I hesitate to open with the line, “this is the most picturesque place I have ever blogged” as, at the moment, I am incapable of uploading pictures (A left-over from the Great Server Disaster) but I cannot fail to note that I am currently occupying a lovely spot on my parent’s deck in the late, warm evening and listening to the two ponds and one very noisy frog jiving in the backyard. With a glass of wine.

Jealous? You should be.

I’d forgotten that weather can sometimes have a palpable softness to it. The evenings here sit quietly on you with no rough edges, not wanting to ruffle you in the slightest. There’s not even the slightest breeze stirring tonight and yet it is neither humid nor stifling. Summer is definitely the best time to relocate.

However, I would like to recommend to anyone that it is best done with a partner. Especially if two children are involved.

I was prepared for Monday, the day we flew, to possibly be the worst day of my life thus far. Not only because I would be forced to say goodbye to my husband for the best part of a month and a half, but because it suddenly became clear that I was able to become a single parent of two for the same length of time.

Of course, I was also worried about the flight. Although the Prawn is prone to misbehavior in public, she has always been an oddly compliant air traveler, never showing any compulsion to run up and down the aisles, leaving a trail of strewn pillows, headphones and small bottles of bad wine in her wake. The Squid, however, was a totally unknown quantity. She is nowhere NEAR the placid baby that the Prawn was, so I could not help but approach an 8 hour stretch of time in which I had to hold her on my lap with some trepidation. (But not nearly, I think, the trepidation of my seat mate when she saw me plop the Squid’s bucket down on the seat next to her.)

The day started with seemingly ill omens of things to come. The first was the rather disastrous forgetting of the buggy, which I was counting on not only to transport the Squid, but mine AND the Squid’s AND the Prawn’s carry on bags. As it transpired, I ended up carrying two of the bags plus the Squid in her bucket through two separate airports, which was less than desirable. Secondly, the reservation for the Squid failed to go through and we ended up paying another 127 pounds that we weren’t counting on. However, the universe threw us a small scrap in the form of a minor upgrade to Economy Plus, which boasted slightly more legroom.

To make a long story short, a miracle occurred and neither child created any bother whatsoever aside from the Squid cutting off blood circulation to my left hand. She DID become vocally dismayed in the US customs line, but probably no more than anyone else stuck in the seemingly endless queue to be processed by approximately 3 officers.

This week has been an exercise in sleep deprivation and patience. Some notable nighttime shenanigans:

-The first night, the Squid had a 2 am wake up call and the Prawn woke up at 4. BOTH of them had had more sleep than me.

-The chances of the Squid waking up in the middle of the night to be fed at the exact same moment as the Prawn falling out of her brand new and much higher bed? Better than you’d think.

-The Prawn, after waking at 6 and then bothering me endlessly for juice, finally got what she wanted, gulped the whole lot down in one go and then promptly hurled on my bed. That was this morning and I felt rather like putting my head in the oven.

My mother has been a saintly presence, despite the lurghy she picked up in her four days with us prior to the move. The Prawn is her shadow from the moment she wakes up, accompanying her on her morning rounds of the garden, feeding the birds and the fish and begging constantly for more games, more books and more fun. This has taken a great deal of strain off of me while I deal with The Squid, who chose yesterday to cut her first tooth, which, as you might imagine, has caused her not to be the most pleasant little pink bundle in creation to be around. (Her cousin, Wubba, is also in the process of cutting teeth, so I can commiserate with Trumpet and BoyRacer transatlantically)

Although I feel as though I am about to collapse, I feet my outdoor sanity break, now that both girls are asleep, has done me some good. But for now, to bed, to await the trials of tomorrow.

It’s hard to believe that I’m actually here.

My mother in law once told me that she and my father in law were scheduled to attend what she described as a “Tea and Dick Party”. Having not long been married to my husband, I was wondering if perhaps I would have to re-evaluate what I believed that I knew about my in-laws. The British are certainly not alone in their penchant for perversion, but the quaintness with which they endow it often makes it seem all the more sordid. It turned out that it was a party being thrown by two friends called Theresa and Richard, which was vaguely disappointing.

