Woe-is-me Wednesday - Sandwiched Between Generations

Warning: this is just one big rant.

I'm feeling sandwiched between the other generations.  

Squashed completely.  

No room to breathe.  

For the past couple of weeks it feels like I've not had a moment to myself.  

I missed Microblog Monday on the 3rd because I didn't even notice it was Monday until it was Tuesday already and other Microblog Monday posts appeared in my reader.  I missed Microblog Monday this week because of a medical emergency. 

More on that later.

Pickle's teething and age appropriate development means she is being a little more demanding than usual.  

Fine.  Thats to be expected.  She's adorable.

But there is nothing like a new baby to bring doting grandparents flocking to your door and despite the best laid plans I have three of them in Melbourne at the moment.

My mother.  

She's been banging on about wanting to do a cruise in the Caribbean for a couple of years, having not left her rural hideaway in the north of New Zealand for twenty years.  Knowing that she'd hate a crowded floating hotel, I suggested before she invested the time and expense of getting to Florida, she try a three hour flight to Melbourne and a three day cruise between Melbourne and Tasmania.

She didn't want to wait until March for that particular cruise before meeting her granddaughter so we agree'd she'd come over for a week and I booked a two night paddlesteamer cruise on the Murray River for the four of us.  (That was great.  The boat only accommodated 18 people, so it was peaceful and relaxing.  Pickle loved it).

My mother turns up, complaining about the flight and how much walking you have to do at airports, on a one way ticket.  With tickets for a 16 day cruise around Australia.  From Sydney to Perth.  And tickets for a two night train journey from Perth to Adelaide.  She refuses to fly to Sydney.  So I sort out train tickets and accommodation for the night in Sydney, train tickets from Adelaide to Melbourne and a flight back to New Zealand.

It turns out the cruise left Sydney a week later than she thought it did, so she stayed with us an extra week.  Although she wound me up (she IS my mother) she was on her best behaviour.  Careful to blend into the background and allow the house to run normally.  Careful not to overstimulate Pickle.  And made an effort to contribute to the household - I'd turn around to do the dishes or fold the washing and find it already done.  

She was a very considerate guest and it actually went much better than I expected.

Throughout my Mother's trip around Australia I received text messages on the phone she bought for the trip to keep in touch.  She hates the cruise.  Its too crowded.  The air conditioning is too cold.  The ship is too big, she keeps getting lost.  She's pissed off that they're charging for water.  She made the Indian Pacific train from Perth to Adelaide but got laryngitis.  The hotel in Adelaide wont let her check in (at 7am) so she's just sitting outside.  Now she has heatstroke but drinking lots of water and sleeping in her hotel room until she feels better.

**************

Mr Duncan's parents have come to visit Melbourne for a month.  Their plans?  Oh, no plans other than see their granddaughter.  They're staying in a hotel down the road.  Can they come around now?  They'll see me in ten minutes  ...and stay for the entire day.

Mr Duncan's mother and I have history.  When she first met me (and Mr Duncan and I were simply travel partners, not together) she threw a tantrum and forbade him to see me, (not that he was at the time).  Forbade her 30-something year old son!  Once we DID start seeing each other she sent him text messages.  How much he disappointed her.  It was his fault she was depressed.  She might like to kill herself.  Over me!  Please.  I had little respect for that behaviour.  What the hell did she want for her son?

Since she learned he was not going to obey her, she started being fake-nice to me.   I'm not very good at that (or small talk), but it is important to me that Pickle has a relationship with her grandmother and I work hard to be cordial.  

Its not easy.

Mr Duncan's mother is in Pickles face.  

Loudly.  

All the time.  

Doesn't shut up. 'Ooh look at this, here's a nursery rhyme, look at this toy I'm waggling!  Aren't you a pretty girl'.  

Poor Pickle gets quickly overstimulated.

Mr Duncan and his brother were mostly raised by his maternal grandmother.  His mother went back to work after six weeks and his maternal grandparents stayed and looked after the children Monday to Friday and went back home on weekends. 

So I think she must have forgotten (or never have actually known) just how much time 5 month old babies need to sleep.  Pickle is ready for her first nap of the day after just an hour and starts rubbing her eyes and yawning after about 90 minutes the rest of the day.  'Do you have to put her down now?  You don't want to sleep do you Pickle?  Here look at this!'  Will she go down?  

Hell no.

As is usual for a baby Pickle's age, she's interested in the world and curious about anything new she sees or hears.  So she does not feed properly or happily go to sleep while she can hear their voices and knows they are here.  

I have a tired, hungry, grumpy baby waking several times in the night for marathon feeds to make up for her light eating during the day.  She has black rings under her eyes.

Mr Duncan's father is a fairly laid back affable bloke, but when Pickle is sleeping Mr Duncan's mother seems to require an audience.  Not just any any audience though.  And not her son.  

Just me.  

"Lisa, I'm telling you about...  Lisa!  Lisa I'm talking to you".  I want to say "Well excuse me and f*ck off Mrs Duncan but my baby is waking from her nap and takes priority!"

I'm no wallflower and calmly but assertively set my boundaries.  The same boundaries are ignored when I leave the room.  Mr Duncan does not support them. 

He has a lifetime of practice appeasing his mother in return for a quiet life.

Its driving me effing crazy.

**************

My mother is due to arrive back in Melbourne on the Monday evening and her flight is first thing Wednesday morning.  The respective grandparents want to meet each-other.  

A lunch is agreed for Tuesday.

