This afternoon, I’ve been looking back through my blog archives for late 2006 and early 2007 when I was pregnant with The Prawn, trying to draw some inspiration from the fact that, yes, pregnancy does, at some point END.

Due to my body’s unfortunately tendency toward miscarriage, I have pretty much been pregnant for all save two months since last January. This has lead me to an enormous sympathy for elephants. (22 months is a long time, ladies.) So, 10 months and counting since I could, in all good conscience, refer to myself in the singular. Oy.

The first mention of any serious complaint in my pregnancy with the Prawn came in February, about a month away from her due date. I suppose it should have come as no surprise that 3 years on, the niggly bits might begin to start a bit earlier. As I included in my Facebook status the other day, I’ve already come to the point where when I drop something that I need on the floor, I tend to take it rather personally. The fact that the Prawn does not know any of the most popular dirty words is a minor miracle. (To be honest, she learned the S-word after The Rock Star dropped a running hard drive on the floor once, but he managed to convince her that “sugar” is a much better word. She now says it exclusively in times of stress.)

Of course, I must add the traditional “how grateful I am for this pregnancy” disclaimer at this point. Other than our early roller coaster ride, the rest has been pretty much a piece of cake up until now. That I can bring myself to complain at all is testament to a ferocious head cold, which, on top of other discomforts has reduced me to being a big whiny girl about the whole thing. (Diminished lung capacity will do that to you. So will heartburn so bad that it’s started eating the back of your tongue.)

The serious waddle is about 3 weeks old at this point. Pain in places I wasn’t aware that I had ligaments started last week. And new for this week, just in time for the head cold, sneezing and hoping I don’t wet myself! Awesome. Of course, I am, in fact, a limber and adept frolicking flower fairy in comparison to my unfortunate sister-in-law, Trumpet, who has spent most of her pregnancy on the couch, wedged into positions that could charitably be called “not as uncomfortable as sitting on a rusty spike” with complex arrangements of pillows and hot water bottles.

Last week, I dutifully made my way to a midwife appointment for the usual pokings and proddings. When it came time to listen in to the heartbeat, the midwife, as is often the case, had to pursue the Squid around her uterine squat in order to get a good reading. When she finally DID manage to get a handle on the little bugger, she said, “Ah.”

“Ah?” I said.

“I was wondering why I couldn’t find the heartbeat where I was expecting it. The baby’s breech at the moment!”

This was not exactly news that I wanted to jump up and down about, even assuming that I was CAPABLE of jumping up and down any more.

People make a pretty big deal about the METHOD in which babies come into the world. I would certainly be the first to admit that this is a VERY big deal to a lot of women and with seemingly unnecessary c-sections on the rise, (more down OBGYNS who are anxious to get back to the golf course rather than a SUDDEN INABILITY OF WOMEN TO DELIVER BABIES NATURALLY. Seriously, I don’t for a minute believe that our pelvises have been evolutionarily sabotaged in the last 30 years.) it’s even MORE of a thing; creating feelings of weakness and guilt for women who are rushed into surgery. It’s taken me a good few years to process the ordeal of the Prawn’s birth but after a few chats with a very helpful hospital midwife, had begun to hope to take the natural route this time around.

However, if the Squid remains resolutely head up, in four weeks, I’ll be scheduled in for an elective c-section 2 weeks after that whether I like it or not.

There are several things wrong with this.

a) GETTING CUT OPEN AGAIN WHILE AWAKE. I can not over-emphasize how fucked up this is. This is something that happens in horror films. (Luckily, at no time during the Prawn’s birth did any of the surgeons gloatingly attempt to show me my lower intestine or severed foot.)

b) 6 weeks is in no way enough time for me to pick enough underpants up off the bedroom floor to fit in a moses basket. Also, there’s a not insignificant mildew problem that needs some serious attention before we end up with sentient fungus.

c) Do you have any idea where our bottle sterilizer went? Cause I don’t. Also, the crib?

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

Do I wish for an end to c-sections? Of course not. They undoubtedly give a fighting chance to mothers and babies that under other circumstances, would not have been so lucky. But I can’t tell you how much I don’t want another one.

So I will be spending the next  4 weeks trying desperately to get the Squid interested in the upside down lifestyle. One website recommended putting headphones down your pants and trying to “coax” the baby down with Mozart. (It occurs to me that moving the headphones up to the top of the belly and replacing Mozart with Wu Tang Clan might be more effective.) However, I think I’ll stick to bouncing on our newly ordered exercise ball, spending some time on my hands and knees and maybe joining the Prawn in the enthusiastic dance routine she’s developed to “Single Ladies”.

Or maybe I should just get on with picking up those underpants.

So we have a franking machine in the office.

As a company that sends out mostly large parcels of complicated equipment, the machine is used for the fairly limited amount of paper correspondence that goes out. In the instances that it works, it’s kind of groovy, but in far MORE instances, it sits there and chuckles at us while we vainly try to find the right Street Fighter type button combo to keep it from performing maintenance on itself.

A small example:

Frank: PLEASE PRINT TEST FORM.

Me: Oh ffs. *prints test form*

Frank: INSPECTION DUE- REFILL REQUIRED.

Me: But…you just had plenty of ink to print the test form.

Frank: OH YEAH.

Me: But you can’t print the actual POSTAGE.

Frank: YOU GOT IT.

