What I've learned so far.

No, I won't bore you with rhapsodic ramblings about the supreme joy of motherhood.

Instead, let me tell you the honest truth: it's goddamn fucking hard.

Now, I'm not the most maternal of women, never have been. I still don't feel maternal- I don't connect with the fact that I am now a mother, and that this perfect little creature belongs to me. In fact, sometimes I look at her and think "where did THAT come from?"

Yes, there are incredible moments where I look at her creamy satin skin or her little hands that open up like starfish, and I fall in love. But because life is so fantastic at balancing out the good with the bad, there are other incredible moments where I look at the toxic waste in her diaper and fall in love with the person who invented baby wipes.

And here are a few other things that I've learned, that have humbled me and that have driven me thisclose to being an alcoholic:

- holding a baby while they're screaming and crying results in hearing loss.
- no textbook will ever describe a baby. Each baby has their own personality and secretly loves torturing you with not being a "book baby".
- making up formula at 4am is the equivalent of doing a chemistry experiment in the dark, with one hand tied behind your back while the 10 pound bag of potatoes you're carrying in one arm is blasting an air horn in your ear.
- yes, it's feasible for a little stomach to somehow have room for food every hour, all day long.
- my clothes perpetually smell of baby vomit.
- it is possible to survive on 1 hours' sleep and no food all day. For 2 weeks straight.
- a long, hot shower is something that I fantasize about sometimes. Throw a massage in there, and you could get me to sell my mother into white slavery.
- the first time you go out with a buggy, it feels like the most traumatic outing you've ever done in your life. Especially when old grannies push you out of the way to get a seat on public transport.
- when I manage to put her down for a nap, I feel like I have the "Jeopardy" theme song in the background and I have a limited amount of time to do what I need to do. Do I shower, eat, nap, or do I do all 3 at the same time?
- eating dinner with the mister and being uninterrupted is impossible.
- baby poo has the ability to eat through a diaper, clothes, a blanket and even the couch they're lying on.
- as annoying as it is to admit it to my Type-A self, I don't have to do the housework. If it's between that or a catnap for 30 minutes, the nap always wins.
- I've learned to appreciate the convenience of having leftovers for dinner. Or frozen pizza.
- No, I can't do everything for everyone and be a superwoman. As much as I try, I have to learn to admit defeat.
- I don't feel like a mother yet.
- I don't like having "baby conversations" with adults all the time, as if my baby is the only reason for my brain to be active. Give me a stiff drink and some gossip, please.
- I long for my pre-baby life sometimes.

Now, looking at that list, it seems a tad negative. Well, I call it realistic. However, as I said before that life is the great equalizer, there are always the good bits that I've learned:

- the smell of the top of her head is the most intoxicating smell I've ever known. I feel it like a gorgeous ache in my heart. It's the same ache that happened when I fell in love with my other half.
- her cries, no matter how annoying and peace-shattering, sound like the sad whimpers of a tiger cub. I find it heartbreaking to leave her crying for too long.
- when she looks at me and scans my face and touches my cheek with her chubby hand, I melt.
- when I hold her little naked body in the bath with me, I realise how nervous I am around her still, and how I yearn to be a perfect mother for her.
- watching the mister talk to her and soothe her as she falls asleep on his chest is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen him do.
- I am petrified of anything bad ever happening to her. I think it's probably my greatest fear.

So, there you have it. Some good, some bad.

All priceless.

Slight change in perspective.

I've become a cliche. In the best way possible, mind you.

I always rolled my eyes at any one of my girlfriends that professed this undying, indescribable love for their child. I didn't do it in a malicious way, I was just never a "baby person". I always found it really beautiful to watch, but I never saw myself in that kind of light. To be honest, I never really thought I'd have kids until I met the mister.

I now sit here in our living room, looking out at the lake through our floor to ceiling window, the soft static of the baby monitor buzzing in the background, glass of wine in front of me. The mister is in the nursery finishing the murals that he's painted on the wall of our little girl's room, and the star of the show is in her moses basket in our bedroom, doing her little lamb-like cries as she's trying to soothe herself to sleep (I find it so hard not to run in there sometimes and cuddle her, but I know she'll be okay on her own for a bit).

I have a daughter. It still hits me like a ton of bricks. I find it hard to say it sometimes, from the sheer power of what that means.

This little thing will be with us for the rest of our lives. I will always be a parent. I will always have this little hand to hold. We will always be teaching her things. How to dance. How to be brave. How to be good. How to love. How to laugh.

It destroys me, the amount of love that is coursing through my body- like some kind of potent drug that keeps radiating out of my pores, my eyes, all of my extremities. I feel broken into tiny sparkling fragments- each piece its own badge of happiness for what my life has become. When I look at her face, when I bring her into bed with me, when I smell the top of her head.. I end up bursting into tears. And what magnifies it even more is when I see her curled up on her father's chest.. these two people are the most precious things in the entire world to me. It's adoration personified.

It's true what women have always told me: you cannot explain the feeling that you have when you have a child. It's completely indescribable. And oddly enough, I can already imagine going through pregnancy all over again tomorrow. The pain has completely evaporated from my memory, and the only thing that's left is sheer addiction to make another and another of these precious little mini-versions of us.

My perspective hasn't changed dramatically, it's just shifted a bit. Like the difference between taking a picture with a standard camera and a panoramic one.

My world feels panoramic.

The adventure begins.

Our masterpiece finally arrived on Oct 25, a tall baby with dark hair and grey blue eyes, looking like a cute little elf.

The story that I'm sharing may be a bit graphic and personal, but I think I need to see it on paper in order to appreciate the intensity and magic that it brought into our lives. Bear with me if the hormones go into overdrive and I gush.

So. Technically, my labour started with pretty painful and irregular contractions about a few days before the 19th, which was my actual due date. By the time we reached early evening on the 25th, I'd had about 3 hours' sleep total. So we went to the birthing centre, but they sent us home, because I wasn't far enough along. They did give me some pain killers to manage the pain though.

Yeah. That didn't work. And by 1am, my body was in such bad pre-labour, that I was telling the mister in low growling tones "I've had enough. Thisss iss too much and I neeeed to get the hell to the hospital..."

At that moment, I kicked off the evening in style by projectile vomiting all over the bathroom floor whilst clutching the door frame and feeling totally helpless (apparently, it was because I had had a massive hormone surge to kick the active labour into gear). Nice, eh?

We sped to the hospital with me howling in the car like some kind of dying jungle cat. We got to the birthing centre. I was still howling. Luckily, no one was there, it was rather quiet. They showed us to a room, and gave me a shot of dimorphine, a mild loopy medication to take the edge of my contractions and to let me sleep. The mister and I both lay down, and about 15 minutes later I was in heaven, my contractions had calmed down and I was just drifting off when…

I felt a huge pop. My waters had broken. And the contractions came back faster, stronger and more hideous. I started howling again.

The nurse came back, told me to suck on nitrous oxide (which worked in the beginning, but I’ll tell you, I’m convinced that it’s mostly psychological, it didn’t take the edge of the massive pain towards the end), and she’d fill my pool. Hurray for my waterbirth, right? Keep reading..

I got into a massive, warm, blissful pool. I had my bottles of Lucozade, my Tootsie Roll pops for some sugar boosts, my bikini top was on, and the mister was holding my hand. I was still howling in pain and sucking on that tube of gas, but the water just made it all worth it and calmed me down. I could focus. I could DO it. It was heavenly. I even got to a point where I started having delirious visions of us being at some country estate and planning how to rebuild our bathroom... (apparently, the mister has loads of stories of me spouting nonsense at various points).

But after about 2 hours in there, I wasn't making enough progress, and the midwife noticed that the baby's heartbeat was getting stressed with each contraction. Not good. So they advised me that they were taking me to the labour ward. So I got out of the pool. And my contractions seemed to triple in pain, unbelievably. The mister was trying to help me, but every time a contraction hit and he wasn’t there with the gas, I almost throttled the man. He did tell me afterwards, that it made him absolutely mental to see me in that much pain, and that there was nothing he could do. He said he actually ended up going to into an empty room a few times and throwing some stuff around, out of sheer frustration.

I was wheeled onto the labour ward, put into a bed, and was told that I would be given 20 minutes to try and push this baby out before they needed to come in and intervene with the ventouse, because baby was in distress. I was determined to do it myself, but it became harder and harder and more exhausting, and I was determined to do it with no pain relief whatsoever, so I was really pushing myself to the limit. Finally, the specialists came in, out came the suction cup, and out came baby, while mister was playing me Foo Fighters on full blast for inspiration (songs used were "The Colour and the Shape" and "Best of You"). She was a bit traumatized and had swallowed some meconium at the birth, so she’s congested and not breastfeeding as yet (which is much harder than it looks, let me tell you), but I am completely besotted with her.

