hammer and a nail

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

My tireless midwife phoned last night to say that my blood results were back and the reason I've been spending every available moment (not that there are many) flat on my back is that I'm anaemic. And here was me thinking it was just constitutional indolence. Somehow, I feel vindicated. So it's off to the chemist later for some ferro-something-or-other that will hopefully put the bounce back in my bungee.

Meanwhile, Becca is dragging her Buzzy Bee™ around the house claiming it's a dog. Called Rolf. She keeps making me pat him. Could this be subtle pre-birthday pressure? I wouldn't put it past her: she knows it's coming up. It won't work, in any case: there's going to be enough upheaval around here without adding furry incontinent insanity into the mix.

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no-one move a muscle as the dead come home

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Every time I tell someone that the morning sickness is much better thanks (in this instance, J's mum, last night) it comes back with big boots on. What's with that? I can only assume that my gasto-intestinal tract is fitted with a little hubris-triggered trip-switch. I mean, it's the only rational explanation. So from now on, if anyone is foolhardy enough to ask me how I am, be prepared to be at the wrong end of a dedicated regime of prophylactic whinging. And thank you in advance for your participation.

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breakfast poetry

Monday, February 26, 2007

Becca always wakes up starving and is, lately, completely unmanageable until you get some carbs into her. Admittedly I didn't help matters this morning by commenting in passing, as I staggered to the shower, on her low blood sugar. Ooops. Noisy consternation ensued, the gist of which I attempt to reproduce here:

No no no NO, not BLOOD SUGAR, we DON'T EAT that! No, blood and sugar is not very nice! No no no NOOOO! It's not for EATING!

Thoughtful pause. In a calmer tone:

Blood sugar is RED!

I stand corrected. Not to say chastened. From here on in, we will prefer the more technical hypoglycaemia.

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oy oy oy

Sunday, February 25, 2007

The Klezmer Rebs have just asked me to join them for a gig at the end of next month, as their regular fiddle player has just had a baby. By that time I'll be seven months pregnant, so I've said so long as I can have a chair and a bucket, it should be fine. Worryingly, it turns out I could be doing all the instrumental solos, since the clarinettist, who normally takes them, may not be available: the gig's a fundraiser for the Green Party, and the he's an anarchist (a Swiss anarchist: what's with that? I thought the Swiss liked order) who is not sure that he can reconcile his political principles with taking part in an event supporting party politics. Me, I have no political principles whatsoever: I'll play for anyone who'll give me a cup of tea and a biscuit. Except the Density Party. Or ACT. Or those Christian fundy loonies. Or the Nats. (Labour Party: successfully implement these 20 weekly free hours of childcare for the over-threes, and we'll talk.)

I'm currently entering the sleep deprivation phase of late pregnancy – the one where everyone grins and says aha, that's to prepare you for all the sleepless nights to come, chortle chortle. Bastards, and in any case, having already survived the twilight zone of dealing with one neonate should surely entitle me to some sort of exemption? but, no, it's all restless legs and reflux and general uneasy wakefulness, combined with leg cramps that strike in the wee small hours, making me go GNNNNNNNHHHH!!! into my pillow while kicking Jack awake for an emergency massage. And once I get really big, we can factor in having to cantilever the bump into a sustainable position with the aid of half a dozen foam rubber devices to make unconsciousness feasible. Fasten your seatbelts, we're in for a bumpy three months. So to speak.

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in which the nhs comes to the party

Friday, February 23, 2007

Did I mention how much I adore my midwife? Having seen me yesterday, she rang early this morning, despite having been up all night delivering babies, to let me know that a copy of my surgical notes from the UK had just arrived at her office by fax. We'd requested them by post a few weeks ago in order to find out where the incision was made on my uterus when I had the c-section three years ago in Cambridge. This is to determine whether I'll be allowed to try for a Natural Fun Birth™ as opposed to being booked in for an another Caesarean. If it's in the standard place ('low transverse'), the risk of rupture is considered to be acceptably low (as compared with other, less commonly-used, types of incision) and I'll probably be given the go-ahead for the NFB – I say 'probably' because, given my great age and the Mongolian Morris Dance* the last birth turned into, I'm still considered to be high risk and will need assessing by a specialist before being given permission to push.

Still, we love Margaret, and incidentally are also feeling pretty amorous towards the Medical Records Dept at Addenbrooke's in Cambridge. I rang them up last night to find out whether they'd received the request for my notes and, if so, whether they planned to do anything about it. Initially got some rather disdainful-sounding woman who starting blathering on that they didn't do that sort of thing, and anyway I'd have to pay 50 pounds, at which point the phone was grabbed off by her by the person in the office with the clue. Could I just confirm my name? Yes, they'd got the letter and she just needed to check with her manager and then they'd fax the information through. She made me repeat Margaret's fax number several times, explaining that medical notes being sensitive and confidential information, they liked to make certain that they were going to get to the right person. Fair enough. Then we had a nice chat, and I explained that I needed the notes as I was hoping to avoid a second c-section. Ah, she said, she could completely understand that, and would send them as soon as she could. Having warned me that it would take a couple of days to get her manager's approval, she clearly went and bailed him or her up on the spot, as the notes arrived overnight. Much to my relief, they reveal that I had the standard low transverse incision. NFB, ho! (After all there are still three months to go, and plenty of turning room left, for this baby to stop being breech...)