Me: No, seriously, I really need to send this thing. You obviously have plenty of ink.

Frank: TRY PRINTING ANOTHER TEST FORM.

Me: Erm….okay. *prints another successful test form*

Frank: INSPECTION DUE- REFILL REQUIRED.

Me: What the HELL, Frank?

Frank: I LIVE BY OFFERING FALSE HOPE. A HA HA HA! HA HA HA!

Me: You do realize that Royal Mail does on-line postage, right?

Frank: A HA HA HA EXSQUEEZE ME?

Frank’s days are sincerely numbered.

I admit that in my literary tastes, I am vaguely stuck in my ways. I should admit right now that I am just not a non-fiction gal, especially when it comes to autobiographies. It’s not that I’m uninterested in other people’s lives. As a matter of fact most of the autobiographies that have been pressed on me over the years have been very good. However, I always find it vaguely depressing to  find myself staring at rows upon rows of them in a bookshop, knowing that 90% were ghost written due to the fact that the subject was lacking in a) the talent to tell their story themselves or b) anything of value to say. What I’m saying is that a 20 year old pop star should not feel that they should be afforded the same respect involved in the “telling of their story” as say, Nelson Mandella.

Blogs are more to my autobiographical taste; small, honest accounts from day to day living. Blogs have somewhat spoiled me for other forms of memoir writing due to the ocean of writing talent out there in cyberspace. I read at least 6 blogs who’s authors are more qualified to be published that those of some of the bland, forgettable literature that’s graced my reading palette recently.

Before I left the States, my mother gifted me her copy of “Mennonite in a Little Black Dress” by Rhonda Janzen. I’d seen the write up of the book on the NPR website some time back, but was waiting for the paperback before purchasing. Having often described myself as a “Mennonite by Association”, (even since my slide into agnosticism) I was interested to hear what Janzen had to say about the religious sub-culture that played such a large role in my young adult life.

I have trouble writing coherent book reviews when I have mixed feelings about a piece of work; Partly, I suppose, of my longing not to be needlessly critical of something that, on some levels, I kind of enjoyed,  but at the same time feeling the need to express the wrongness that I felt pervaded the text.

I suppose my largest beef with Janzen’s memoir was that it didn’t really offer up any surprise insight into Mennonite or Anabaptist culture, making the title vaguely misleading. (Certainly, she is not the first to have grown up in a conservative religious culture who made her break from them into the world of “reason” and academia only to return with a personal life in ruins.) After a year in the life of Job during which she suffered complications as a result of a botched hysterectomy, a devastating car accident and the breakdown of her already extremely broken marriage when her un-medicated, unstable, bipolar, bisexual husband leaves her for a man he met on the internet, Janzen promises a heartwarming story of a return to her roots.

Only, this story never seemed to materialize. What followed seemed to be a teasing and often sarky indictment of her conservative roots as well as seemingly good natured (but not quite) portraits of her family.

Janzen’s writing style is compared over and over in reviews to the late Norah Ephron’s, which I didn’t find to be the case. Ephron, although a mistress of satire, was gentle to her subjects, showing a deep undercurrent of abiding affections. Janzen is often biting. To soften some of the often sharp humour with which she brings to light her family’s traditions and foibles, I think I would have like to have seen Janzen more fully acknowledge the debt of care that she owed to her parents and the Mennonite community in general during her healing process, as she spends a lot of the memoir coming across as an ungrateful and bemused observer to the whole situation. My experiences both during college and after with Mennonites left me profoundly grateful for their welcome and hospitality. It is to these experiences I turn again and again when confronted with yet another assault upon my faith in the goodness of other people. I was surprised that Janzen excluded much of this oft remarked upon Mennonite trait in her observations.

Upon moving to Minneapolis soon after college, my roommate, the Reverend Doctor and I quickly became acquainted with the local Mennonite congregation. (Of course, this was only after an obligatory visit by the local Lutherans 3 days after we moved in. It was like, “How did you guys know we were HERE?”) It was only a matter of 2 visits before we were asked by a friendly couple what our plans were for Thanksgiving. (Food poisoning, if we were honest about the chances of either the Reverend Doctor or myself at the time preparing anything that REALLY REALLY had to be heated to a certain temperature.) When we said we weren’t sure, there was no question that we had to spend it with their family. So, on Thanksgiving Day, two post-college young adults who both missed their families back home spent the day with hugely welcoming strangers. Although the name of the family escapes me now, it still serves as a tremendous object lesson into the nature of goodness.

In the same vein, I feel that I owe a great debt of care to the family of The Reverend Doctor, during my time at college for the many meals I consumed under their roof, the assistance that they offered in many matters of my own making and also, especially for a cat that was unceremoniously dumped on them due to the fact that the Reverend Doctor and I were slightly deluded about our chances of finding somewhere to live that we could house said creature. So, to them, my humble apologies and my grateful thanks. Sorry about all of the hair.

