Kittens and Butterflies and Breastfeeding

You might be forgiven for thinking after that last post that having a baby was all kittens and butterflies. Um, it wasn't.

And so to the tough aftermath I alluded to. Man, having a baby is hard. It demanded a total readjustment of the way I thought. It reminded me of doing the Coast to Coast (well, a bit of it) last summer and having to have a word with myself about the fact that all I had to do every day was walk. That was it. After a busy summer term at work my mind struggled with that comedown from firing on all cylinders (IB MADNESS! BOOK WEEK! SCHOOL MAGAZINE!)' to 'Oooo....pretty mountain...and another...and another...' And in those crazy early days after five weeks of babyless maternity leave, I needed to have a similar mental pep talk with myself, i.e. "ALL YOU HAVE TO DO TODAY IS LOOK AFTER A BABY." That's it. Anything else achieved - reading a page of that heavy grief memoir, a shower, standing up for a period longer than five minutes - is a bonus.

And so to Belgian hospitals, which are feckin marvellous in my humble opinion. OK, there were a few weird bits (the leg massage from the physio the day after giving birth was a touch awkward, and the baby photoshoot on the day we went home - "Does 'ee 'av a leetle teddy? Does 'ee 'av a pyjama weeth a leetle beet of colour?"- was on another level of surreal Belgian comedy). But I also remember looking at the clock 12 hours after delivery thinking 'If I was in the UK, I'd be home by now.' Sobering stuff. I mean, I didn't feel dreadful but by God I didn't exactly feel wonderful either and the thought of going home and NOT having a big red shiny button to press to summon a jolly trilingual midwife wasn't a particularly pleasant one.

Because breastfeeding? Jesus, of all the hard things in the world (PhDs in Chemical Engineering, understanding income tax, scrubbing dried-on porridge offov a bowl)  it was the hardest man. Even with the phalanx of midwives and the big red shiny button. Too hard, as it turns out. Big baby = super-hungry baby, and that + a tongue tie + conflicting advice from midwives + there-are-different-types-of-NIPPLES-in-this-world?! shock revelation + mastitis + 40 degree fever + antibiotics depleting my already crappy milk supply (see 'conflicting advice from midwives' for further details) = no more BF for me. I've made my peace with it I suppose, although I would like to say to those over-ardent Advocates Of Breastfeeding that every time you cheerily say, 'Well, never mind, you can always try again with the next one!' to a woman who's given up with a heavy heart all she hears for the BILLIONTH time is 'Breast is best!' And, actually, she doesn't have to look very far for that message - it's projected from every parenting manual and every desperate Google search that the aforementioned poor sod of a mother is scouring at 3 o'clock in the morning for some kind of reassurance that formula isn't going to turn her baby into an obese allergy-ridden dolt while the aforementioned hangry (not a typo) baby screams and screams. What might be more sensitive is, 'Formula is fine, you know. It's not poison. It exists for women who choose not to breastfeed, but also for those like yourself who struggle with feeding, or who have to go back to work very quickly or have a baby with a medical issue.' Or 'You managed x days/weeks/months with a hell of a lot of obstacles  - bravo.' Or something. THAT'S the message she's struggling to find in a book or on an online forum and could really do with hearing.*

Or perhaps I was just so miserable and hormonal and therefore so prone to taking massive offence that nothing anyone said would have suited me.

ANYHOO. Onwards and upwards. 'Life is a roller coaster,' as a wise man once mused, 'just gotta ride it.' Baby update, yeah? Well, apologies to the women of the world, but I Got The Best Baby. And now that he's smiling, oh, my heart is BURSTING every time I wake him up (and he smiles!) or put him down to sleep (and he smiles!) or I shove my face into his and sing a stupid song about his burps (and he smiles!) And when he looks across at us through the bars of his cot with a little dribble of milky sick escaping from one side of his mouth and I reach out to wipe it I feel like I've uncovered the Meaning of Life. It's this. This is what it's All About.

And I can't decide whether I should laugh or weep a little bit. This is what parenthood has done to me (and, to a lesser extent, Adam, although he still has to function at work and think about things other than baby vomit like, umm, electronic sheep tagging). I'm losing my mind over baby vomit and sending him photos with comments verging on 'OMG he is SOOO SUPER-GORGE look at his ICKLE FACE! LOLZ' Jesus.

OK, a tiny bit more of babybabybaby and then I'll rein it in (for a bit). As well as smiling and sleeping like a pro he's growing like a beaut. Since he was tinywee old women of Belgium were peering into the pram to compliment him and saying things like, 'Il est trop mignon!' (oui, oui, merci!) and then 'Trois mois?' Err, non. When he was born he was like a skinned rabbit (even though then people were still saying 'he's HUGE') whereas now he IS actually huge, like a seal pup - all lovely big eyes and lashes and ponderous weight. Oh, his thighs. His little wrists. His fat hamster cheeks.

To. Die. For.

Now that the feeding issue is sorted and I can take him places (as opposed to sitting stripped to the waist in my front room with the lights down low and Elliott Smith playing wanting to die - is listening to Elliott Smith and wanting to die actually the same thing?) we've been travelling all over fair Bruxelles. We've been into school to show him off. We've been to cafes and parks. We've run the gauntlet of teeth-sucking harridan disapproval in Pain Quotidien. The other day I took him to Zara and managed to TRY ON and then BUY some clothes which was rather exciting. I also took him to the physiotherapist (who was very nice if a bit stern and said that she could tell my abdominal muscles were still 1cm separated - what voodoo is this? All she did was feel my gut for a nanosecond! - and I should NOT be running yet, oopsy) and he charmed the pants off everyone in the waiting room.

