BFF

If I was being shipped to a desert island (I wish!) and I could take with me only one thing for entertainment and companionship, it would be Paul. He’s more than just a husband — he’s a best friend too! And look, he talks and walks and cooks and drinks beer! He even tells me I’m beautiful and makes me laugh and doesn’t die of embarrassment when I do my ‘banjo dance’ (think of how a hillbilly who’d never seen civilisation outside of West Virginia might bop around at the neighbourhood corn-husking festival) and he thinks I’m smart.

In the face of a mid-weekend crisis (Oh my god, I just realised that I can’t go out whenever I want because I have a family and responsibilities. WAAAAAH!) he ultimately acts like a grownup and decides that, you know what, world? He likes hanging out with his wife. Even when she prank calls him at 4am on a work night, after she’s had too much to drink while visiting family in the US, and says ‘Cleetus!’ and then dissolves into laughter: he just sighs and hangs up, knowing that he signed up for a lifetime of this when he inked his John Hancock on that marriage certificate.

They don’t make ‘em like him anymore.

Scary Caesar-y

When I was pregnant and preparing for the birth of The Noble Child, my biggest fear was not the pain of labour but the prospect of being cut from stem to stern with a bloody huge scalpel and having a baby pulled from my innards like the stomach-bursting creature in Alien. I don’t think many people want to have a caesarean (except that ‘too posh to push’ crowd) but I especially didn’t. I wanted to have as natural a birth as possible insofar as I didn’t want some male doctor forcing me to lay on my back, feet in stirrups so he could sit his ass on a comfortable stool and tell me to quit yelling and push already, because he has a golf game to get back to. I also didn’t want an epidural. Not because I wanted some kind of gold star for pain tolerance or because I’m a super-crunchy birthing goddess who enjoys pushing babies out of her hooha, but because I’d read and heard some real horror stories about them and didn’t want to take a chance on screwing up my back. I’d had enough back pain in pregnancy to make a Herculean man weep so I didn’t want to invite even more postpartum misery into my life. I knew I’d have enough of that in the form of a screaming, hungry lump who needed me 24/7.

So I’ve been appalled to recently read some grotesque stories of caesareans — women having them forced upon them, cut open without their consent. or threatened with one; botched operations that leave them disabled and emotionally crippled; instances of eager surgeons cutting into bellies before the anesthetic had even kicked in, as if the mother were secondary to their aim of freeing this precious child from its maternal prison; a husband and wife (both doctors) who filmed their 15 year-old son performing a c-section on a 20 year-old woman who had come to their private maternity clinic, all so the kid could make it into the Guinness Book of World Records, and so on. The business of slicing and dicing women is commonly believed to be a vestige of the developing world, an act of savagery in nations that don’t give women equal status, but here it is, in all it’s hush-hush glory in the most powerful nations in the world.

Women may think they have autonomy over their own bodies but as long as they put themselves in the hands of medical professionals and rely on their education and knowledge instead of educating themselves so they have the knowledge necessary to make their own decisions, the unnecessary and butcher-like cutting will continue. It’s simply not enough to say “well my OB says this is best.” We have a responsibility to ourselves, our babies and other women to question practices that are centered around convenience, vacation schedules, paying their well-salaried surgeons and how quickly the hospital can boot patients out to make room for more. High turnover is the key to any successful service business, you know. Get ‘em in and get ‘em out. No muss, no fuss.

Certainly there are cases where a caesarean is necessary and life-saving and enables a baby to be born healthily where a vaginal birth just isn’t working, and I am glad that caesareans are available for those reasons. But when women are cut open merely because they’re ‘not progressing’ (i.e. not being a quick, textbook patient) and because the hospital staff would rather pull the baby from a woman’s womb than give her the emotional support so necessary to birth a child successfully, it angers me. This isn’t just a ‘birth issue’ or an issue for mothers only, this is a denigration of women everywhere and another example of how the patriarchy still keeps one foot on our necks as we claw at the legs of progress and equality.

My biggest piece of advice to anyone who is pregnant or planning on becoming pregnant is to educate yourself: read, question, search, ask and listen. Don’t just ask your doctor or midwife and assume they are giving you the best, most up-to-date information available, or that they care about your birth and your needs. Many obstetric professionals do care. Many more do not. Whatever decisions you make, make them fully armed with knowledge and don’t ignore that feeling in your gut or that voice in your head if their advice doesn’t seem right. Always ask questions and keep them on their toes. Know your body and how it works during birth; know which interventions are necessary and which are not; listen to your intuition; and most importantly, have an advocate there with you, someone who knows your wishes and will speak up for you when you’re off in labour la-la land and too tired to talk. I highly recommend this book as well, for a good history of the medicalisation of birth.