My own Mennonite experience differed wildly from Janzen’s. Her constant references to the dourness of the tradition were puzzling, as I never got that impression from either my PA Dutch Mennonite relatives or those that I met at Goshen College. The Mennonites I know are all about a good time. A bountifully laid table. Singing. Playing games with such vigor that bones get broken. Getting naked. (Well, that was probably just Mennonite college students. Or maybe just because it was the midwest and everyone’s gotta make their own fun.) Although I skipped enough of my weekly chapel requirements to necessitate taking an extra class at the end of my college career to make up for it, (during which I wrote a 20 page paper in defense of pornography. So, no chapel PLUS I got to look at porn for a month straight. WIN.) you’d better believe that my butt would always be firmly attached to a pew on days when there was a hymn sing, lead by the college’s rather eminent choir master. Attendance in chapel on those days was at an all time high, often with students standing in the back, sharing 3 to a hymnal. A tradition who’s youth take so much joy in 4 part harmony, acapella singing is anything but dour. One of my favorite musical memories is singing the much beloved Hymn 606 with fellow theatre folk on a hotel balcony in Green Bay, Wisconsin and receiving an appreciative round of applause from the bar and the lobby 7 floors below.

I acknowledge that the conservatism that Janzen harks back to at numerous points in her narrative might be more recognizable to those who grew up in a strong Mennonite tradition, which I did not. Although my mother attended a Brethren Church (another close Anabaptist relation to the Mennonites) I personally spent most of my youth in a large, mostly liberal urban Methodist congregation where I participated heavily in the youth group. Among the board games in the basement where we met there was a Ouija board, who’s presence was never remarked upon as being ironic in the slightest.

It often amazes me that I could once summon it in myself to be offended by the some of the conservatism of the college which I willingly attended. What was it that I expected, exactly? While Janzen had no desire to maintain ties with a faith tradition that she repeatedly bumped her head up against, I WANTED to maintain ties to this community that at one time nourished me in many ways. But I wanted it on MY TERMS. This, of course is the arrogance that can only be maintained by the idealism of youth. I remember attending a wedding at the rather conservative Mennonite church of one of the branches of the Reverend Doctor’s family during which the pastor inexplicably threw in an earnest condemnation of homosexuality. At the time, I remember that my youthful “justice” hackles were well and truly raised, but with more time and experience under my belt, I feel it MORE begs the question “Do you really need to condemn the practice of homosexuality so strongly during a wedding ceremony? Of, you know, two straight people?” (Perhaps just to get across the point that, “No matter how bad the marriage goes, guys, THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR GOING TEH GHEY, OKAY?”)

Janzen spends a little time in the dying chapters of the book giving the reader a rather confusing, bare bones account of the Mennonite’s experiences in Russia during the time of Catherine the Great. While this is all well and good, it might have behooved her readers if this chapter had been closer to the beginning and had been more of an “Anabaptists for Dummies” primer which would helped in the understanding of Mennonite origins. It would have suited her writing style perfectly, so left me wondering why she didn’t do it and rather spent more time on telling her readers what Mennonites are NOT rather than what they ARE.

I feel like there are a million more observations I could make regarding “Mennonite in a Little Black Dress” and my own experiences with Mennonite culture, but it seems to me that a book review should not have more to say than the book itself, so I shall have to content myself to conclude that it was spiky when it should have been sentimental, bitter when it should have been kind and repetitive when it should have been surprising. The warmth of the tradition that undertakes service in both their communities and the world at large not to prostheletise, but from a deep commitment to social justice and the exhortation of Christ that “whatsoever you do to the least of these my brethren, you do also unto me.” is worth more than the one liners that Janzen often confines it to

Yeah, you read that right. My last entry was on the 20th of November. I had fully intended to write a “Christmas Card Apology” post at some point, but this was just the kind of Christmas that didn’t allow for little indulgences like, oh, sitting on my ass for longer than 15 minutes, so I must apologize for the delay.

Things started to go slightly pear shaped in Potamus land round about Thanksgiving when my father had what he likes to call “the first of my ischaemic episodes”. (Translated into English, this is a small stroke.) Of course, my immediate reaction was to book the first flight out,  but was told in no uncertain terms by both parental units that this was vastly unnecessary and that they would prefer that I and my burgeoning bump remained just where we were, thank you very much. However, two weeks later, when  he had what he likes to call “the second of my ischaemic episodes” (which was expected, but nonetheless, traumatic) there was little hesitation on my part to book a flight for the earliest possible opportunity that would not cost a small fortune. Of course, I didn’t inform my parents of this decision, deciding that the old addage, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission” would have to do in this case.

Christmas itself was enlivened by a visit from my childhood friend Virginia, who spent Christmas week with us, having a gander around London and amusing the Prawn to no end. It was lovely having her here and even lovelier to have an extra pair of hands for large Christmas related tasks like the inevitable day-before-Christmas shopping trip which is ALWAYS nightmarish, but this year was made worse by pre-Christmas snowfall which trapped people in their homes for some time leading up to the holidays. The crowd in the local Waitrose, which is usually characterized by their relative civility in contrast to the average crowd at Tesco, was VAST and manners pretty much were NOT the motto of the day. One would think that being hugely pregnant would keep people from deliberate ramming you with shopping trollies, but one would be very much mistaken.