**************

Because her train into Melbourne arrives at Pickle's bedtime, Mr Duncan picks my Mother up from the train station and takes her to her accommodation.  The plan was that she'd check in, then come up the road to spend a couple of hours with us before going back to bed.

Mr Duncan arrives home alone.  

He said my Mother didn't seem very well and would I go down and see her?  She's sitting having a cup of tea but has little voice and is very weak.  Not to worry, its the heatstroke, she's just a little dehydrated, she tells me.  She hated the cruise (predictably), it was too crowded, too expensive.  They charged for water.  Thats why she's dehydrated.

My mother is a diabetic.  I'm concerned.  She seems confused.  

I don't know what to do.

I remember when my mother was diagnosed with insulin dependent diabetes.   I was about four.  I knew my numbers.  She asked me to dial some numbers on the old fashioned rotary dial phone so she could talk to her friend.  She couldn't see the numbers.  Her blood sugar was too high and affected her eyesight.  Her friend came and took her to the hospital and she was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes (not the neurosis her doctor was prescribing valium for.  God love the '70s).

As I grew older I learned how to test her blood sugar levels with a prick of blood on a plastic stick to determine whether she needed insulin or glucose when I found her passed out on the floor at home.  

This happened more often than I like to think.

I call the Australian equivalent of NHS Direct, the public health medical advice line.  They recommend I take her to the emergency room.  She protests but I take her anyway.

The upshot is that my mother was suffering from ketoacidosis.  This is where the blood sugar is so high, the blood turns acidic.  This can affect the function of all the major organs.  

Her blood sugar was over 30.  It should be under 8.  

At 2am she was transferred from my local hospital to the major one in town that had a specialist endocrinology team and an ICU.  

The paramedic in the ambulance who transferred her told me her numbers were so bad that if I hadn't taken her to the emergency room when I did, she'd probably have been dead by morning.  

He said "next time, call an ambulance".

Mr Duncan defrosted expressed milk for Pickle for the overnight feeds.  I return at 6am for her morning feed, express some more milk, get 30 minutes sleep and go back to the hospital.  My mother is still critical, but seems to be stabilising.  

Mr Duncan's mother is upset that he would prefer they don't come around today.

This morning I wake up, feed Pickle, express for her next feed, go to hospital.  I keep missing feeds and my supply seems to be dwindling.  I get home in the afternoon.  Pickle just woke from her nap and is not due for a feed for another hour but sees me and demands to be fed.  

I'm happy to.  

I've missed her.  

She yawns and rubs her eyes as she feeds and falls asleep on the breast.  I hear Mr Duncan's parents outside under the sunshade.  I put Pickle in her cot asleep, but she wakes a few minutes later and I cannot settle her.  Eventually I go outside to announce my presence and hand Pickle to her Dad so I can have a shower.

Mr Duncan's Mum says oh it must be difficult to have so many people making demands on you at the moment.  

Its nice to think she's noticed.

But it seems she doesn't have the self-awareness to do anything about it as she asks what time I'll be ready for her to come over tomorrow.

Sigh.

Microblog Mondays: Insidious thoughts

Over the years of trying to get pregnant and my two losses I sometimes had insidious thoughts, especially during the throes of disappointment after another fruitless two week wait.  

Or over the weeks months of hopelessness and futility following a miscarriage.

The thoughts undermined my confidence, my positivity, my hope:

• I shouldn't have thought/eaten/drank/worked so hard/flown/exercised/waited so long/done...
• I don't deserve to be a mother
• I shouldn't have invested so much time in work/travel/that relationship
• I should have married that wrong-for-me boyfriend when I was younger.  We'd be divorced now, but at least we could have had a family before it was too late
• I must have done something wrong... to displease the universe/in a past life
• Babies don't want me to be their mother
• I'm being punished for... any number of things I feel guilty about
• Maybe I'm just not the mothering type... 
• If only I had/hadn't...

I have always held a job with a lot of mental stimulation, responsibility, long hours and stressful deadlines.  Looking after and breastfeeding a baby is probably the most physically demanding and socially isolated work I've ever done.  It is non-stop though doesn't keep my mind particularly occupied.

I know I am lucky to have a baby, and such a contented one.  After five months of interrupted sleep and a few hard weeks with Pickle feeling her teeth coming through, I am tired and find my mind churning:

• I'm no good at this, it comes to real mothers naturally
• No wonder it was so hard to get pregnant, I'm not cut out to be a mother
• I love my baby but I'm not all in love and mushy like, the other mothers.  Maybe there is something wrong with me
• A real mother would...

I recognise these thoughts as products of my tiredness but they feel so very familiar.

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Rollercoasting

I had my checkup today and the doctor was concerned because the fundus measurement was only 32 cm and I hadn't gained any weight for four weeks.

Well, it didn't seem like I'd gained any weight since my weight measurement was the same as my first visit to the new hospital when the midwives were concerned about my 10kg weight gain over the course of my pregnancy to that point.  I did notice my belly seemed to have moved down a bit a few days ago, but at nearly 35 weeks was hoping Pickle was starting to think about dropping into position for birth.

Anyway, I was referred for an ultrasound for suspected IUGR.

IUGR stands for Inter Uterine Growth Restriction (or Retardation depending on who you ask).  It means the baby is not growing as expected for dates.  This could be due to issues with 

• the baby (eg genetic)
• the mother (eg poor nutrition, drugs) or
• the gestation (eg failing placenta, blood restriction).

After re-confirming my age and the fact that I had not had the usual 12 week genetic screening, the doctor referred me to a private clinic because the hospital ultrasound department was overbooked.  