And to wrap up here is a darkly funny photo I took in the hospital on my way to the physio room:

Full marks for forward planning, that architect.

I'll try not to become a massive baby bore (try - can't promise owt). Back soon to bang on about some stuff what I have read (possibly) and my new pink coat (definitely).





* Disclaimer: I did get that message, eventually, from a couple of lovely souls who very generously offered up their time and expertise to speak to me at length and tell me repeatedly that Everything Was Going To Be OK. Big love, people. 

Having a Baby - Part 2

I suddenly need to know everyone’s name - I’m ready to shake hands and kiss people and write thank you notes. The anaesthetist is already out the door but I ask the midwife what she’s called anyway. ‘Tell her thank you!’ I say, dizzy with joy. ‘Really, you must tell her thank you. Tell her I said THANK YOU SO MUCH.’ Everyone’s smirking yet I’m completely earnest. God, I feel amazing! Totally AMAZING! Look at me - painfree, contracting like a boss, teeth chattering, arms and legs shaking, shaking quite a bit actually - Jesus, hang on, am I having some kind of fit, is this normal, FFS…?

‘Totally normal,’ says the midwife. Ah, OK. Best find something new to worry about. ’Will the drugs wear off?’ I ask anxiously. ‘No,’ she says, busying herself with buttons and drips and clips. I have a peculiar need to Be In Charge despite clearly being in a situation where I am most definitely Not In Charge. ‘Are you sure? What if I labour for 24 hours? Do I need to warn you when the bag looks low?’ ’No,’ she says. ‘Your baby will be here before I finish at seven.’ It’s perhaps 1am. Woah. 6 hours tops. Countdown. 

Now that I’m no longer completely absorbed by pain every few minutes I can take in the room properly for the first time. There’s a stainless steel lamp the size of a dustbin lid fixed to the wall with an anglepoise arm.  Directly opposite the bed there’s a changing station with an overhead heat strip and monitoring equipment where the baby will be checked after it’s born; clean towels folded, a quiet altar, waiting. A red LED flickers like a sanctuary candle. Everything’s so quiet and still. It’s also, I suddenly realise, horrifically hot. Adam tries to open a window but they’re nailed shut. He’s gutted. “Change into your pyjama bottoms,” I tell him with sudden clarity. Minutes ago I couldn’t speak, never mind suggest sensible courses of action such as changing into cool cotton pants. Hmm. Interesting.

I have what I think is a Deeply Profound Thought about some women being intimidated by an overly medicalised environment, hence all the focus in the antenatal class on doing things naturally and challenging all suggested medical interventions; however, I am a Completely Different Kettle Of Fish and find all of the equipment and drugs the most reassuring thing in the world. I tell Adam about this Deeply Profound Thought. He finds it less profound. In fact, now that the ‘Oh my God, this pain is HORRIFIC’ panic is over, he’s trying to go to sleep on the floor. 

Zainab - the healthcare assistant, we’re all on first-name terms now - wheels in a fold-out bed and Adam lies down. The ‘relaxed’ playlist I composed in a panic in the days before my due date (and totally ignored until now) purrs in the background. ‘Do you have children?’ I ask Zainab dreamily. My right leg, dull and fizzy, keeps slipping off the bed and she lifts it gently back onto the mattress. I’m not so out of it that I’m not a little bit embarrassed by the hole in my sock. ‘No,’ she says, and her smile implies ‘As if!’ Instead though she says, ‘I’m only twenty.’

And so we lie there talking until Adam drifts off to sleep. I could be pissed off, but actually it’s lovely to lie there quietly for an hour or so, thinking about the pulsing in my stomach and my body doing what it needs to do and the baby on its way. I can’t remember the last time I lay down, listening to music, thinking, doing nothing else with no distractions - I can heartily recommend it. I’m thinking about us and the baby, unsurprisingly - no great epiphanies, just vague drifting thoughts, and it’s deeply pleasant albeit in the most pedestrian of ways. 

Midwife Adele (see, we’re practically best friends) and Zainab appear and disappear at intervals. Zainab, then Adele, then Zainab, then Adele again. She still smells of cigarettes. Night shift sucks, eh? She scrutinises the machine and whatever’s happening down there and then she speaks. 

‘OK, I think we start to push soon.’ She looks at the clock. ‘Around 4:30, yes?’ 

HOLY WHAT NOW.

Adele is required to shift into super-patient, super-reassuring mode again. Yes, there will definitely be a feeling despite the epidural. No, it won’t hurt. It’ll feel a bit like needing the toilet. Yes, there will be a doctor, he’s on his way. 

Nothing happens for five, ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Adele has disappeared. She’s wrong, I think. Nothing to see here, no urge to push, categorically nothing. Almost simultaneously I feel a bearing down; a sort of painless pressure. Bloody hell. Shall I? There’s only me and Adam in the room. I push, tentatively, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl about to be caught out at any minute. The sensation returns minutes later, and I push again. 

A doctor breezes in - not my doctor, but a man - removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves. Literally. I don’t think to ask where my doctor - cheerful Dr Inge with the jazzy shoes - is. ‘So we are pushing?’ Um, yes. We seem to be. Suddenly the room seems very busy, what with the doctor, his assistant, Adele and Zainab and Adam and me. The bed has been hoisted up and the doctors sit on stools. Adele and Zainab hover in the background. 

Things are speeding up. Push. Don’t push. One big long push now. Little pushes. Pushpushpushpushpushpuuuush. And rest. It’s like you see on the TV but there’s no pain, making me feel like I’m an actress in a crappy daytime soap. I’ve got no idea how hard I’m pushing on account of not being able to feel anything. Everyone seems pleased with my efforts, mind, so I can’t be doing too badly, I rationalise.