At one of these parties, one of the male guests related the story of his first sexual encounter, which took place in a rather picturesque wood. Apparently, at the Moment of Truth, the gentleman in question suddenly experienced an excruciating pain in his feet which he took to be par for the course for The Nasty. It was not until several moments later that he realized that his legs were sticking out onto a public footpath and he had, in fact, been run over by a bicycle.

I always think of this story when I venture into the bluebell woods on the nearby Ashridge Estate. (Not only do I have this lovely anecdote to draw on, but during one of The Rock Star’s and my trips to the woods while dating, we encountered a couple who obviously had the same idea, making the sightseeing slightly awkward.) Luckily, when I stopped by to take in the sights last month with The Squidlette, our fellow wood-goers were more likely to be worried about the state of their sock-suspenders rather than whether or not anyone could see their bare ass rising above the flowers.

The arrival of the bluebells every year has always filled me with hope. Although I’ve spent many seasons trotting amongst the blooms in heavy sweaters, they’ve always heralded the start of warmer weather and long, light evenings. This year, the sea of blue filled me with a slight melancholy, knowing that it may be the last time I see them, for who knows when I may next be in England during bluebell season.

Although the Rock Star and I have always known that we’d someday be leaving the UK for a life in America, now that it is only weeks rather than years until we go, it’s brought little things into sharp focus. Like how much we’ll miss family and friends. How we’ll explain the dramatic life change to the Prawn. And how, in three years, we’ve gone from having precisely SQUAT to having an attic groaning under the weight of our belongings.

One of our tasks of the past weeks has been to cement both the Prawn and Squid’s claim to US citizenship which, of course, meant a trip to London to the US Embassy who’s security and imposing nature make it the ideal place for a fun day out with a toddler and newborn. (Not to mention the extremely child friendly appointment time of 9 am.) Squidlette got the morning off to a roaring start by staging a total meltdown in the car in some of worst London traffic I’ve seen since it took us 3 hours to go 2 miles once while taking my parents to visit the Tower. The “Bucket” (the word we use to refer to her carseat) was a magical device for the Prawn; pop her in and all was right with the world. It’s spell would lull her to sleep and keep her that way until she was unceremoniously removed upon our arrival at home. The Squid, however, merely tolerates The Bucket and a traffic jam on the M1 pretty much tested her tolerance to breaking point. Said meltdown required me to unbuckle my seatbelt, lean over into the backseat and try to stick a bottle into the orifice that was creating the noise, all the while enduring funny looks from slowly passing fellow motorists and a barrage of “WHATCHA DOIN MUMMY?” from the Prawn.

After arriving nearly 45 minutes late for our appointment, a fairly long spell in a hot waiting room that has apparently remained unchanged since the Eisenhower administration was enough for the Prawn’s patience to wear paper thin and on the way out she chose to become an immovable object on the subjects of a) wearing shoes b) holding hands and c) remaining vertical, necessitating The Rock Star to carry her, screeching, across several busy intersections while I crossed at pedestrian crossings with Squidlette and for a few brief moments was able to pretend like I had nothing to do with the wailing banshee across the street.

Our pain, however, was not all for naught and has yielded two small, blue books that now declare both Squid and Prawn to be US citizens, entitled to all of the rights, privileges and opportunities to buy cheaper products imported from China that goes along with it.

The Rock Star’s visa process has been substantially more complicated. While it has NOT, in fact involved a Hollywood style simultaneous questioning in two separate rooms to determine whether or not we are aware of the other’s favorite colors (after nearly 11 years and two children, we would have the least convenient marriage of convenience EVER.) it HAS entailed rather a lot of complicated paperwork and and a not insubstantial sum of cash. However, we are now down to the last hurdle of his interview which is booked for mid-July and we are at least marginally certain that it won’t involve any probing beyond those questions that the embassy official will put to him. We hope to be re-united Stateside in early August.

The reason for the girls and my early departure, (apart from the fact that packing everything up will be much simpler without a small person questioning why all of her toys are being sealed up inside a cardboard box) has a lot to do with an unpleasant dispute with our downstairs neighbor; a woman who is sadly afflicted with cancer of the personality. While I don’t wish to go into extreme detail, suffice to say, she has become only the second person my enormously mild-mannered husband has ever had a shouting match with in his life (the first being a stripper on BoyRacer’s stag do) and that existence in this apartment has become rather like living above a bridge with a troll underneath; a grossly overweight troll with a hatred for children and a propensity for revealing clothing, door slamming, sleeping til 4 in the afternoon and drinking heavily during the day.

