Smokey the Magnificent

Shall I compare thee to the snortlepig?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
See’ng my clean dress (when she was small, not big)
With a thin coat of puke she would distemper it.

My first pig’s face was yellow like a fright
But no such jaundice see I in your cheeks
And, being changed, you kick with great delight
Cheerful and sweet, despite your poop, which reeks.

She screamed; you sleep. She wailed; you gurgle. She
-Though arguably cuter in the face-
Pooped only once a month (from neck to knee)
Your active bowels denote the Master Race.

But if you turn out bad (and I suspect it)
My abdomen shall sue you. ‘Cause you wrecked it.

So, yeah. I had a baby.

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.

I’m, like, totally in labour.

I always wanted to blog that. It’s the small things in life.

1. I am forty million years pregnant.

2. I want to drink ALL THE MILK IN THE WORLD.

3. I am paralysed by a mental inability to make baked custards, which I desire muchly, and to finish sewing a bunch of winter clothes for the snortlepig, which she sorely needs.

4. I watched LA Confidential the other night and was left with the impression that it was a Good Thing, but if held at gunpoint would not be able to tell you who most of the corpses were or exactly what was going on with the bad guy, who surely can’t have been all that bad anyway, because he was Zefram Cochrane and also the farmer in Babe.

5. Braxton-Hicks remind me of when the Enterprise on Enterprise does that weedy hull polarity thing instead of having proper shields. Kinda cool, texture-wise, but it won’t keep the Klingons out.

6. When was the Holocaust named the Holocaust? During? After? Was there a poll? Did some people have an alternative title?

7. The pig made up a song yesterday. It went like this. To get the full effect, you must understand that she has trouble pronouncing the word “fat”, so she says “flat”:

“Mummy’s so flat

She has flat cheeks

She’s so squishy

She’s got a baby in her tum

It’s very very very very very very very very squishy

It’s the squishiest baby I ever seened”.

8. Still haven’t settled on a name for the Auxiliary Pig. I’m thinking Gaviscon.

9. A small and unworthy part of me sort of wants to get into a minor fender bender of dubious faulthood with another car, so when the chap gets out to yell at me I can go into labour and disconcert him all to hell. Wouldn’t you?

10. Just finished reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Good book, but a surprising lack of cholera. I kept waiting for someone to die of it, and nope. It could just as well have been Love in the Time of Eggplant, eggplant featuring rather more promimently in the text and having less sphinctery connotations to boot.

11. I bet a good bout of cholera would get the Auxiliary Pig out.

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.

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.

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.

Smokey and heartburn have been engaged in an escalating war for the past few weeks. First the raw almonds were enough to keep it at bay; then I progressed to papaya enzymes, which worked for a couple of nights; but last night I surrendered to the remarkably unpleasant-tasting Gaviscon. It seems to have temporarily foiled the heartburn, but it had better keep working - I’m not sure what the next stage would be. A bionic sphincter? Self-immolation? A made-for-TV movie dramatising my plight? If you’ve never experienced heartburn, just imagine your oesophagus corroding and causing you to spend your nights retching, gurgling and hoicking up things that have long been extinct in the wild. It’s demoralising, to say the least - and the first person who suggests I try a nice glass of milk before bed can undergo a heart bypass with a cup of chamomile tea in lieu of anaesthetic.

Also, there’s a slight possibility that I may be losing my mind. A cynic might observe that I’ve never been the poster child for mental health to begin with, but a string of recent events has left me looking sideways at my mind, going “Uh-huh?’. To wit:

1. Today Helpdesk Man breathed on me, in the faintly threatening way he has, and he distinctly smelled of lamb hot pot. We have not eaten such a dish for weeks.

2. Tonight being Saturday night, I invited two friends around for dinner and a movie, and made a batch of chocolate mousse, which I divided according to custom into four bowls. I did this yesterday, because I am Skilly and Organised. Then last night I thought “Well, there will be three of us”, so I ate the fourth bowl for dessert, and was happy. Then this morning, one of said friends emailed me and said she had invited another friend along too. And it was too late to retrieve the mousse. And I spent about five minutes in a blind panic, flapping my hands in terror, before it occurred to me I could, y’know, make more mousse. Which I have now done, and the world is safe and shiny again; but it was a near thing.

3. A couple of weeks ago, I was hallucinating. Srsly. I was home all alone at night, and rather overtired, sewing; and out of the corner of my eye I saw a corpse on the couch, and later a mannequin slumped on a chair. I considered mentioning this to my midwife, but I wasn’t sure I’d like her response. What is the appropriate midwiferly response to that, anyway? “Heh”? “Duuuude”? She’d probably have given me a brochure with the telephone number of my local antenatal hallucination support group, and I would have left it in my bag, and the snortlepig would have pulled it out during church and biffed it at a deacon, and it would have all been too too. And the hallucinations have not recurred. But still though.

Also, have you ever tried brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand? Harder than it sounds. You could lose a uvula.

1. The snortlepig referred to me today as a “meat pompom”. I think it was intended as a compliment, but it is too apropos for comfort. Sucks to snortlepigs, I say.

2. Did you know you can assess dilation without internal exams? Someone posted this link on a pregnancy forum, and I found it fascinating.

3. In keeping with the grand Hypnobabies tradition of weedy birth euphemisms, Helpdesk Man and I have decided to post a note on the door of our room at the birth centre, requesting that all staff refer to contractions as “squeezles”. If anyone refuses, I shall look her darkly in the eye and start to seize. It will help to pass the time.

