You Lookin' At Me?

So I was at the gym last night and again, I was the only pregnant person there. It's getting pretty dull being in the sweating minority. The Husband reckons he has seen other pregnant woman work out there but they have all eluded me during the past eight months. I'm not suprised I don't see any of them because my gym is not pregnancy friendly. It is anti pregnancy. For the record, I am a member of Nuffield Health.

Where are you all?

It's getting dull being the lone child incubator huffing and puffing amongst the sleek and lycra clad.  People stare. They pretend not to stare but they do. I see their staring reflections in the mirror. I can see what they are thinking:

What's she doing here?
Is that safe?
Shouldn't she be resting?
That's so vain to be worried about your weight when you're pregnant.
Wow! A pregnant person! At the gym!
How far along is she?
Will I be able to do that when I'm pregnant?

And so on.

I do wish there were more pregnant women working out with me. Mainly because being the object of curiosity makes me belligerent. I come over all Travis Bickle-like:

You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?! Then who the hell else are you lookin' at? I'm the only one here!

I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed up to wear when I next workout.

If you keep staring long enough my waters will break


or


It's not what you think. I was just born this way

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

For my uni lectures this week I had to read several interviews about the work of Raimund Hoghe. Hoghe is not your standard dancer. He has severe curvature of the spine, a.k.a - a hunchback. In one interview he was asked if he follows a physical training regimen in order to be able to perform. He replied:

No. The music gives me the power. With music I can do things I can’t do by myself

Raimund Hoghe at work

This stuck in my mind. It's true. Music does have that power.

Which is why I have started to ponder my music playlist for labour. Whilst I am in the throes of giving birth, I need music that will carry me through it.

Of course I may not want music when the time comes but prefer the sound of my own screams ricocheting off the hospital walls. Nonetheless, I best be prepared.

The only thing I have to compare birthing to is training for a marathon. When I trained for the marathon, I needed a mantra, music and motivation. The music that got me through and gave me that extra push was metal. The wailing of the lead guitar plus the grunt factor of the bass overlaid with the guttural screams of the singer and manic drum bashing blend nicely to aurally simulate the agony and ecstacy of running a marathon.

And perhaps birth too? Whaddya think?

Will our kid come out looking like this?

So that's whats on my playlist so far. Metallica, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden and some home grown Perth talent, Karnivool.  With a bit of Apocalyptica for the quieter moments.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

There is a new book out about parenting called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother which has been causing all sorts of controversy. The book is by Yale law professor, Amy Chua and is a memoir of the Chinese parenting methods she used to raise her two daughters.

The book caught my eye as I'm a by product of two Chinese parents. Fortunately for me, they did not go to the extremes of Ms Chua although there is much I can relate to in her methods from my own  upbringing. Motivation through criticism. An expectation of strength rather than fragility. Strict, tough love.

Although I have not read the memoir, it seems that it is being hyped up and sensationalised in order for it to sell. Although Chua stands by her outlook, the book goes on reveal how her younger daughter's eventual  rebellion against Chua's techniques led to an re-evaluation of her parenting style. 

I read the below excerpt from the Guardian aloud to the Husband:

"Amy Chua was in a restaurant, celebrating her birthday with  her husband and daughters, Sophia, seven and Lulu, four.  "Lulu handed me her surprise which turned out to be a card," writes Chua. "More accurately it was a piece of paper folded crookedly in half, with a big happy face on the front. Inside, 'Happy Birthday Mummy! Love, Lulu was scrawled in crayon.  I gave this card back to Lulu. "I don't want this," I said. 'I want a better one - one that you'be put some thought and effort into. I have a special box where I keep all my cards from you and Sophia, and this one can't go in there.' 
What kind of mother throws her four year old daughter's home made birthday cards back at them? A "Chinese" one, that's who, says Chua.

The Husband looked aghast whilst I laughed merrily.

There is no way you are going to do that to our child, he huffed.

Poor little half Chinese baby. Of course I wouldn't do that to you.

Well maybe only the Chinese half.

A Merry Crisis Christmas

For the last four years, my Christmas has been about Crisis:

This year is no exception.  Crisis is a homeless charity in London which provides a week long christmas refuge for those who have no place to go. Meals, beds, activities; health, counseling and education services are all provided and run by a small army of volunteers.

It doesn't feel like christmas to me now if I'm not at Crisis. I like presents and gorging myself on food as much as anyone.

But it's a hollow Christmas if that's all it is.

Sir David Attenborough

On the top of the present hitlist for my Husband's birthday this year was:

To take him to see David Attenborough in the flesh.

Attenborough is one of my Husband's childhood heroes. He rates pretty highly on my meter too.  There aren't many like him around anymore when it comes to sheer enthusiasm and knowledge of the natural world.

Last week I got my wish.  We attended  a fundraising lecture at the Royal Geographic Society. The event was in aid of the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature with David Attenborough and Richard Fortey as the guest speakers; there to discuss the whole scientific naming process. I wasn't particularly taken with the topic and hoped it wouldn't be overly dry or boring.