Neither the Rock Star or I are fans of conflict, so despite the fact that we’re not in the wrong, we’re simply removing ourselves from the situation. I learned long ago that there is no “winning” against a thoroughly unreasonable personality and the only way to resolve the conflict is to walk away. Although it may give her pleasure to see us go, it is unequalled by the pleasure that I will gain in never having to see her face again in my life and the knowledge that just being her is punishment enough. The Rock Star is rather anxious for us to leave on that account as we’re fairly sure she is unaware of the fact that there’s a guitar amplifier up here that could put cracks in the foundation of the building.

It’s weird to think about going home after 11 years overseas. There are overtones of “leaving home” that I’ve not experienced since I was 18 and it occurs to me that repatriation is going to carry some of the initial challenges that I faced in 1999 when I relocated to the UK shortly before The Rock Star and I got married. Being American doesn’t automatically prepare you for life in America, especially after over a decade abroad. When I think of the naive and easily offended creature that appeared on these shores all those years ago it is hard  to believe that that same woman is returning to her country of origin a) with 7 more tattoos and two more children than she left with b) a far more cynical approach to everything and c) vaguely concerned that she might say something wildly offensive at any moment. It’s all going to be about re-learning how to fit in. (and trying to keep the word “wanker” out of my vocabulary)

I’ve thought for years about “going home”. While I still know that America is where we want to be, I realize more than ever that the UK has been just as much a home to me as the US ever was. My children were born here. Half of my family is here. THAT’S what makes a home, more than borders or nationalities.

And I will miss it deeply.

I remember writing The Prawn’s birth story some 3 years ago from a fairly bad place on the other side of a birth experience that was utterly unexpected and traumatic. Over the last few days, I’ve devoted a very small portion of my brain (the only part not occupied by washing, feeding, expressing, disciplining and, on occasion, breathing in and out.) trying to figure out how I felt about my experience this time around.

In the first place, I didn’t bother with a birth plan. While expecting the Prawn, I spent one very long evening composing a rather detailed plan for her birth which I responsibly printed out and included in the folder of notes that I took to the hospital. This piece of paper was instantly discarded and used as firelighters when it became apparent that the Prawn was having NONE of that labor shit and that she was QUITE HAPPY just where she was, thank you, necessitating the medical SAS to stage a uterine incursion to extract her. This experience taught me that that once you are caught in the current of the hospital system, it is best to behave as a very pregnant twig and follow where it leads. Knowing also that a Caesarian was on the cards this time around made it seem even more pointless to try to dictate the terms of The Squid’s arrival when I myownself wasn’t really going to have much to do with it other than turning up in an open backed hospital gown, showing my ass to the anesthetist, lying back and then marveling at the sensation of not being able to wiggle my toes.

The Rock Star and I arrived at the hospital unfortunately early due to my insistence that we were supposed to be there at quarter TO seven as opposed to quarter PAST seven, so we spent 15 rather whispery minutes sitting in an all too familiar cubical and surrounded by the all too familiar curtains with the all too familiar sights of Aylesbury and the surrounding areas. (Although this time around, I noticed that one of the buildings depicted was in the complex where I work) Of course, the catch phrase of the hospital is “hurry up and wait”, so had a fair amount of time to get reacquainted with the local sights before called down to the theatre.

Unlike my visit to the theatre with the Prawn, I walked in under my own power, getting a really quite detailed look at all of the instruments that would be being used shortly to expose my insides to daylight. Perhaps it was this fact or the fact that we’d been waiting for nearly 25 minutes in a very hot hallway, but the proceedings did NOT get off to the best start when the very talented anesthetist (to whom I felt much indebted later) put a relatively simple cannula in the back of my hand, and I pretty much nearly fainted like a big girl. My thoughts, through my rapidly diminishing field of vision, was that this was NOT a good start, considering what was to come.