After what seems like a ludicrously short space of time someone announces that they can see the head. Oh God, this is actually happening. Empty cliche alert: I can’t believe it. But I actually CAN’T believe it. Apparently it has hair. Then the head is out. Oh God. It feels like I’ve been doing this for fifteen minutes. It’s actually been forty. Still, ridiculous. I can’t believe it. THE BABY’S HEAD IS THERE.

Zainab is suddenly at my shoulder, tugging at my gown. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, thinking OK, I liked you, but now you’re violating me. ‘You will want skin to skin, yes?’ she says. What? I can’t believe we’re so close to the baby being born. ‘Is it ready?’ I ask, which makes everyone laugh, like he’s a microwave meal.

And then it happens. 

‘Ooooh!’ cries everyone, collectively. 

He’s hot and hollering and livid on my chest. I’m not sure how he got there. I say ‘he’ - I knew he was a boy before we even thought to check. 

‘Oh my God!’ I say. I say very little else for the next five minutes. ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’

It’s 5:30am and I’ve just had a baby and I feel like a bloody champion.  

(all the hard stuff came later)

Having a Baby - Part I

pic

Because another birth story is just what the internet needs, yeah?

***

It’s 11:15pm when Adam calls the taxi. The taxi driver looks from our bags to my belly. “C’est un cas d’urgence?” Oui. St Elisabeth, s’il vous plait. Vite. I knew it would happen at night.

It’s taken three hours of puffing, panting, standing up, sitting down, a phone call to the labour ward (“Maybee ‘av a bath, no?” Maybe feck off with your fecking bath), burying my face in the duvet and a TENS machine ribbitting away uselessly on my back for me to concede that This Is It. But as the driver hits what feels like every speed bump and red light between Woluwe St Pierre and Uccle, fear rises. What if it isn’t? What if they laugh in my face? Go home, little girl. And when real labour hits it’s going to hunt you down like a DAWG. 

We arrive at the emergency exit, the normal entrance for women in labour arriving after 8pm, which is pretty grim despite St Elisabeth’s fancy private hospital credentials. Plastic chairs, scuffed walls, a mother hushing a toddler wrapped in a blanket, two policemen and a German Shepherd, a vending machine. My panting and gurning gets us to the front of the queue and we’re directed to the second floor. The midwife - the one I’ve spoken to, the one who suggested a bath - is younger than me, has beautiful cheekbones and smells faintly of cigarettes. I want to say this to Adam - ‘She smells of fags!’ - but can’t - a contraction gets in the way. I’m instructed to pee and strip in that order; then she straps me to a monitoring device and leaves the room. The machine tracks the baby’s heart rate but as a contraction rises I have to - categorically MUST DO THIS RIGHT NOW - get up and move around. An alarm sounds and the midwife reappears, panicked. I try to say sorry (not sorry) but find I can’t speak. In fact, I can’t do very much at all; I can’t focus on anything other than squaring up to the wave of pain heading my way. And yet it isn’t frightening or even, strictly speaking, painful - it’s intense, I suppose, and absorbing rather than simply ‘painful’, which suggests something trivial and day-to-day like, oo, stepping on an upturned plug.  Adam tries to talk to me but I can only put my finger to my lips. Ssh, stop, don’t you know that my head is FULL OF CONTRACTION? I live inside it for a full minute; then it ebbs and I spend the next four or so preparing myself to meet it again. I bury my face in the mattress and my knees tremble. The pain is the only thing in the room; it's the only thing that matters. 

Somehow, despite my cavorting, the midwife manages to examine me. “Seven centimetres,” she announces, smiling. “I suppose we’ll let you stay.” A stab of triumph: this IS it. Oh yes. Oh Jesus. 

And so there is a decision to be made. “Would you like an epidural?”* Yes, I say, and afterwards I’ll laugh at the decision made just like that after all the antenatal hours (mis?)spent reading and researching and discussing. I’m not desperate, mind, but I think a shot in the spine right now would be very nice, very nice indeed. I’m just starting to feel a bit mad, a bit like I’m losing control, and that is not a happy place to be. Again afterwards, I’ll describe it as feeling like an animal, although I’m not exactly sure why - maybe because I couldn't talk, was reduced to mute desperation? Or maybe because the pacing up and down reminded me of when our family dog went old and senile and wandered around the house shaking and staring at skirting boards? 

When a midwife asked my friend how she felt as she approached delivery she replied, 'Like I've got a wardrobe between my legs.' It was the biggest thing she could think of, she said. And that’s how I felt - like an old, senile Jack Russell. Does that make sense? Probably not. Childbirth brings about some interesting analogies is my point. 

And then comes the crushing blow, just as I’m envisaging a seamless transition from pre-epidural on-the-edgeness to post-epidural serenity and I’m mentally patting myself on the back for having this giving birth thing totally sussed, the midwife speaks. “OK,” she says, still smelling of fags, still young and beautifully-cheekboned. “I’ll call the anaesthetist. She’ll be half an hour.”

Oh. OK. I had visions of her sitting in the corridor, masked up, needle in hand, awaiting my feverish call. How stupid, I think, of course she isn’t, it’s after midnight, it’s a tiny maternity unit and I’m the only woman giving birth tonight. Half an hour, right. 

I do the maths. Seven contractions? Eight? Oh God.  

And so this was the part of labour which really wasn’t All That Pleasant. HoooEeeee. Hoo hoo hoo eeeeee. Everything's gone a bit blurry. Please live nearby, I think, and please hurry. Please, please, please don’t have a cup of tea before you leave home. Please don’t have a car accident and please let the lift be on the ground floor when you arrive.

