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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

She.

Is.

Two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes narrowed to little slits of glowing malevolence.

“WHO TOLD YOU THAT?” she bellowed.

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not sure who behaved the worst yesterday.

Yes, this is my child.

The Rock Star is, at present, participating in the annual Pepper Show which he’s been involved with for a number of years. Every night for some time now, after we get home, The Rock Star kisses the Prawn goodnight and tells her that “daddy is going to play guitar”, so I thought it was probably time she got to SEE him do it. Last night was the final dress rehearsal, so Prawn and I went along.

A two year old has about as much ability to sit still as a giraffe has to be inconspicuous, so my hopes for staying were not high. However, I was to be astonished.

The Prawn was enthralled. Enraptured. Utterly attentive. Completely and totally thrilled. AND HAPPY TO STAY IN HER SEAT FOR 45 MINUTES WITHOUT THE ASSISTANCE OF SESAME STREET.

She jigged. She bounced. She clapped and waved her arms. She shouted “YAY! ANOTHER ONE!” after every number. I cannot even begin to tell you how thrilled I was that she enjoyed herself so very much. My kid already likes live music! And she’s only two!

I must admit to being filled with heady thoughts of summer festivals in the future, my little headbanger dancing like a wild monkey.

Pig Flu didn’t get me. But I have tumbled headlong into the disorienting embrace of jetlag.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to experience my homeland in the summer time. Over the last few years, our American sojourns have occurred during the festive period (either Thanksgiving or Christmas) and while I love the woods where I grew up, there is something tremendously melancholy about loads of bare trees waving their naked braches in the cold. In addition, if I want to freeze my ass off, I’ll just go outside in the UK around mid June.

I had completely forgotten how summer utterly transforms the area. My parent’s yard looked more akin to Eden than Frederick County when we pulled in the driveway on the way home from the airport. It was a veritable wonderland of big, blowsy blooms and green as far as the eye could see. The Prawn has eyes only for Grams and Pop Pop in the moments after we arrived, but I could hardly stop gaping at the yard and drinking in the summer smell that we are so sadly lacking where we reside.

I should reverse gear and mention that our trip over was once again very smooth, despite the presence of a toddler. We are fortunate in that we have a rabid Sesame Street addict on our hands and with this currency, we can buy any amount of good behaviour. Even nearly 8 hours worth. Yes. I know. Very bad parents, but very happy ones. However, this experiment led us to discover that an iPhone has a pretty astonishing battery capacity if you don’t mind watching videos in 4’ x 2’. To make extra sure of no gaps in our Sesame Street delivery system, we had videos on BOTH of our iPhones AND both of our laptops. With the Prawn safely anesthetised, I was free to watch the goggle box as well in the form of “Benjamin Button”, (note to self: DO NOT WATCH OVERLY EMOTIONAL MOVIES IN PUBLIC PLACES. The stewardess that came around with orange juice midway through the flight asked me if there was anything she could do for me. Doofus.) “Anchorman” and an episode of “Flight of the Concords” (which, by the way, is simultaneously funny and deeply unfunny at the same time.).

We were lucky to get mostly fabulous weather for our visit. Of course, the time change wrecked havoc on the Prawn and the first morning, the Rock Star found himself blearily blinking at her in the kitchen at 4 am. This was also the setting for one of her best quotes of the trip. The Rock Star had just turned on the coffee maker, which began making it’s burbling noises, startling the Prawn.

After just about jumping out of her skin, she declared. “Okay. Not scary. Just man having a wee.”

First of all…I HAVE A CHILD WHO NOT ONLY RECOGNIZES THE SOUND OF SOMEONE HAVING A WEE, BUT CAN TELL ME ABOUT IT. Secondly, I think perhaps that we need to have a chat with Boy Racer about leaving the bathroom door ajar when he uses the toilet in our flat.

The Rock Star and I took a little grown-up excursion to the beach during the second week of our visit. We wondered how the Prawn would take being abandoned with her grandparents for two days, but truth to be told, we ended up missing her far more than she did us. Oh, those two other people that are usually around? What were they called? This was pretty much the Prawn’s reaction to our absence.

I’ve not been to Ocean City since Senior Week way back in the mists of time when I graduated from high school. (During this visit, Virginia and I found a truly depressing photo of us taken during that week and wondered WHY IN THE HELL we weren’t wearing itty bitty bikinis when we both had the bodies for it.) My memories from those three days aren’t very clear. This isn’t due to alcohol consumption (I was in a slightly sanctimonious phase at the time, apparently) but rather just because I’m old. Virginia reminded me that aside from the reading on the beach and eating junk food, she and I and our third compatriot in mischief spent an evening building a giant sand penis. (Maybe not quite so sanctimonious.)