During the Prawn’s birth, I did not have the luxury of a spinal block. The epidural that I had been enjoying the services of for 12 hours or so was simply topped up for the surgery. While epidurals are great for blocking out labor pains, they are not ideal for being attacked with sharp surgical implements and towards the end of the surgery, I started to get some sensation back at a rather inopportune moment, requiring me to be put under for the duration of the procedure. Because of this, it was AGES before I actually got any bonding time with the Prawn. The anesthetist was dead set that I should make it through this procedure awake and to make sure of it, gave me a fairly heavy dose of the numb stuff. So heavy, in fact, that I was not ENTIRELY sure they had begun the operation until suddenly I heard a baby crying and was informed that it was, in fact a girl. (Which both the Rock Star and I were hugely relived about as we had a) neglected to choose a name for a boy and b) had a large drawer of pink clothes waiting at home.)

Of course, because this is me. this is around the time that things started to go wrong.

The Squid was bundled up tightly and given to The Rock Star and I got a full 3 minutes or so of gazing adoringly at my new daughter’s face before it became apparent to me that all was not going completely well on the other side of the curtain, where bits of me that had never seen the light of day lay open to the elements.

First I was hot. Then very cold. Then incredibly sick. The Rock Star informed me that the anesthetist was very busy twiddling buttons behind my head, trying to keep ahead of my plunging blood pressure and the nausea that resulted from the blood pressure medication. The junior and senior registrars were called into theatre due to the fact that things were going a bit pear shaped in the uterus contracting department. Despite the fact that I was now completely numb and no longer about to pass out or throw up, I could tell that there was a fair amount of pulling, tugging and shoving going on. The Rock Star was made to clear out of the way and was standing on the other side of the theatre with The Squid looking nervous. However, I didn’t really notice any of these things as I was just so grateful to feel absolutely nothing.

Things finally DID come under control, albeit after some major bruising and blood loss and I was wheeled into the recovery room where I was able to hold the Squid. But what kind of birth experience would it be without a little MORE drama? One of the theatre nurses noticed that the Squid was making a rather demure squeaking sound which was not par for the course as far as newborns go. A consultant from pediatrics was dispatched forthwith and agreed that they’d like to have a little bit of observation time in the NICU. Of course, this is the news that NO new parent wants to hear, but as shot away as I was, I was keen for her to be looked after as well as she needed to be, so rather reluctantly surrendered her to a pair of blue scrubs and asked another midwife if, since they were taking my baby, could I please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD have a glass of water as I’d not drunk anything since the night before? I then proceeded to ignore advice to drink slowly and nearly drowned due to the fact that my diaphragm was in a spinal block induced coma and was temporarily unavailable for lung clearing activities.

It was, in fact, several hours before the Squid was returned to our be-curtained cubicle back on the ward. The Rock Star was valiantly trying to keep a full fledged pota-freak out from occurring when they finally wheeled her back in, looking rather pitiful with a My Very First Cannula sticking out of her tiny left hand. We were informed that she’d been started on a course of precautionary anti-biotics and given a chest x-ray (”Welcome to the world. ZAP!”) to make sure there was no infection lingering about. They were fairly sure she’d just gotten a snootful of fluid as many babies delivered by Caesarian do, but they wanted to be 100% sure.

Thus began again a rather traumatic time on the wards, much as I’d remembered it from the Prawn’s birth. I would simply like to re-iterate the fact that whoever thought it was an awesome idea to stick 6 post op women AND their babies in the same room for a minimum of 2 nights should be promptly found and set on fire.

One thing that had definitely changed was the speed at which the hospital was intent on getting Caesarian patients out of beds and out of their hair. With the Prawn, I remember begging every nurse and doctor that passed me if they could PLEASE GOD TAKE OUT THIS GODDAMMED CATHETER only to be told that I had to wait for someone very senior in charge to give them the go- ahead. However, this time around Operation Mobility was sincerely in force and midwives were working furiously to get those of us who had just undergone major abdominal surgery walking around again so we didn’t keep hitting the Call button every time our new offspring sneezed. Unfortunately for me, while I was able to get out of bed fairly soon, due to some unexplained internal bleeding, I was equipped with what was rather simply called “a drain”. For those not acquainted with this particular post-surgical apparatus, I shall spare you a detailed description save for the fact that it is deeply unpleasant to have to carry around a bag of fluids that are currently leaking out of you via an opening that, up until 24 hours previous, did not actually exist. And if I thought having it IN was bad, this was nothing compared to taking it OUT. This was done by a very kind midwife who was just as surprised as I was that the surgical team had left approximately half a mile of tubing in my innards which, at the end, whipped out rather suddenly, tagging what felt like every organ I owned on the way and causing me to yelp like a stuck pig. Oh, the indignity.