In the end, she only takes 20 minutes, although I’ve been acutely aware of every single one. She breezes into the room, smelling of the cold. She speaks in French to the midwives but she’s too quick and accented for me to understand. A blue paper screen is stuck to my back and I hold Adam’s hands. He looks anxious but I’m not worried; I just want it done before the next contraction hits. HURRY UP. There’s fumbling and some comment about my skin. Another attempt to get it in, then another. Adam says afterwards that there’s a lot of blood but thinking about it, it was probably iodine, wasn’t it? Then she speaks in English, leaning over my shoulder. “Do you ‘av a special feeling in your leg?” she asks. Eh? Special feeling? “Do you ‘AV a special FEELING in your leg?” What are you talking about? I feel like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation when the escort commands him to “lip" her stocking. Lip? Special feeling? And then it hits, third time lucky, the ahhh Bisto moment, and my legs fizz (special feeling!) and I watch the numbers rise on the monitor. Contraction coming. I brace myself. Can’t feel a thing.

***

* in Belgium, there is no gas and air. No pethidine. It's all - epidural - or nothing. Hardcore. 

Something Changed

Things people say to you on having a baby:

"He's gorgeous." (Yes. Yes, he is).

"You did brilliantly." (Yes. Yes, I fecking did). 

"Life will never be the same again." (This is true).  

***

So we have our baby. Il s'appelle Patrick. He has completely rewired my brain and my heart. Everything is so different, and yet at the same time it's like everything has fallen into place. Turns out all the cliches were true. Who'd have thunk it?

***

I have lots to record here, but it'll have to wait until I'm capable of looking at him (or him and Adam -DOUBLEBRAINLOVEEXPLOSION)) and articulating my thoughts with a more intelligible and lucid vocabulary than 'Nnnnnnggggghhhhh!' So eighteen years, yeah?

Back soon. A bientôt. 

The Waiting Game

It's a strange beast, this maternity leave business. 

Going from life at 90 miles an hour - marking all of the essays there were to be marked within a 10 metre radius of my right arm before the end of half-term, endless handovers of work responsibilities ('It'll be FIIIIIIINE!' *rigor-mortis grin*), packing boxes ('crap', 'stuff', 'crap stuff'), unpacking boxes ('Can 'crap stuff' go in the cellar?'), filling out horrifically complicated Belgian baby-related paperwork and welcoming the last influx of pre-baby house guests - to, well, not a right lot, really - is slightly surreal. I feel a bit like Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, thrust from one life to another and not really sure who I am anymore. Remember Quantum Leap? I used to bloody love it, especially for that moment when he looked in a mirror and discovered he was elderly/black/disabled/a woman with really badly-applied lipstick. Yup, that's exactly who I feel like: a really, really tired Sam Beckett.  

Because of my due date (end of November) and the school year (I'm going back to work in September regardless of when the baby chooses to turn up), I could take maternity leave from the 'early' starting point of October half-term i.e. with four and a bit weeks still to go to D-day. In Belgium, this is hiiiiighly unusual - because paid maternity leave is so short, women get uber-competitive about how close they're working to their due date. But I figured keep it neat (my replacement starts afresh in a new half-term and finishes at the end of the school year) aaaaaand take what I'm entitled to, even if not all of that time is with the baby (or very well-paid). And everyone I know, particularly if that person is a woman with children, keeps saying, 'Oo, four and a bit weeks. Lovely.' And then more often than not she lowers her voice conspiratorially and adds, 'Make sure you enjoy it. Sleep a LOT', which would be wonderful advice if I didn't need a wee every three hours. 

So. After all of the moving madness I still have - in theory - two and a bit weeks to fill. I found myself ironing towels the other day and had to have a word. 'LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO IRON TOWELS,' I rebuked myself mentally. 'I spent too much time ironing towels' will not be one of my deathbed regrets. Too much time worrying, yes, or too much time ogling other people's fringes: such wastes of energy are sad, but also sadly unavoidable. Not ironing towels, though. 

That said, thought, I've realised the importance of having a structure to my day to help me not go completely nuts. This 'structure' is largely a self-imposed litany of minor and largely unnecessary daily labours involving tasks such as 'find somewhere that sells nipple cream' and 'order titre service cheques' (shite, haven't done that), but it helps my poor routine-needy brain. It also helps that it now takes nigh-on an hour to get myself dressed in the morning - the bodily manoeuvring and one-legged swivelling and grunting involved in pulling on leggings and socks is something quite special and oh, sweet Jesus, the Bio oil application, now there's a real treat. Perhaps I'll park that mental image there. 

Onto happier thoughts. New apartment! Behold some photo-snippets:

It's ground floor and therefore gorgeously gloomy early in the evening - I tell you, it's just crying out for a Christmas tree and fairy lights - ROLL ON DECEMBER. It's also stuffed to its impressively high ceilings with beautiful features like a corridor of exposed brick and supremely handsome internal doors and built-in alcove bookcases with downward lighting ohmyword. And the kitchen has open dark wood shelving and white metro tiles and stainless steel work surfaces LIKE WE LIVE IN SOME KIND OF SEXY MOJITO BAR. I'm completely, unashamedly in love with it.

Isn't that changing table (avec les flamingoes) darling? We renovated it! Grey satinwood paint, some fancy oilcloth and handles and a bit of spray glue goes a looong way. And that last photo makes my tummy flip. We're just waiting for you, baby. Not long now. Gulp.  