This is the end of the Scary Feminist Rant. That is all.

Getting Started

The time has come — I need to start earning money. Need and also want. I want to earn some money. Not because I feel less of a person or contribution to society if I don’t, or because I’m bored of being a stay-at-home mother, or because my husband is pushing me to. But it’s time to start thinking about my future and what I want out of life. Having a bit of extra money and paying off our existing debt (which isn’t much, but impossible to pay off on one salary) would be nice, yes. But more importantly, I need to start shaping together the career I’ve been dreaming of. I’m been talking the talk and writing the words for years. Now it’s time to walk the walk and buckle down to the job of self-editing, self-criticism and self-promotion. It’s time to open myself up to inevitable rejection and face my demons. It’s time to become a (paid!) freelance writer.

I love my Londonist gig, don’t get me wrong. Great site, fantastic people, wonderful writers. I’m on the staff page now, officially, and it’s going well. I’m writing 2-4 articles a week for them and enjoy it immensely. It’s fun and interesting and great practice. But it’s not exactly the ‘real thing’ so to speak.

By the end of 2007, I will be earning money as a freelancer, doing what I love to do. I don’t say that to be brazen or cocky, I say it because if I can’t say it, how can I ever believe it? It’s time to stop dreaming and start believing. And most importantly, acting.

First stop — research. Books, resources, online communities, how-tos, professional advice, et al. I’m looking at buying these two books to get me started and hope they kick my ass into gear. I’ve also got a list of resources to tap into and enquiries to make to get me started. Motivation to do all of this on top of my existing obligations, to Londonist and to my family, is key. Wish me luck!

Daddy’s Day

Happy Father’s Day, Paul. You are the best father to our daughter that I could ever have hoped for, and more. Your love, patience, generosity and playfulness make parenting with you a joy. My heart has never been so full as when I see you holding Amelia in your arms, or tickling her in play, or comforting her when she cries. Out of your many roles in life, fatherhood suits you best. We love you.

And to my Daddy — I miss you so much. I wish I was there to give you a big hug in person and tell you how much you mean to me. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.

Satan At My Door

I was up to my elbows in the tub this morning, scrubbing it out as part of my cleaning blitz while TNC napped, when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, sponge still in hand, and didn’t see anyone. I leaned out to the left and came nearly nose-to-nose with a woman small in stature who looked to be in her 60s, well dressed and made up, and clutching a nice black handbag. I could’ve put her in my pocket, she was so cute.

She stuttered a bit: “Oh! Sorry to trouble you but I wondered if you had a moment.” Thinking she wanted to do a survey or was perhaps a neighbour I hadn’t met yet or was just lost, I said ‘Sure’. She relaxed her shoulders, cleared her throat and looked me in the eye. Right then I knew that what was coming out of her mouth next couldn’t be good. This woman had an air of Crazy about her and it was about to manifest itself right there on my doorstep. I backed up one step and squeezed my eyes half shut, as if bracing for an impact. Then Crazy hit me with the good stuff.

“Have you ever wondered why bad things happen in the world today?”
Me: Such as…???
“Oh, you know. like the kidnapping of little Madeleine McCann, and other such evils.”
Umm, sure, kind of.
“Do you read the Holy Bible?”
No.
“Well, I do and I’d like to talk to you about Satan and the work he has done and continues to do in direct opposition to what God wants of us.”
Satan?
“Yes, Satan.”
*silence* Umm, I really have to get back to my cleaning, and my daughter is due to wake up any minute.
“But I’ve been talking to your neighbours and I’d like to talk to you too.”
I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Good day.

I smiled at her and then gently shut the door, exhaling slowly as I did. I stood in stunned silence for a moment before shaking my head and returning to the grime of the tub. And I realised that what was more shocking to me than this woman’s words was the fact that she was the first door-knocking Bible beater that I’ve come across in all my time in England. I’ve had a few people hand me literature in the street, sure, but I’ve NEVER had one knock on my door. I’d almost forgotten that these people existed. And until I am assured that they have been obliterated, become as obsolete as Walkmans, or gone into hibernation, that, my friends, is one of the things on my list entitled Reasons I Just Can’t Bring Myself To Move Back To America. I mean, it’s probably number 24 or something like that, but it’s still there.

There’s something to be said for British reserve and their respect for privacy.