Christmas, although somewhat stressful for the rest of us, was utterly joyful for the Prawn, who spent the day being showered by wave after wave of presents. Since we didn’t want to add a whole lot to our “Stuff Footprint” due to the impending move Westward over the ocean, her gifts were numerous, but small and easily transportable. Remember the time in your life when you’d open a pack of SOCKS on Christmas morning and still be excited about it? (Me neither. But my point is, little kids don’t need big, expensive stuff to get excited about.) We managed to stretch out the gift giving until well after Christmas dinner was finished, which, for us, was a serious parent-forethought coup. (This from people who have, on occasion, gone out for a whole day, not realizing that we’ve forgotten diapers. Or juice. Or Mr. Moo.) The biggest Christmas hits were probably her stuffed Tigger (a fabulous sale find at the Disney Store who has now joined the ranked of anointed “friends” who take up 80% of her bed) and her new Brio trainset from PPD, Uncle Duff and Auntie Trumpet. (which she would probably also take to bed if we let her.)

I was lucky enough to have booked a flight to the US on New Year’s Eve that left Heathrow and arrived at Dulles within half an hour of Virginia’s, so after saying goodbye to her in the morning, we met up again 8 hours later on the other end of the planet in order for me to bum a ride back to the homestead. Air travel is weird, weird, weird.

Also, due to the douchecanoe in Detroit with exploding underwear, I was subjected to probably the most stringent security measures I have encountered in my years of flying so far, even post 9/11. Not only was the normal security line fairly painful, but once at the gate, every passenger was patted down and all carry-ons were completely unpacked and searched as well. (did I mention that I only traveled with one rather full carry on? And that while TSA agents are happy to unpack your luggage for you, packing it again is TOTALLY up to you?) Not only this, but once inside the gate area, we were unable to leave to use the toilet without having to go through the whole process all over again. (Imagine the joy of being 6.5 months pregnant and being told that you may not pee for 2 whole hours after having had a large, decaf skinny latte for breakfast.) The flight itself was entirely uneventful; a fact that made it EXTREMELY eventful as I’ve not experienced an uneventful flight for the last 2 and a half  years. There was no one to worry over for kicking the seat in front of her, getting crumbs everywhere and repeatedly asking for juice, so I cherished what is certainly to be the last flight before traveling becomes even MORE complicated with the arrival of someone who might scream for the entire 8 hours for no good reason.

I was, as you might imagine, reluctant to leave The Rock Star and the Prawn for a whole week but knew that I’d certainly be happier to see my Dad for myself and reassure myself that everything was indeed okay. My arrival was unexpected, which was slightly unnerving. Not because I thought my parents were going to be out carousing to ring in the New Year, but simply knowing that THEY didn’t know I was coming made me slightly nervous. I chose to withhold this information until I was about a quarter of a mile from the house when I phoned and asked my mother to put the kettle on. This of course made no sense to her at all, but she heard Virginia laughing in the background and immediately assumed that we were BOTH still in England and HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID SHE MANAGE TO MISS HER FLIGHT? I then had to gently explain that Virginia was NOT in England and that /I/ was in fact in America and basically at the front door, so how about a cup of tea?
So, it turned out the only thing I needed to ask forgiveness for was making my mother cry.

I had a tremendously relaxed week with my parents. I was indeed glad for the opportunity to see my father for myself. He’s doing well, all things considering. The most hated of all of his post “ischaemic episode” symptoms; a hideous case of the hiccups, had just abated when I arrived, (Yes, brain swelling can cause hiccups. A new one on me too.) so he was happily enjoying life post persistent diaphragmic spasms. Even his word recovery was much, much better than I would have expected  and will continue to improve, no doubt. In the meantime, he can competently talk “around” words that escape him until those new little connections start forming again.

As for myself, I rather enjoyed the novelty of sitting on my rapidly expanding posterior on a new and tremendously comfy couch IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY reading books and covered in cats. I also got to indulge in some shopping at Target, lunch with Virginia at the orgasmically nom-tacular California Tortilla Kitchen (words cannot describe how happy a giant burrito and yummy chips and salsa made me) and spending time in my parent’s lovely home. The weather during my visit couldn’t have been a whole lot colder, so remaining indoors at all times was high on the list of all of our priorities. I managed to speak twice a day with The Rock Star and the Prawn, who, of course put on her best puppy eyes and pleaded with me to come home and reiterated many times over that she’d “lost” me. Parental guilt overload.

All too soon, it was time for me to get BACK on a plane for the return journey. Strangely enough, during the week of my absence, I discovered that I had become slightly more uncomfortably pregnant, so dragging two suitcases around Dulles at 6.30am became  more of a chore than it was when I came over only 6 days earlier. (Well, the second suitcase was my own fault. The siren song of Target overcame me.) My only moment of levity during the morning was noticing that the TSA rep who gave me a pat-down in security was called “Agent Wang” and trying not to let him know that I was sophomoric enough to find his name patently hilarious. The actual flight was not quite as restful as the one before it; an hour of prolonged turbulence, worry over whether or not the plane would have a place to LAND due to snow in the UK and a mentally ill seatmate put paid to any restfulness that was to be had.

So I am once again home and have realized that now that the holidays and my traveling are past me, the next big thing on my personal schedule  is having a baby, which is harshing my calm a bit. The baby was always that thing that I’d deal with after the holidays; that thing I didn’t really need to think about just yet. However, it is now starting to dawn on me that there might be some things I need to take care of between now and mid to late March. Like finding that elusive black sack full of 0-3 month old clothes and washing them. And buying a new Moses basket. And PBA Free bottles. And trying to get the Prawn used to the idea of someone else coming to live with us forever and ever who might be kind of disruptive for a while before she gets cute and play-with-able.  I hope that she will accept the arrival with good grace, although, at the moment, virtually NOTHING she does, (being a two and a half years old) is with good grace, so I’m not holding my breath. Perhaps more calm will descend the closer to 3 she gets. Or perhaps not. At any rate, I’ll keep reading “Big Sister Dora” to her and see if it does any good.