*We prefer this chaste term to the earthier Mongolian Cluster**** as it is more appropriate for tender ears. (And Rebecca's.)

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whalewatch

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Here's a picture of Beelzebump's noble profile at six months.

And here's a snap of the gorgeous flowers Jack sent me on Tuesday, our seventh wedding anniversary. This thoroughly redeemed a rather tiresome day which saw me, midmorning, puking in a most undignified fashion in the J'ville Memorial playground, much to the consternation of members of the neighbouring tennis club (although one of them eventually put down her racquet and ventured tentatively over to the edge of the chain link fence to ask if I was all right).

That evening J cooked me a romantic dinner which, unusually, Becca saw fit not to interrupt with numerous interlinked requests for drinks of water and the potty. (I suspect Daddy may have put the hard word on her.) Happy anniversary dear!

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shiny

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Spent yesterday afternoon flumping on a blanket in the hot sun watching Becca solemnly helping Jack sow seeds in the raised beds he's just put in. She was particularly intrigued by the candy-pink runner bean seeds, which look like jellybeans and which she's convinced are going to grow into an enormous beanstalk. Afterwards we put her in a swimsuit and let her dance in the sprinkler, wearing an expression that said 'I can't believe you're letting me DO this!' Then we polished off the ludicrously chocolatey posh icecream brought to dinner by a mate the other week (we like dinner guests who can't decide which flavour to get so bring TWO tubs!)

New pics of summer family fun now available on flickr.

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Friday, February 16, 2007

Working from home has many advantages: one of my faves is being able to sing along loudly and with impunity to the highly catchy theme tune to Team America: World Police on iTunes.

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and they say hunger is the best sauce

For over a year now, Becca's been going to a crèche a mere 5 mins drive away from the local swimming baths, yet only this morning did I put two and two together and realise that I could combine dropping her off with popping in to the pool for a little Mummy maintenance time. (Such is the utter self-forgetfulness that parenthood bestows on one.) So pop in I did, and despite my fears of being accidentally harpooned, swimming while visibly bulbous turned out to be strangely liberating, not just because of the added buoyancy, but also because I felt that I had absolutely nothing to prove: in fact, just by being there I was racking up the virtue points.

All of which were expunged a mere 20 mins later as I stood in line at the local foodcourt waiting to order the Lard McMuffin Combo, when who should happen past but my pregnancy yoga teacher, a smile of puzzled tolerance playing about her lips. 'I'm just having some post-swim calories!' I greeted her shrilly, gesturing towards my wet hair by way of proof. I was going to add that I only eat McDonald's while pregnant (which is true. Mostly. See, Lisa, you are not alone!) but didn't want to appear over-defensive. So we talked about pelvises for a bit, as you do. Mind you the crushing guilt and shame did made the 'food' taste far, far better.

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and thick* and fast they came at last

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

February is proving to be the fertilest month, with the recent arrivals of Fletcher Joseph, Esme Elisabeth Harriet and Genevieve Margaret: shout-outs to Nik and Andy, Juliet, Jake and Ishbel, and Michael, Hayley and Livia, respectively. (Respect!) Was privileged to be able to go and inspect the very new Genevieve Margaret yesterday (cunningly combining my visit with a mission of sushi and a quick reccy of Ward 12, viz. the maternity ward at Wellington Women's). She's gorgeous, and seems to have given her mum far less trouble while emerging than her elder sibling: parents were looking relaxed, radiant, relieved (Dad: 'It was SOOO much better than last time!'), restoking my tenderest hopes of a VBAC** of my very own.

First pregnancy yoga class last night: most noteable achievement managing not to puke on my yoga mat – probably because the instructor very sensibly avoided any forward bend poses, and in fact anything remotely strenuous, so there was just a lot of sitting around on our haunches, eyes closed, like a circle of little fat Buddhas. Actually it was lovely: emerged feeling very calm and fecund.

*Lest anyone take offense, not thick as in Jade Goody, just numerous.
**Vaginal Birth After Caesarean (or should that be 'hoo-haa-al'? In which case, HBAC, I guess).

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shake-a shake-a freeze!

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Another milestone: Jack just got to actually see Beelzebump doing the early morning caffeine-'n'-sugar hiphop. It's party time in my uterus.

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beyond the black stump

Saturday, February 10, 2007

If you really want to annoy a pregnant woman (and from recent evidence, it's clear that many of you do), just keep repeating the following phrase: 'Careful – you shouldn't be lifting that/her in your condition!' OK, I'll take that on board for the next time Becca goes boneless in the middle of the Countdown carpark: I'll just get down on the tarmac down next her and employ sweet reason. Yep, that'll work.