Unusually enough, my sister in law was in the hospital at the same time. Sometime during my second day, The Rock Star texted his brother asking whether they were upstairs yet and discovered that they were, in fact, behind a set of curtains on the other side of the room with our new niece, who has been affectionately christened “Wubba”, born less than 24 hours later than the Squid. Luckily, the midwives were on the ball and two women with identical surnames and nearly identical addresses in the same bay caused little to no consternation or pharmaceutical mishaps. Although I would not have wished a c-section on Trumpet, it was rather nice to have someone to text across the ward at 3 am when a VERY young woman was brought up with a new baby who proceeded to scream ALL NIGHT. It’s mother, not possessed with much in the way of initiative, took to tapping half heartedly on the plastic cot beside her bed rather than pressing the buzzer for the nurse who could have been of some assistance. Trumpet referred to the ward as “Guantanamo Bay for new mothers”.

Round about Friday, when I was ready to pack my bags to go home, we were dealt another blow to our morale when a pediatric doctor said that although all of the blood cultures were negative, they were awful gosh darn sorry, but they’d forgotten to have a good look at that pesky chest x-ray very closely and due to what they saw, they were keen to keep The Squid in for two more nights to complete the course of anti-biotics. Not only this, but due to a miscommunication with the NICU, the Squid’s cannula had already been removed, meaning that my 3 day old daughter would have to have a second ENORMOUS FREAKING NEEDLE inserted into her hand. Not only THAT, but THIS time, I got to be the one to hold her down while they did it, making me feel even more like Mother of the Year.

This of course, also meant two more nights in for ME. By this point, I was beyond tired; not due to the Squid, (who spent rather a lot of time sleeping) but rather to the lack of opportunity to have ANY peace and quiet for 2 nights running. I don’t mind saying that this lead to an absolute melt-down on my part- the idea of two more nights on the wards were more than I could bear. However, I was kindly offered one of the private side rooms for the duration of my stay so that I might actually be afforded half an hour here and there to catch 40  winks. So while still in the depths of despair at having to remain in hospital, the idea of a private room made it slightly more palatable.

I was feeling especially desperate due to the fact that I’d hoped to be home for the Prawn’s birthday on Sunday. In an uncharacteristic burst of foresightedness, I’d wrapped all of the Prawn’s presents before leaving for hospital, so it wasn’t much work for the Rock Star to gather them up and bring them to my little room along with the Prawn so that we could have a birthday of sorts in hospital. This was probably way more depressing for me than it was for the Prawn, who was thrilled with a bounty of Peppa Pig merchandise and a gingerbread man to munch on. While I felt terrible at making her share her birthday with me and her new sister in a clean but wholly sterile environment, she was quite happy to run around and try to find a moment when the two of us weren’t looking to press the “CPR” button on my bed control.

We were finally given the all clear to leave on Monday morning. While I had visions of being made to wait until sometime in the afternoon for the drug trolley to rumble my way, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted in the morning by an enthusiastic midwife who’d obviously been informed about the melting down earlier in the week and had made it her mission to get me out of that ward as fast as humanly possible, so by the time The Rock Star arrived at 11 for visiting hours, both the Squid and I were packed, dressed, in possession of powerful painkillers (those were for me) and ready to get the HELL out of there.

Life since the hospital has been blessedly easy in comparison to what I was actually expecting, although both the Rock Star and I are waiting for the penny to drop. As far as sibling rivalry goes, The Prawn has pretty much been acting like your garden variety 3 year old with a burr up her tailpipe, but none of her acting out has actually been DIRECTED at her new sister, who she seems to be surprisingly well disposed towards. As for the Squid, she does rather a lot of sleeping and remarkably little shouting, although she has drenched both of her parents in bodily fluids various, but since this is par for the course for newborns, we shall not hold it against her. In the hospital, I took to calling her “Spitty Frog” due to some highly comical amphibian-style faces she was wont to pull. Upon her return home, we christened ourselves “The Itty Bitty Spitty Committee“, which, let me tell you, sounds HILARIOUS coming out of the mouth of a 3 year old.