This little missive has now rambled on sufficiently to classify as self-indulgent so I will simply end by saying that I hope I can get a few more entries in before the world as I know it goes completely haywire.

The Rock Star and I are unapologetic homebodies. Even BEFORE we had children, an evening of chilling out on the couch in pajama trousers ranked fairly high above going out to clubs, pubs, whatnot. So, in the Post Prawn, Pre Squid era, it should come as a surprise to nobody that on any given night, you’ll find us at home; me usually working on crafty nonsense and The Rock Star noodling away to his heart’s content on one of his various axes.

We occasionally get sucked into tv trends. During our time on the boat, the best part of a year was devoted to the whole of The West Wing series. This is, of course, not embarrassing in the slightest as it was an often taut, but at the same time funny and deeply clever political televisual masterpiece. However, not all of our tastes are quite so highbrow as is evidenced by our latest guilty viewing pleasure, the top rated HBO titty and vampire fest, True Blood.

Vampires have kind of come and gone in popularity during my adolescence and young adulthood from Gary Oldman’s peculiarly butt-shaped hairdo in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” to Tom Cruise’s peculiarly butt-shaped performance in “Interview With a Vampire”. I must admit to a 4 book Anne Rice blitz back in my late teens and early 20’s. Rice’s sexually charged but strangely celibate vampires made for good stories, but even at my most romantically impressionable, I don’t think I would have ever been prone to a clothes-rending, emotionally charged squealfest at the mere mention of one of these Children of the Night a-la today’s fanatical “Twi-hards”. (Who also, coincidentally, favor sexually charged but strangely celibate vampires. At least until they get a ring on your finger, and then apparently, there’s a lot of headboard breakage that goes on.) I have to wonder what my reaction would have been to “Twilight” as a 16 year old girl. Anne Rice’s vamps were obviously very grown up, sensual, sophisticated and worldly, so reading about them as a teenager was rather like peaking through the bannister at a cocktail party going on downstairs after you’ve gone to bed. But EDWARD CULLEN HAS 2 TAKE HIGH SCHOOL BIOLOGY JUST LK ME, OMG, WTF, BRB, BFF, ETC! So maybe the whole thing is just context.

At any rate, True Blood’s take on the nosferatu mythology borrows from a lot that’s come before it with a fair amount of irreverence. This is a show that doesn’t take vampires with a huge degree of “I HAVE CROSSED OCEANS OF TIME TO FIND YOU” seriousness, but rather in a “Hey, I’m a vampire and I just moved in next door. Can I borrow your internet connection until next Wednesday when mine is installed? I’m having trouble finding an engineer that will come out after sundown.”

We’ve enjoyed our vaguely titillating romp through Bon Temps, a Louisiana town whose freak and monster quotient probably tops just about any in the country save Forks, Washington and libidos run higher than the Mississippi. Vampires like to play Yahtzee! and watch “Lost” and the friendly neighborhood goddess of chaos hosts Friday night orgy and sacrifice parties over at her place. We finished the final episode of the second series, which wrapped up old plotlines and started new ones (“I don’t know who I am! I don’t know where I’m going! I’m so confused! I don’t….oooo, sparkly!”) and left us wondering what will be our next guilty pleasure.

If the last two weeks had a Twitter trending tag it would be #technofail.

Mind you, I have a hugely limited understanding when it comes to the actual physical processes involved in technofail. This is probably because when someone says the word “server”,  my eyes tend to glaze over and I find myself thinking about colorful bits of paper or a happy little tune until I realize that my conversational companion is reaching for a tissue to wipe the drool from my chin. (This is the same thing that happens when someone tries to explain a basic mathematical concept, such as figuring out percentages or fractions, which would explain my abysmal algebra grade as a freshman in high school.)
So, when The Rock Star began last week looking like the back end of a bus, I had only a fraction of the understanding necessary to understand exactly why he looked as though he was about to burst into tears at any moment. I heard words like, “hard drive failure” and “RAID failure” and some choice words being used to describe the parentage of the server maintenance monkeys at the hosting company, but it didn’t quite sink in until The Rock Star mournfully informed me that Blogapotamus was one of the many, many casualties of this data disaster.

The idea of losing 4 years worth of writing had never really crossed my mind as something that would cause me grief, but it did. After frantic examination of my computer, I realized that I probably DID have at least a few years worth saved as text files, but that I’ve become lazy of late and begun writing and publishing directly to WordPress. I realized that I had the same attachment to Blogapotamus that I’ve got for the 2 boxes of cataclysmically embarrassing journals that are languishing in my parent’s basement. Memory is unreliable. Seeing it in black and white is real.

