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.

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she’d gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an “I don’t want to go to bed” type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn’t be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn’s arrival. This is a decision that I don’t really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn’t cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it’s the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn’t going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant’s appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, “HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE….if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?”

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it’s finger on the little buzzer.

“Erm….really? It’s not that big a deal. A little…um…ignorant, but probably not worth getting…erm…too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?”

“WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I’LL ASK FOR IT!” roared Rage.

“Yep, yep, okay, that’s fine…” Self Control conceded.

 “GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!”

“Yep, that’s cool, I’m going….”

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I’m OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn’t last long and we’d be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who’d come in for an early emergency scan who’s mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all “just shove it.” and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief  that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, “I’m off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!” (I’m terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn’t know from appropriate anymore. I’m listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let’s just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it’s in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my “birth story”, I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn’t have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON’T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what’s best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. “However low the bar is, don’t worry, WE’LL SET IT LOWER!”

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn’t really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section  I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin’s autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I’m going through that again, I could do with whatever you’re smoking.

What she responded with: “I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don’t like to do Caeserians for  purely social reasons.”

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door “Shining” style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

“EXCUSE ME, LADY?” Rage screamed through the now splintered door. “WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?” Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We’ve been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I’m not 24. I’m 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I’m done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: “Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don’t want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control.”

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

“I’M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I’VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN’T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!”

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn’s birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it’s in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital’s “Afterthought” service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to “talk to someone” in order to “process previous birth issues”. The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can’t have another one because you don’t have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven’t grasped what “never having any more kids” means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that’s your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

When we bought our flat nearly 3 years ago, we were kind of in a hurry.

Carrying the Prawn, I was roughly the size of a military grade pontoon and no longer able to squeeze into the minuscule shower aboard Galileo without seriously soaking the whole of the 3ft x 3ft bathroom. We’d lost a previous flat that we’d been two weeks away from moving into, but in a stroke of incredible good fortune, on the same day, we found our flat (which was better in every conceivable way) and told the owners we’d give them the asking price if they’d pretty please take it off the market that very day. It looked as good to us on the day we’d viewed it as a tall drink of water after coming out of the desert.

Over the course of three years, however, we’ve discovered some of our flat’s many little “quirks”, (a cooker with no markings on it whatsoever, for starters, which I STILL don’t totally know how to use)  although a good deal of them seem to have their metaphorical Ground Zero in our bathroom.

For starters the shower is directly in front of a window to the outside, which, although frosted, does absolutely squat in the way of protecting your delicate wobbly bits from being viewed from the green across the street. After walking by the house in the dark at the same time I was taking a shower, The Rock Star came in looking concerned.  “We need a curtain for that window.” he said. “Like, tomorrow.” (If nakedness in the bathroom during the DAY weren’t bad enough, apparently the effect was particularly stunning at night.) So, strike one to Captain Bathroom Logistics.

Secondly, the Rock Star has been waging war against the toilet pretty much since we moved in. Before it’s unceremonious removal yesterday, he was always quite proud to show anyone who was interested how he rigged the cistern against it’s constant running with the help of tweezers and a Domestos bottle. Not only that, but it’s seat, which, at one time, probably functioned as a toilet seat is intended to function, had developed a habit of slamming shut on male houseguests in “mid flow”, causing no end of penile hilarity. The Rock Star would struggle to remember to remind those of his gender that our loo seat did not permit them to Pee As Men Do. (When I told this to my father, he remarked that Peeing As Men Do can be overrated. While I can understand this, any woman who’s ever been camping might tend to disagree.)

Another strike against the toilet is the fact that when it was installed, to cover the pipes leading from the sink and to the shower on the same wall, the builders ingeniously built a tile box around them…without any means of getting into said box or to said pipes ever again without going on a tile smashing safari. The self same installation genius decided to deliver the inconvenience coup de gras by permanently fixing the toilet cistern lid to the wall with sealant because, you know, WHO EVER NEEDS TO GET INTO A TOILET CISTERN ANYHOW? I can almost hear the bottle of Domestos laughing from beyond the grave.

Luckily, we know some builders.

I can’t say that the color scheme in the bathroom has ever particularly appealed to us, but since it is actually tiled from floor to ceiling, we figured it’s probably just easier to live with a rather traditional and old fashioned blue and white color scheme rather than pay someone a great deal of money to make a VERY large mess indeed. If we were staying for any length of time, we’d probably shell out to have someone totally gut the room and build it again in a way that made sense, but since our days in the flat are numbered, we decided on a little cosmetic touch up in the form of a tiled floor, a new toilet, some paint and new but cheap fittings to at least give us the illusion of a well thought out room.

Those Who Went Before Us thoughtfully left a large pile of tiles behind in our very small, decrepit shed where they have been gathering dust since the bathroom’s inception. The Rock Star and I have always been under the impression that they were blue tiles, which go up the walls to about shoulder height and also comprised the outer coating of the Useless Pipe Box. We believed this because the tile on the top of the seemingly sealed pack was blue. But of course, after our friend and bathroom refurbishment operative smashed apart said box, The Rock Star trotted down to the shed to retrieve said tiles only to discover that there were, in fact, only 4 blue tiles. If we’d been after the crazy ass tiles that festoon the walls of our kitchen (which are another sad story altogether) we’d have been in luck, because there are quite a few of those. However, the blue tiles were sadly absent, requiring a quick reappraisal of What Would Look Weird . At my lowest point, I imagined our Friendly Bathroom Operative having to remove ALL blue tiles from the wall, creating aforementioned mess and more expense. Thankfully, Friendly Bathroom Operative had a better plan, which sounded much better than MY plan and is implementing it as we speak.

Next stop: the kitchen. *shudder*

UPDATE: We’ve just been informed by the builders that they’ve had a run-in with Twitchers plural; mother and daughter, complaining that they were “making too much noise”. By doing bathroom renovation. In the middle of the day. (Mrs. Twitcher, as you might remember, does not even live in our building.) It is my sincere hope that we are not approached this evening in any way shape or form by either of these psychotic harpies because the last vestige of my “nod and smile” filter is well and truly GONE and we may spend the rest of our time in the flat at war with both of them.

Or perhaps I’ll just let the Rock Star answer the door.

YET ANOTHER UPDATE: No word from Twitchers, thankfully for all concerned. In a bathroom related note, our Friendly Bathroom Operatives have done a fantastic job in restoring the Wall of Weirdness with the new floor tiles and making our bathroom look less like one you might find in a student house with five 19 year old girls living in it.

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.