The Rock Star and I refrained from any sand sculpture during our visit. Sadly, we got the worst weather of the week for our visit and spent most of our one full day at the shore either indoors (we went to see “Star Trek” in a cinema who’s heyday was probably in the mid 50’s, but enjoyed the film, nonetheless.) or walking the boardwalk in sweatshirts. Luckily, the day we arrived was fairly warm and clear, so we indulged in lunch and drinks at Hammerjacks. (I fully indulged my margarita cravings on this holiday since bartenders on this side of the Atlantic seem to be thoroughly incapable of making one that doesn’t taste like grass clippings.) Of course, we also got caught in the mandatory, mid-afternoon downpour. By the time we decided maybe we ought to take shelter, we were already soaked through and trudged the 20 blocks back to our hotel, squishing merrily as we went. (this rainstorm necessitated the purchase of new shoes on the Rock Star’s part as his took nearly 4 days to dry completely.) In the absence of decent weather to sit and read on the beach, we mostly just wandered about aimlessly, (a pursuit that’s curiously satisfying after you have children) ate utter rubbish and discovered a hideous dead puffer fish in the middle of the night by way of my almost stepping on it.

Our encounters with the natural world were not restricted to our journey to the beach. The Rock Star left his shoes on the front porch and when he brought them inside to put on again, he neglected to do what every child raised in the forest is taught to do if your footwear has been outside for any length of time without you; turn them upside down. This resulted in a rather girly scream and a swear in front of the Prawn when the bottom of his foot came into contact with a VERY large toad who then disappeared under the couch, prompting all of the adults in the room to go a little crazy, much to the delight of the child, who spent the chase laughing like a loon. (I was having a shower at the time, however, I could hear the commotion.)

Several days later, we made the unsavoury discovery that the baby birds in a nest on my parents front porch had become cocktail snacks for very small snake. My mother demanded that the offender was removed from the scene of the crime, much to the chagrin of my father, who’s dislike of snakes is well documented. (So much does he dislike them, when he DOES manage to capture one, he’ll put it in a sealed bucket and drive it almost 10 minutes away before releasing it. Therefore, a family phrase, “being driven to Libertytown” has been coined to mean getting something distasteful as far away from you as possible.) The Rock Star, ever game for new experiences, offered to wrangle the serpent, armed only with a bunny shaped oven mitt. Being deemed too small to be deserving of a roadtrip, the offending reptile was released in the woods. However, only hours later, my father nearly stepped on what can only be described a “much larger” identical snake who was obviously coming to protest the treatment of his offspring at the hands of a long-haired, oven mitted buffoon.

Of course, no trip would be complete without some good times luxuriating in the company of family and friends. We got to spend some good times with Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler as well as a quick visit with another high school chum, my parents neighbors (who I’ve known since I was 7) and cousins various. The Prawn heartily enjoyed playing with all of the children of said individuals. Virginia’s Boy became “ MY BOY” to the Prawn, which registered quite high on the cute scale. She also enjoyed frolicking with her first cousins-once-removed in their paddling pool. It’s always satisfying to see your offspring getting on nicely with other people and not having to worry about uttering phrases like, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU: NO BITING!” At least not yet.

Our flight back was an unusual one. As we took off, we were keenly aware that the next time we landed on American soil, it would be as immigrants. (Well, two immigrants and one citizen) Although we’ve always known that we were going to migrate back to the States, we’ve now decided that 2010 is the year of the big move. We spent some time on our visit pootling around local communities that we’d like, which was equally exciting and daunting, as there is so much that we need to get done over here first. However, as they turned the lights down in the cabin, we were just pleased to think about the prospect. We were also pleased that the Prawn decided to sleep for nearly the entire flight. (As did I, miracle of miracles)

So we now find ourselves back home in our little flat, having to deal with day to day issues like that strong mildew smell that seems to be coming from the sink, but can’t be beaten by drain cleaner, the creeping damp in the bedroom and the small mountain of laundry piling up in the hamper.

Cest le vie. Back to the routine.

Wednesdays are the Rock Star’s day at home with the Prawn. The Prawn is most definitely a daddy’s girl, right down to the bone, but she sometimes knows when to stick up for me.

Prawn:  “Daddy has a big mouth!”

The Rock Star: “Well that’s not very nice is it? How would you like it if I said you had a big bum?”

Prawn: “BIG BUM!”

The Rock Star: “Does Prawn have a big bum?”

*Prawn sticks bum up in the air*

Prawn:  “YES!”

The Rock Star: “I see.  Does daddy have a big bum?”