So, as the week progressed, frustration mounted with the abysmal treatment that The Rock Star received from the hosting company, the repair bill from an independent data recovery company began to spiral and the hope of retrieving anything from the badly damaged disks was looking vaguely bleak, I had to try to reconcile myself with losing nearly half a decade’s worth of musings. Rather sweetly, the Rock Star was unduly concerned about the loss of my blog, considering that somewhere, there were rather a lot of people who were climbing the walls and flinging their own excrement in frustration due to the sudden disappearance of their on-line presence, and in some cases, e-mail. (He was at least grateful that none of these people had his phone number. However, the person who’s phone number they DID have definitely had no trouble getting in touch. He feels he owes her a bottle of something strong and intoxicating for fielding these calls.) At any rate, the idea of Blogapotamus simply being GONE and having to start from scratch was something that slowly became less painful to contemplate.

However, all of this grand reconciliation disappeared when the Rock Star began doing the Happy Dance around the flat one evening after being told by the talented data recovery specialist that a good deal of what was lost was now found and that Blogapotamus had emerged unscathed save for two posts and all of the comments. The graphics are intact, but still need uploading. Just out of interest’s sake, the record for most comments (42) goes to a post I did in 2005 on the “psychic” Karina Natalia. Since the post comes up in the first page of Google results under the name, it has been getting steady traffic since it was written. Most of these comments are along the lines of “Thank goodness you told me she’s fake! I almost sent her $$$!” Seriously, folks, if you needed ME to tell you that a psychic that solicits business via mass mailings is a globuous fraud, then you REALLY SHOULDN’T BE ON THE INTERNET.

Blogapotamus lives! New and improved! NOW WITH BACKUP.

Sorry I have been absentee. Most of my time has been devoted to trying not to throw up while coughing and I was simply SWAMPED.

So, Candy Begging Day is upon us once again. The UK hasn’t quite caught up with the US hysteria that surrounds the annual night of living dead zombies/witches/Barbie Dolls/Transformers and one is more likely to find a bar in a city centre giving away cheap beer for costumed adults than seeing a mass of trick or treaters at your door. Or, at least this seems to be the case in my neck of the British woods. (Chances are, if a group of kids rings your bell after dark, no good is going to come of it.) In the US, the holiday seems to drive the market for spooky goods, whereas over here, the market is trying VERY hard to drive the holiday. In the next 10 years, I can see Halloween being more US like, especially with the rise of large,new estates, which, as every trick or treater knows, are the Holy Grail.

Instead of doing anything that involves going outside in the evening, Trumpet (my sister-in-law) and I are going to have an evening in with the Prawn. Our respective significant others are venturing up to Leicester for a stag night (When questioned on the wisdom of a Halloween stag do, the Stag in question’s response was, “Is the 31st Halloween?” Any evening on the streets of Leicester is bound to be interesting, so we’ll see how our intrepid revelers make out on All Hallows Eve.) and since Trumpet and BoyRacer’s home is in the end of the village where various ner’do wells tend to congregate, Trumpet pleaded sanctuary rather than be subjected to window eggings at best and a firework through the letterbox at worst. (Really, UK government? Selling fireworks to 16 year olds? A good idea?)

Our two pumpkins have been sitting out in our lobby for the best part of a week or so and the Prawn has been excitedly pointing at them every day when she returns from nursery. “We’re going to carve pumpkins! And eat the seeds!” she squeals. Pumpkin carving has always been a task that’s fallen to me; not because the Rock Star is disinterested, but because I probably have slightly more patience when it comes to separating the multitude of seeds for baking from the rest of the pumpkin innards. And every year I have the same reaction while pulling the little white devils from the stringy goo to which they are attached: “God, this is gross.” However, the yummy nature of the pumpkin seeds when baked with butter and salt is well worth the effort.

Sadly, at 2 and a half, the Prawn is slightly young for any other Halloween related merriment, especially around here where a GOOD night walking the streets in costume might include 14 year old holding a can of Stella Artois spitting on you. So our evening, especially once the Prawn is abed will probably include telly, (the X Factor most likely, as sis-in-law is a devoted fan) chocolate rice krispie treats and exchanging various bitches about pregnancy. (Trumpet is due 3 weeks before me, so it would behoove most rational people to just avoid the area entirely for the month of March.)

Speaking of pregnancy related mischief, our “big” scan is coming up on Tuesday, so you may commence betting on a pink or blue outcome. The Rock Star is convinced that the  Squid will be at least as shy as the Prawn was at her 20 week scan (cord running between the legs,  legs crossed and hands over the whole no-no area.) but I am more hopeful that the Squid will allow us to answer the million dollar question of “SO, DOES IT HAVE A WEINER?”

On one hand, it would be interesting to sort of “start over” in the parenting stakes and learn how to raise a boy. (I have imagined many conversations with my son. Me: “Why were you and Timmy kicking eachother in the crotch on the playground?” Boychild:“I don’t know. It was funny?”  Me: “There must be an escape pod of some kind around here.”) However, I think I might feel a certain sense of relief to discover that another girl was on the way, girls being a known quantity. (And of course, there is that matter of all of the pink clothes in the attic.)

So, all bets are welcome. If you’re right, you win only the smug satisfaction of making the right choice in a 50/50 multiple choice question.

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she’d gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an “I don’t want to go to bed” type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn’t be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn’s arrival. This is a decision that I don’t really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn’t cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it’s the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn’t going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant’s appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, “HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE….if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?”

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it’s finger on the little buzzer.

“Erm….really? It’s not that big a deal. A little…um…ignorant, but probably not worth getting…erm…too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?”

“WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I’LL ASK FOR IT!” roared Rage.

