March for the Alternative

I want to attend this march in central London on the weekend. I'm not happy about the slash and burn cuts being imposed by the government. Health, education, child welfare, heck- any welfare, human rights, immigration and diversity, arts and culture, literacy, legal and housing aid are all under threat.  And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

However there's a few logistical problems in my way. My husband. And the fact that I'm nine months pregnant.

Power to the Bumps!

My husband has threatened to get a court order to sanction me if I go to the march. He said he'll have me declared Not in Fit Mind under the Mental Health Act.

Do you not care about the kind of society we are bringing our kid into? I asked

I care more about you not being kettled in by the police or thrashed by a baton. I want the kid to make it here in one piece was the terse reply.

Fair enough.

So I'll watch it on TV instead although the media will no doubt focus on the idiot minority who turn a peacfeul protest into a violent farce. They won't focus on the 20,000 other people who have turned out to express their discontent.

Years ago when I was active in the environment movement, an oft quoted phrase in much of the campaign literature was that of anthropologist, Margaret Mead who said;

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

She also said


Never depend upon institutions or government to solve any problem. All social movements are founded by, guided by, motivated and seen through by the passion of individuals.

Governments will come and go but Mead's words will stand the test of time.

Enter the Dragon

Where oh where did those nine months go?

Enjoy the time chirruped all my (wise) mum friends, It won't come again.

And as I find myself perched on the precipice of labour, I couldn't agree with them more.

Why is it that we pregnant-for-the-first-time-women spend nine months fretting and worrying and busying ourselves with a million and one inconsequentials only to find that as we stare into the pit face of the unknown (a.k.a giving birth at any point now), we are none the wiser and wide-eyed as ever. The armour of information and stuff that you've accumulated over the past nine months is precisely that. Armour. It may help you but it won't do the work for you.

I have no control of what is about to happen. A thought that is petrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Looking back, I can now say that I have enjoyed my pregnancy. Despite the discomfort of symptoms, the hormonal madness and sometimes difficult life changes, I have enjoyed observing what's been happening to me; both physically and emotionally. 

I appreciate though that it is only the very beginning of something. Something enormous and fantastical. And by that I don't mean Dragon's head.

What I mean, is Dragon's heart.

I'm soon to meet my baby.

Oh boy.

Tell it Like It Is

A friend posted this recently on Facebook. Too good not to share:

Good 'ol HR. Why call an apple and apple when you can call it a spade?

The Big C

Ever since Spencer Tracy uttered the immortal lines:

Not that I intend to die. But when I do, I don't want to go to heaven. I want to go to Claridges

it has been on my list of places to visit. Now that I have stayed there I too want to join Tracy in the afterlife; living it up in an art deco suite. Clinking whiskey tumblers and cuttin' the rug.

One of the finest actors of his generation, Tracy was also an alcoholic insomniac but I digress.

 

My suite or yours?

The heritage of Claridges is vast. Royalty, heads of state, movie stars have all graced its interiors since 1812 and left with their reputations intact for Claridges is discrete. With a capital D.

There was nothing discrete however about my excitement when we checked in and found out that we had been upgraded to a suite. A suite!

We noted that it's your first visit, they said to me, and that you are pregnant. We want you to enjoy yourself.

I think that's when I fell in love with Claridges.

The Linley suite which was ours for one glorious evening was Art Deco deluxe. There was no chintz to be seen anywhere.

After I'd done a few laps of the suite, touching things and concluding that the entire suite was larger than our apartment, there was a knock at the door. It was our butler. The butler that came with the suite. She had brought me a pregnancy pillow. Without being asked.

Rubbing my belly, I whispered to Dragon:

If you want to come early, now is a really, really good time to arrive. 

After our (all too short) stay, I realised what I loved most about Claridges was its understatement. It's not flash, modern or overly grand. It has no razzamatazz.

But what it does have is charm, elegance and the best damn customer service I have ever experienced at a hotel ever.

Which is why I wrote my first ever TripAdvisor review which tells a little bit more about our visit.

Forget dying. I'm going back way before then!

Movie-a-Go-Go!

Somewhere along the line in my pregnancy I read that you should go and see as many movies as possible before the baby comes. That those quiet soujourns in a darkened cinema would become a distant memory for some years to come.

Being a movie junkie at heart, I didn't need any further convincing and have spent many a blissful afternoon since in celluloid escapism.