Week 1 In the Maternity Leave House

**tap tap** 

Hello. I went away for a little while. Soz about that. Reasons? Allow me to bore you with the deets:

1) Finishing at work, including the English Department All-Singing-All-Dancing Biennial Showpiece Book Week in my penultimate week (enough to bring on an early delivery notevenajoke), took up every last nanosecond of the last few weeks. The marking, my God. Clearing out all of the stockpiled ricecakes and emergency tights from my desk drawer alone took forever.

2) We moved house. Remember Sexy Neighbours? Well, finding repeated 4am teary arguments somewhat wearisome after being woken for a third time by energetic rutting ("BUT *sniff* I HATE THEM *snort* SO MUCH!"), Bedders took on the challenge of finding somewhere new to live. We went to view a house in The 'Burbs - no longer were we interested in being the kind of parents who might take our monochrome-clad kids to hipster coffee bars in Ixelles at the weekend amongst the jumbo ginger beards and sailor tats - ummed and ahhed about the garden and the open fire and the DELICIOUS QUIET, decided we'd go for it, missed out narrowly, were bitterly, bitterly disappointed and then viewed another one on the outskirts of the city and FELL ABSOLUTELY HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH IT. And we got it. Photos to follow. 

Oh, and by the way, moving house when 8 months pregnant is definitely a life-affirming experience which you simply must try. My favourite part was the bit where Adam went to Africa and my parents came out to help/be on standby in case of premature labour for a week. A week is a Long Time. 

3) As mentioned above, Adam went to Africa - Tanzania, to be exact - and there was a LOT of sorting out to be done, lucky lady that I am. How did you spend your half-term? Oh, you know, unpacking boxes labelled 'crap' and 'stuff' and 'crap stuff' and going to IKEA (twice, obviously, because once is just not enough to fully appreciate the retail experience from hell) and having a little private cry on discovering that the huge box we'd brought home 20 stops on the Metro was actually a changing table and not a fecking cot at all. Buuuuuh. 

(PS Want to see some beautiful photos of Tanzania accompanied by beautiful words? Miss Pickering does it better. Want to donate to a worthy cause that helps African farmers feed Africa's people, prevents deforestation and empowers women gimme-a-girl-power-raaaaahhh all at the same time? Go here.) 

***

Ergo no time for any frivolity at ALL, including blogging - no time, no headspace, ensuing crisis of blogfidence and it just had to get gone for a while. But hey. Now I'm back with lots of scintillating updates about, err, doing the ironing and filling out commune paperwork. Oo, and the books that I'm reading! I've polished off two mega Irish Catholic Tomes of Misery of late, both of which come highly recommended:

A History of Loneliness - John Boyne

Odran Yates is talked into the priesthood by his dear old Mammy. Not an unusual tale. And, hey, he's happy enough with his lot. He's a good man. But is it enough to stand by and be good when all around you is evil? Told against the backdrop of the unfolding clerical child abuse scandal in Ireland. Fine stuff.

The Gathering - Anne Enright

Liam Hegarty - alcoholic wastrel brother of narrator Vee and one of the North Dublin Hegarty clan - is found drowned in Brighton in a high-vis jacket and with stones in his pockets. Vee has to piece together what exactly happened to Liam in their grandmother's house in 1968 - what wheels were set in motion that would see him end up in a British morgue thirty years later?

It's about the unpredictability of love and memory, about grief and big families and secrets and all that jazz. 

Disclaimer - people on Goodreads seem to hate it for all the reasons I loved it - all of its blurred lines between reality and memory and imaginings and life and death. But if you liked A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing (and by God, I did), I think it's safe to say you'll love this. 



I'll read something less Irish and maudlin soon. I promise. Mebbes. 

In the meantime, here is a picture of what happened moments after tweeting that I'd just enjoyed breakfast in bed on Monday morning (maternity leave ftw!):

FFS. Pride comes before a fall, as my Grandma used to say. 

Birth Club

Things that are a Very Bad Idea, especially when one is six-and-a-half-months pregnant and it's a Wednesday night less than two weeks into the new school year:



Reading about Rotherham's sex dens of iniquity and shame.

Eating far too much (admittedly divine feta, pea and mint) omelette.

Twenty minutes of half-arsed yoga and guilty push-ups.

Three West Wings. No. I don't care if it gets you to the end of Season Five, young lady. Never again.



All of these are terrible, terrible ideas and will leave you a broken woman. 


So we have started our antenatal classes. As anticipated, equal amounts of comedy and horror. After a bit of chatting and some tea and snackage (snacks: a cool 8/10 - there was cake, chocolate-coated waffles, butter biscuits, jaffa cakes and grapes) during which one of the blokes showed up all of the others by saying that his reason for doing the course was to 'learn how to become a more supportive and loving birth partner', the men were hustled off into a corner to play with a plastic pelvis and and curiously coral-lipped baby doll and the women's conversation seemed to segue effortlessly into full-on horror mode - like, talking about things I have NEVER EVEN HEARD OF starting with 'perineal' and ending in 'massage' (DO NOT GOOGLE. DO NOT YOUTUBE) and questions about 'ordinary' Belgian birth practice, like the 95% epidural rate in some of the bigger hospitals and enemas and episiotomies almost as standard. 

At this point, I was having a mouth-agape Kurtz moment while everyone else seemed to be nodding sagely.  I need to do some reading, clearly. 

But anyway, we're not really supposed to talk about it, let alone blog about it. It's kind of like Fight Club. Nevertheless, I shall try to stock up on some suitably anonymised comedy-horror moments and report back. 


Things that are a Very Good Idea on a Thursday (last lesson of the day, Year 9):

Poetry needs more white gels from Lahndahn, innit. 

Whassssssup? Ahem.