Prawn: “YES! Daddy big bum!”

The Rock Star:  “Right. What about mummy? Does mummy have a big bum?”

Prawn: ” uhhhhhhhhh … ”

Prawn: ” ummm … NOPE. Mummy SMALL bum”

My child is only 2 and knows when to tell the right kind of lie.

You caught me. I’m going to cop out and post some baby pictures.

…have been greatly exaggerated.

I don’t know how it’s gotten to February without my managing to blog ONCE, especially regarding our extended Christmas holiday but there is something to be said for a return to routine after a long absence of it. Day and night don’t blur together so much. You don’t still find yourself in pajamas at 5 in the evening. (Although, to be fair, even on routine days with a toddler, one can find oneself in that situation.) And the small creature that lives with you no longer wakes up at 3 am ready for the day and wanting to play with the noisiest toy that she owns.

However, it IS hard to come back from almost a month on holiday that included fantastic times with family, much homecooked goodness, 24 hour babysitting services and lots of leisurely afternoons in a bookstore coffee shop, staring off into space.

Since I observed two years ago that America is “bigger with more stuff”, I shall once again try to hit all the major bullet points of our adventure without sending all concerned to the land of nod.

Prawns in Flight

Yeah, yeah. We’re that family that you dread when you see us coming down the aisle and whisper a silent and fervent prayer to the travel gods that we aren’t seated directly behind you because we have A TODDLER. I know, because I used to whisper the same prayer, to little effect because the travel gods are fickle and I had not pleased them with offerings of tiny packets of Worcestershire sauce flavoured pretzels beforehand. But listen up, travel bitches, don’t you give me that look, because MY KID ROCKS.

This is the third time the Prawn has been on an airplane, although only the second time she’s been subjected to a long haul flight. Her first transatlantic run went off magnificently; as a 9 month old, she sat quietly in her seat, playing with toys and waving at people for the whole 7.5 hours. (She was the only child on the entire plane and all of the stewards melted into warm, sticky piles of goo on the floor every time they passed us by.) On the way back, she fell asleep at the gate and didn’t wake up until we landed at Heathrow the next morning.

This time, we were expecting the worst seeing as how she is physically incapable of sitting still for more than 10 seconds at a time. However, we got perhaps the best seats on the plane for those travelling with a toddler; a 3 seat bulkhead row. The Prawn seemed quite happy to play in her seat or on the floor and only briefly showed any signs of wanting to go wandering beyond the confines of my leg, which was strategically placed to prevent escape. However, by the time we’d reached security at Dulles, she’d obviously had enough and became simultaneously grumpy and boneless. We were hugely relieved to be reunited with our stroller so that we could restrain the tired and angry beast until such time as a grandparent could be located.

Our way home was slightly more fraught was peril. Having been spoiled by the intensely good organization of Terminal 5 on our departure, we were even more blindsided by the excruciatingly bad service at Dulles.

“I can’t afford any more delays and you’re one of those fish that causes delays. There’s a whole group of fish. They’re delay fish.”

When you spend as much time in airports as I have over the past 10 years, you tend to start to recognize the delay fish. In our case, it was a family of 16 West African travelers who obviously weren’t aware that to travel you require:

-a passport

-a ticket

-less than 28 pieces of luggage weighing under 100kg per passenger.

This unholy rabble spent no less than AN HOUR at the ticket counter, monopolizing all available personnel, who all looked as if they wished that they’d gone ahead and just taken that job at the bank like their mothers wanted them to in the first place. Thank the stars in heaven that my father elected to remain with us to act as Prawn Wrangler until we’d finished checking in, or we all would have had a much more miserable time. He spent nearly 2 hours traipsing up and down the terminal with the tired Beast, making up songs, spelling out words, looking for numbers and trying to convince her that not EVERY person that she saw who possessed a slightly darkened skin tone was “OBAMA!” as she gleefully shouted.

Once we finally REACHED the counter, we discovered that we’d actually been split up, at which point, the top of my head fell off of its hinges, spewing unearthly purple light into the startled face of the already harassed check in desk jockey. Luckily for me, The Rock Star started speaking before I could and politely requested that we be seated together due to the fact that a) we’d both like to get some sleep and b) The Prawn would be the one sitting in the single seat beside some unsuspecting passenger, so unless they wanted THAT on their conscience, they’d best find three seats together.

Upon boarding the plane, (after the most incompetent safety staff on the planet ran me and a pantsless toddler through the metal detector a total of three times) I was of a mind to return to the gate, FIND the ticket desk jockey and lick him profusely due to the fact that we had, in fact been upgraded to World Traveler Plus, featuring bigger seats that recline further have leg rests, which the Rock Star just about wept over. (Being 6’2”, he always endures a leg cramping flight.)

