Smokey the Magnificent

Today the pig and I - and also the auxiliary pig, in a mei tai - wended our way to the local Playcentre. Playcentres are sort of like kindergarten for commies; parent-run collective deals which are handy for mothers like myself, who feel vaguely that their pigs ought to socialise but once worked in a kindergarten and are aware that toddler conversation around the playdough table would make a sailor blush. So instead of dropping off one’s pig, one hovers about it in probably-psychologically-damaging helicopter fashion and schmoozes the Other Mothers for playdates.

The pig was a bit shy going in, and would possibly have thrown a tantrum, except that the Playcentre had helpfully provided two tiny shopping trolleys. Instant bliss. The pig spent nearly the entire morning either pushing one around, playing cautiously with another toy with the trolley at her elbow, poised to leap up in case it made a dash for the border, or listening dubiously to my soothing monologue about Sharing and I’m Sure He’ll Be Finished With It Soon.

There was also a slide. And a mother more awesome than myself who dug through the earth-maker to find slaters and snails to show to the pigs. And a large, flabby, thuggish-looking boy, to whom I tried to be nice, thinking “Poor lad, everyone probably thinks he’s a bully, but he may have the sensitive soul of a poet”; only no, he turned out to be a bully after all, which prompted interesting reflections on my part. (If my nose had been calmer and more classical as a child, would I have been serene? Probably.)

All in all, it was a great success, and we intend to go back. I did, however, commit a faux pas. (I nearly committed two - the cheerful lady who greeted me at the door gave me a leaflet and said “Now, you get three visits, and we like to tell you a little more about ourselves each time”, and I, just having read a book about the Moonies, was about to brightly say “Oh, like a cult!” when I realised I probably shouldn’t. Near miss.)

Miles was having the milks (at the kai table - it seemed apropos) and the pig, loth to stray too far from my side, was getting bored; so I pointed to some books in the corner and asked her to go get one. When she came back, I took a look at the cover and said “Oh dear, pig; this one’s in Maori. I can’t read Maoi”. Whereupon there was an ahem from the helper, and I was told in a tone of kind but gentle rebuke, “We like to encourage te reo here”.

“That’s cool”, said I, “but I’m afraid I don’t speak Maori.”

“Well, actually, we offer classes on it”, she said. “I’ve taken some, and I’m really confident at reading to the kids now.”

“Wow, you’re fluent?” I said, impressed.

“Oh, no”, she said, “I don’t speak it, but I can pronounce all the words.”

“Oh”, said I, somewhat nonplussed. “Well I can do that, but she won’t understand it…”
The lady gave me a pitying smile and waited, and eventually, being well brought up and/or insecure, I caved and read the book. In Maori. The pig was somewhat bemused, but trotted off to get another book. This one was also in Maori. The helper smiled smugly and said “See, a lot of the kids end up being really attracted to the Maori books”. I resisted the urge to point out that the pig, being three, couldn’t tell the difference between Maori and English text, and was going more by the cover than any childish desire to do her bit for Te Tiriti. Instead, we sat there and read two more books in less than fluent Maori, while the helper looked on approvingly. I’m still not entirely sure what the point was. I mean, I have nothing against the pig learning Maori, but I somehow doubt that this is the way.

First off, this brought a brief and transient glimmer of joy to my brain, which, let’s face it, usually just sits there, and I thought you might like it: An Illustrated Guide to Bees.

Second off, I am looking forward with fondness to watching the films of my youth with the snortlepig. We watched Mary Poppins the other night while Helpdesk Man was off carousing, and it was nice. For one thing, we ate carrot sticks and cubes of cheese out of an ice cream sundae cup, which for me is pretty darned Martha Stewart. And also, this afternoon I sang “Feed the birds” as I mended a pair of trou (also pretty d. M. S.), and the snortlepig said “Is that Mary Poppums?”, and it had been, like, a week ago, and she is a Clever Pig. And as the years roll on, if I am not taken by Teh Lupus, we can watch The Sound of Music (which Helpdesk Man has never seen and refuses to, kind of like me and Titanic, only now I secretly want to, because I became briefly obsessed with the wreck after reading the autobiography of Violet Jessop, and I even googled pictures, which as someone with a phobia of all undersea life over about a foot long - seriously, we had enormous hoki fillets for breakfast this morning and they gave me the heeby-jeebies - is No Small Thing, and I hear they did a good job on the architectural details of the ship, and plus, Theoden’s in it).

And Anne of Green Gables. You know, people say that watching movies is anti-social and does not promote togetherness; but it’s bunk. Never mind that entire vibrant communities and indeed practically my own marriage are built on a mutual appreciation of River Tam; some of my fondest memories of my smeggier sisters involve sneaking to the living room at ten past four to watch M*A*S*H* of a weekday.