The ultrasound was precautionary to see if the baby was indeed not growing and check for gestational issues.  If there were issues I would likely be asked to immediately return to the hospital for an induction.

What?

Not what I want at all.

I was lucky the private clinic could fit me in this afternoon so only had a few hours to stress about it.  It turns out that everything is fine with Pickle, in fact measurements taken during the ultrasound show Pickle is actually a tiny bit larger than average (60th percentile).  Whew.

(Now I REALLY think that the scales the midwives used to weigh me at that first visit were incorrectly calibrated.)

However the reason the fundus measured small is that Pickle has turned from the vertex (head down) position noted at my last appointment two weeks ago to a transverse (sideways) position, with the head to my left not far above my belly button and the legs up by the face, so the top of the uterus has dropped and I have bits of baby sticking out my sides.  

Comfy.

Not.

I was just coming down from the adrenaline rush of worry about Pickle's size when the obstetrician manning the ultrasound casually mentioned in closing that transverse babies seldom move into position and I'll require a caesarian section at 39 weeks.

What?!  Not what I want at all.  

Re-trigger adrenaline.

My next point of call is a site I came across when I was looking for birthing ball exercises called Spinning Babies.

And breathe...

No sense of humour

I don't normally have a problem with Facebook.  

Given I've lived in four different countries over the past 15 years, it allows me glimpses into the lives of friends who I simply don't keep up with on a regular basis.  It makes me feel connected to them and when we do get in touch we don't have years of catchup to do and can pretty much pick up where we left off.

But what is it about April Fools Day that brings out all the fake pregnancy announcements?

And why are they always made by people who already have more than one healthy child that they had no problems conceiving?

Last year a close friend indulged in this April Fools "prank".  I was newly pregnant with Pipkin and thrilled for her news - we were due to deliver within days of each other!  

How exciting!  

I was just about to email her my news when she copped to her 'joke' and made comments about how impossible it would be to have more children at her age.

My age.

That kinda hurt.  

And it hurt more when I lost Pipkin several weeks later.  My thoughts kept returning to her beliefs re age and the seeming impossibility of what I was trying to achieve.  And she was one of the people I would have reached out to for support during my miscarriage.  

Was.

This year I thought I escaped such nonsense having encountered none before I went to bed last night but I forgot about the time difference and woke to three such announcements in my newsfeed this morning from the UK and US contingents.

Gah!

There are some things about which I have no sense of humour at all.

Hospital Update - a comedy of errors

Cooking up a storm for the freezer

I cannot believe how quickly time has been passing!

 I've added a couple of days volunteer work to my schedule and between those and my frequent naps, I've been reading and cooking, but not so much writing or commenting.  

I have some catching up to do.

I had my compulsory booking appointment with the new, local, hospital last week. 

I'd booked a taxi in advance but when I called to enquire as to it's whereabouts when it was ten minutes late, I was told I was sixth in line and it would likely be another half hour?  

So much for advance booking.  

So I called the hospital to try to reschedule the appointment and was told they'd send out a letter with another appointment time in about three weeks.

Three weeks!  I explained that I was 30 weeks pregnant not the usual ten weeks they'd expect at a booking appointment and would it be possible to see someone earlier?  

They took my number.

I was very lucky that they found me another appointment that afternoon and I made it to the midwives clinic on time despite the best efforts of the public transport system to prevent it. 

In theory its only three stops on the train and a five minute bus ride, but the trains come three times an hour and the buses only once an hour so a bit of coordination is required.

I was seen by a final year midwife student supervised by a senior midwife who covered all the same stuff covered in my three booking appointments in the UK and the appointment at the Royal Women's. Yes, I know about smoking and drinking and eating nutritiously and why the recommend breastfeeding over bottle feeding etc.  Thanks for all the brochures etc again.

Despite my being told that the staff at the local hospital would have access to my records on the same hospital system before I transferred, they did not. They just had the handheld notes.  The senior midwife had to call the other hospital to get all the clinical notes faxed over, much to her annoyance.

They weighed me - according to their scales I've put on 10kg since I conceived - and cautioned I was putting on too much weight. That surprised me a little since I wasn't putting on enough early on. Yes, I have been craving dairy (more on that in a future post) but mostly eating the same as usual. The senior midwife said the dairy was good and to keep with it, but make sure it was low fat and be careful about what else I ate. 

 Consuming low fat anything is pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum of healthy eating from my perspective so I just nodded and kept my mouth shut.

It did bother me to think that I was putting on too much weight so when I got home I spent some time with Dr Google and given my starting BMI 10kg is within the healthy range for weight gain for the start of the third trimester. Maybe they forgot I was 30 weeks already..?  I went out and bought my own scales so I can keep an eye on it and weighed in 3kg under their measurement.  Of course I don't know whose scales are wrongly calibrated.  Whatever, I'll just watch my weight gain irrespective of the actual number.

They measured me - the fundus was 29cm which is right on target.

They took my blood pressure - which was normal, but high for me.  I had Mr Duncan take it again a few days later (with the fancy blood pressure monitor he bought while trying to get the Australian visa) and it was back down to normal-for-me.  So maybe I was just a bit stressed out what with the taxi debacle and new hospital and everything.

They did not test a urine sample which surprised me.  So far I've only given one in Australia, and that was after my very first appointment with a doctor here, they took blood and urine.  In the UK the NHS has you bring your own urine sample from home to every appointment.  At my hospital they had a big box of specimen jars sitting on reception for you to take from for your next appointment.

They sent me for a blood test to verify blood type.  