Jocks

Strangely enough, the Rock Star and I met because of professional football. In my first few days at Cheltenham, I noticed him walking the hallways in a Washington Redskins jacket. Having a bit of a thing for ponytail boys, I made a point of stopping him and telling him that the Redskins were my hometown team. He smiled politely and skedaddled. It took me leaping on him after a night on the town for him to get that I was interested.

Since our plans to visit the Big Apple were scuppered by LUDICROUS prices, we wanted to find some fun things to do while on holiday. The Rock Star has ALWAYS wanted to go to a major league football game, so when he found that the Redskins were playing the Eagles the first Saturday of our visit, he snapped up a pair of tickets. (He DID consult me first, I must add, although I do seem to remember a fairly long and drawn out “PLLLLLLEEEEEEEEESE?”)

I like watching football on tv if I have some interest in either team. However, watching football in the comfort of my own living room and being asked to sit in the stands in December are two very different animals, so it was with some trepidation that I set off with him on a chilly, but thankfully sunny Sunday afternoon.

FedEx Field (don’t even get me started about stadiums being named after companies. It makes me throw up a little.) is a VAST sporting complex; probably even big enough to affect the weather around it. During my time served in the Baltimore Colts Marching Band, I once played half-time at a pre-season Steelers game at Three Rivers Stadium, which, even though it was a bit overwhelming, is probably nowhere as big as FedEx Field. (Plus, although they won the Superbowl, the Steelers are on my shit list at the moment anyhow for knocking the Ravens out of the playoffs, so, HEY, PITTSBURGH! YOU’VE GOT A TINY STADIUM! SO THERE!)

The Rock Star and I had seats in the 3rd tier, which, despite the height, afforded a very good view of the field. Our seat neighbors were two incredibly intoxicated gentlemen and their rather embarrassed female friend. (Apparently, when one owns season tickets, it does not behoove one to bring loud, drunk, asshat friends along for fear of complaints which can result in the loss of said tickets) While they began with a tirade of rather more abusive language than is required at sporting event that wasn’t taking place in someone’s basement involving fighting poultry, they were soon admonished by one of the completely righteous stadium monitors and lapsed into less offensive choruses of anti-Eagles propaganda. (“You boys can’t be cussing up here! There’s ladies present!”)

The atmosphere went a long way to diminish the effects of the absolutely biting cold. Aside from our completely wankered neighbors, everyone seemed to be in good spirits including a very large African American gentleman who seemed to appear from nowhere every time the Skins scored a goal shouting, “WHO GONNA KICK THAT ASS? WE GONNA KICK THAT ASS! WE KICK THAT ASS!” and so forth. Despite the fabulously inflated prices for the beer, hotdogs and sweatshirt that was necessary to keep the brisk wind off of my legs, we both had a really good time. (It didn’t hurt that the Skins won.)

The Rock Star couldn’t wipe the smile off his face all evening.

Considering that we’re not really SPORT people, it’s a bit surprising that our two major outings over the holidays were BOTH to sporting events. Toward the end of our visit, we made our second ever trip to the Verizon (AAAARGH!) Centre for a bit of what the Rock Star calls “puckfoolery”.

Hockey, unlike football is a game that I’m totally disinterested in watching on television, because more than half the fun of hockey is the coliseum style atmosphere surrounding the game. Hockey appeals to the common denominator. There aren’t many fancy rules; you either score a goal or you don’t. And unlike real life, you’re completely allowed to give someone a vicious beating with the end result being a two minute time out, which is less than you’d get for drawing on your living room wall. (This is, of course if you are able to keep the laws of physics from preventing you landing a decent punch without falling flat on your face.)

Accompanying us to the match were my old high school buddies Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler. Virginia attended our first Capitals match with us back in the early noughties and due to her contribution to the ambiance of the evening then, (“STOP PLAYING LIKE PUSSIES!”) we thought it was only right that she come with us again. The Phantom Scribbler had NEVER been to a hockey game, and as he is known for his acerbic and dry wit, we believed that experiencing a match might be a good laugh for him.

Our seats were LITERALLY in the last row of the top tier, so clutching our 8 dollar beers, we made our way skywards to watch the action. And action there was. I’ll pleased to say that we were treated to two rounds of icy fisticuffs in between play, which were encouraged heartily by the crowd. The second bout saw the loser literally stripped of his shirt somehow and both contestants sent to penalty boxes various. The game, as far as I can tell, was fairly typical in it’s pace and level of violence as well as the completely chock a block crowd as the game let out. After seeing the throngs in Metro Centre, we decided on a little beverage to kill some time before the subway wasn’t Tokyo-rammed any longer. Sadly, most pubs and bars in the vicinity were almost as rammed as the subway with the exception of one: Hooters.