Third off, tomorrow I am going to the Auckland Food Show. I am taking the auxiliary pig, but not the snortle one, and I plan to eat many little things on sticks and chew judiciously at the purveyors of infused olive oil in a manner calculated to imply I shall be back for a bottle on my Next Go Round, which I probably won’t, because really, you can infuse it yourself, or could if you had a rosemary bush, which we don’t, but still, sixteen dollars. (Probably.) And it will be awesome. I will come back laden with cheem.

Tonight the snortlepig threw up. It was a cough that went wrong, not actual nausea, and it didn’t seem to faze her. Nevertheless, Helpdesk Man prudently presented her with an ice cream container, saying “This is for you to be sick into”. Whereupon, without missing a beat, the snortlepig took it and obligingly attempted to hurl once more.

Now, bear in mind that this is not a child given to unquestioning obedience. When we say “Jump”, she does not say “How high?” But apparently when we say “Vomit”, she says “How chunky?”

Discuss.

Also, I apologise to my occasional reader who has emetophobia. I did try to be euphemistic in the title. If you read beyond that, well, heaven help you.

Blow it all, I’m three and a half weeks postpartum and not up to my usual searing political commentary: so I shall amoose you all, Gentle Readers, with a series of quotations, melodies and other such media which I have recently found pleasing to the spirit.

DOMBEY sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.

That was Charles Dickens. This next one is Iron and Wine. It is a song I discovered from an online discussion about labour playlists, in which an individual - presumably one with a somewhat bleak outlook on parenthood - suggested it and everyone was all “Ooh, yus, that’s a nice song”. Which it is. Smashing, in fact. But would you really want to listen to it while giving birth? You decide.

Thirdly, I am very tempted to post some juicy quotes from Withnail and I, but some of the language is not quite the thing, and there are children present.

This one, for example. So I will instead merely link discreetly to IMDb’s Memorable Quotes, and those with unshockable dispositions can see for theyselfs. But don’t blame me.

[Some hours later]

Actually, I have some things to say after all.

1. The pig is learning tact. Her usual method, when faced with a nourishing dinner, is to eat three bites and then begin whining “I don’t want my dinner”; an attitude which wins her no friends. Last night, however, she switched tactics and said in a tone of polite regret, “Mummy, I love you and I’m very sorry, but I can’t finish my dinner”.

2. One hundred per cent of the friends I have thus far polled on the matter say that for $100,000, they would never eat peppermint or peppermint-flavoured foodstuffs again. I would scorn them for money-grubbing, but I’m sad to say I agree with them. I like peppermint, especially in the form of after-dinner mints and mint chocolate chip ice cream; but I could live without them. Chocolate-covered Turkish delights are a good substitute for after-dinner mints, anyway.

3. My knuckles grew during pregnancy. I tried to put my wedding rings back on the other day, and they wouldn’t go. And then I tried a week later, and they still wouldn’t go, and I made them, and it was a mistake. It’s mighty odd. My fingers don’t look swollen or indeed, in any way distinguishable from my pre-auxiliary-pig fingers; but there it is. The rings do not lie. Unless Helpdesk Man cunningly switched them during my pregnancy in order to mess with my postpartum head and cause me to off myself so he could collect the insurance and flee to Spain; which would be nasty, but I once knew a lady whose onetime husband would hide the rubbish bins just to mess with her head, so it just goes to show there are few depths to which humanity will not stoop. Flatmate Man consistently leaves numbers up on the microwave display so I can’t see the time without pressing “Stop/Reset”… for instance.

4. Still craving milk. I had two big glasses today and I yet I do not feel sated. Maybe that’s why my knuckles grew… calcium deposits. Anyway, it’s regrettably expensive, especially as Helpdesk Man has touchingly taken up the habit also. (Unless he’s just doing it to mock me, real subtle-like. See above. It’s not unpossible.)

5. I have to go now. I made Caesar salad and must eat it. This will be the second time today I have eaten poached eggs, although the first lot was in the context of toast. Did you know, you can poach two eggs at once? They separate beautifully after cooking, and it saves time. Once I get my Vitamin D levels back up and I’m brimming with confidence and self-esteem, I’ll try poaching three at a time. I should, like, televise it.

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.

Int, afternoon.

SNORTLEPIG: Can I has a glass of water?

HELPDESK MAN: What do you say?

SNORTLEPIG: PLEASE can I has a glass of water? Not wet water, dry water.

HELPDESK MAN: Ookay. This dry enough for you?

SNORTLEPIG, judiciously: It’s fairly wet…

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.

This is the pig, being three.

This is the birthday cake I made her.

This is what the pig would call a baby tortle.

The pig was about that size when she was born, although of course she looked more like this:

I, on the other hand, looked something like this.

Edward, not Bella. I may have had an even ghastlier pallor, but I cannot guarantee it. Anyway, that’s pretty much how I looked. I’d go into details, but my Hypnobabies protocol instructs me to let all such reminisces ping harmlessly off my Bubble of Peace and slink back into the void. Hypnobabies has no sense of fun sometimes.