Some of the flicks that I have seen include Black Swan, The Social Network, The Kings Speech, Morning Glory, Blue Valentine, Little Fockers and Another Year. Of the lot, The Social Network won it hands down for me. I love geeks. I always thought they would inherit the earth.

Maybe all this movie watching will make me one of these?

Before Dragon arrives, I'd also like to squeeze in Biutiful, Barney's Version, How Do You Know, Somewhere, True Grit, Rabbit Hole and Fair Game.

I'm topping up for the year to come. Can you blame me?

Childcare :The Buck Starts Here

About two months ago over dinner some friends suggested that we start thinking about childcare options for our unborn, unnamed baby. 

Freaked out on the way home, I said to the Husband:

But s/he's not even born yet!

He just shook his head and replied:

Homeschooling.

Dragon still isn't born but over the past few weeks I've started checking out some of the local nurseries in my area.  Up against the coalface of future parenting reality, I either have to ditch my university course which I'm loathe to do or locate some childcare options quicksmart for when I return to study. Quick being the operative word as places go fast. Even for an unborn child.

Are they sitting quietly because they've been drugged?

 The thing is that everytime I've been to see one of these nurseries, something in me breaks a little. It doesn't matter how nice the staff seem nor how happy the kids look. Whether the meals are organic or if the fees are expensive rather than exorbitant. I feel a little sad each time.

Will I be able to leave my child at one of these places? Maybe when the time comes I'll welcome the break?

I don't know.

It's a small taste of the heartbreak a parent goes through. And I don't even have my stripes yet.

Mama Ain't Raisin' No Fool!

I saw this today. It made me laugh:

The Pain of Pregnancy Brain

It's real.

The curse of pregnancy brain.

What was I saying?

What was I thinking?

Huh?

The worse was the day when someone asked me how to spell my husband's surname and I didn't know.

I wonder if it is not so much a temporary absent-mindedness but rather a short circuiting due to information overload. Once you become pregnant, there is so much additional information to take in.  

I found this pregnancy survey on another blog and decided to replicate it here.

How did you find out you were pregnant?  By taking five cheap home pregnancy tests that I had bought on the internet
What kind of Pregnancy test did you take?  Don't know. It was only a fiver for fifty on the internet.
What were your 1st symptoms?  Sore boobs. 
Who did you tell first?  My husband. Then my masseuse.
Who was with you when you found out? Le Husband.
My 1st reaction:  Bemusement. 
Was your baby planned?  Yep
When was the baby conceived? I can't say.
How far were you when you found out?  Five weeks
How did your parents react?  Happily

My baby
Due Date:  March 21, 2011
Do you know the sex?  Yes
Any names: Yes
Any Ultrasounds?  Four so far, one more to go.
Have you heard the heart beat?  Yes and it's a great sound
Who do you think it will look like?  Judging by the ultrasounds, it has its father's massive head (OW!)
Will the baby have siblings? Your guess is as good as mine
Have you felt the baby move?  Absolutely

Miscellaneous
Did you have morning sickness? Only all day nausea
Did you have any cravings?  Orange juice, apple juice, bland carbs and cold cooked ham.
Did you have any mood swings? Is that a trick question
Are you a high risk pregnancy?  Nope.
Any complications?  Nope.
Formula or Breastfeeding? Whatever works
Have you bought anything for the baby yet? Yes
When did you start to show? About 5 months
How long could you wear your regular clothes? Still can although jeans need a belly belt
Will you keep the baby’s clothes? Only a few special pieces
Home or Hospital?  Hospital. 
Natural or Medicated birth? Whatever works
Who will be in the delivery room with you?  My partner in crime
Do you think you will need a C-section? Who knows
Will you let anyone video tape the birth?  No way Jose
Are you excited? Yes 
Who will help you with the baby after the birth?  My husband and our army of invisible staff. And then my mum.
What is your favorite thing about being pregnant?  The bump, the happy hormones, the loving support from friends and family and the baby grooving away in my belly
What is the worst thing about being pregnant? Everything else
What’s one thing you miss doing since being pregnant?  Running.
Any days you wish you were not pregnant?  Yes
Are you ready for a baby?  Yes
Have you had your baby shower yet?  Not yet
Do you like kids?  Depends on the kid.  
How far along are you now?  28 weeks and counting…

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.