Now apart from the fact that I was issued with dog tags at birth with my blood type imprinted on (don't know if they still do that in Sweden), and have known since I was tiny what it is and told them.  And the fact it had my blood type written in the handheld notes from the other hospital, they said I had to get a blood test to determine my blood type.  

Why?   

I didn't understand.  

Blood type doesn't change with age!  

Hospital policy it seems.  No wonder medical care costs so much if they have to keep re-ordering unnecessary tests due to 'policy'.  I did mention my iron count was traditionally quite low so they ordered a haemoglobin test as well.

That was worth giving a vial of blood for.  My reserves are depleted (they were okay when tested back in November) so I'm back on the Floradix, beet juice and home made liver pate.  I tried a mushroom version this time.  

Yum!

Although I faxed off the booking and payment details for the childbirth education classes over a month prior, it seemed they had no record of me and wouldn't be able to fit me in to a class until August.  

A bit late, methinks, given I'm due in barely eight weeks.  

Fortunately I held off cancelling the classes booked at the Royal Women's until I had new classes confirmed, so I'll attend those instead.  Given I'd miss out on the tour provided as part of their childbirth education classes, the midwife sent me off with the student midwife for a quick look at the birth facilities, so I know where to come on the day.  

Gulp.

They have four birthing rooms, three of which have a private bathroom/shower, and a separate room with a birthing pool.  The rooms are all very clinical though, full of wires and monitors - quite scary looking.  If we were still in London, I'd opt for a home-birth but I don't think I get that option here, since I was a) so late on the scene and missed out on the midwife care scheme by months so I'm under the care of an obstetrician (who I have yet to meet) and b) am considered high risk due to my age.

I'm not exactly brimming with confidence at this point.

If I want a birth without medical intervention, I need to spend my time focusing on being calm and relaxed and not allow the whole medical side of things to intimidate me and create feelings of fear or anxiety.

And breathe...

Fear

With my first pregnancy I was a bit anxious because it was all a new experience.  But I was innocent enough to believe things would probably be fine, until it all went downhill at ten weeks.

With my second pregnancy I was hyper-vigilant.  

I worried and over-analysed every symptom until we passed 14 weeks gestation. 

Now that we were out of the first trimester surely it was safe to hope everything would be okay.  I had three whole days of relative peace-of-mind before things went downhill again.

This time I have every reason to believe the pregnancy will go to term - we're now more than 75% of the way there.  I'm healthy and growing and gaining weight as expected.

But that is just in my head.  

In my heart is fear.

I know that babies can still die in utero in the third trimester.  

Some babies are stillborn.  

And some babies die due to birth complications.

Upon waking every morning the first thing I do is check for movement.  

Most often there is none and the cold fingers of fear start to crawl up my spine. 

Pickle seems not to be a morning person, preferring to save the major acrobatics for when I'm trying to fall asleep at night.  I know this in my head, but still the nightmare scenarios play through my mind until I first feel movement later in the day.

All I can do is treat myself well and hope for the best.  It is much more difficult than I would have believed.

There are no guarantees.

Mediterranean Dinner Party

I invited friends to dinner on Thursday night.  

Our first dinner guests - actually our first guests - since moving in six weeks ago.

Unbeknownst to me, my invitation coincided with the local power company's plan to replace all the electricity meters in the neighbourhood.  

Of course it did.

'It will take two hours, tops' said the nice power company man as he came by to say the power would be turned off in ten minutes.  

That was at 11am.  

By 2pm they had discovered the power in our rental property was not earthed and they 'could not in good conscience' return power to the property while it was a death trap unsafe.  

Fair enough.  

They wrote us an official defect report and said we needed to get an electrician out to repair it asap.

We called the property manager to authorise/arrange an electrician only to find that our property manager no longer works for the company and they haven't allocated anyone new to her properties. 

Nice one.  

We eventually got an electrician who couldn't find any earthing wires to the water pipes to be repaired and speculated that they were removed when the property was re-plumbed, sometime in the past, and most of the metal water pipes were replaced with plastic ones.  The issue became locating an appropriate pipe to run a new earthing wire to.  

So the electrician had to call someone out to drill holes and climb around the roof so they could run the new earthing wire across the length of the house.  That was complete by 4.30pm.  

But the power company employees finished work at 4.00pm so we needed to get an after hours team to inspect the repair, rescind the defect notice and turn the power back on.

The power was finally returned just after 6.30pm.  Our guests were due at 7.00pm.

Our friends are vegetarian and I had planned a Mediterranean menu - mostly Greek versions of dishes inspired by this cool book I took out from the library - A La Grecque: Our Greek Table.  I don't usually do much baking, but had intended to bake a fresh spinach and feta pie and bake some bread to go with dips and salads.

By the time our guests arrived, the amended menu was

• Mediterranean dips - hummous, tzatsiki, melazanasalat (see below)
• Toasted pita bread - Mr Duncan ran out for some from the supermarket, to substitute for the homemade turkish flat bread I had planned to make from my library book.  I'll have to take a photo of that recipe for future experiments.
• Spanakopita (reheated from the freezer)
• Sweet potato, feta and basil salad - The gas was still on but the ignition spark on the stove is electricity dependent.  Once I found some matches to light it, I was able to boil the sweet potato instead of roasting.
• Fattoush salad

So it all worked out in the end but I was in such a flap I totally forgot to take any photos.