Whasssssssup? That's a little joke, by the way. Bedders' cousin has just downloaded WhatsApp and I've been tempted more than once to send him a message saying 'Whassssssapp?' before I'm reminded that he is merely twenty three, Australian and the Budweiser Whassssssup advert is therefore Not On His Cultural Radar. Unlike me, who stuck a load of Frankie and Louis the Lizard stickers all over my Year 13 school planner. Why? I didn't even like beer. At the time. Right now, I'd kill for one. 

So I'm back at work and a little bit wide-eyed, as predicted. The plan I'd formed of getting into the groove of next September's daily routine in readiness for when I do the afternoon creche run requires Herculean levels of self-control. I had this golden vision of front-loading my days from 7:30 then trotting out of the door at no later than 4:30. So far the 7:30 thing's going OK but the 4:30...well, today I left at 6:37, which is exactly 17 minutes after the creche shuts 45 minutes of public transportness away. Brillo. I wonder, does it actually shut? With the baby locked inside? If the driver of the 44 tram takes the fancy to declare 'Terminus!" at the Musee de Tram as he did tonight and I'm stuck 25 minutes walk from the bairn, what happens? The answer is simple, I know. I just need to leave earlier. Work smarter. Make every second count. Work out how to use the new learning platform. I'm pretty sure it could revolutionise my working life if I allowed it. 

Next week my 'How To Not Freak Out About Giving Birth' course begins, so there'll be a night or two a week where Bedders and I go to sit in a room with other expectant parents and learn how to breathe and say no to an epidural politely in French* from half seven until TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. SERIOUSLY. This is a course for women who are at least six months pregnant and they're KEEPING US AWAKE UNTIL 10pm. 

(*PS I might not say no to the epidural. I might say HELL YEAH. It is entirely one's own choice as to whether one has an epidural or not, obviously. I'm just conscious that, in Belgium, about 99.9999% of women have one because "it's the norm" and if I decide I want one, I want one because I'm reaching cross-eyed levels of agony and begging Adam to finish me off with a spade like a hoary TB-ridden badger - not because "it's the norm.")

I haven't even had a proper week at work and I'm STILL moaning - I was in the Hague for two days visiting a school and was astonished at the utter professionalism and enthusiasm and DAZZLING TALENT of the Head of Department there. He's in charge of Drama, too, and he's directing the school play this year which is - get this - a musical version of Measure for Measure, played as a straight comedy with no tricky questions about Isabella's victim status or anything else but in a rather avant-garde twist each of the main characters has their very own disco anthem. The Duke's is Could it Be I'm Falling in Love?, apparently (how completely fabulous is this song?) The man is a genius. So I left there feeling very inspired and a little bit sleepy (actually fell asleep on the train, woke up, saw I was in Antwerp, thought I was back in Holland and snorted in panic before I realised Antwerp is in Belgium, doh) and a teeeeeny bit inadequate.  

BUT IT IS FAR TOO EARLY IN THE TERM FOR ALL OF THIS NONSENSE. Let's look on the bright side, eh? Tomorrow is Friday. I will do better at leaving earlier. And sometimes kids leave nice things in your classroom just to say 'Hi' and 'Welcome back' and 'I like Tracey Emin too.'

This is what it's all about, no? 

Sugar High

The end is nigh. We're back at work - all be it in the obligatory Training Day uniform of ill-fitting jeans and bad trainers, but it's work nevertheless - and teaching starts next Tuesday. SOB. Where did those glorious weeks go? And, more to the point, where did this belly come from? I left school at 19 weeks preggo and I'm now 27 and WOOOAH there.is.a.difference.

So, pre-empting the Nightmares Of Doom (and I still had one!) on Wednesday night before the official return today, I got up on Monday, got the tram in at normal time (ugh, hello 7am daylight, haven't seen YOU for a while) and did a day 'to get ahead' (hahahahaha oh sweet, naive Laura). I was mightily smug. The next morning, however, I was knackered. That's the thing with this work business - it's every day, five days on the trot. Who came up with this? Not Scandinavians, that's for sure.

Oo, and we've been to see some creches too. I know. HOW. WHAT. My mind is still struggling to compute that this child is NOT YET BORN and yet we're thinking about its childcare in over a year's time. This is the norm, apparently - in fact, we're late - you're supposed to inform creches 15 weeks into pregnancy to get on some kidney transplant-style waiting list, at least if you want a hallowed place at a Francophone commune creche where the fees are cheap (500ish euros full-time, or so goes the rumour) and doctors' notes result in deductions of fees for days legitimately missed due to sickness. I KNOW! My sister was speechless with admiration/envy.  

This was not a commune creche. It was a private creche. It was lovely (although the Romanian-orphanage-style room full of cots was a little bit, well, odd). It was also expensive. It's in the right area for us (I don't mean that in terms of our baby wouldn't be seen dead anywhere else, but rather that the transport links for work are good). Apparently we can claim some of the eye-watering outlay back in tax. In fact, I had the most boring text message exchange of our entire relationship with Adam about this very important fiscal issue. I've never felt more attractive as when typing the words 'we'd qualify for 11 euros tax back for each day of FT childcare' into BBM messenger.

I also went for a scan and the gestational diabetes test at the hospital. AGAIN with the mental private healthcare process: display no symptoms of anything ever but for the LOVE of your unborn CHILD make sure you have every expensive diagnostic test under the sun - and thank your gold-plated-Daddy-Warbucks-health-insurance-stars for it. And actually, while I'm on, in a bizarre twist of coincidence do you know how many times I've come across the term 'socialised healthcare' in newspaper articles - all right, all right, episodes of The West Wing - as if it's something dirty or cheap or dangerous recently? I'll tell ya: LOADS. And to me, and maybe to Brits on the continent generally, that's just mad. My hospital is lovely, don't get me wrong, and my doctor is lovely and I am appreciative that I won't be forced to conjugate unfamiliar French verbs mid-delivery AND I can buy a bloody leather bag in the giftshop should the fancy take me, really I am, but it's just all a bit - excessive. There's a post-modernist sculpture in the hallway. The fella at the sandwich bar today asked me if I wanted balsamic vinegar.