4. Raw almonds do actually kinda help with heartburn. The snortlepig is a great fan; she keeps finding the bag beside my bed and saying solemnly “I gotta baby in my tummy, I got heartburn, can I has a almond?”. As a result we are going through them at a great lick, which is a shame as they are rather costly; cheaper, however, than the papaya enzymes I bought from a troublingly dim-witted woman at the health food store. Helpdesk Man has developed a curious mental block about the word “papaya”, and refers to them as pimiento enzymes… which would not help heartburn… but assures me that they work. I have not tried them yet myself. I don’t trust furrin fruit.

5. Last night I ate practically an entire pizza and garlic bread. Living in an Atkins household must be getting to me. Today we are having guests for dinner, and I made the most enormous marbled chocolate-orange cheesecake you ever did see; and if they turn up late, I will eat it all. Fortunately Helpdesk Man, having been dropped on the head as a baby, does not like cheesecake; so he is not jealous. I think he’s been popping more papaya enzymes than his heartburn strictly requires, though.

1. A month or so ago I was downing my hideous fermented cod liver oil tablets, while my sister-in-law watched with great interest. Then she said “Man, those are big, no wonder you swallow them one at a time”. And my brain went “?!”, and I realised that in several years of swallowing supplements designed to make me clever and sleekit, swallowing more than one at a time had never occurred to me. Since then my life has changed dramatically.

2. As of Tuesday, the Auxiliary Pig is no longer tangled up in his umbilical cord. This is a Good Thing. Better yet was the ultrasound tech, who upon seeing “3x nuchal cord” as the reason for re-scanning snorted loudly and kept up a muttered commentary through the proceedings, along the lines of “Never in all my years working here have I seen such a frivolous reason for re-scanning; I don’t know what these people are thinking; too much information, I call it, just causes needless stress, she should have just kept her mouth shut; ridiculous!”, which endeared her to me greatly. Better yet, she had to take a bunch of photos of the Auxiliary Pig’s face and neck to prove that it was unobstructed, and she let us keep them. A bit chinless in a few pics, but promising; he looks a bit like the snortlepig, if she had a more transluscent skull.

3. I am being totally productive. Upon realising I could have fewer than ten weeks to go I flew into a panic and started actually sewing some of the fabric which has been sitting smugly in my sewing niche; which, as it turns out, is the way to get things done. I have currently completed a winter pinafore for the pig, a pair of rather dishy Ottobre rompers for the Auxiliary Pig, a knitted baby hat I made up myself, and a small, short-sleeved shirt. I am now in the process of sewing another pair of rompers from a pair of hand-me-down trou, some winter pyjamas for the pig, a knitted kimono top, and a mei tai. (Yes, all at once; apparently completing one project before starting another is beyond my level of cunning.) After that will come another winter dress for the pig, a ring sling, a sleep sack, a knitted aviator cap, a coat for the pig, and as many more baby clothes as I can churn out before the Auxiliary Pig arrives and demands to be dressed.

Unfortunately our camera is lost, so I cannot show you the gorgeousness of the things I have made. Here’s a water buffalo, though. Just imagine I have harvested its wool and made it into a cunning little vest.

4. Helpdesk Man has officially started the Atkins diet. We have now spent our life savings on slabs of meat and surprising quantities of produce, and he has taken to hoarding his Vitamin C tablet to eat after dinner as a truly pitiful substitute for dessert. Tonight he and Flatmate are out, so I am taking the opportunity to make a Lime Marshmallow Pie in their absence. Ha. (It’s classier than it sounds. Not only do you make the marshmallow topping yourself, from scratch, but you also make the graham crackers for the biscuit base. Also, it has limes in it.)

Helpdesk Man and Flatmate Man have been discussing little else but the carb content of mustard and Brussels sprouts for the last week, and yesterday Helpdesk Man announced he was going to spend his birthday voucher on a set of bathroom scales. I am clearly the manliest person currently living in our house…. not counting the pig, who it turns out can do the splits. How? She certainly didn’t get it from me. I could never do so much as a handstand or cartwheel, and my childhood suffered accordingly.

5. I have discovered the most awesome blog. I read it all. I Am Baker. Lookit that hydrangea cake.

6. It is surprisingly hard to find good, free knitting patterns for baby vests online. Anyone? I want one that buttons on at least one shoulder and down one side, so I do not have to pull it over the head of the pig and give it flashbacks to the childbirth experience and stunt its tiny psyche; also one that is appropriately manly, attractive, easy to knit, and did I mention free? No luck so far; very annoying. I’m tempted to wing it, but last time I did that I ended up with a hat I should probably donate to the preemie ward, if it has a box for spectacularly un-fussy preemies with no dress sense; and I knit so slowly that an unwearable item is no small matter.

7. This may reveal unfortunate things as regards my character, but I have come to the realisation that people who blog about loving their husbands freak me all the way out. Mother pointed me in the direction of a crafty person with a blog she thought I might like; said person lives in our town and Mother feels we might Get Along. I thought so too, until I read her blog, and what is it filled with? “I love my husband”. Like, every third post. And now I can never meet her, because she’s my age (and indeed, her husband used to be in my class at school), and all I’ll be able to think when I look at her is “Heh. You love your husband”.

I mean, naturally I am glad that she does; and had she stuck to discussions of weaving and sewing, I would have probably assumed that it was the case. But come on, people. A little reticence. A little dignity. A slight sneer when the love of your life enters the room, to prove to the world that you are still your own man and not some moonstruck dingbat. Perhaps an occasional well-deserved critique regarding his face. Is it so much to ask? Must you spew newlywed bliss all over the internet like so much rainbow upchuck? It’s unseemly.

Right. I am going to go sew some straps on that mei tai snugly enough that the Auxiliary Pig won’t be able to plummet to his doom, no matter how hard he tries. And he will, if he inherits a healthy sense of nihilism. And I’m pretty sure I’m on a supplement for that.