Tzatsiki

This is a simple mix of chopped cucumber, mint and garlic stirred into yoghurt that I've made for years, but I followed the library book recipe method and made it the Greek way by

1. straining the yoghurt to make it thicker (don't forget to save the whey and use it for other things) 
2. removing the seeds from the cucumber before slicing and draining the chopped cucumber, sprinkled with a little salt in a colander for a few minutes before mixing into the yoghurt.
3. mixing a little extra virgin olive oil into the finished product

These changes made for a much thicker, luxurious texture which really complimented the pie (and also went well with some grilled lamb chops the next day).

Melizanosalata

This was Mr Duncan's favourite dip when we were in Greece.  

It is made with grilled eggplant.  I threw it and the hummous together in the 30 minutes between the power coming back on and our guests arriving.

Ingredients

• Eggplant
• Salt
• Olive oil
• Garlic
• Lemon
• Parsley

Method

1.  Slice the eggplant.  

2.  Place slices on a baking sheet, sprinkle with salt and drizzle with olive oil.  

3.  Grill under a high heat for approx 5 minutes either side until soft and slightly charred.

4.  Mash eggplant in a bowl with remaining ingredients.  

5.  Blend until desired consistency reached.  

If you like you can fold in some crumbled feta cheese.

Crying over novelty socks - a new perspective on grief

Holey Socks Batman.

Yesterday morning Mr Duncan was wittering on to me about a pair of his socks.

Freshly laundered, he went to put them on and found them full of holes.  

This was no big surprise to me.  I don't know how he goes through socks as fast as he does, but he is regularly throwing out socks with holes in the toes and heels so I wasn't paying close attention to his complaint, especially once he started going on about moths and mothballs.  

We have not developed a moth infestation in the three days since he last wore those socks.  

I'm not saying that something didn't try to eat them while they were drying on the washing line though... we are not yet closely acquainted with all of Australia's creepy crawlies.

When I was first pregnant with Poppy I noticed a pair of Homer Simpson novelty socks at the pound shop in the days coming up to Fathers Day.  Mr Duncan is a massive Simpsons fan and we enjoy a couple of in-jokes based on Homer Simpson statements.  So I purchased the socks and gave them to Mr Duncan with a Homer Simpson Fathers Day card, from me and Poppy, assuring him what a great Dad he'd be.  

We lost Poppy less than two weeks later.

Time has passed and old wounds, if not exactly healed, are less immediately painful.  

Poppy's due date and first birthday have come and gone and in that time we conceived and lost Pipkin and now are hoping for Pickle to arrive safely in June.

While I frequently think of both Poppy and Pipkin, what they might have been like if they had been born, how our lives would be different...  its like a nostalgic feeling for what might have been and it doesn't trigger tears in the way it did in the past.

Later in the day I noticed Mr Duncan's Homer Simpson socks in the wastepaper basket by his desk and burst into a fit of hysterical ugly crying - complete with red face, heaving chest and breathless gasping.

Grief is a funny thing.  

Just when you think it is subsiding it rushes in unexpectedly and sweeps you off your feet.

Its been a while...

Pumpkin and Green Bean Salad with Tomato Basil Couscous

Although I compose a half paragraph or two in my head nearly every day, I've not found the motivation to actually commit any of them to a post.

If I started this blog to foster and record my creative efforts with some vague ideas about correlating creativity in general with creating new life, now I'm pregnant and living in a mostly empty house I find myself at an all time creative low.

We moved to our new (rental) home a few weeks ago.  

It is lovely and spacious with big windows affording lots of natural light and only a 20 minute walk to the sea.  

I love it!

Our furniture being shipped from the UK, spent an unscheduled two week stopover in Singapore, so we had to rent a bed/couch/table and buy some pillows and a blanket to make do until our shipment turns up.

I thought the cooking situation was bad in the serviced apartment.  Now I have only a camping set of two nesting pots to cook with.  This severely limits my options.  

I feel like I'm making the same meals all the time.  

Our dining set consists of some plastic plates we brought in our luggage and a backpack picnic set we bought once we found out the shipping was going to be so late.

It feels the most creative I've been lately is with some old telephone books we found in a cupboard - I tore off the covers to use as placemats to keep the rental table in good condition and I'm using some of the books piled up under the bed to stop the rental bed from rolling around the bedroom as its castors don't have any locking mechanism.

Same old, same old but on plastic plates.

It took two weeks for the internet to be connected so I had lots of catching up on other blogs to do, but feeling so blah haven't had anything positive to comment. I am still reading though and thinking of you all.

Tomorrow our shipment is due to be delivered.  

Unfortunately no one involved in shipping/removals here seems able to provide confirmed dates/times in advance so I haven't been able to sequence the pickup of the rental furniture before the delivery of the shipment from the UK.  Both sets of companies will phone me with a 'window' tomorrow morning.  

I am expecting some level of chaos to ensue.

But it heartens me that as of tomorrow I'll have my kitchen stuff back... and my desk... and my sewing machine and with any luck my motivation and creativity will come back too.  

I have an essay I need to write and submit to complete a course I did last year and there are some things I want to sew for Pickle before he/she is born.

And on the Pickle front...

The fetal anomaly scan was, in the words of the technician, 'as expected' so that is probably good.  

Pickle was extremely active, wriggling away from the ultrasound wand as much as possible and frustrating the technician to no end.  

I am definitely getting rounder and living in the clothes I altered while in Brisbane.  Although I do worry that I'm not putting on enough weight.  In the UK I used to weigh myself on those machines in Boots but haven't been able to find any public weighing machines here so I guess I have to wait until my next hospital appointment in two weeks.