I won't describe the kind of pain it was and how gory it ended up being, but I’d do it again 3 times over (which I remember saying, as soon as they pulled her out of me). One of the most amazing moments I'll remember is looking at the mister's face so close to mine, in between them yelling at me to push, and him being in absolute tears, telling me how proud of me he was and telling me how strong and beautiful I am. I'll never forget that as long as I live.

We are totally humbled by this little creature..I could stare at her little elfin face all day. She especially loves her father, she's fascinated by his face, immediately perks up when he enters a room, and would much rather fall asleep on his chest than in her moses basket.

I don't think I've slept for more than 2 hours since Sunday, for fear that every cry means something's wrong, and that if she sleeps more than 3 hours at a time that I've somehow drugged her by mistake. Hey, it's all a learning process, right?

Our adventure as officially begun, and I feel incredibly blessed that she's a part of our lives. My heart is more full than I ever imagined it could be.

Nope.

They say that it's fashionable to arrive at a party late.

Our baby is extremely fashionable.

To be honest, I think it's unrealistic for anyone to think that this 40-week contract is set in stone. I had a feeling that nature will take its course and do what it needs to do, and whenever our dinner guest decides to arrive, it will do so when it's healthy, happy and ready to play.

That being said, it's not without its frustration. Luckily, I love being pregnant and I don't have any physical issues, so I don't mind another bit of time to wait. Plus, it's more time that the mister and I get to have to ourselves, to possibly re-think the name that we like (yes, our baby will potentially be nameless at its birth. Hilarious), and to catch up on sleep, so that's fine by me. The frustrating bit is more on the emotional side- we're finally ready to be parents, and we're excited to meet this strange little creature that we've created. It's a bit of selfishness on our part, but hey, every soon-to-be-parent is allowed that, I would think.

I'm avoiding phones and any social contact like the plague right now- I just don't feel up to explaining to people that yes, I'm fine, no it's NOT here yet. Don't call us, we'll call you. The mister is doing our PR from now on. He's become my brain, for all intents and purposes, as I seemed to have lost mine about a week ago. 5th grade math would be a strain for me at this point, I feel.

My midwife has told us that from the symptoms I'm experiencing, I could pop any day now. That's really nice of her, but I'd rather not hold my breath, so we've stopped "watching the pot", so to speak. Things are operating as normal over here, and I prefer it that way.

Okay, now going back to eating ice cream and watching bad TV. I won't be able to have that luxury for a while, so I might as well take advantage of it. Small victories.

Listening

Sometimes I feel like I don't know
Sometimes I feel like checkin' out
I wanna get it wrong
Can't always be strong
And love it won't be long
Oh sugar, don't you cry
Oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes
You know I need you to be strong
And the day is as dark as the night is long
Feel like trash, you make me feel clean
I'm in the black, can't see or be seen

Baby, baby, baby...light my way

You bury your treasure
Where it can't be found
But your love is like a secret
That's been passed around
There is a silence that comes to a house
Where no one can sleep
I guess it's the price of love
I know it's not cheap

Baby, baby, baby...light my way

I remember
When we could sleep on stones
Now we lie together
In whispers and moans
When I was all messed up
And I had opera in my head
Your love was a light bulb
Hanging over my bed

Baby, baby, baby...light my way

Calm before the storm

A couple weeks ago, something interesting happened.

I was walking into town, tending to a few appointments, organising the week ahead. As usual, I encountered the requisite number of morons and rude people, most of whom are the type to never offer me a seat on the bus or train (don't worry, I have absolutely NO problem speaking up very loudly and asking for a seat). I also managed to trip up the stairs at one point, and several times I dropped my handbag, spilling its contents onto the pavement- all due to my clumsy pregnant self.

And for the first time, I didn't really care.

I've notice a weird serenity hang around me all the time. I'm not without my small weepy episodes mind you, but on average, I'm seemingly blissfully unaware about this little creature that's preparing to shoot out of my lower half in less than 3 weeks.

We haven't set up the nursery yet. My hospital bag is almost packed (the important things like makeup and face cream are already in there- oh, the vanity...). We still have some last minute things to sort out, last minute dinners to organise, friends to see, trips to take, and my birthday is rapidly approaching this weekend. Should I make a To Do list? Probably. Have I? Nope.

I need to wax rhapsodic for a bit. Bear with me.

I've entered this blissful state of reverie, as if I'm looking back at my life and watching a montage. A kaleidoscope of amazing moments and private jokes and adventures. I look back at my life when I was 16, 22, 28, 30.. I feel like I've lived so many lives already. But where I am now, living my life with the person who gives me butterflies every day, amazed at this little thing that we made.. this is the best of the best. I can honestly say I've never been happier than I am now, and I swear it just keeps getting better, if that's even possible.

I'm still learning. Still growing. Still adding pages to the book of me. Of us. But this new adventure completely astounds me in its profundity. My heart is so heavy with emotion and wonder, I seriously think I could sit on my ass all day (which isn't a difficult thing to do for me at this point) and write about it.

I'm very lucky to have the partner that I do. He made the past 8 months (well, to be honest, 3.5 years) go by so smoothly. The songs he's written, the notes he's left, the dinners he's cooked, the times that he's stayed up with me at 3am massaging my feet and talking to me when I couldn't sleep. He's made my smile wider, and for that I remind myself how incredibly blessed I am to have his hand to hold.

I'm sitting here with mild back pain, aches and pains and kung-fu kicks to my ribs. Odd combination. I'm finding myself walking slower, feeling more tired. I'm now technically full-term, little fish now has its head in the firing position, so the days are now going by at lightning speed, tinged with a bit of excitement (and not a tiny bit of melancholy).

I've reached the end of the road so to speak- the end of one part our of our life and the beginning of a new one. And yet I walk into the unknown with a glazed, euphoric look on my face, knowing that soon enough, my heart will expand to a size that I never knew was possible.*

* Though I'm hoping my ass will shrink back to normal.

Do me a favour: don't do me any favours.

I have a little something that I'd like to get off my chest. Specifically with girlfriends.

I'm not a needy friend. I do my own thing, and I let others do theirs. I check in, but I don't hover. Friendship shouldn't be something that you struggle to maintain. It doesn't need to be an every-day check in or a twice a week check-in. I think that a strong friendship is something that exists in between the lines: whether you see the person/write to the person once a week or once a month.

However, even if it is a monthly occurrence, it should be a reciprocal relationship. Full stop. And by that I mean, one person shouldn't be doing all the chasing. It's a two-way street.

My history with women has always puzzled me. I've always been fast friends with men, but women? Nope. I've never had a gaggle of girlfriends that I've hung out with, gone clubbing with, called on the phone to have a chat with, talked about my sex life with. My first real "best friend" was this girl Margee Krohn. Catholic school. I was 11, I think. I was so enamored with her. She had short red hair, freckles, and was really cool and had a great sense of humour. We lasted for about 4 months. Then one random day she started ignoring me, and dumped me for Stephanie McNulty, a wavy-haired blond girl. I was heartbroken, and spent the rest of the day crying onto my dark-green plaid school uniform.

My next relationship though, was the one that really affected me and my self-esteem, I'm embarrassed to admit. It was with this girl that I thought was the coolest girl ever. Both her parents and my parents were friends, we went to the same school, she was Ukrainian, we attended the same Ukrainian school and dance ensemble, I thought she was perfect. Dark brown pixie hair, big doe-eyes, thin frame, had a huge bedroom with lots of sparkly clothes and fancy-looking toys. I'd known her since I was 8. She did tend to make fun of me for things like singing in the car when we were being driven somewhere, or rolling her eyes at me when I would act like a "dork", but I didn't care. I loved being her friend and being part of the "cool" crowd at school. She sometimes pretended I didn't exist when she was with her other friends, but I never seemed to mind.

One day, when I was about 15, I was at dance practice. She would hang out with the rest of the group (thin leotard-clad girls with cool hair), and would ignore me if I tried to come over and chat with her. I was ostracized a lot because I was different: braces, big curly hair, no boobs, a bit pudgy. So I tended to hang out with the male dancers, who seemed to welcome me. One guy in particular paid attention to me, and he happened to be the cutest boy in the troupe, and had just joined. Dark hair, olive skin. All the girls loved him.

On this particular day, he came up to me and slipped me a note. I read it later, and it was a really mushy love note. I was speechless. He called me over to a room on the side and wanted to talk to me. I told him how much I liked him and how special the note was to me. I was beaming from ear to ear and so excited. I think it was my first real heart-pounding crush.