We are well, but tired. Happy, but exhausted. And we are a complete family.

Eleanor Kestrel Anne arrived at 1pm on Wednesday, March 17th- 7 lbs, 13 oz. More to come when mama and baby manage to make it out of hospital!

The fact that people can grow other people is still kind of mind boggling to me, even though I’ve now been through it twice. Especially considering all of the unbelievable weirdness your body can get up to at the BEST of times, the fact that other human beings get grown at all is pretty astonishing.

In the past few weeks, I have, unfortunately fallen victim to bodily weirdness in the form of Gestational Diabetes.

Admittedly, I should have had the test WAY earlier. But some things simply can’t be helped, so 3 weeks ago I spent a rather relaxing 2 hours sitting and reading in the antenatal waiting room after having necked a foul concoction meant to test my glucose tolerance. This waiting room is always interesting due to the rather distinct cross section of the general public that pass through it and the often colorful nature of their personalities/ odours/ language. But fortunately for me, I had my Kindle with me and spent a rather pleasant time sitting in a comfortable chair and reading without being pestered for juice by someone under 3 feet tall.

I have to admit that I’d nearly forgotten about the test when I was phoned a week later and ordered to report to the midwife who deals with diabetic patients. After the call, I was imagining weeks of needles (which I hate) administered by The Rock Star (who I trust, but would still just assume that he not have to take on the role of Mr. Stabby.) and a diet completely free of anything that might taste remotely like food.

Luckily, I discovered when I went in for my consultation with the cheerful specialist midwife that thinking on how to treat Gestational Diabetes has changed fairly significantly in the past few years. Insulin is a fairly drastic measure, and only used when diet alone or diet plus Metaformin doesn’t do any good. Thankfully, my numbers were on the low side of high, so diet alone seems to be doing the trick. Even my assumptions about what I’m allowed to eat weren’t terribly accurate; the menu is much more varied than I imagined. It’s rather like being on the Atkins diet where carbs and sweets are a big no-no. So obviously not difficult AT ALL at a time of year when supermarket shelves are CRAMMED FULL OF DAMNED CHOCOLATE EGGS.

One of several side effects that has rather put a spanner in the works is the growth of the baby, which tends to accelerate due to higher blood sugar. At the moment, the Squid is measuring EXACTLY where she should be, but sadly, GD pregnancies are never allowed to go to full term for fear of the size of the baby. However, my sugars have been just fine since adjusting my diet and there’s no indication that the Squid is turning into some kind of behemoth in there.

So, the chances of my lovely natural birth are getting more and more remote as I was informed yesterday that they’d let me go til between 38 and 39 weeks, which is just 2 and a half weeks from now, before a) a limited induction or b) another c-section. To this, I say MEH. The consulting physician, while coolly friendly, did not seem like the type that I could meekly ask, “erm….could I not just be MONITORED, please? If the baby is the right size? To, you know, AVOID MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY?” I have yet another appointment next week where my fate shall be well and truly decided, so perhaps by then, I can pluck up my courage to at least ask the question.

But, my guess is in that 2 and a half weeks, the Squid will be sprung from the joint one way or another.

Round 2, about to commence.

Not being able to vote since my arrival in Great Britain 10 years ago has always been a bit of a burr in my metaphorical gusset. Raised in the “Rock the Vote” generation in the US, not being able to have a say in who my elected officials are has made me uncomfortable despite my extreme apathy toward British politics where every party seems to have the same policies while at the same time accusing the ruling party of hypocrisy/ criminal activity/ sexual deviance/ etc. In any system where you are paying a very large amount of seemingly never-ending taxes, it’s annoying not to be able to pick who’s taxing you. (Up until the last year or so, citizenship was not even an option as the US frowns upon it’s citizens hitching their wagons to the fortunes of Johnny Foreigner even if we DO have a “special relationship”.)

A few years ago, I mentioned our day out at Westminster Palace care of our MP, Mr. John Bercow, who has since recently been elected as Speaker of the House of Commons. In other words, he’s the guy in the black robe in the middle of the room who a) recognizes MP’s during sessions of Parliament when they want to speak and b) tells them to knock it off when the proceedings reach a “your momma” state of debate.