I now have the reassurance of feeling Pickle kick to let me know everything is okay with this pregnancy. Pickle is pretty inactive in the day but come 10.30pm, tap-dances up a storm.  

I try not to worry but its hard not to.  And I know it seems crazy, but I still fearfully check for blood every time I use the bathroom.

I tackled the tricky problem of how to tell my family... 

There always seems to be lots of feuding in my family.  I am the only one who is always talking to everyone else.  

I was worried about triggering accusations of favouritism if I told one family member before others.  

So I sent them all a card with the same information - our new address and that we were expecting an addition to the family in June.  

My mother and sister seemed to think we were getting a pet. 

My Aunt and Father both sent notes of congratulations.  

No word from my younger sister, but that is to be expected.  I work on the premise that no news is good news with her.

I've added a new pic to Pickle's page for those who want to see baby bumps.

L.
xx

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Ho hum, not Ho Ho Ho.

New Years Breakfast - buckwheat pancakes

It's been a few weeks since I last posted and to be honest its because I've been in a bit of a funk.  

While its true I'm not the biggest fan of Christmas (I'm more "ho-hum" than "ho ho ho" due mainly to the commercialism and saccharine idealism of family life in the media) Mr Duncan and I enjoyed a picnic in the park on the day and it passed uneventfully, so its not that.

I have been spending a lot of time on the internet trying to figure out where we should rent, and Mr Duncan and I have pounded the pavements relentlessly evaluating different neighbourhoods.  The rental market is quite tight here and most properties have only a 10 minute inspection window once a week in which all prospective tenants visit the property and then run to be the first to get their application in.

I'm pleased to say we signed a lease on Monday and will be moving on 18th January.  I'm less pleased to say the container of our belongings (which I'd been enjoying tracking on the internet) has been offloaded in Singapore and is now scheduled to arrive three weeks later than originally planned so we wont have any furniture until February at the earliest.  I need to sort out renting some furniture temporarily and buying a fridge and washing machine but I'm pretty uninspired to get on with it.  I've not even been motivated enough to read the blogs I follow (sorry guys, I'll get to you, I promise) or the library books I have borrowed - and I know I still have the Creme waiting for me.  I need to be in the right frame of mind, but I'm not sure how to trigger it...

This is probably the longest period of unemployment/inactivity I've had since early in high school. You know that saying 'if you want something done, give it to a busy person'?  That busy person is usually ME.  I actually enjoy juggling tasks to meet deadlines, but the less I have to do, the less I actually do and the more flat I feel.  Its a bit of a vicious circle.

I think I'll probably look for some work once we move - if they'll have me. There is a lot of competition for jobs here, especially at this time of year and I'm not sure anyone is going to want to employ me at five months pregnant.  But I have to do something or I'll end up going insane with self-inflicted boredom/churn.

I have also been slightly anxious about Pickle.  Its been ten weeks now since any concrete evidence of a growing baby, although to be fair, my belly has definitely been growing. We have the anomaly scan next week, maybe that will help kick-start me into some activity and enthusiasm again.

We have signed up for an organic veggie box service and I've been cooking to the best of my ability with the limited tools available to me in this apartment, but its just the same old stuff.  I can't wait to have a proper kitchen full of my own cooking gear again.

Tortilla

Thai Beef Salad

Egg fried rice with green beans

Beef and noodle stir-fry with beans and red pepper

Roast root vegetable salad with feta

Butternut squash soup

Chicken and green bean coconut curry

Picnic tortilla

Another Thai Beef Salad

Roast summer veg couscous salad

Barramundi on ratatouille with broccolini

The Sword of Damocles

Conception room with a view

I feel like the Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head.  

Yes, I have another chance and I should be happy but I can't help but feel its all about to fall apart again at any second.  

Slip through my fingers...

I feel guilty that I am so... not negative exactly, but certainly not positive.  Not quite ambivalent as I do care, in my head at least, but I'm not ready to let myself feel that I care very much.  I'm too apprehensive. 

Its not safe.

I feel like a total ingrate and it seems unfair somehow to all women everywhere who want to be pregnant and aren't and unfair to the wee one inside me right now.

I feel bad that my emotions are not of sweetness and light, unicorns and rainbows. 

I am supposed to be the mother doing the best for her child.  

I know that relaxation and positive thought correlates with successful pregnancy outcomes and maternal anxiety correlates with adverse outcomes.

I know there are no guarantees and I have no control other than looking after myself in the same way I have been for all the years we have been trying to have a baby.  

But I want so much to be able to do something, cling to something, anything that might indicate that this time will be different.  

Cue symptom spotting mentalness, which I know is futile, but I don't seem to be able to stop checking in with myself for symptoms fifty times a day.

And even though I understand all these things in my head, I really don't have a clue what to do about changing any of it.

I had my last session with the grief counsellor this week and she said it is a normal part of grieving - that as this one grows, I re-experience my loss of the others.  That she'd be more worried about my mental health if I was all gung-ho and super upbeat about everything.  

Nice enough to hear, but it doesn't change things.

I started work at a new contract today - its only mornings for the rest of the month, but I'm hoping a new set of data problems to solve for work will help keep my mind focussed on things other than the feelings of impending doom that threaten to overwhelm me.

**********

In other news

• The movers are booked
• I bought our flights to Australia this evening and we're off in a month
• I still need to figure out how to say goodbye to Poppy and Pipkin before we go.  

I so hope I don't have to say goodbye to this one too.

Matilda the Musical

When I became pregnant the first time, Mr Duncan and I started a new practice in which he reads aloud to me in bed a couple of nights a week before we go to sleep. 