And just then I heard faint giggling outside the door.

The group of girls (with my one 'friend' leading them) then burst into the room and pointed fingers at me and started laughing, and so did the boy. It became very clear to me that it was a set-up, and everyone was in on it. One giant joke to play on the girl that they referred to as "fat and ugly" and that I couldn't have friends unless I "paid them". I was devastated.

These things happened more often than I care to admit.

My parents forced me to go to month-long Ukrainian camps (like girl scouts, only much more wilderness-survival), and I hated going. I fought tooth and nail, explaining to them that I would get made fun of and picked on. They just told me to suck it up and "fight back". I didn't know how, even though ironically I had a black belt in karate by then (which made my dork-status even worse). Even when I was around 17 or 18 and running the camps, every time I made genuine friends with a guy, I would be made fun of, my stuff would get stolen or ruined, no one would sit with me in the canteen, and someone would spread rumours that I was a creepy boy-stalker, which would inevitably end up reaching the guy that I was friends with, and he'd end up ostracizing me as well. Sounds like a movie, right?

The only time I can remember ever defending myself was when I was in catholic school, at 12 years old. A girl kept pushing me on the playground, and taunting me. Again and again. And I snapped, running at her, pushing her down on the ice-glazed ground and pulling a clump of hair out of her head. And I finally got some respect.

This is not a sob-story by any means, and I don't need any sympathy. But what this does is give an indication of possibly why I've never let myself fully open up to women. I don't fully trust them (except for my sister-in-law).

Case in point: I've known this British girl for 3 years. I've gotten close to her, and it's been a rather lovely friendship. Though I've always been the one to call or email her to ask her what she's up to, and I have felt like it's been a bit one-sided, I've tried to ignore that.

Until now.

She lives only 20 minutes away, and yet she's never seen me throughout this pregnancy. Doesn't email or call to ask me how I am. Yes, she has a 2-year old and she's a stay at home mother, and I do understand it can get stressful. And granted, I didn't really tell anyone that I was expecting until mid-summer, so I could tell she was mildly offended that I didn't tell her until late in the game. But nevertheless, I've been chasing her. Emailing to ask her how she is. Chasing her to meet me for lunch. Chasing her to meet me at SOME point before the baby gets here. But she's totally tuned me out and her entire focus is on her son, his activities and her other friends (which she tells me that she sees on a regular basis, which makes me even less enamored of her, let me tell you). There's also another girlfriend of mine here that is a stay at home mother with a 3-year old, and I've emailed her twice. No response. Though they both seem to update their Facebook status quite a bit and spend time organising meet-ups with other people. Including each other. Am I annoyed? Yes.

I really don't get it. Am I doing something wrong? If anyone out there can enlighten me about this female game-playing phenomenon, I would love to get more information. And I'm not trying to sound like a heartless bitch here, because I do understand that life gets in the way, and I will see how much a child will overwhelm me as a parent.. but at what cost to my relationships? This shouldn't be that complicated, should it?

What makes me angry is that I'm a giver by nature, to my own detriment. I will listen, I will be there physically, I will be there on the phone, I will give you the shirt off my back if you need it. I'm realising that this isn't an admirable quality sometimes, and I end up looking like the needy chick waiting by the phone.

If this is telling me that I need to just let go and find friends who actually give a shit about me and don't always take take take, then I think I've finally learned my lesson.

Got milk?

I'm obsessed with boobs.

Before you start drooling.. like most women (and every male on the planet), I've always had a healthy appreciation for their aesthetic properties (my own, as well as others), but lately, I think my brain has gone into some kind of mammary overdrive. It's all I think about.

One of the reasons could be that mine are getting much bigger than I thought they would, and I'm fascinated with the fact that I actually have cleavage (please understand, as a 5'7" 105 lb person, this word has never been in my vocabulary).

The other reason is because since I will soon attempt to use my lovely pair to feed another human being (yeah, that still seems really weird to me..), I've entered a whole new world that uses strange and highly sadomasochistic vocabulary like panelled feeding tops, nursing bras, nursing pads, nipple shields, electric breast pump, and the ever-popular controversial debate: Breast vs Bottle.

I live in a country where the National Health Service (NHS) and pretty much every midwife strongly encourages breastfeeding. And by "strongly encourages", I mean they really go for the hard sell- posters everywhere, advertisements to attend free seminars that encourage you to "persevere through the tough first few weeks". I even asked if someone could advise me on the practice of "mixed feeding" (sometimes breast milk, sometimes formula), and the midwife very gently shook her head with a sigh and tried to steer me back to using my boobs as the only way to go. I mean, at this rate, it would've probably been acceptable for her to scream in my face while shaking me by my shoulders in the hopes that I would not endanger my child by -insert collective gasp of the entire world- FEEDING IT FORMULA FROM A BOTTLE.

Okay, I get it. It's nutritionally beneficial, they're there for a reason... but shouldn't people be given other options so that they can make their own decisions? I think choosing how to feed your child is a rather subjective and personal decision that a mother should be entitled to make on her own, and ideally, she should have as much support and information to help her in that respect.

And because it's such a hot topic here in the UK (if you remember a post from about a year or so ago, I still stand by my assessment that this country is generally obsessed with any size and shape breasts), the choice that a woman makes, whether to breastfeed or not, becomes a minefield of an issue. Just because you're pregnant and about to be a mother, does it really allow your friends/family/general public to comment and make suggestions about your breasts and how you intend to use them?

Them: Will you breastfeed?
Me: Not really sure. The whole idea seems weird to me, but I really won't know until I get there.
Them: Oh... well... you should really try.
Me: Sure. Okay.
Them: It really is the best thing for them, and did you know that if you don't breastfeed you increase your risk of breast cancer by 50 percent?!???
Me: Great.
Them: Yeah, the first few weeks will be hard, but you have to persevere. It's best for the baby. You should do it for at least 6 months.
Me: Umm. Okay.
Them: Poo is much smellier on formula, too.
Me: Great.
Them: How do you feel about feeding in public?
Me: You mean setting up a stand in the park with a "Breast milk for 5 cents a cup- 4 cents if you use the boob" sign? Not too keen on that either.*

*That usually shuts them up.


I once said that I thought breastfeeding in public (i.e how some mothers whip their boobs out naked in all their glory while a child is dangling off of one and fondling the other) made me feel a bit uncomfortable (though to be fair, I don't think I would even do it in front of friends and relatives either.. I don't choose to put that kind of an intimate moment on display, frankly), and lo and behold I might as well have been struck down with a crisp bolt of lightning directly from La Leche League. The amount of anger and nastiness and righteousness that resulted in that one comment (aherrmmm.. my opinion) was extraordinary. Women hurled taunts like "what if someone denied YOU lunch when you were hungry", and "it is the most natural thing in the world and you should be proud that you're able to nourish your child"... it was insane. I never knew that Breast vs Bottle could turn into a WWF mud-wrestling match.

I think when it comes to this, we all need to calm down a bit, eh? No mother or mother-to-be should do something for their child. There's no rulebook. It's their child, and they can choose to feed it however they like, without fearing the judgement of all the earth-mothers or posh bottle-mummies out there.

Breasts should be off the table for discussion. Unless, of course, they're an integral part of winning an argument. To that I say: lay 'em on the countertop. And dress them in something lacy.

I'm slowly joining the Android revolution.

Now, I'm the kind of person that's kind of a dork. Okay, a big dork. I don't really like Facebook, I don't have a Twitter account and don't really know how it works, I don't do De.Lic.ious (or however you spell it), I don't Digg, I don't StumbleUpon anything, and I never MySpaced.

Now, I'm not saying that those qualities deserve some kind of award, and I'm not putting down people who are experts at communicating with all of this media. Hell, I'm married to someone that has his own communications company, so I'm well aware how important these things are. I know that I should probably be more connected to the universe considering I'm in the advertising/media business. I can converse with the most senior executives on the power of social networking and the resulting brand exposure that can result from it, but for me personally, I don't use it.

I just don't really like having all my information out in cyberspace where everyone can potentially see it and track me down. I don't really feel the need to tell people what I'm doing all the time and where I am, and I don't really want to know when their next bowel movement is either.

The other day, my parents told me that a really old acquaintance of mine contacted them the other day (long story short: I knew him when I was 16 and he was 20, he totally chased after me, but I wasn't interested)- he's married now, works at a supermarket I believe, and has kids from various relationships. He's a nice guy, but weird that he contacted my folks specifically looking for me.