“Yep, yep, okay, that’s fine…” Self Control conceded.

 “GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!”

“Yep, that’s cool, I’m going….”

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I’m OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn’t last long and we’d be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who’d come in for an early emergency scan who’s mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all “just shove it.” and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief  that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, “I’m off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!” (I’m terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn’t know from appropriate anymore. I’m listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let’s just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it’s in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my “birth story”, I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn’t have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON’T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what’s best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. “However low the bar is, don’t worry, WE’LL SET IT LOWER!”

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn’t really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section  I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin’s autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I’m going through that again, I could do with whatever you’re smoking.

What she responded with: “I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don’t like to do Caeserians for  purely social reasons.”

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door “Shining” style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

“EXCUSE ME, LADY?” Rage screamed through the now splintered door. “WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?” Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We’ve been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I’m not 24. I’m 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I’m done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: “Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don’t want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control.”

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

“I’M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I’VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN’T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!”

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn’s birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it’s in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital’s “Afterthought” service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to “talk to someone” in order to “process previous birth issues”. The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can’t have another one because you don’t have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven’t grasped what “never having any more kids” means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that’s your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

When we bought our flat nearly 3 years ago, we were kind of in a hurry.

Carrying the Prawn, I was roughly the size of a military grade pontoon and no longer able to squeeze into the minuscule shower aboard Galileo without seriously soaking the whole of the 3ft x 3ft bathroom. We’d lost a previous flat that we’d been two weeks away from moving into, but in a stroke of incredible good fortune, on the same day, we found our flat (which was better in every conceivable way) and told the owners we’d give them the asking price if they’d pretty please take it off the market that very day. It looked as good to us on the day we’d viewed it as a tall drink of water after coming out of the desert.

Over the course of three years, however, we’ve discovered some of our flat’s many little “quirks”, (a cooker with no markings on it whatsoever, for starters, which I STILL don’t totally know how to use)  although a good deal of them seem to have their metaphorical Ground Zero in our bathroom.

For starters the shower is directly in front of a window to the outside, which, although frosted, does absolutely squat in the way of protecting your delicate wobbly bits from being viewed from the green across the street. After walking by the house in the dark at the same time I was taking a shower, The Rock Star came in looking concerned.  “We need a curtain for that window.” he said. “Like, tomorrow.” (If nakedness in the bathroom during the DAY weren’t bad enough, apparently the effect was particularly stunning at night.) So, strike one to Captain Bathroom Logistics.

Secondly, the Rock Star has been waging war against the toilet pretty much since we moved in. Before it’s unceremonious removal yesterday, he was always quite proud to show anyone who was interested how he rigged the cistern against it’s constant running with the help of tweezers and a Domestos bottle. Not only that, but it’s seat, which, at one time, probably functioned as a toilet seat is intended to function, had developed a habit of slamming shut on male houseguests in “mid flow”, causing no end of penile hilarity. The Rock Star would struggle to remember to remind those of his gender that our loo seat did not permit them to Pee As Men Do. (When I told this to my father, he remarked that Peeing As Men Do can be overrated. While I can understand this, any woman who’s ever been camping might tend to disagree.)

Another strike against the toilet is the fact that when it was installed, to cover the pipes leading from the sink and to the shower on the same wall, the builders ingeniously built a tile box around them…without any means of getting into said box or to said pipes ever again without going on a tile smashing safari. The self same installation genius decided to deliver the inconvenience coup de gras by permanently fixing the toilet cistern lid to the wall with sealant because, you know, WHO EVER NEEDS TO GET INTO A TOILET CISTERN ANYHOW? I can almost hear the bottle of Domestos laughing from beyond the grave.

Luckily, we know some builders.

I can’t say that the color scheme in the bathroom has ever particularly appealed to us, but since it is actually tiled from floor to ceiling, we figured it’s probably just easier to live with a rather traditional and old fashioned blue and white color scheme rather than pay someone a great deal of money to make a VERY large mess indeed. If we were staying for any length of time, we’d probably shell out to have someone totally gut the room and build it again in a way that made sense, but since our days in the flat are numbered, we decided on a little cosmetic touch up in the form of a tiled floor, a new toilet, some paint and new but cheap fittings to at least give us the illusion of a well thought out room.

Those Who Went Before Us thoughtfully left a large pile of tiles behind in our very small, decrepit shed where they have been gathering dust since the bathroom’s inception. The Rock Star and I have always been under the impression that they were blue tiles, which go up the walls to about shoulder height and also comprised the outer coating of the Useless Pipe Box. We believed this because the tile on the top of the seemingly sealed pack was blue. But of course, after our friend and bathroom refurbishment operative smashed apart said box, The Rock Star trotted down to the shed to retrieve said tiles only to discover that there were, in fact, only 4 blue tiles. If we’d been after the crazy ass tiles that festoon the walls of our kitchen (which are another sad story altogether) we’d have been in luck, because there are quite a few of those. However, the blue tiles were sadly absent, requiring a quick reappraisal of What Would Look Weird . At my lowest point, I imagined our Friendly Bathroom Operative having to remove ALL blue tiles from the wall, creating aforementioned mess and more expense. Thankfully, Friendly Bathroom Operative had a better plan, which sounded much better than MY plan and is implementing it as we speak.