The darkness of greed

Though it seems to be embedded in my veins, in my lifeblood, I try very hard not to get too cynical. Before I had TNC I could by as cynical as I wanted, flippant about the world’s evils and coarse in my approach to dismissing them. But since I became a mother, I’ve struggled to keep that negativity in check, rein it in and think of the positives in any given situation. Find the silver lining or lesson to be learned, if you will (even if, inside, I was mocking the silver lining and calling it names and throwing rocks at it).

But now, more than ever, I feel my natural watchdog tendencies roar to life when I read or hear of injustices that are caused by nothing but pure greed from power-hungry individuals and companies. And it makes me sick. Sick that I have to have this fire inside of me, constantly burning and on guard, in order to do my job as a mother and as a cognizant member of my community. It feels like I’m constantly in a defensive stance, ready to block punches: one arm shielding my daughter from harm but the other holding a sword, fighting off the bastards in suits who are out to turn her into a Good Consumer so she can spend spend spend her way into society. It’s a battle I’d really rather not have to fight. But I do and I will. I will continue to get outraged about it, regardless of whether people think I’m just moaning and whining, or that one person cannot make a difference.

One person alone may not always be able to make a difference, but many people alone who band together in a common goal make a HUGE difference. Our collectivity is our power. Like a childhood game of Red Rover, we need to dare these corporations over. Then by joining hands and linking arms and filling up the cracks until we become a wall, we become an insurmountable force that even the strongest and most powerful would have difficulty overcoming. It might sound like a cheesy Lifetime movie starring Valerie Bertinelli (before Jenny Craig), but it’s true. Or at least I’d like to think so. I have to believe so. Otherwise I’d just give up now and take a bottle of Beam with me on a midnight walk along a high cliff while listening to Celine Dion. They’d be scraping me off the rocks below for weeks. So here we go.

Two companies are on my current shit list, for crimes against the most vulnerable — children in the third world. Please read the linked stories below and, if you are so inclined, join me in contacting them to express our displeasure with their practices and by boycotting them. If you’re not, that’s fine too. But the only way to hurt these entities is through the languages they speak best — money and publicity. If there is enough bad publicity about them, their profits will decrease. If their profits decrease substantially, their influence in the market will subside. If their power in the market subsides, we make way for smaller (and hopefully more ethical) companies to take their place. At the very least we force them to keep their operating procedures on the up and up after becoming subject to greater scrutiny.

Illegal drug testing on Nigerian children by Pfizer Pharmaceuticals
the news stories
the outrage
the contact

Nestle promotion of artificial baby milk (formula) contributes to deaths of millions of infants
the news story
the outrage
the boycott

They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself. - Andy Warhol

You’d think it was Jesus in that backpack

I’ve been thinking about getting a backpack-type carrier for The Noble Child and someone recommended the Ergo. I Googled it and came upon this site promoting it. I looked at the photos, read the testimonials and product reviews and thought to myself “This looks great, I might have to get one!”

Then I watched the video (top right corner, in the main graphic) and it ruined everything. If I wanted to vomit I’d look at nude pictures of Newt Gingrich, thank you very much. I don’t need sentimental music and images of flowers, beaches and hot dads (okay, you can leave in the hot dads) to make me want to buy one. The product should speak for itself, not let some crappy muzak rendition of a John Tesh song try to make my heart bleed and my ovaries explode.

Ergo, you make me want to smack hippies (and I am a pretty big hippy).

Just a perfect day

I had one of the best weekends I’ve had in awhile, the kind that seems to go on for an eternity and which is filled with interesting activities, good times and productiveness. I, for once, didn’t have a case of the Mondays when I woke up this morning. I wasn’t kicking myself for not getting enough done while The Noble Husband was here to help with sproglet duty or feeling as if I had done only mundane, boring things as I usually do on this most annoying of weekdays. Here’s why.

On Friday morning I got some good news (which I will share with the blogosphere in a subsequent post), the weather was good, I took TNC to a play centre where she got to bounce around in one of those inflatable castle things, I met a friend for an afternoon glass of wine and then proceeded to go out and drink approximately nine more gallons of it later that night. I slept until 1.15pm on Saturday. PM, people. As in the afternoon. I haven’t slept past 9am since I was pregnant. That’s how much the wine kicked my ass. I hope I’m not getting an allergy to it like Jen. Who am I kidding? I simply behaved like a 21-year-old bar fly that night and looked at my drinking limit, sized it up and then promptly ignored it in the vain hope that if I shut my eyes and shouted “La la la, I can’t heeeeeear you!” loudly enough, it would go away and leave me alone, much like my husband does when I ask him to clean a surface or replace a bin liner. But the booze will kick your ass every time. That’s one of life’s lessons that is most fiercely learned yet so easily repeated. I suppose the destruction of brain cells will do that.