Mr Duncan can be a bit of a gadget addict and this was my way of trying to ensure we both had at least half an hour of non-screen time before bed to

promote good sleep hygiene (and fertility).

We were supposed to take it in turns reading each book but it transpires Mr Duncan falls asleep almost instantly when I read, and given he said he doesn't mind doing all the reading, now he does all the reading.


So far we have read

• Watership Down by Richard Adams
• The Rivers of London Series by Ben Aaronovitch
• The Hunger Games Trilogy  by Suzanne Collins (although we have started and stopped with this - I have a problem with the violence right before bed and need to take breaks) 

We are currently reading Boy, the first autobiography by Roald Dahl who is the author of the book Matilda.

Matilda the Musical opened in London last November and since then I have been asking Mr Duncan when he's going to take me on a date to see it.  I like to take advantage of the culture available to us in London once in a while and I am a fan of musical comedian Tim Minchin, who wrote the music and lyrics.

One of the things I like about Tim Minchin is the articulacy of his lyrics.  He uses a wide vocabulary and often makes unexpected choices which tickle my sense of humour.  

Storm is a good example of his work (animated video contains strong language and anti-hippy sentiments).

Both Tim Minchin and Roald Dahl have a good sense of the dark and absurd, so I was sure they would be a good mix.  

I haven't actually read the book Matilda or seen the movie and made a point not to find out more than what I already knew - which was that it was about a little girl who liked reading and developed some special powers to restore justice with regard to those who mistreated her.  

So when we went on Wednesday night, I didn't really have any expectations.

As a singer, the main thing I like about musicals is the singing.  I know that sounds obvious, but a well pitched, strong voice speaks strongly to me emotionally.  Its the reason I listen to, and frequently cry at, opera - irrespective of whether or not I understand the words.  I've been known to cry at contestants singing on X-Factor for goodness sakes.

This show had me crying at its first line - but because of the words, not the voices.

My mummy says I'm a miracle.

Deep breath.  

Children are all miracles though this fact is sometimes not appreciated by people who do not experience any difficulties in having them. 

The opening number went on to illustrate that Matilda's birth was not desired or her existence valued by her parents, which just made me cry harder.  

Its so unfair!

An accomplished reader, in the song Naughty Matilda wonders why characters in stories do not take action to change the endings of their stories.

Just because you find that life's not fair, it
Doesn't mean that you just have to grin and bear it.
If you always take it on the chin and wear it,
You might as well be saying you think that it's OK.
And that's not right.  

And if it's not right, you have to put it right.
But nobody else is gonna put it right for me.
Nobody but me is gonna change my story.
Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty.

and in a reprise at the end of When I Grow Up

Just because you find that life's not fair, it
Doesn't mean that you just have to grin and bear it.
If you always take it on the chin and wear it, nothing will change. 

Just because I find myself in this story,
It doesn't mean that everything is written for me.
If I think the ending is fixed already,
I might as well be saying I think that it's OK,

This is very much how I feel about trying to have a child.  

It was not okay that I was not getting pregnant and no one else was going to get me pregnant so I had to take action and do what I could to change my story.

Cue more tears.

So far, I'm projecting myself all over this show, but I was unprepared for additional elements in the plot that were not in the original book (and do not read further if you plan to see the show and don't want to know about these elements).

It turns out that as well as being a voracious reader, Matilda is a storyteller.  

She tells the tale of Escapologist and the Acrobat:

although they loved each other, although they were famous and everyone loved them, they were sad.

MATILDA collects two dolls from the house. She uses them to carry on a conversation.

ACROBAT [off-stage]

We have everything . . .

MATILDA

"We have everything that the world has to offer," said the wife.

ESCAPOLOGIST [off-stage]

We have everything . . .

MATILDA

"But we do not have the one thing in the world we want most."

ACROBAT and ESCAPOLOGIST [off-stage]

But the one thing . . .

MATILDA

"We do not have a child."

ESCAPOLOGIST [off-stage]

Patience, my love.

MATILDA

"Patience, my love," the husband replied. "Time is on our side. Even time loves us."

**********

MATILDA

But time is the one thing no one is master of. And as time passed, they grew quite old, and still they had no child. At night, they listened to the silence of their big, empty house, and they would imagine how beautiful it would be if it was filled with the sound of a child playing.

**********

MATILDA

Their sadness overwhelmed them, and drew them into ever more dangerous feats, as their work became the only place they could escape the inescapable tragedy of their lives! 

Just as they plan to perform the greatest feat ever known to man: The Burning Woman Hurling Through the Air With Dynamite in Her Hair Over Sharks And Spiky Objects Caught By the Man Locked in the Cage

MATILDA and ACROBAT [off stage]

"It is our destiny – "

MATILDA – said the wife, smiling sadly and slipping her hand into his. 

MATILDA and ACROBAT [off stage]"It is where the loneliness of life has led us."

They discover the acrobat is finally pregnant after all these years.  But their attempts to cancel the event are thwarted.

MATILDA and the ACROBAT'S SISTER [off-stage]

"A contract was signed to perform this feat, and perform this feat you shall!"

**********

A contract is a contract is a contract! My hands are tied. The Burning Woman, Hurling Through the Air, with Dynamite in Her Hair, Over Sharks and Spiky Objects, Caught by the Man Locked in a Cage will be performed, and performed this day, or . . . off to prison you both shall go!"

**********

MATILDA

The great escapologist had to escape from the cage, lean out, catch his wife with one hand, grab a fire extinguisher with the other, and put out the flames on her specially-designed dress within twelve seconds before they reached the dynamite and blew his wife's head off!