Well, he asked my parents what my last name was, and, being that they're blissfully unaware of Facebook or anything of the sort, they saw no harm in telling him. And he said "yeah, I thought so, I found her on Facebook. I've sent her loads of messages to 'friend' me, but she's ignored me. Hmm."

Creepy.

Sorry, but this is why I tend to be inactive in groups like this. I like my anonymity. And I really don't need married fathers contacting me to rekindle some long-lost relationship.

However..

What I did realise, is that the one thing that I've been lacking in a technological sense is a decent phone. Whoopdeedoo, you're thinking. Okay, okay, I know, it seems trivial, but it was an exciting thing for me. I've had one of those basic candy-bar phones for about 5 years now, a delicious little black Sony Ericsson that has been indestructible. When I moved to the UK, I kept it and just got a UK number, and managed to do a pay-as-you-go system, avoiding a contract. I've dropped it in the water, on the concrete, stepped on it.. and it's been amazingly intact. I love things like that (not that I have a sadistic personality, I just tend to be a klutz).

Why get a new phone then? Well, it takes about 5 minutes to write one text because the keys are all condensed, the software on it is quite old so the service kept cutting in and out, and all that it was good for is talking and texting. Nothing else. So, after about a month spent debating whether to get a new phone (something with Internet access and diary management), I decided that it would be a good idea to send myself off on the Motherhood trip with a carry-everywhere-access-everything phone.

it took me about 3 weeks to do all the price comparisons, read the independent reviews and software research. I almost got a Blackberry Curve (I LOVE them), but realised that I get one for work, so I'd rather not carry two Blackberrys around if I can help it. I'd rather have a different phone on a different operating system.

And no, the iPhone wasn't in the running. I was determined NOT to get it. Every one's in this iCult at the moment, and I think it's iRidiculous. Yes, they look lovely, but I find joy in having something that most people don't. I decided to be an Android.

So I got this.

And I love it. It does look a tiny bit like an 90s Palm Pilot and it's a bit hard to get used to the touch-screen keys (every time I text, it comes out looking as if I'd gone on an Absinthe bender), but its functionality is pretty immaculate, its applications are very similar to Apple's, and it'll be useful when I'm out with the little one and trying to text with one hand and feed with the other.

Anyway, that was my treat to myself, and I think it's perfect timing, because with one month to go until D-Day, it'll take me that long to figure out how to program my voicemail.

It's nothing personal.

Yeah. What a load of bullshit.

I'm now officially without a job. I assumed that pregnant women in this country had more rights than other people, but I guess I was wrong. I was given my maternity pay (which is pretty dismal) and ushered out the door. No redundancy pay. Not a cent. Synovate, the company I worked for, has a notoriously bad reputation for not only being tightwads, but treating their employees like robots (a statistic that I only just found out from people that have worked there for years).

For you folks across the pond, redundancy is a nice way of saying "getting fired". Although, they tend to do it a bit gentler over here, and give you some time to adjust before you're booted out the door. Plus, if you're made redundant, they can never hire a person that does that same job that you do in that company. So in many ways, you're a bit more protected that you are in the US. Usually.

In my situation, my boss was relocating to the US, and my job was becoming erased. And instead of having me stay on to do project work, they basically told me to either start my maternity 2 months' early (yeah, so that would mean not having those 2 months with my baby at the end of my maternity leave), or get out. After trying to negotiate with them for a few weeks, I saw that they really didn't give a rat's ass about my situation, so I decided to leave. It was so emotionally draining, I just gave up the fight.

On my last day, my spineless boss didn't even say goodbye, or thank me for working 10-hour days for him for almost a year. Yeah, try to figure that one out. Well, I say that's just bad karma for him, really. More importantly, I left with dignity, and without setting anything on fire or breaking something (though I was tempted). The girls next to my office gave me a bouquet and a card, which was really unexpected and sweet, so it reminds me that there are decent people in the world. When I got home, the mister surprised me with a DVD of "Office Space" (which for any of you who haven't seen it, is the perfect therapy if you ever get really jaded about work).

Anyway, that's the story. I think it's only now sinking in slowly that I'm on the precipice of motherhood, and I think that's another reason why I wanted to work as long as possible. It kind of delays the inevitable. Everyone keeps asking me "why? what are you afraid of? why delay it?" I can't explain it, and can only say that you'd have to be pregnant to understand. You want more time. More time to fit things in. And one of the things I like to do is work. I like the creativity of the industry I work in. I like the challenges. The dramas. I also like contributing to our household income, and that will never change. Even though everything we have is pooled together, I sometimes feel guilty that the mister is the one working his ass off for us. It's totally my own manufactured guilt, but that's just how I am. I want to roll my sleeves up and get in the mud with him, no matter what we do. But I'm having to tell myself that motherhood is just that- a huge job that requires loads of teamwork- so essentially, my job is just around the corner, in a way.

My focus now, other than getting freelance work in the pipeline for the next month, is to organise. Plan. Take some time to relax.

I'm still managing to get into town to do errands, getting last minute things, etc.. but my threshold is significantly lower. Dealing with pushy crowds and hot trains is not fun, but I manage about 4-5 hours before I'm done for the day. Luckily, my legs aren't swollen and I feel fine, but it's my body that starts slowing down and telling me "hey. lady. you don't have a limo driver to pick you up, so I suggest you make a beeline for that bus over there and go home".

Little things are becoming harder, but I'm managing to battle on. I can still shave my legs (thank god), I'm still managing to paint my toenails, I'm still managing to put together cute outfits that don't require a maternity tent-like thing. I even managed to go to that photo shoot.

Yeah, the photo shoot. In my last post, I told you that I was selected for an exhibit for this photographer named Rankin. I showed up in a really plain black top, no jewellery, and my wedding hat (as some added drama for fun). I was put into hair and makeup straight away, which scared me at first. These girls didn't look a day over 20 and when I told them the look I was going for (smudgy black eyes, busted rock-chic), they said "yeah. cool.", and dove in. The next thing I saw in the mirror was unrecognisable. My face looked caked in foundation, my cheekbones looked razor-sharp, my eyes were caked in black/grey/copper glitter. My hair was down and messy under my hat. The poor girls saw my terrified face and said "trust me, it'll look amazing on camera".

And they were right.

The photographers put me in front of a wind machine (no, I'm not kidding), and went to work. They took about 50 frames each of full-length and head-only shots. And as the shoot was going on, the pictures that they were taking were being shown on a huge screen in the public gallery.

Once the shoot was over, I was given a free 8x10 print then and there of the shot of my choice (also the shot that will be displayed on the public gallery wall), and I'll get the rest of the shots from that session on email, if I want any others blown up.

Can I be totally vain and say something really annoying?

That. Was. Amazing.

It was such an incredible experience, and I have never felt more beautiful in my entire life (well, except on my wedding day). But it was a weird and different kind of beauty, though, if I can try and justify it. It was glossy, magazine-print beauty. It was surreal and intense. It made me feel really vain as well, which was dangerous. The experience was also foreign to me in a lot of ways. I saw a look on my face that was new to me. Even the mister saw it and said "Wow. It's stunning, and definitely not a part of you that I recognise, which is really interesting."

I've always wanted to see what all that stuff is like, and I was able to get a small taste, which is really lucky. And I picked a full-length shot, which means our little one gets to see itself in that moment as well.*

And in a very big way, I liked that that moment made me feel good, because it was a few days after I lost my job. I managed to turn a situation that was personal for me in a bad way to a really great personal experience.

Myshka- 1
Synovate- 0

*once I get it emailed to me, I promise to post it.

No way. Someone gave me an award. And yes, I'll take it.

And here I was thinking I never win anything.

The lovely Laura gave me this award the other day, and I must say, I'm flattered. I write this blog to put a pen to my random thoughts, but never thinking that it might connect with people. And if it does, that's the cherry on the cupcake. So, thanks Laura. And here's to you, you, you, yes you there, and of course you. I like you, I like your writing, you deserve an award for being inspiring and cool. Now go here and add your name to the "Super Cool" list of writers (yeah, that's not what it's actually called, but let's humour our egos a bit, eh?).

Speaking of inflated egos, I've been selected to participate in a photography exhibit called Rankin Live. This photographer has been around for a while and has done some amazing portraits and erotic photography, and he's doing an exhibit in London of "real people", whatever that means. Anyway, long story short, I sent in a pic (no, not nude, but I'm tempted), made the cut, and now I'll be standing in front of a big camera with professional lighting, while hair and makeup people slap some greasepaint on my face and make me into RuPaul. It sounds vain, but I don't really care. I've always wanted to try something like that, and hell, if I made the cut, then I'll take it for what it is, even at almost 8 months pregnant. I get to keep a 10x12 copy of the one that's selected for the exhibit, so if I hate it, I can always use it as a dartboard.

