishes to consume the placenta after birth; please notify the birthing centre kitchen that she is not fussy about preparation methods, but asks that any accompanying sauce be free of MSG and trans-fats.

-Staff should be aware when emptying the birth pool that it may contain some tropical fish. These are the babies’ spirit guardians and under no circumstances are to be flushed.

-Smokering will be declining conventional methods of pain relief. Rather than offering her drugs or an epidural, she would prefer staff members encouraged her comfort with original verse, generous donations and vigorous theological debate.

-In keeping with the venerable Chinese practice of zuo yue zi, Smokering will remain at the birthing centre for forty days instead of the usual two. During this time she is not permitted to bathe or wash her hair; staff may need to negotiate with the Board of Health on her behalf. Smokering would prefer not to be disturbed regarding this matter.

-As privacy during the birthing time is very important, Smokering’s husband will fit the birthing room out upon arrival with a device that triggers a moderate electric shock every time a staff member attempts to cross the threshold. In the event of an emergent situation, staff are advised to use visualisation and breathing techniques to eliminate any discomfort while entering.

-Smokering appreciates the staff’s willingness to discourage untimely or unwanted visitors to the birthing couple. However, out of sympathy for the staff’s doubtless heavy workload, Smokering and her husband have hired a private professional for this purpose. His name is Sven and staff members are advised to keep a wide berth. Should any lactation consultant or doula need to pass Smokering’s room in the hallway, it is recommended she distract Sven with a bit of raw beefsteak and then run like hell.

-Smokering would prefer all birth-related bodily fluids to be returned to her rather than discarded, in the form of a piece of artwork made by birthing centre staff for the baby’s bedroom wall. The theme is “Racial Harmony“. The final piece should measure 6′ by 3′.

-Due to past issues with covert government organisations, Smokering will view any questions regarding the baby’s sex, name, weight or wellbeing as potentially hostile. Staff are advised to keep any conversation to neutral topics, such as overfishing and adrenoleukodystrophy.

-Smokering asks that the baby not be weighed or measured after birth according to the reductionist, patriarchal metric measurement system. In the interests of data collection, she permits her midwife to record the baby’s height or weight in comparison to mythological creatures, ie. “as long as a baby bunyip” or “about as much heft as a good-sized dragon fewmet”.

-Staff are strongly discouraged from interrupting the bonding process in any way, ie. with sudden movements, loud colours, dissident political opinions, asymmetrical facial features &c. Staff should be aware that an uninterrupted bonding process is very important to Smokering; if disturbed, she will discard the baby and start again.

Finally:

-Smokering and her husband would like to reassure staff that they are aware childbirth can be a process full of unexpected events. In the interests of flexibility, the birthing couple will be bringing along 12 pounds of nori, a portable chest freezer, one gross canned sardines, one gross chlorine tablets, and a pair of biohazard suits. In the event of an emergency, staff are requested to fend for themselves. Luck favours the prepared.

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January 19th, 2011 | 7 Comments »

bukkit

I mean, a boy.

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November 26th, 2010 | No Comments »

Well, apparently having a large chunk of one’s molar fall out is not only a non-emergency, but positively passe. I didn’t get an appointment until today, when I spent a pleasant hour being drilled and filled by a pair of eerily blank-faced ladies. The good news is that they congratulated me for “being good” afterwards and said they liked my engagement ring. The bad news is that half of my face is frozen in a post-stroke-esque leer, and I think I smiled at a few passers-by on the way home. The other bad news is that I have another appointment next Friday. Apparently avoiding the dentist for years on end is only a valid game-plan for so long. Interesting medical aside? Still better than a cervical smear. Other interesting medical aside? At one point during proceedings, the dentist decided one of my bottom molars had a sharp pointy bit she didn’t like the look of, and without so much as a by-your-leave she drilled it away. Is that, like, legal? I was perfectly at peace with that molar.

My nose is numb.

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November 1st, 2010 | No Comments »

This is why I love Peter, Paul and Mary:

But that is by the by. Did you know David Tennant once played Hamlet? Onstage, but they made a film version as well. Get a load of this:

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Posted in Uncategorized, writing
August 19th, 2010 | 3 Comments »

I was homeschooled, so naturally I never learned how to be popular. Luckily, the Government is here to step in for unfortunates like myself, with what can only be described as a wildlife special.

And people complain about being unmarried. If they only knew - you have to do your hair.

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August 18th, 2010 | 7 Comments »

On Sunday I decided it was Friend Day and I would rank my friends according to their pleasingness on that day. By lunchtime Helpdesk Man was down to -8 points and the snortlepig was in the lead with 1. Then I decided to invite some Friends over for dinner and make a Friend Day cake, so I did (chocolate rum cake with caramel icing and “Happy Friend Day” piped on the top; also a pigeon, which I designated the official bird of Friend Day), and bullied my Friends into bringing cider and bacon to add to the festivities. (Not all of my Friends. Only two. I have more friends than that, but there wasn’t much chicken.) Strangely, Helpdesk Man ended up with the most points, but only after he found out he could win a chocolate pigeon. It was a nice day. The end.

Also, I made a cake. A different, nother cake. Here it am.

cake-on-tableclothflower-cake

Also, I decided this week that I would not surf the internet at all. It was supposed to make me productive, but then the dishwasher broke and my psyche became paralysed with horror and languor and a general all-pervading sense of swimming in treacle, and the table got all covered with dishes so I couldn’t get out my sewing machine and make the cunning skirt for the pig that I was intending to whip out in an afternoon, and then the pig started saying things like “I’m SAAAD, I want to DIEEE” in full-on tragedy voice, so I decided Enough was Enough and went to town to buy some L-Tyrosine, and while I was there I went to the library and got out a bunch of books, so I have spent most of this week reading them. Which is probably an improvement on surfing the internet, at least. I got out a book about adoption and a very bitter memoir by a fat lady about being fat, and some others I haven’t read yet about Celtic Women in Myth and History and a woman who had a face transplant. Also the Usborne Book of Castles, but that was for the pig.I thought she should know about castles so when we go to Disneyland she will be groovy and au fait with Sleeping Beauty’s.

I took the L-Tyrosine a few hours ago, but I don’t feel any more zingy. Well, I made some muffins. They had rum in them, but I’m not convinced, even though Alison Holst doesn’t usually steer me wrong. Hopefully the aminos will kick in in a day or so and I can post photos of myself taking salsa classes atop a mountain at dawn.

Also, we are potty-training the pig. Mixed success. She just throomed on the couch…. for instance.