Saturday was a bit of a write-off but in a good way. Sleeping until 1.15PM (did you see what I typed there? PM. I can’t reiterate this enough) is never a waste when it’s an annual event. And when I finally did emerge from my cavern to take over childcare duties, my daughter proved that she is the best and most intelligent baby on the face of the planet by feeding me grapes while I laid on the sofa. Once I’d recovered, I took to cleaning the flat in a frenzy, perhaps realising that it would be the sole useful thing I would do that day. So when Saturday evening rolled around and I sat watching tv while eating delicious, scrumptious pizza from our local pizzeria, I didn’t feel too guilty.

Speaking of tv, I don’t usually watch much of it (I download the few shows I watch regularly so I’m not a slave to the schedules), especially not BBC2 as it’s known for being the ‘older generation’s’ channel, but the lineup that night was exactly what I was in the mood for. A performance-based reality show (but only because someone we know of was a finalist that night) followed by a bit of Graham Norton (who normally kind of annoys me but that night had me in stitches) and then a great special called “Sgt. Pepper:It Was 40 Years Ago Today…”about the 40th anniversary of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. In the program, artists of today recorded cover versions of each song in the famous Abbey Road studio, using the original four-track equipment and the original sound engineers who were there when The Beatles made that revolutionary concept album. It was fascinating to hear these old guys tell the behinds-the-scenes stories of the album and what the mood of the band was as they recorded each song. I especially enjoyed the Stereophonics version of the Sgt Pepper reprise and The Fray’s rendition of Fixing A Hole. Part 2 airs later this month and I will be eagerly awaiting it.

On Sunday I was up bright and early at 6.30am. The big sleep-a-thon of the previous day had me so well-rested that I didn’t even need to use TNC as an alarm clock, I was up before she had stirred. We went to my in-laws’ house for a delicious brunch (smoked salmon, English muffins, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, bacon, sausages, roasted plum tomatoes, melon, toast and yogurt, all served alongside champagne mimosas and coffee — can you say YUM?!) and then, after lounging around the garden chatting to relatives and flipping through the Sunday papers, Paul and I left for an afternoon of sport. We played tennis, just the two of us, for 45 minutes at the height of the day’s heat, which tested my fitness and endurance, along with my deodorant. Two of our friends then showed up to take us on in doubles but since we were so worn out and they hadn’t warmed up, we switched places and they took over the court while we took over their bicycles and went for a ride along the river. I haven’t been on a bike in….oh, a good four years, I believe, so it was nice (though a little wobbly!). On the return leg, we cycled on a path parallel to the waterfront and happened to encounter a polo match. We stopped to watch with fascination the twenty exquisite horses charging around the green, throwing up chunks of sod as they chased after the object of the men on their back’s desire — the ball, and victory.

As we pushed off on our bikes to head back to the courts for our doubles game, I caught on the breeze one of my favorite scents, the kind that fills me with nostalgia and longing. The ’stable smell’ of horses, mixed with the acrid aroma of sweat, the soft smell of worn leather and the sweetly-scented hay. I breathed it in deeply and exhaled, my eyes half shut in ecstasy, transported to another, more carefree time in my life when all that mattered to me was horses. Even though it’s been years since I’ve ridden, I can still see the gleaming saddles lined up in the tack room, having just been polished; hear the pounding hooves and neighs from adjacent training rings; feel the elation in my soul when the magnificent animal beneath me flows effortlessly from a gentle trot to a rollicking canter, making me think of nothing but fresh air, nature and beauty in motion.

Paul and I won our doubles match (despite my dodgy serve) and then went for a celebratory pint. A pint of beer is never so good as when drunk on a hot day with friends, after exerting oneself in the great out-of-doors. It was a good day, and a great weekend, despite the hangover for most of Saturday. I hope the summer is full of days like yesterday. If I were to be so lucky, I’d never complain about British summers ever again. Or at least until another horrible rain-filled one comes around again.

Mule in training

The Noble Child may or may not have swallowed some tiny hair clips today. She got into the pack, which had at least six left, and I found only three nearby. She had one in her mouth, which I managed to fish out. I can only assume that she got at least one or two down her. Eh. I’m not worried. But some other people seem to think I should be. The few people I told about it earlier were all “Oh mah gawd! I would just DIE if that happened to my child. Shouldn’t you take her to the emergency room? Oh mah GAWD, I would be freaking out!”