**********

MATILDA

The trick started well. The moment the specially-designed dress was set alight, the acrobat swung into the air. The crowd held their breath as she hurled over the sharks and spiky objects. One second. Two seconds. They watched as the flames crept up the dress. Three seconds. Four seconds. She began to reach out her arms towards the cage. Five seconds. Six seconds! Suddenly, the padlocks pinged open, and the huge chains fell away. Seven seconds. Eight seconds. The door flung open, and the escapologist reached out one huge, muscled arm to catch his wife and their child. Nine seconds! Ten seconds!

**********

MATILDA

Eleven seconds! And he grabs her hand, and . . . and . . . and suddenly, the flames are covered in foam before they can both be blown to pieces.

MRS PHELPS

Hooray! So the story does have a happy ending after all.

MATILDA

No. Maybe it was the thought of the child. Maybe it was nerves. But the escapologist used just a touch too much foam. And suddenly, their hands became slippy, and she fell.

MRS PHELPS

No. Was . . . Was she okay? Did . . . Did she survive?

The sheet parts and the ESCAPOLOGIST walks slowly forward, carrying the ACROBAT in his arms.

MATILDA

She broke every bone in her body. Except for the ones at the ends of her little fingers. She did manage to live long enough to have their child, but the effort was too great. "Love our little girl," she said. "Love our daughter with all your heart. She was all we ever wanted."

The ESCAPOLOGIST carries the ACROBAT off the front of the stage.

ACROBAT'S VOICE

Love our girl with everything. She is everything.

MATILDA

And then, she died.

I'm absolutely bawling by this stage.

**********

We can do all we can to put things right, to change the end of our stories.  But it doesn't guarantee the outcome we desire wont slip through our fingers just as everything looks like its going to be okay.

Meditation

Stillness and reflection in the Okavango Delta

The first time I heard about meditation I was ten years old.  My Mother had just given me a book for my birthday called 'Meditation for Children'.

Although an avid reader, I was unimpressed and uninterested in this particular book.  I didn't like my Mother telling me what to do, especially if it was in any way related to her hippy ways, and it lay on a shelf disregarded, for years. I don't actually remember what happened to it.

I guess my Mother could see what was going on with me and was trying to do me a favour.  

While I'm pretty happy with my brain, it has seen me through some complex and difficult situations, I do have one of those minds that churns incessantly.  So in my head, I think meditation is something I should do, and would benefit from.  

If nothing else, I could do with conditioning myself to trigger the relaxation response.

I've tried to learn to meditate a number of different times in my life, with a number of different methods.

• In my early 20s I bought a transcendental meditation cassette tape which had you repeat a mantra for 20 minutes.  
• Inspired by a recent visit by Sri Chimnoy during my first stint working in London, I set up a small shrine with a candle to meditate on in the morning before I left for work.
• When I was living in San Francisco I attended several terms of meditation classes at a 'church' that I eventually felt was a bit too cult-ish for my comfort. 
• I've taken meditation workshops at Tibetan Buddhist temples.
• I tried various guided meditations on YouTube in the interests of reducing stress while I was trying to get pregnant.
• When I first lost Poppy, a friend recommended the meditation podcast 'Emotional Ease' to help with the merry-go-round of incessant self recriminatory thoughts I was suffering.
• When I was pregnant with Pipkin, I listened to a meditation iPhone app while travelling to work on the tube in rush hour.  I find crowded tube trains extremely stressful.  Don't you?

I'm sure there are other times I've tried to start a meditation practice that I don't even recall.  I can honestly say I've learned something from each attempt, but I haven't ever stuck with it.

The problem is, when I try to meditate silently, my internal voice kicks up a big ruckus and I usually terminate the session after a couple of extremely uncomfortable minutes of conflicting internal dialogue.  I mean, I know the point is to keep doing it until my internal voice calms itself (learned helplessness maybe?) but I just don't.

I have more success with guided meditations but get bored with them very quickly and drift off into my own thoughts. 

The other problem is that I like my bed too much to get up any earlier in the morning than I have to, and evenings are about dinner and spending some quality time with Mr Duncan. 

I know.  Excuses, excuses.

I think the closest I've actually come to finding any peace in meditation is during yoga classes, when I am focussed on my breathing and my body is automatically responding to the teacher's instructions.  

It took me years of regular yoga practice before I could even quiet, though not halt, the chatter in my brain during Savasana.

I was recently recommended a website called Buddhist Geeks by an ex-colleague.

Not that I'm particularly buddhist, but I am a little bit Silicon Valley and he wanted to draw a parallel with how I coach my software teams to deliver and the practice of mindfulness.  

I had a click around and found an interesting podcast about behavioural design and how to build positive habits.  One study showed that even finding time for a two minute meditation each day, was more beneficial in establishing a regular meditation practice than setting aside more time less regularly.

I know that I will benefit from meditation if I manage to make time and space in my life to practice it.  So I decided its time to dust off the headspace meditation app I downloaded when I first got my iPhone and never really used past the first week.  

I 'took ten' in the park when I was early to a lunch meeting yesterday and I felt SO much better.  Given I wake naturally at stupid o'clock in the morning and take my temperature before going back to sleep, I'm going to try to spend ten minutes with the app in the morning.  Then I'll go back to sleep.

Mr Duncan won't even notice.

If that doesn't work, I'll have to take the brute force approach and enrol in a 10 day silent Vipassana retreat per the little hints I've been finding in my reading lately.