Tellyawhat, next time you are tempted to utter this phrase, consider substituting the following: 'Here, let me take that for you.' Say it with me now:

'HE-RE, let-ME-take-that-for-you!'

There, was that so hard?

My friend Brian already knows this. Recently we met up with him and his two young daughters at the park, and as we headed back across the busy road towards the shops, Becca became clingy and whingy. Noticing that I was struggling with her, Brian simply said 'Becca, would you like a shoulder ride?' before taking her off me and hoisting her up. 'Nuff said.

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the wrong sort of snow

Friday, February 09, 2007

Once again, it seems, a couple of inches of snow have brought the UK to a juddering halt, punctuated only by the stifled sniggers of certain ex-pat Canadians politely suggesting that they've seen real snow, and that isn't it, eh? I remember getting caught in a similar civil emergency three years ago when we lived in Cambridge: it was my last day at work before going on maternity leave, and I was eight months pregnant with Rebecca. As my colleagues gathered around my desk to present me with bootees and baby lotion, the sky darkened and fluffy flakes of snow began to tumble prettily down; my awkward thank you speech was immediately drowned out in the general stampede towards the car park. Pausing only to sweep the remains of my desk into my handbag and empty my bladder, I joined in, but by the time I'd managed to pull out onto the main road, Cambridge was gridlocked. As I sat in my car being spattered by the gritter truck I'd managed to get stuck behind, I could see in my rear vision mirror an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, vainly attempting to nudge its way through the crush, and realised that this would be a very bad time indeed to go into early labour. I suppose if I were Canadian I'd have nailed a couple of Moulson crates to my shoes and struck out on foot, but being quasi-British I remained in my car, tutting occasionally and invoking the spirit of the Blitz. It eventually took me three hours to travel the six miles to my house. (It'd have been 3.3 miles, incidentally, if I'd been unpregnant enough to cycle.)

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bellyvision

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Fun things to do while pregnant: lie in the bath watching your belly shift, slowly and undulatingly, as its inhabit writhes about – I like to think because he/she's enjoying the warm water too. (From the inside, maybe it's like hearing waves lapping the side of a boat. From the outside, sometimes I feel like a fish tank whose occupant keeps swimming abruptly up against the side, thunk. Thunk. THUNK.)

This baby seems much kickier than Becca was – aha! a boy, you see, mutter the old wives, waving their dead chickens at my gently protruding abdomen; I think it likelier that my stomach muscles are just pre-knackered, heightening my awareness of any activity going on in there.

Annoyingly, as the third trimester lumbers into view, the morning sickness demons appear to be redoubling their efforts (chocolate! chocolate, my one consolation, now gives me vile heartburn; and Easter coming up too) so we start on the serious-arse drugs next week.

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hine e

Friday, February 02, 2007

For you nostalgic Kiwi thirty-somethings* out there (and those non-Kiwis who want a glimpse into the cuddly Kiwi psyche) the Goodnight Kiwi is now up on YouTube. I remember at the time there was a heated debate in the Listener as to how the cat gets up into the satellite dish before the Kiwi, some people arguing that it's actually a different, although identical, cat.

*I'm still a thirty-something, dammit.

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i heart margaret

Thursday, February 01, 2007

One for the 'What a Country!' Files: my midwife just phoned to find out whether the Maxolon's helping with the morning sickness. It isn't much, really, I'm afraid, I told her, very sorry to disappoint (for I must be a Good Patient at all times and not complain). Not to worry: she's going to phone the registrar and ask if she can prescribed something stronger.

Is it foolish of me to be so impressed with her thoroughness and concern for my wellbeing? Back in the UK, my rather lacklustre midwife didn't seem to think it necessary to do anything about my morning sickness with Rebecca (although to be honest it didn't occur to me to ask for help, either). Maybe it's the continuity-of-care thing – the system here is different from the the UK, where pregnant women are assigned a community midwife by their GP: this midwife carries out all the antenatal (and some of the postnatal) care, but the baby is delivered by whoever's on duty at the hospital when you show up in labour. The alternative to this is that you can engage an independent midwife of your choice, and at your cost. I'm not sure what happens midwife-wise if you opt for a home birth.

Here in NZ, when you learn that you are pregnant your doctor gives you a list of midwives to ring and you get to choose one, although I ended up disregarding the list and going with a friend's enthusiastic recommendation, which is how I found Margaret. (And there is a shortage of midwives, especially in smaller rural communities, so choice can be limited or non-existent depending on where you live.) All midwife care is free, or you can pay for a private obstetrician. (Although if you've had previous complications, or are a mature mother, you'll get a specialist referral anyway and on the public health dime.)

So who knows: maybe a system in which the antenatal caregiver also delivers the baby leads to a more concerned and engaged relationship with the mother. Or maybe Margaret's a particularly conscientious midwife. Either way, I shan't complain.

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