Other than that, things are going as well as can be expected when the maniacs at my job are trying to push me out the door and "eliminate" my job. Why? Because they can. Because of the recession. Because I'm pregnant and won't be able to look for other work, so I'm an easy target. Whatever, long story, I won't go into it. But I had to release that little comment into the universe because I've been patient and professional up until now. And now I just hope that karma seriously kicks them in the balls one day.

That would be their award.

Crispy fried bump and love stories

I pretend that I'm olive skinned...I pretend that I'm a supermodel misting my skin with SPF 4 that smells like freshly grated coconut..I pretend that my skin can darken a lovely shade of mahogany when toasting myself in the sun..

Yeah, I'd laugh at me too. Turns out that my genius idea one day at "not using any SPF because my skin will be brown and freckly" was a pretty bad move. Hence parts of my face right now looked like I had an uber-expensive chemical peel. Okay, okay, it's not that bad, but definitely noticeable, and I'm trying to avoid any reflective surface at the moment.

We just spent 10 days hiding in couple bliss. It was a long-overdue treat for ourselves to "get off the grid", so to speak, and reconnect. To giggle. To swim in the sea. To parade around half-naked in 90-degree weather and do nothing but read and eat and sleep.

It was absolute heaven, though if I'm honest, it took me about 3 or 4 days to get into it. I found that my brain is so used to ticking away on a schedule, it's not used to being told "hey. shut the factory for a bit. There's nothing to do right now." The prospect of me not doing anything is sometimes a bit daunting, because I'm someone who really likes doing something all the time and not give myself space to breathe and relax. You know the feeling that you get when you start cleaning a room and then you get on a roll and clean the whole house? No? Okay, just me then... I guess I thought relaxing time means idle time, and idle time is equivalent to boredeom, and hey... can I do that for you? What about that, that looks interesting... I can help...

When I finally did straight-jacket my inner loony, I can't describe how deeply poignant it felt to sit in a disappearing sunset, hair crusty with sea salt, and do absolutely nothing but stare at the sea. Or look over at my other half. My puzzle piece. My bestest friend in the entire world. And I relished it. I relished just staring at his handsome face. And what's more fun is that in those moments he wouldn't say anything, he'd just smile crookedly the way he does only to me, and brush my cheek. You know that feeling when you look at the person you love striding up to you and you get faint butterflies and you feel like you have a hopeless crush? Yeah, I have that. And I love every cheezy second of it.

It's a quick ride, it feels, to the end of this pregnancy, and sometimes I feel like there's so much to do, and sometimes I feel like I've done as much as I can. Usually, it's the former feeling that takes over. Mostly, I feel like I want more time. More hours in the day. More days doing fun stuff, more days as a couple, more days to stuff like pillow cushions in between the existing days so that time doesn't go by too quickly.

I was pretty sad about coming back home to London. Not sad in a depressed way, but just wishing that it hadn't gone by so quickly for us. I felt like a little kid that wanted to stay up past her bedtime, pleading with her parents just a little bit more.. please? just a little more...

I was also cranky and hormonal because I ended up with a fried face (oh, the vanity that I posses, it's kind of annoying), so you can imagine what a thrill I was to travel with on the way back. The mister has the patience of a saint, which I'm constantly grateful for.

I also realised that in this hormonal soup of feelings that is being stirred up a couple times a week, what comes to the surface a lot is fear.. nervousness.. insecurity..but along with that also comes a good dose of love..joy..gratefulness..excitement. I've never professed to be an eternally happy-go-lucky person, though I am most of the time- and I do have my moments where I disintegrate into that dramatic Eastern European place in my head that makes me into a drama queen. And lately, the highs and the lows seem to be much deeper trenches that are harder to get out of. Harder to pick myself up on my own and grit my teeth. And because I find it harder to do that, I see that as a bit of weakness on my part, and I get angry. And the person next to me feels the brunt of it. It's a bad habit.

Yes, the nervousness and the vague negativity is only temporary, and I've been teaching myself to recognise it coming and to diffuse it appropriately. A lot of things will change in 2 months and I know that we'll handle it like we do anything: as a new adventure.

But right now, in the midst of all this, what makes me feel better is letting myself indulge in the rich moments. The sweet stuff. The little "I love yous" whispered at night with such magic intensity. The hands entwining. The arms around waists that signal equal parts support and possession. The heads tucked in together as if conspiring in secret. The inside jokes. The pats on the bum when we walk next to eachother. I know these things change and evolve and get deeper and more amazing with each passing day, but right now I feel like I want to grasp every nuance that these moments posses- as if I were trying to catch wisps of gossamer. I want to burn these days in my memory and feverishly write them down. I'm realising that there is never again another first, just like there isn't another last. So this pregnancy is like the first kiss, the first crush, the first trip, the first song, the first dance. It's completely precious and unique and memorable.

I know I'm romanticizing it a bit, but that's how it feels for me. Sometimes, I can just get on with it and not be too mushy. But other times, especially when we feel kicks, I become overwhelmed with these kind of feelings. I have to remind myself that holy jesus, we're having a baby. wow. It's mind-blowing to think that out of the billions of people out there, we met, we knew that we were it and we've now created a little mini-us. It's completely crazy in the best sense of the word. In the beginning I thought.. nah. can't be. this handsome thing and klutsy, brash little me? how the hell is this going to work? you're kidding. And I stand astoundingly corrected and happier than I ever have been in my entire life. I've learned things that I never thought I could, and look forward to challenges that we'll never be able to plan. I look at how the both of us learn and grow, and how tender and protective we are of our little story. And now we're stepping into a completely crazy circus that'll be filled with little feet and giggles and stories and immense love. Another stop on this ever lengthening road-trip.

Don't worry, the sun hasn't fried my brain too. I guess vacations have a tendency to make you a bit introspective.

Right. Get a grip.

In the "Convenient Theories for You" monthly newsletter, it says that apparently hormonal outbursts, crying for no reason and feeling negative is due to a hormonal surge. This surge happens around the 28th week of pregnancy because baby is running out of room in its studio apartment in there, so apparently my body decides to add an extension, thereby increasing a certain hormone to make my muscles relax.

Unfortunately, the muscles relaxing do not require a lovely hormone called "muscle relaxant", they require a different kind of hormone, which I prefer to call givemethatcookieoriwillsmotheryouinyoursleep-tocin.

I've been in a bit of a haze for a couple days. The only way I can describe it is by picturing yourself walking through a pea-soup fog, feeling out of breath and lethargic, road signs are only half written out and unclear, you have a vague feeling of marijuana haze (half-buzzed and happy, half paranoid), and the whole time you're in this world, you're trying to protect a fragile little glass figurine.

Sounds like a good script for Guillermo del Toro, if you ask me.

Luckily, I have my other half that walks right next to me and tries to help, but when it's foggy, I can barely see my own hand, let alone his. So I snap myself out of it. It's just that lately, it's gotten harder to do that.

My job is undergoing changes that are beyond my control, and it feels pretty defeating. These aren't "economic climate" changes, but shifts above me that directly affect me, and the timing couldn't be worse, considering I have a little one due in about 2 months. I feel like I'm being pulled and tugged in different directions like an overused ragdoll, and I can't seem to find a solution. I know it exists, I just can't see it, and that's frustrating me.

I'm getting more nervous about the birth. Silly, maybe. But still nervous. The mister and I sit there in our antenatal classes and while he's totally fascinated in that "little boy liking all the gross science stuff" kind of way, I sit there and think if she uses the words 'mucus plug' and 'anal winking'* one more time, I'm going to hurl. He's already started encouraging me to pack my hospital bag just to get organised. I've gotten as far as lip gloss and face cream.

I've also gotten into the habit of apologising to the little one for all the negativity that I focus on. I think it knows that I mean well, but I'm also imagining that now that its eyes are fully developed and blinking, it's doing the ohh puhleeze eye-roll maneuver when it hears me stress out. I feed it a homemade brownie (my latest craving) as a guilt present.

So, in light of all of this, we decided to take a break and go away soon. We're disappearing for a bit and shutting off, as this will be our last big "just the two of us" holiday for a good while. I can't wait to feel the sun on my face, the sand under my feet, holding the mister's hand and seeing a completely clear horizon.

At the moment, another brownie will have to do.

*I swear this is a real term/occurrence during labor, but I apologise if I've just put someone off their lunch. Or their own body parts.