Next stop: the kitchen. *shudder*

UPDATE: We’ve just been informed by the builders that they’ve had a run-in with Twitchers plural; mother and daughter, complaining that they were “making too much noise”. By doing bathroom renovation. In the middle of the day. (Mrs. Twitcher, as you might remember, does not even live in our building.) It is my sincere hope that we are not approached this evening in any way shape or form by either of these psychotic harpies because the last vestige of my “nod and smile” filter is well and truly GONE and we may spend the rest of our time in the flat at war with both of them.

Or perhaps I’ll just let the Rock Star answer the door.

YET ANOTHER UPDATE: No word from Twitchers, thankfully for all concerned. In a bathroom related note, our Friendly Bathroom Operatives have done a fantastic job in restoring the Wall of Weirdness with the new floor tiles and making our bathroom look less like one you might find in a student house with five 19 year old girls living in it.

Okay. I get it really. I own a two year old.

The Prawn is definitely a personality. When asked, “What does zombie say?” she cheerfully shouts, “BRAINS!” She does a very funny impression of a rhinoceros with curry bum. (From her book “Who’s On the Loo?”) When asked what mummy has in her belly, she sweetly answers, “A baby!” whereas when she is asked what’s in daddy’s belly, she more devilishly replies, “BISCUITS!” She loves to read by herself or with us for hours, play with her “space dudes” or Lego and is slowly mastering the art of please and thank you.

But.

She.

Is.

Two.

And yesterday, we got the full force of her two-ness from both barrels.

Maybe it’s that she’s a little more articulate than some kids her age, but both the Rock Star and I are trying hard to remember that just because she can SAY certain words doesn’t necessarily mean that she can comprehend their full meaning or that she’s any more EMOTIONALLY mature than any other 2 year old. The fact is, two year olds don’t listen. They sometimes behave like wild animals. They sometimes continue to demand something long after mum or dad or both tell them no and why, because dude, WHY has no place in toddler reasoning. It’s all, “I can’t have something and I am FILLED WITH RAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!” So, without going into details, suffice to say that her Prawnness spent rather a lot of time in her room yesterday, ostensibly thinking about what she did, but probably actually just conducting imaginary conversations between Sir Humphrey, the white donkey and Bella, her shamefully naked ragdoll who I can’t convince her to dress despite a small, but charming wardrobe.

But, hey, funny the subject of rage should come up.

Picture this: The Rock Star has just dragged a screaming and kicking child who’d been winding both of us up since 9 am out of the car after a rather disastrous trip to Dad-Dad’s house and we are both on our way up the stairs with clenched teeth when who should step into my path other than Mrs. Twitcher. I assumed that she was going to make some obligatory, “Toddlers, eh?”  type comment, so imagine my taken aback-ness when she immediately launches into a furious tirade against (who else?) the builders.

Okay, forgetting for a second that every single nerve I have has been well and truly shredded, having spoken to these guys on a number of occasions, it is patently obviously that they are really totally okay people who are  completely miserable at having the misfortune to work on a site next to a raving lunatic. They have been totally accommodating with moving vehicles if they blocked us in and have been nothing but friendly, respectful and courteous throughout their job. In short, these are normal people doing a normal job.

“Have you seen this mess?” she squawked, pointing at the patchwork of weirdness that is currently our driveway. (water, sewage and gas pipes to accommodate the new properties are being put in.)

“Erm. Yeah. They’re going to repave the whole thing next week. It’ll make it look much nicer.” I said, still able to discern the sound of my child’s screeching  echoing down the stairs of our building. The Rock Star and I have decided on the “smile, nod and make sympathetic noises without actually agreeing with her” method of communication when it comes to Mrs. Twitcher, but after the day that we’d just had coupled with the fact that the red mist that dogged my pregnancy with the Prawn was starting to descend, (Pregnancy gives me rage.) I didn’t want to nod OR smile OR make sympathetic noises. I just wanted this harpy out of my face.

Her eyes narrowed to little slits of glowing malevolence.

“WHO TOLD YOU THAT?” she bellowed.

“The BUILDERS told me. It’ll make the whole drive look much neater.” I replied, fast losing what little composure I had left in reserves. From her tone, one might have suspected that I’d told her that I’d hired a concrete saw, jackhammer and backhoe and was planning to do the work myself. Naked. In the middle of the night.

Cue a tirade of freshly pickled crazy about how it’s illegal to do something without submitting permission first. (they have permission) How all the paving is making her glass collection jump about. (some sort of blue tack might be in order?) About how she thinks that they’re going to deliberately cut our telephone lines. (ah the beginnings of paranoid hysteria) And how we should make sure the front door to the building is always shut when we leave because “you just can’t trust those people.” (and over the edge we go.)

At this point, I’m seriously wondering if I’m going to black out and wake up 15 minutes later to discover this woman at my feet with a sharp garden implement protruding from her eyesocket.

But before this terrible scenario can occur, she simply walks away while my mouth is on the verge of forming the word “Bwuh?”

By the time I’d gotten back upstairs to tell the Rock Star of my encounter, I discovered him sitting in a state of mild catatonia with the wails of the Prawn reverberating loudly from behind the closed door to her room. Needless to say, he needed a few minutes before he wanted to hear of Mrs. Twitcher’s phenomenal, bewildering and badly timed ass-hattery.

I’m not sure who behaved the worst yesterday.