Yes. We went to Hooters. My verdict? They have awesome wings.

Frozen Fish

Having grown up in close proximity to both Baltimore and Washington, I spent a fair amount of my youth being shuttled between different educational establishments under the auspices of these outings being “field trips”. What they actually were was a contest to see who got chaperones cool enough to let us eat at McDonalds when it was all over. But I digress.

The National Aquarium in Baltimore has always been one of my favorite places, even when I was young and forced to read all of the information that, as a 7 year old, I couldn’t care less about, because as a kid, all you really know is that there’s some seriously gnarly stuff that lives in the sea and it’s cool to get to look at it without the possibility of it eating/stinging/impaling you. Naturally, I was eager to take the Prawn because I believed that she would feel the same way even though her comprehension pretty much only extends to “FISHY!”

Omen number 1 was the fact that the Prawn got up at an ungodly hour. Omen number 2 was that she didn’t sleep in the car. Omens usually come in threes, so I wasn’t particularly surprised when we arrived at the aquarium to discover that buggies were not allowed in the building. So we were left with the walking dead toddler who began to show her colors round about the time we first glimpsed the manta ray tank. (The manta ray tank is the very first thing you encounter.)

I personally can spend hours gazing into the tanks and marvelling at the complexity of sealife, but it’s amazing how much marveling you can get done in a short space of time when a seemingly 200 pound boneless toddler is kicking you and shouting for milk, juice, raisins and the other 16 things that she already got through 2 hours ago. Despite the extreme crankitude displayed by the Prawn, she did enjoy conversing with the “peekaboo fish” (a small, wormlike fish that kept disappearing down a hole and then popping out periodically to say “WAZZUUUUP?”) as well as birdwatching in the tropical rainforest and dolphin spotting at the dolphin show.

Being one of the coldest days of the year that day combined with the fact that we were by the harbor made being outside an excruciating experience (The Rock Star was the only one to brave the cold for any extended period of time- he took some lovely photos) and we all agreed that the Prawn was certainly the luckiest of all of us, bundled up in her stroller under several dozen layers.

The Unholy Army of the Night

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love me some cats. I dream of having kittehs of our own one day once we own a house big enough to accommodate them. But I think 2 is kind of a natural number for cats; enough to keep eachother company and more space to skulk when they’d rather be alone. My parents (qualification: my mother) has always been a sucker for strays. She has hardened significantly over the years since the space under their deck has, for some reason, become the most popular feral labour and delivery ward in the immediate area. Mom and dad are constantly trying to coax entire families of felines out from under that damn deck with the help of food and traps left by the local no-kill shelter. A few of these little fuzzballs have really gotten under my parent’s skin, and at present, there are now 4 cats who currently call their house home.

Vandella is the matriarch of the group. She showed up around our wedding and was subsequently named for the rose that made up my bouquet. Brother and sister Crackers and Parsnip came next and the most recent addition is Broadband, or BB, for short. (So named because of her girth.) These four creatures are completely unavoidable no matter WHERE your location in the house. You are much more LIKELY to encounter them (usually all at once) if you sit down with a bowl of cereal, at which point four noses will simultaneously appear in the middle of your Wheaties.

I was actually not counting on seeing much of the felines during our visit due to the noisiness of the Prawn. However, after several days, they learned that she was not exactly DANGEROUS and went back to their normal habits, albeit sleeping with one eye open. Vandella was most tolerant of Wren’s attentions, which consisted mainly of rather heavy handed petting, although, amazingly, she also tolerated being layed upon for the best part of 5 minutes. Truly, a queen among cats.

The Holiday

Oh yeah, the whole reason we were there. It was truly a season of merriment, filled with good food, good wine and good friends and family. I got to catch up with old friends. (Even abcgirl and Mr. abc swung by in the course of their holiday visitations. abcgirl and I then went on to have a serious crafty evening while the guys kind of stared at one another.) The Prawn got to spend a whole month in the bosom of her doting grandparents as well as visiting family that she’d only met before as an infant. (Most memorable, her cousin Alberto being christened “Potato” and my cousin Marge, who became “Humpty Dumpty” for some strange reason.) The Rock Star and I got to do some relaxing and catching up. A hugely good time was had by one and all.

This has been the post that has held up other posts that I have had in mind, so it is my hope that the festive log jam is now cleared, paving the way for more potablogs in the near future!