Adjustments and bumps

Breathe. Stay calm. Try and understand where he's coming from and why he did this again, for the 37th time. Try to get where he's coming from. Don't throw anything at him.

Living in a different country tests your patience and your courage. Being pregnant and having a business in a different country, away from family and everything that's familiar, turns up the notch on the previous sentence. It also tests your relationship mettle.

I'm a pretty tough bird, and I have to say that I've weathered quite a few bumps along the way here. I've discovered more about myself, more of what I need out of life, and more about my marriage and my partner. It hasn't been easy (cut to pregnant woman sitting at breakfast table crying into cornflakes... for absolutely no reason).

The mister and I have discovered something about the way we work together. Maybe it's his new business. Maybe it's the new house. Maybe it's the pregnancy. I think it's everything all at once (which seems to be the best way we work). We've always been a tight team, unfailingly since the day we met, but this pregnancy has added a really profound dynamic in how we approach things and learn from each other. When I drop the ball, he already stands 10 paces ahead of me ready to catch it. When he can't find a solution, I'm ready with a few options for him, complete with pen and paper. Granted, we're still new at all this and still have a lifetime of learning to do, but we're learning to be patient in figuring things out. We struggle and argue and laugh and play and make mistakes, lots of mistakes (and we repeat those mistakes sometimes without thinking), but there's a delicious undercurrent of strength and love and sweetness and honesty that I'm proud of. And the adjustments that we've made recently in the way we do things and the habits that we're trying to break... these tiny adjustments feel like a compass leading us in a really solid direction.

Little fishy in there is kicking as I write this, and I can't help but think that there's this profound magic that happens when two people create a third. The abundance of selflessness and love (not only in yourself, but as a couple, and as a family) that's needed to cushion this little one is awesome, in the purest sense of the word. And our heads and hearts are slowly expanding to accommodate. To adjust. Of course I can easily dwell on the little things about who's right, and why he did that and what's annoying me.. but truth is, if I step outside of myself when these moments happen, I know exactly what's really important. Don't sweat the small stuff, Tato has always said to me. And I think I have moments now where I really get what that means.

I'm lucky to have a good life, a husband who challenges me and cherishes me, a family who grounds me, and loyal, amazing friends. I remind myself of that every day (especially the dark days).

Roads are bumpy, sure. Roads can get bumpy with a bump, sure. But that's what makes life the all-time greatest challenge, right?

Now? Of all times? Oh for the love of god.

Okay, let me start off on a positive before I start to get all whiny.

It's 85 degrees here in London. And it's sunny. Yes, I'm totally serious. Apparently, we're having some sort of ridiculous heat wave, and even though I'm carrying a bowling ball in front of me and heat makes me feel a bit cankle-icious, I'm telling Mrs. Nature to bring it on. I'm a sucker for sunshine, and everytime I'm out for my lunch, I crane my neck to get as much of it as possible within my allotted 60 minutes.

Now, here's the whiny bit where it seems my 20-year old insecure self has reappeared.

At 6 months in, I feel huge. I feel like I have chipmunk cheeks. I feel like my hair is perpetually hanging at a heavy triangle on my face, daring me to do anything to it that makes it look less like a helmet. I feel like I've started waddling. I feel like a monkey when I sit cross legged and my belly protrudes between my thighs. I find it difficult to shave my legs. I can't walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded. I've almost passed out twice, due to my low blood pressure and not eating as much as I should and still thinking I can run along at my regular pace. Yeah, I put a smile on and put on my flowy tops and just-so torn jeans and put cream on my remarkably pimple-less cheeks and look the part of a supremely serene pregnant lady, but in my head I feel like I should be wearing a neon blinking sign that reads Caution: Wide Load.

This in turn makes me feel unsexy and uncool and tired. And this results in me bursting into tears at very odd moments.

The mister has been amazing through all of this. Luckily, I'm married to someone that not only finds pregnancy fascinating, he finds it quite sexy on me and the way I'm changing. But unfortunately, the only thing I hear through my hormone-static is blahblahblah. I should be flattered by comments from people and strangers that I "look so well" and that "I'm carrying this neat little bump", but I can't seem to get a grip.

I've also taken on trying to understand what the mister is going through. I don't want him to feel like he always has to run home and massage my feet, but I also don't want him to feel like this is his "last summer" and he'll take advantage of the old party crowd and forget about me sitting at home not being able to drink, go out with friends, or do much of anything at all. I know, I feel unfair to him just uttering those words.

Yeah, I sound insecure and paranoid. But this is the stuff that no one tells you about pregnancy. It's not all wine and roses.

I'm the kind of girl that could never/will never be able to keep my mouth shut. I'm an open book with everything, especially in my marriage. The mister would probably rather not always hear my inner monologue, but sometimes I feel that it's appropriate. And so I laid bare how I feel about this summer, changes that should be made, things that have happened in the past.

Unfortunately, this now put him in a position where he feels like I don't trust him to make the right decisions. Him. The writer of my many love letters, the father of our child, my puzzle-piece.

But it's not a case of trust. It's a case of me worrying that things won't change (according to my pace, mind you). Worrying also that things are changing, but too quickly. That there will now not be "the two of us", that it'll be "the three of us". How does this affect me? Him? Us? What is it like, having a 3rd team member? Will I be a good mom/wife/lover/friend?

These are things I haven't said to him. These are things that lie at the root of the "other" things I bring up. I guess I do my best to try and balance the amazing gift of being pregnant with the nervousness and insecurity that go with it, and try to lean more heavily on the former rather than the latter. Oddly enough, I feel that it's a kind of weakness to admit my fragility, so I put on a brave face and overcompensate by being tough and sarcastic. It's a battle that no one can solve except me, and I guess this pregnancy just brings up some old demons that I thought I'd put away.

Yet even as I write this, Junior is deftly kicking me in response to my fears, as if to say... psst. i'm right here. everything will be okay.

Doctors, hospitals and charts, oh my..

I will not use the obligatory "we're not in Kansas anymore" quote, but it applies nevertheless. And, as a warning, some of you may not agree with some of the following statements and may think of them as a bit inflammatory, but if you care to read on, go for it (and settle in with some tea and cake, 'cause this is a loooooong one).

Living in a foreign country gives you a very unique comparative perspective on a lot of things. Currently, I have the pleasure of comparing health care systems, doctors, hospitals, etc. Being a pregnant lady, I have no choice but to be immersed in all of this at a semi-regular frequency. I'll start with my previous experiences.

After living in NYC for almost 10 years, and upstate NY before that, I had a pretty good knowledge and comfort-level with the way the health care system operated. You pay through the nose, or your company does, for health insurance (which I still think is the most ridiculous thing, PAYING to have health coverage), which gives you the opportunity to see a doctor for every sniffle, cough, cold.. anything. And he'll see you very quickly, which I used to think was a blessing. But when I got to his office, he'd manage, every time, to shove a load of medicine and samples into my hand and say- yeah, take some of this, you'll be fine. Uh, okaaay...

Luckily, mama didn't raise no fool, so I'm pretty familiar with medical jargon (yeah, I'm a super-nerd who likes reading biology and science books), and I'm familiar with the way my body works. And to my astonishment, sometimes I'd look in one hand and have one medicine, and in the other hand I would have another medicine that conflicted. As in: "take two of these to expel phlegm" and "take two of these to suppress it". Yeah, thanks doctor. That makes total sense.

I realised that the only reason why doctors do this is because they have close partnerships with certain pharmaceutical companies, so they make a nice profit when they give you lots of samples. Figures. It's also proven that hospitals encourage pregnant women to have a drug that speeds up labour (or have a cesarean), so that the turnover can be higher. More births=more money. It's like a Michael Moore documentary over there. And for a long time, I bought into it, and I loved the attention I would get for every little thing that bothered me. I became a bit of a hypochondriac, and every little ache or cough became oh, shit. I'm gonna die.

Well, shift that to living in the UK. Over here, everyone gets free health coverage. You can see the doctor at the last minute, and if it's something serious, they'll refer you to a specialist. Simple as that. No drugs, no co-pay. Now, if you can afford to pay for private health insurance (which is the monthly equivalent of paying $60 a month) and take yourself out of the line of people who can't afford to do that, then that's a good option as well. Granted, it doesn't cover everything, but it does guarantee cheaper prices for certain treatments.

In the beginning, I was terrified of the NHS. I pictured these grimy clinics, ripped curtains, dim David Fincher-esque lighting. Okay, I'm a bit of a drama queen- but hey, I was so used to the rich, pristine walls of NYU, that I had a very pampered perception.