Sir David Attenborough and Prof. Richard Fortey

As the seats in the audience filled to capacity, the Husband nudged me:

Look! There he is!


No, that's not him, I replied authoratively.  That guy is limping. Attenborough doesn't limp.


I was forced to eat my words moments later when the slightly limping, white hair gentleman took to the stage and sat down.

The Husband remained silent.


Ok. Ok. I muttered . I guess he is 84.

Frail though he may be, the minute Sir David opened  his mouth we were in his thrall.  The guy is a damn good public speaker with charisma to boot.  Bucketloads.  Scientfic nomenclature suddenly became fascinating, humorous and inspiring. It was one of the best talks I have been to.

Afterwards as we filed out starry eyed, into the bitter winter chill, I turned to the Husband:

Well? What did you think?

I'm so glad I got to see him. It was the best.

My work is done. 

My Mother Wears Combat Boots

Today I discovered the existence of this book:

I want to read it immediately.

At an estimate, I've read about 70-80 books on the subject of motherhood, pregnancy, birth et al. I started about 5 years ago when a close friend in Australia had her first baby. I wanted to try and get an insight into what she was experiencing.  I ransacked my local library and Oxfam; hoovering up information much the same way a catfish hoovers an aquarium.

Since becoming pregnant myself, I've gorged again on the written word. But much of what I've read is so bland. I feels as if these books are addressing mothers as a faceless, homogenous group. I find that they don't really acknowledge the Person behind the Pregnancy or Parenting and are very Prescriptive.

A few books however have stood out for me. Ones that made me laugh, made me think or seared images into my brain indelibly. Making Babies by Anne Enright which has the best description I've come across as to how it feels to be pregnant. Rebecca Walker's Baby Love; Emma Tom's Attack of the Fifty Foot Hormones; Minus Nine to One by Jools Oliver, Life After Birth by Kate Figes and the one whose title or author I can't remember but whose description of tearing during her vaginal birth and subsequent experience of a fistula made me keep my legs shut for several years. I appreciated her brutal honesty even though it made me wince.

What's apparent is that pregnancy memoirs are more my thing than the Week One, Week Two, Week Three variety.  These have their place and are useful but I prefer people's stories. Even though we humans have been pro-creating forever, it's still a unique experience everytime. Memoirs remind us of this.

That's why I like them.

I Went to the Woods Today

The wonderful snow enveloping the country in the past few days has transformed the woods near our house into Narnia...

Where is Mr Tumnus?

That's What Friends Are For

Amongst the million and one weird things you experience in pregnancy, the most reaffirming and disappointing are the reactions you have from your friends.

Announcing your pregnancy is a strange enterprise. How are you supposed to do it? Lambast everyone you know in one fell swoop? Let the news trickle of its own accord through the grapevine? Tell only close friends and family and let everyone else guess? Or do what my husband did which was to send out the concise email to his friends :

Lavendar's preggers.

I'm six months pregnant now so the news that a little Lavendar is on her way is well and truly out there. But what I wasn't prepared for is once you get the news out, you have people's reactions to contend with.

Most people, even if they couldn't give a shit, still have the courtesy to say, Congratulations, I'm happy for you.

Some people are stupendously happy and excited for you, basking you in a glow of  warm love and concern. They ask you how you are. They don't forget that you're still a person underneath the sumo suit. They put aside their own agendas about birth or children and just wish you happiness in your new adventure. I won't forget their kindness. They get the expensive christmas cards this year.

Then there are the rare few who really don't give a shit and send you this message loud and clear. Thankfully I have only had two of these.

One friend decided that I had wronged her so much that she screamed down the phone at me, showering me with invective so twisted and angry that her words landed like physical blows to my belly.  Pausing for breath to mutter, I know you're pregnant, BUT... she continued to vent her wrath over my wrongdoings because, of course, it's all about her.  I hope she felt better after that. Did I kill her mother? No. But I thought I might  have given the tirade.

The other extreme was the friend who once finding out I was pregnant has just ignored me despite my efforts. Blanked me completely. Maybe she got pregnancy confused with leprosy.

What's the saying? With friends like these.....

Big life transitions always are good for shaking up the firmament of your relationships. You see where the real bonds lie as opposed to where you were just having a polite conversation or acting as a free therapist.

Well sayonara to all that rubbish. I'm middle aged now. Life is increasingly, too short. 

Waterloo! Couldn't Escape if I Wanted To! Waterloo! Knowing My Fate is to Be With You!

When my life tipped upside down recently through returning to study, being pregnant. leaving the 9-5 grind and being on a lower income, my daily rhythms changed too. I am no longer part of the rush hour commute. I spend the majority of my time alone, reading and writing; words swirling inside my head (and quite frankly doing my head in right now).  I no longer have daily interaction with co -commuters or co-workers who formed the wallpaper backdrop of my weekly waking hours for so many years.

In some ways it is a blessed relief. But sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I miss that urban stimulus. The rush of being in a crowd of diverse faces. The buzz of being in a slipstream of Londoners and feeling like a tiny ant amidst it all.