And I think of the NHS vision and their wonderful staff, doing things efficiently and largely in the most cost-effective way possible, and I like that. It's responsible. It's no-nonsense.

ANYHOO. Check me and my first world problems out: my hospital is too nice. My luxury leather handbag bought in the giftshop (not really) is chafing my shoulder. The midwife makes crap tea (not really). Second time around (!) I'll be a lot more informed and a lot braver about sacking some of this guff off, I feel.

So today I had blood taken and then I drank this. It was rank.

Mmm, sweet all-natural naranja. 

Then I sat about for an hour and had more blood taken. My veins started putting up a fight at this point - "Ce n'est pas vrai, ce n'est pas vrai" muttered the nurse, which disturbed me a little - and she had to take it from my wrist.

Then I sat around for another hour and had more blood taken. By this point my veins all seemed to have pretty much collapsed. I thought she was going to have to start hunting in between my toes and I would leave l'hopital looking like Amy Winehouse in those horrific 2007 ballet shoe paparazzi shots.

But hey, test done, and hopefully I don't have diabetes, my bairn will suffer no lasting side-effects other than maybe a predilection for Monster energy drinks and I can just get on with the serious business of getting fatter and fatter. After being bridesmaid for my friend this weekend, obvs. Everyone loves a pregnant bridesmaid! Woop woop! That DJ better have Salt n Peppa Push It, I'm telling you.

And so I shall leave you with a few things that are floating my boat this week despite the impending tolling of the Back To Work bell:

* James Booth's new biography of Philip Larkin is Book of the Week on Radio 4. YOLO! You can listen again for seven days only here. It sounds wicked and is giving me endless quotable nuggets of twitter joy. Don't thank me all at once.

* The idea of getting a tattoo done by this woman. In another braver, edgier life.

* Donna Wilson has launched a range of baby and children's clothes for John Lewis. LOOK. Can I justify buying this now? Do you think a boy could wear this? I totally do, so don't tell me otherwise, yeah?

* This is my favourite twitter account ever. Everything she says makes me die. There's an English Language A level coursework project in it somewhere.

And you? What's rocking your boat? I could do with some good social media accounts if anyone has any recommendations (I want more real people, yerr narr?), book recommendations to keep my reading strength up as term begins or, you know, places where I can look at pretty baby stuff is always welcome. And if anyone has any creche advice for an actual Creche Idiot (that's me), please do tell. What should I be looking for? What questions should I be asking? Although you should know I have all the tax questions covered. I'm cool like that.

Brother Got Wed

So I was saying that we were back in Northumberland for my brother's wedding. 

And, oh my gawd, it was wonderful. 

Hence the post-holiday comedown. Sob. I find myself in a situation not unlike that bit in Trainspotting where Renton goes cold turkey except with fewer dead babies and more ironing. 

And, you know, it was wonderful for all of the obvious reasons. The Irish contingent were over and fully committed to doing what they do best (i.e. having an almighty session) and so 'the craic was mighty' (direct quote from me fatha) on the Friday...and the Saturday...and again on the Sunday when they sojourned to Newcastle to await their flight back to Dublin on the Monday morning (which was then delayed for 6 hours thanks to an oil leak - then the vast majority of them had to wait for a bus to Sligo and eventually ended up getting back something like 12 hours after they were supposed to - but hey let's focus on the positive, eh? It was a great day!)

And, obviously, on the Saturday I watched my little brother (13 months, these things matter) get wed to the lovely Solila. And that isn't just an empty epithet - she really is so very lovely, which makes me feel full of kittens and rainbows and butterflies; I mean, they work so well as a couple i.e. by making each other the very best version of themselves and they're going to have the most beautiful babies imaginable (Irish/Swedish/Vietnamese/Chinese superbabies no less) in the hopefully not too distant future (no pressure) - oh, it's just too much. Gush. Forgive me: I'm a pregnant woman, for heaven's sake, I'm constantly crying at the drop of a hat - or, if you'd prefer a more specific example, a picture of an orphaned baby wombat in the newspaper. The wedding was an emotional marathon and I took GOLD, man. 

Anyway, here is a very scientific calculation which explains why last Saturday was indeed a Very Good Day:

FAMILY + PUBLIC OUTPOURINGS OF LOVE = VERY GOOD DAYS. 

It isn't rocket science. 

But in reality, a big part of it being a Very Good Day was because it was actually a great event. A real occasion. You see, I've come to a profound realisation about weddings: once the novelty wears off (I would say at the age of 24, before which point you're just delighted that someone's having a big party and inviting you to it - I mean, what's not to like? There's booze! Dancing! Painstakingly hand-crafted name cards you'll find sticky with Prosecco at the bottom of your clutch bag the following day!) you come to learn that Not All Weddings Are Created Equal; some are just better than others. And this one was top of the pops. 

Behold me evidence:

Exhibit A: James looking like a total hot rod. 

Exhibit B: Solila looking like a total babe. 

Exhibit C: The nephew charming the ovaries of every woman in the place.

Exhibit D: Mark's best man's speech (you might remember him from TV programmes such as Coach Trip series 7), which opened with with the words, 'Welcome to the wedding of James and Chairman WOW!' 