The doctors here are pretty amazing. I remember my first visit- I came in and asked the doctor "umm.. I have this cough I've had for a few days- should I take something for it? What do you think it is?" The doctor took one look at me, listened to my chest and said "Chicken soup, and rest. Now get out."

And he was right. No one here bullshits you. No one here throws drugs at a problem unless absolutely last-resort necessary. Have I ever used my private health insurance? Nope. Yes, the NHS have issues, just like any over-prescribed under-staffed business, but they've never failed me. I trust them.

Now, as a pregnant lady in a foreign country, I am a tiny bit nervous about things here. I guess it brings a whole new set of issues for me that I've never had to deal with before. Scans, midwife appointments, growth charts, percentages, birth plans. The list goes on. But we've found a great NHS hospital only 20 minutes away from us that so far has been amazing- the facilities are modern and comfortable, the people are really lovely, and the doctors are extremely thorough. But they've been a bit too cautious and thorough recently. I'll explain.

I've had a mild heart murmur since I was 10. So does Mamo. So does Babchya. it's our hallmark, if you will. I've never had a problem with it apart from the occasional flutter. However, as someone that will, in just under 4 months, endure the incredible physical strain of pushing a watermelon-sized human being out of my bits, the doctors recommended me to have an ultrasound and ECG of my heart, to make sure that there won't be any complications. I was against it, since I'm sure I'll be fine, but I agreed to it nonetheless. They spent 40 minutes in there with me, scanning my heart, taking measurements. Did they discuss the results with me after? Nope. They said I'll get a letter with my results in the mail.

Still, the paranoid New Yorker in me came back with a vengeance. Whaaaaat?!?!?!??? What does that mean? Did they find anything? Ohmygodohmygod.

Yeah, I'd slap me too. I was spinning. I was imagining the worst scenarios possible. I looked at the mister helplessly.

"Just take a breath", he said. He was right.

Throughout this pregnancy, I've realised there are a LOT of scales, percentages and charts that they use to monitor a pregnant woman and her baby. Are doctors always correct? No. Do babies always grow along the lines of a national average? No. Do mothers all have the same issues? Nope. So, I'm taking everything with a large kernel of salt.

To be honest, the more I think about all these charts and tests and figures, the more time I take away from focusing on this little magical wriggling fish inside me. And that's not a very rock and roll attitude to pass down to our baby, now is it?

So just keep hanging, baby. Mama will take care of the rest.

I shall wipe the chocolate off my chin and give you the survey results...

No, this news isn't exactly earth-shattering, but take it from me, everyone should have a "try a chocolate bar" day. Seriously. And in answer to your confused faces: yes, you are free to move on and read other, more educational posts than this one.

Having subjected myself to the horribly painful task of sampling cheerfully-packaged British chocolaty goodness, my decisions are as follows:

I love:

Drifters: some say they taste "stale", but they're quite amazing. Yummy wafers with a tiny amount of chewiness in the centre, all surrounded by milk chocolate.

Willie's Delectables: these chocolates are the most amazing dark chocolates I've ever had. Ever. Seriously. This guy basically put up his life savings to make "the best chocolate in the world": he went to Venezuela and Peru to research the beans, and has made all of these by hand. You can only find them in a few online UK sites, but holy christmas, they are so worth it.

Yep, that's about it. I thought I'd come back with at least 6 on my list, but to be honest, I don't like anything too sweet, too flaky, too filled with caramel and nuts... and it seems a lot of the chocolate in the UK is exactly that. I thought I'd also like Dairy Milk, but the rich, creamy chocolate is just a bit too heavy for me. And I also discovered that I don't have a raging chocolate obsession like I thought I did. However, don't get me started on strawberry Twizzlers or cherry Nerds, because I could write volumes about how much I love those things.

So, there you have it. And at 5 months in, I'm still managing to only need one item of maternity wear, which means that either I didn't have too much chocolate in my quest.. or I didn't have enough. Mmmm. Maybe I should do a survey of candy... (cue bitch-slap from the dentist).

In the name of research

I'm doing a fun little experiment on chocolate. Blame the hormones if you will, but I think this'll be a fun little test, as there are so many different types that I've never tried. And come on, can you blame me for making sure that every chocolate bar gets a little attention and love and not taken for granted by the British public? Yeah, I thought so. I rest my case.

Chocolate bars are much different over here in the UK than they are in America.

Firstly, the main difference is the taste. They're far less sweeter over here, and they usually come in normal sizes- not like the King Size bars of Snickers that are as long as your leg.

Secondly, there are SO many different varieties, and they're all extremely different, and not all filled with peanuts and nougat.

Thirdly...

Okay, I can't think of a third one, so I might as well start eating. For those of you who want to indulge vicariously, you can reference this.

I'll report back shortly. Toothless and happy.

A love letter to amazing things

Well, we got back to London in one piece (well, physically. I was in a million pieces emotionally, but more of that later).

It was, in one word: fucking brilliant. Okay, that's two words. Whatever.

We spent a couple days in New York City for our anniversary, and it was so sweet. I never realised I missed it so much until I stepped foot on the wide, grey pavement in the sunshine. After almost 2 years of having not seen it since I moved, it was really beautiful. Even the ugly bits. We also went to visit the old neighbourhood we lived in, in Long Island City, and we strolled up the street, holding hands and remembering little memories that we had there. It was, after all, the city where we lived right after we got married, so the memories were surprisingly poignant. The mister secretly booked our hotel, and though I was expecting somewhere downtown in SoHo, he booked a boutique hotel where we could see this from our balcony:

It was perfect, and I fell in love with him all over again.

We also made a manic dash to a few shops and I managed to fit in a pretty decent and still economical shopping spree (and so did the mister). A few new shirts for him, tops and a pair of maternity jeans for me (yes, I submitted finally- what a nightmare), and then we set off to drive 4 hours to see my family upstate.

I can't begin to describe what the feeling was when we got there. We were excited to see them, obviously, but there was something so poignant about all of us being together for a few days. It felt like a moment that was dripping in honey. Really slow, sweet, irresistable in its utter joy. Mamo couldn't help but touch my expanding belly want to buy clothes for little bean, and Tato was both proud of his only girl, and excited at having the mister infuse a little testosterone into the mix. And Babchya... well. Babchya just couldn't stop hugging and kissing us. It was a massive celebration of love and family and eating and relaxing and planning for the unkown future that's about to happen to all of us.

We also managed to grab a cherished few hours with two people that we've known for a while, who have three perfect little people of their own. Before I describe them, I need to say something, though.

Honestly, I don't have many girlfriends. But I've never been the kind of girl that has a gang of girls to hang out with, or that has stayed best friends with her 12-year old classmate. Not that I haven't tried, believe me. I don't know why, but I guess I have a very distinct personality that doesn't seem to fit into a certain mold. I'm a bit brash, I have a dry sense of humour, I tend to be interested in solo sports rather than group sports, I tend to be the oddball, and I don't have regular girlie weekends "away from the boys".

Now, back to those two people. One person I've known since I was 15. His wife, however, I've gotten to know over a handful of years. She and I have seen eachother grow and change from a distance, and the few times that we've all met for a drink or a house visit, has been really lovely. And especially now, when I seem to be on the timeline that she had a couple years earlier (house, new business, baby on the way), there are a lot of elements in her that I recognise in myself, and I not only admire her as a wife and mother, but I I blink in awe of her strength and vulnerability as a woman and the kind of presence that she has. She walks into a room and she just has "it", and I have no idea what "it" is, though I'm sure her husband has a pretty good idea. And so do her little ones.

Anyway, without sounding like an obsessed fan, the dinner was full of great conversation, lots of wine (well, I got to live vicariously, anyway), and most of all, pee-in-my-pants laughter. The mister and I have a very weird sense of humour and I'm kind of blunt as well, and it was deliciously equalled by these two, and we felt a really nice connection. Though I had a pang of longing for the fact that the one woman I meet that shares a similar perspective, is 4,000 miles away. Figures. Either way, I know that even if we lived 20 minutes from eachother we probably wouldn't see eachother regularly, but that's what I find really fascinating about her. It's the ability to share the same space when you're able to, or parallel paths. A connection that isn't fed by anything but pure curiosity and the willingness to tackle a challenge. I miss her, but I relish the sweetness in using a few items that she's passed on to me. It's an honour, sweetheart.