When it sucks, I have a bona fide pick me up. Something that makes me feel alive and reconnected to this wonderful metropolis that is London town.

Waterloo Station at rush hour.

Even during Victorian times, Waterloo Station was chocka-block

It is my preserve of sanity. Slipping and sliding amongst the crowds flooding the station, my ipod plugged in and music pumping, I imagine myself in an 80's video game, dodging all the people hurtling my way. Sometimes I get into a zone where I don't even have to look ahead anymore. Sometimes it feels like I'm floating.

And then all of a sudden I'm out of the station and onto the streets of London and I feel fantastic.

Try it sometime.  Make sure you have a good soundtrack plugged in and don't close your eyes the first time you do it.

Rhythm is a Dancer

Last night I had the following conversation with a woman in the change rooms at the gym:

Woman in Leopard Print G-String: Are you pregnant?

Me in Ultra Stretch Granny Pants : Yes

WILPGS: How many months are you? You're still going to the gym!?

MIUSGP (bristling): Nearly six months. Yes. I still go the the gym.

WILPGS: How do you find it?

MIUSGP: It's good. But you just have to vary some things depending on how you feel.

WILPGS: Good on you. Well done you.

Phew! Cat fight in the gym quickly diverted to sisterhood rulz!

For the record, I did a body jam class. I find dancing in any form really helpful for me during this pregnancy. Belly dance, latin, african. All the styles that make you move your hips. The baby seems to like it as well.




Belly dance is great for pregnancy, and for women in general!


Afterwards I met up with my husband who said:

Husband Who Can't Dance: What class did you do?

Me: Body jam

HWCD: What?! What are you doing that now? Isn't it too vigorous?!

Oh good grief. I can't win.

Still I Rise

The indomitable Maya Angelou put a spring in my step yesterday when I was feeling particularly knackered and fed up with the symptoms of pregnancy:

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou




What a woman!



The He(Art) of Society

At uni the other day, I looked up from cram reading in the library for the last four hours and reflected on how lucky I am.  The reams of notes in front of me looked hieroglyphic to my tired eyes and I knew I had another two hours at least to go.

But to be immersed in ideas, thoughts, creativity and abstraction is such a luxury. Especially when I have spent year upon year looking at spreadsheets, production schedules, budgets, funding reports and other crap I had no real investment in.

It takes awhile for the brain to gain legs once you have set it free to roam again. Mine's screaming Bloody Murder as it's un-used to all this space to think and dream and create.

Conservative political and economic thought (such as the policies that are running rife through this country right now) believe that arts and the humanities are novel pre-occupations and not in the same category as medicine or engineering or science or accountancy.

So if you agree, do this. Turn off your tv and smash it. Break all your DVDs. Never go the cinema or theater again. Burn all your books and magazines. Take down any paintings from your wall and chuck them. Same goes for any sculpture, figurines or textiles. Destroy all your music. Have someone else choose all your clothes and decorations and furnishings in your house as aesthetics won't matter to you.

Stop thinking. We don't need you anymore. Bad Rodin. Bad artist.

Humans can no more exist without the arts as we can without food and water. We need it to nourish our idea of ourselves as well as to understand one another. We need it to develop as a society.

Otherwise what is there?

The Kids Are All Right...but What About the Parents?

I have a favourite person that I love to go to the movies with. She never talks to me during an important part of the film. She never asks me afterwards, What did you think? I never have to worry if she is hating the film and wants to leave. We are in perfect sync, always.

That person, is me.

When you visit the cinema on your own you are anonymous in the dark amongst a crowd of strangers; all entranced (or not as the case may be) by the flickering screen. It's not the same when you have someone you know sitting next to you. How can you escape and give yourself up to the movie when the person next to you knows your real name and perhaps what you had for lunch that day? I'm also one of those people that always worrys if the other person is enjoying themselves. That's why for me, cinema is a dish best sampled solo.

Rudimentary cliched cinema picture

Seeking a few hours escape amidst a very stressful week, I ducked in to see The Kids Are All Right recently. The film had been on my radar for several months. All the reviews I'd read had fallen over themselves in gushing praise. This coupled with the fact that it stars two of my favourite actors, Julianne Moore and Annette Bening was reason enough for me to sit back and relax in anticipation of the story ahead.

I emerged blinking into the daylight several hours later. Quite frankly I was relieved to not have to spend anymore time with the film, and by that I chiefly mean the two main female characters who I found annoying.  It's beyond my comprehension why the film has garnered the reviews it has. Is it because it would be seen as non PC to say that a film about a lesbian couple has very unsympathetic characters; one who exerts her control freakery through her family life while the other takes out her angst on whoever comes across her path through sleeping with them or firing them. Both actors fared much better in their other films about dysfunctional families -Bening in an American Beauty and Moore with Savage Grace, Far From Heaven and The Hours.  I thought the kids were all right in this film, but the parents, well, that's a whole other story.