As it happens, we’ve met The Right Honourable Speaker on three separate occasions. I was not present for the first instance when he was first campaigning, showed up at the Rock Star’s family home and immediately needed to use the toilet. For like, half an hour. After his marathon comfort break, he spent a fair amount of time connecting with the Rock Star’s family, asking about their business, governmental concerns, etc. So in depth did his interest appear to be that it lead my mother in law to wonder aloud, “He’s a slick bugger. I wonder what he’s up to?”

The second meeting was during a sponsored tour of Westminster Palace several years later, when, to our surprise, he remembered exactly who The Rock Star’s family was, where they lived and what they did. (Possibly due to latent gratitude from being allowed to spend half an hour in their crapper.) His star had risen a bit in Parliament by then and you’d occasionally see his name crop up in newspapers having to do with various votes and committees. Again, my mother in law mused that he was a politician who probably had lofty aspirations and was curious to know what he was working towards.

Before visiting a session of the Commons a few years after THAT, I decided to have a quick look at what John Bercow, MP was really all about and after a bit of internet searching, found the Parliamentary voting records. Although a member of the Tory Party, Bercow almost consistently voted with the Labour government throughout his stint as Buckinghamshire’s Member of Parliament. (This is why you need to check up on your elected officials, folks! Just because you vote in a member of one party or another, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to get the policies that you’d expect. While, as a liberal, /I/ certainly have no trouble with his voting record, I can imagine that a staunch Tory supporter might get their conservative hackles up a bit) We enjoyed a rather nice afternoon tea with him in the beautiful Pugin Tearoom at Westminister Palace afterwards and were both stuck at his personability as well as his uncanny ability to answer a question in a way that 5 minutes later, you suddenly went, “Holy hell. He didn’t answer my question at all. How did I MISS that?” In other words, the perfect politician. So, when he was finally elected speaker, it didn’t come as a huge surprise. My mother in law proved to be right. He WAS working towards something.

Just the other day, the Rock Star (as the only voter in the house) received a letter that informed us that due to some strange Parlimentary jiggery pokery, because our MP is in fact the Speaker and at General Elections, the Speaker’s seat remains unchallenged, voters of Buckinghamshire would not be given a vote. In an American analogy, this would be like residents of the State of California being denied the opportunity to vote in a Presidential election due to the fact that Nancy Pelosi is the Speaker of Senate. (Of course, Buckinghamshire is far less populated, less prone to earthquakes and has a FAR lower paparazzi to resident ratio.)

Although the politics of Great Britain don’t really warrant much attention on the other side of the pond, I think perhaps a little bit of the MP Expense scandal might have made the papers. (i.e. Members of Parliament using an astonishing amount of taxpayer cash for important and critical things like REALLY NICE NEW WALLPAPER for their offices.) Unfortunately, Mr. Bercow was not immune to this and in a “gosh, isn’t my face red!” kind of moment, was revealed to have spent £45,000 pounds of other people’s money on refurbishing his London grace-and-favor flat. Not to mention £13,000 for 3 months “entertainment” expenses. (Apparently, politicians have a different definition of “fun” than the res of us. Me, I would be happy with a bargain bucket from KFC, but I suppose if you’re inviting London nobs to tea, something a little more upmarket is required.) Needless to say this brand of political fuckery didn’t sit particularly well with his constituency here in Buckinghamshire and they would rather relish the chance to oust him, but due to a fun procedural loophole, not only do voters not get to do THAT, but they are also robbed of the chance to have a say in selection of this country’s next government.

Lucky for me that I’m taxed without representation anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah?” I said.

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

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

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

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

There are several things wrong with this.

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

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

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

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

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

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

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

So we have a franking machine in the office.

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

A small example:

Frank: PLEASE PRINT TEST FORM.

Me: Oh ffs. *prints test form*

Frank: INSPECTION DUE- REFILL REQUIRED.

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

Frank: OH YEAH.

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

Frank: YOU GOT IT.

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

Frank: TRY PRINTING ANOTHER TEST FORM.

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

Frank: INSPECTION DUE- REFILL REQUIRED.

Me: What the HELL, Frank?

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

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

Frank: A HA HA HA EXSQUEEZE ME?

Frank’s days are sincerely numbered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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