Suffice to say, it was really hard for us to leave our vacation, it all went by at lightspeed. The journey home for me was rough, much more so than ever before. We realised that we wouldn't see my family again until baby makes its debut, and that really hit me hard. I'm not negating the fact that I have my in-laws here and they're really amazing.. but I just have to say, I miss my mom. I'll miss her hugging me tightly, patting my bump and whispering to it in Ukrainian. I'll miss seeing Tato hugging the mister tightly and telling him to take good care of me. I'll miss them around throughout this process this summer. I'll miss them when it's just me and the mister and the bump, before we have a second or third child that will break the "first time" reverie. It broke my heart into bits, but I had to be strong and realise that it's all a part of why life is such an amazing and hard test. The strength that you get from this kind of love is the sweet part of the pain, and that's what I need to focus on.

Until then, Mamo... ya tebe lyublyu.

If you're reading this, you may have been tagged.

Little Laura and her bun in the belly have tagged me for a game of 8s. I don't get tagged very often, and my brain is hurting working too many graphics on a presentation so I thought I'd try it. And I'll try and not bore you to death.

Actually, I'm quite surprised at this list, because the thing that really struck me is the "8 Things I Wish I Could Do". I had a tough time filling that one out, because everything I have in my life so far is a list of things that I wished for when I was younger... so it's nice to be reminded of how content you can be, eh?



8 Things I Look Forward To:

1. Getting on a plane to NYC tomorrow

2. Celebrating our 3 year anniversary tomorrow

3. Seeing Blur at Wembley Stadium in July

4. Meeting our October dinner guest

5. Getting a long kiss from my mister at the end of my day, every day

6. The New York pizza that I will devour (there is no better pizza in the entire world)

7. Seeing my family upstate, first time since B.P. (Before Pregnancy)

8. Getting our sailboat back from Holland so we can start sailing in the summer



8 Things I Did Yesterday:
1. Got Indian takeaway for dinner. Mmmmm...

2. Started packing our suitcases

3. Went with the mister for our checkup with the midwife

4. Watched part of a movie

5. Balanced our bank accounts in the US and the UK

6. Caught up on my daily celebrity trash on http://www.dlisted.com/

7. Worked on a presentation at work

8. Made the mister's anniversary card



8 Things I Wish I Could Do:

1. Eat sushi and drink cocktails while pregnant

2. Play the guitar

3. Be consistent with excercising

4. Excel at sports

5. Have my own business

6. Not be in debt

7. Fly like a bird

8. Make time pass more slowly so I can relish moments longer



8 Shows I Watch:

1. BBC news

2. America's Next Top Model

3. Match of the Day

4. Any Tottenham Hotspur game

5. Grand Designs (oh, how I adore this show)

6. Supersize v Superskinny

7. The Dog Whisperer

8. Dragons Den



8 Bloggers Whom I Am Harrassing to Do This:

1. Cat at Zipbag of Bones

2. Janet at Three and Holding

3. Kat at Three Bedroom Bungalow

4. Elle Charlie at Sometimes a Girl Needs a Blog

5. Flutter

6. Michelle at Confessions of a Desperate Housewife

7. Ryan at Low Water Mark

8. Amanda at The Wink

Giving good head

You bunch of perverts. That's for another site.

I'm in a very strange in-between phase of pregnancy. Yes, it's a magical time and I'm very blessed to have a pretty easy ride so far.... BUT. It's not as glamorous as I thought. Here I was thinking "hey, I'll be a hot thing, skinny as a rail with a tiny bump in front of me, wearing 5 inch heels". Shyeah. Thanks, Us Weekly, for making us think that that's possible. My heels have stayed on, but the rest of me has definitely changed.

Up until about a week ago, I've been able to wear my size 25 jeans (with a hairband connecting the groaning sides of zipper together like Moses trying to keep the Red Sea together). But I gave it up and surrendered to my expanding belly and ass. The changes seem to be happening at a rate where I feel like I have a new layer of fat every morning. On the positive side, some of the fat has deposited itself straight onto my 2-cup sizes larger boobs, which almost gives these English "glamour girls" a run for their money. Niiice.

I also haven't been sleeping well, which is rare for me, since I could normally sleep through a level of noise equivalent to a jet engine. I think the insomnia is a combination of having to run to the bathroom in the middle of the night all the time and a backache like I've been in a boxing match with Tyson.

My hair and face are another story. My hair, even having had it cut a month ago, has grown out already, and has felt heavy, dull and lanky, and my face just looks tired and beaten, and quite round now, sort of like a dinner plate. Great.

I'm wondering where this supposed 2nd trimester "glow" is arriving. I sense a design flaw in this whole pregnancy thing. And it got to the point where I've found myself criticizing my looks and being really negative. But I noticed I was complaining without actually doing something about it. So I made a change. And here's where I get to the title of this piece.

I went to the salon and told him to chop off my hair. 5 inches.

And if I sound vain, I really don't give a shit, because I am languishing in the giddiness of a new hairdo. It makes me feel amazing and pampered and completely brighter. I feel like myself again, and I feel like the insides of my brain got what they were aching for. A chance to feel like "me".

So, in fact, my hairstylist gave me good head, if you will. Both externally and internally.

Do you ever want to say thank you because...

Your heart is expanding so much it's about to burst?

You're so lucky to smell fresh air and see a sunrise?

You have a day where life pats you on the back and says "you're amazing, and you do deserve all of this"?

Amazed at where you've ended up and the path you've taken?

You're lucky that even your bad days aren't really that horrible?

That you're lucky to have a good heart and hope you can give some of that to others?

You love the "I love you"s that don't need to be said, but someone tells you anyway, because they just can't help it?

Yeah. Well.

I'm giving myself license to feel like this today.

Some days I can whine, I can pick up on the negative... but more often than not lately, I've been releasing the hold I have on those things, and lounging in the bliss of just letting go. I'm letting myself delegate more. I'm learning how to relish the moments. I'm learning that life passes by way to quickly sometimes and every second is an interesting little memory.

My waist is expanding (and so are my boobs, deliciously) because we're baking a little bun. And while this is happening, my heart also seems to be expanding, as if in competition. It literally feels like it's stretching to accommodate all this love I have for my mister, for the unknown little friend arriving, for all the things that I want to say but haven't yet, for myself- for all the times I've been hard on myself, my spirit, my body. It's a different kind of love- it's a potent, innate, profound, sweetly torturous feeling that I've never had before.

I tend to keep certain things in my life private, but today I guess I want to open up and say thank you. Thank you to whomever sewed the crazy little tapestry of Me, and managed to give me enough brainpower to navigate pretty well. And to have given me a handsome partner that not only navigates with me, but keeps teaching me and astounding me in the ways he shows me he loves me every day. Out of billions of people on this planet, he and I found eachother and managed to create a new little friend, and for that, I can't say enough how deeply amazed and grateful I am.

Tell someone "thank you", just for the hell of it. See what happens.

A new view

We moved.

Well, actually, I should say, we started the process this past Friday, and are still in the process of unpacking boxes.

Granted, it's a bit of a nightmare to uproot your life and start somewhere new, but I find it perversely thrilling. And I think both of us tend to behave like gypsies: our tally is officially 5 moves in 3 years, one of them being transatlantic. Yeah, insane is an understatement.

No, I don't have sadomasochistic tendencies (though the last post might have you think otherwise), but I do enjoy lifting furniture, packing boxes, organising things in a new way, getting rid of old clothes, planning a schedule of how to do things, setting up a new adventure in a new house... it's the unknown that I love, it's the organised chaos, the challenges and the new perspectives that we as a couple really thrive on. We'll never be the kind of people that just sit back and watch things happen- we want to do stuff. We like to change our habits and vary our perspectives- sometimes to an exhaustive degree.

The mister and I work phenomenally well as a team, and this past weekend was solid proof, in a lot of ways. We worked like a pair of relay racers. We groaned, we laughed, we got annoyed, we had pizza. Frustratingly, I couldn't lift heavy objects or do a lot of the hard work with him this time around*, but the boxes and furniture that he brought over I then swiftly unpacked, squirreled away, and did all the small jobs. We worked from the same page, we spoke the same language on where we wanted things, and what we wanted from this new place. Though I'm sure I'm the only one that noticed this imperceptible click, it made me fall even more in love with the man that I met 4 years ago and the amazing relationship that we started from day 1. From the beginning we knew we fit each other impossibly well, but just couldn't put a finger on how. And now I get why people stay married for 60 years: it's the little things that you start to realise about how the relationship innately works. Even something as simple as moving house. You learn about each other a little bit at a time.

In a way, this house feels like a metaphor for change for us, for new plans, new trips, new business ventures. It sounds like we take on a lot, but I can't get enough of that gorgeous feeling at the end of the day to collapse, exhausted onto the sofa with my running partner, and know that the next day is a whole new set of challenges to get ready for.

* more info later