It could have gone two ways. It went the good way. Bit of a bum-clencher, though.  

Exhibit E: Mark's filthy dancing with my mum's cousin Sheila during which he made absolutely no concession for the fact that she is indeed a more, ahem, mature lady and mimed a flamboyant arse-slap motion behind her as she shimmied. No photographic evidence available, sadly - I was probably crying.

Exhibit F: The appearance of several hundred glowsticks at approximately 10pm. Everyone got into the glowstick mood, from my 76 year old Aunty Kathy who waved two in each hand as she sat with her feet up on a chair during a dancing Time Out to my cousin Dermot who fashioned some kind of disco crucifixion crown of glowstick thorns which he then wore to bed. Again, no photographic evidence available, alas.

Exhibit G: The reappearance of The Troubleshooters, the rockabilly band from our wedding. They're so retro they still have a MySpace page. My Heart Will Go On! Dueling Banjos! Jokes about Sunderland AFC! Umaze. 

Now all I need is for some more people to get married (or some people to get divorced, and then get remarried). Anyone?

Solila: 'Do I have a double chin?'

Holiday Comedown

Soooo we're back in Belgy after a bit o'time in the UK. And, of course, the heavens have opened in anticipation of my return to work in a week's time. Hello, pathetic fallacy. The rain is of biblical proportions; the pigeons are sodden and everything is the colour of lead - the sky, the clouds, people's faces, the pavements, the dog excrement. The apartment is filled to the rafters with damp post-holiday washing (is there a more miserable task in all of one's allotted span on earth? I doubt it) and I could do with a bit of exercise somewhere where there is sky and grass and fresh air. Alas, it is not to be. There's nowt for it but to steer my lumpish form about on a yoga mat in front of YouTube. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

I think it was probably because the UK was on such sparkling form that I feel a bit meh. Even when it pissed it down in Cumbria (see above) it was still all spectacular skies and lush greenness. 

It might have helped that all we did was 1) buy copious amounts of newspapers 2) read copious amounts of newspapers and 3) eat party food from the poshest service station in the UK (I'm deadly serious, behold its freakin' Trip Advisor review) in an attempt to reecreate the Northumberland honeymoon of 2011.

And then after all of the above, Brother Got Wed. It was a magical day of love, family, a rockabilly version of My Heart Will Go On and 200+ glowsticks. To follow. 

I got my hair did, in the words of Missy Elliott

Hiya. It's been hot, hmm? Stinking hot. Oh-my-gawwwd-get-those-patio-doors-open-hot. No-duvet-on-the-bed-hot. I-cannot-physically-bear-to-do-the-ironing-hot. Various appellations, one particular breed of muggy Belgian airlessness. Pregnancy may have assaulted my skin (I'm a red-chinned hormonal mess at the minute), robbed me of some fairly major independent memories (Adam: "You used to live with a girl called Jenny. She was a nurse. She lived in your house for four months." Me: "I have no idea what you're talking about." I am GENUINELY FRIGHTENED that my brain is about to DISAPPEAR) and I have a furious hunger that CANNOT be sated no matter how many ricecakes with peanut butter I gorge upon, but by far the most noticeable side effect is that before I was always cold. Now, I'm always hot. I have my own personal central heating system and it's the size of a canteloupe, apparently. 

Anyhoo. I'm researching creches since I was openly laughed at for not having found one yet. I cannot believe that this child is still in utero and I'm browsing websites depicting arty 50mm shots of fully-grown toddler cherubs with golden curls and gap-toothed smiles having a wonderful time shaking tambourines at their weekly 'La Boite a Musique' class and scoffing organic mid-morning snacks. Yerr whaaaat? And it's all taken on a new urgency since it turns out that the childcare option I sort of had my eye on charges 100 euros per day. PER DAY. Or, in alternative fiscal terms, two grand a month. Hahahahahahaha. Hahahaha. Ha. 

Ahem. And so we will be pursuing other avenues. 

OK, that's my scintillating pregnancy update rant over with. You're welcome. 

So today I had my hair copperfied/de-greyed in Belgium for the very first time. Yes, I have lived here for over two years. No, it is not at ALL preposterous to go back to the UK every time one needs a haircut/colour. My big fear was the language gap: that I would explain in halting French that I wanted a shaggy fringe and my layers tidied up and that somehow that would translate into, 'SHAVE IT ALL OFF, BIG BOY!" Anyway, turns out the owner of the salon is from Manchester and everyone in there is trilingual (of course they are) and the girl who did my hair was actually so chatty I could hardly finish my slutty hairdresser novel. Although she was Spanish (I think), she'd definitely picked up a trace of trademark Belgian directness: "No, we must use permanent colour, the semi-permanent will not cover the grey." Thank you. "And I will not use a toner or an ammonia colour because your hair is dry and in bad condition at the ends." And again, I thank you.

Anyway, it turned out nicely. Gratuitous selfie:

Voila, no grey! And ze hair is in much better condition. Merci, Desiree. 

And this is the slutty hairdresser novel:

There is an apple sticker in the groove on the floor - I am a slattern. 

Everyone reads shite at the hairdressers: it's international law. Plus, in my defence, the choice was this or Cosmo which actually had a two-page spread on 'Decode his Emojis!' BUUUH. Anyway, you've probably heard the premise: mid-20s newspaper hack is paid to have a sexy social life by The Telegraph; it all goes a bit Pete Tong in a sex-and-drugs-and-misery kinda way; but then JUST as she gets herself a prescription for some anti-depressants she meets a fella and has a baby and life becomes all rainbows and kittens and bucolic idylls. As frustrating as it sounds. Yes, I am a prude and a bore. Whatevs.