The answer, in a nutshell: umm, no. Unless the hair clips magically open up and then (even more magically) close themselves on a crucial part of the intestine that results in immediate death by poopulation (my own word there, thank you. thank you very much), I’m not going to get myself worked up into a Mommy Frenzy over something as stupid as her swallowing a miniature barrette. I have bigger fish to fry.

Besides, if she can swallow and pass a barrette with no trouble, we can move onto Phase II of the Baby As Drug Smuggler plan. Mmmwahahahahahahahaha!

Notes on my return

I’m back now. Had a fantastic time in Chicago and enjoyed visiting my sis and parents. The weather was good aside from a day or two of rain and the temperature varied from 72-89 degrees. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect. I got to see extended family members and many friends, including my two oldest friends from Hicksville, both of whom are pregnant and due within two weeks of each other. Isn’t that so precious that you want to puke? I know I did a little.

I ate all of the food on my Clogged Artery Checklist: Chicago pizza, a hotdog, sushi, American-style Chinese, steak, Mexican x2, vanilla bean cheesecake, fresh chips and salsa, 3 jars of Claussen mini dill pickles, peanut butter, Lucky Charms, Honey Ohs, Pop Tarts, Garden Herb Triscuits, E.L. Fudge cookies, a Cobb salad, a huge, juicy cheeseburger, french toast, hash browns, buffalo wings x2, margaritas and cosmopolitans galore, Sam Adams Summer Ale, Oberon Ale and Blue Moon. It was bliss but I gained back two of the four pounds I had lost before I left. The gym and I will become the bestest of friends next week, that’s for sure. It was worth it though.

I have to say a huge thank you to my sister for suggesting this trip and making it happen. She planted the idea in my head, helped me organise it, and spent time and money getting all the things we needed for a fun, successful trip. She was a fantastic hostess and a huge help with The Noble Child, getting up before the crack of dawn (literally) with me because TNC never quite adjusted to Chicago time, entertaining her while I had some down time and just vegged out with the laptop or a magazine and was a badass bartender, as usual. It was the best trip I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.

The return flight was much better than the outgoing. I got upgraded to Premium Economy so had extra room for stretching out legs and juggling my bags around as I pulled toys, food, magazines, water and medicine out at regular intervals. No baby haters made an appearance and instead, I hit the flying-with-baby jackpot and sat next to a kindly old grandmother who adored TNC and jumped right into helping with her as if she were one of her own. Luckily, TNC fell asleep an hour after takeoff and didn’t wake up again until a half hour before we landed, minus one disturbance for a nappy change and a feed. I was actually able to go to the bathroom by myself (you try peeing in a tiny airplane bathroom while holding a 13 month old — it’s not easy), eat two meals, read a magazine and watch a movie. The travel gods were smiling on me that day. It’s about time.

I returned yesterday to a typical May day in England — cold and rainy. Seriously, I had to put the heat on when we got home and put two sweaters on. How depressing. Especially since I’ve spent the past two weeks wearing sleeveless tops, sandals and skirts or capri pants. Also, I’m missing soft water and tumble dryers already. I’m pretty fed up with hard, crunchy towels AND hair. One of my first purchases in our new home (whenever we find one) will be a water softener. If you can recommend one, please let me know. And any tips for having non-crunchy line-dried towels would be much appreciated as well.

I woke up with a massive migraine this morning, one of only a handful I’ve had in my entire life. It was debilitating, truly. Within ten minutes of waking up, it had gone from a dull ache to a flat-on-the-floor-feeling-sick-and-seeing-stars kind of throbbing that makes one wish for a speedy death via strangulation or a gunshot to the temple. I shut the blinds, turned off the lights, somehow managed to feed and change TNC and then sat her in front of a Baby Einstein video while I lay on the couch and made frantic SOS phone calls to my best friend and mother-in-law. The latter got back to me first so she came over and helped with the sproglet while I went back to bed and slept off the worst of it. I don’t know what caused it but I hope to never piss off the Headache Gods ever again because when they send you a migraine, it means you have done something to piss them off royally.

I spent the rest of the day doing typical ‘just got back from vacation’ stuff like unpack, do lots of laundry, make phone calls and answer emails, clean, get some food in, and upload pictures from my camera. The majority of the pictures from Chicago were taken on Andrea’s camera so as soon as she gets them to me, I will link to them here and/or update my Flickr badge.

Until then, I leave you with two pictures that prove, unequivocably, that my child bears a strong resemblance to Rod Stewart in the hair department