I am working on a magnum opus about W's birth (HOLY SHIT I GAVE BIRTH TO A REAL LIVE HUMAN BABY, I am so impressed with myself) but in the meantime, some short updates:
- W is already over a month old and is the giantest baby of all time. Not really, but he has amazing cheese rolls under his chin which I could eat with a spoon. He's over 5 kilos now and has burned through all the newborn clothing.
- So I had a baby out of my vagina [soz, spoiler alert for the birth story] and ended up with a few tears. Recovery has been not too bad, actually, but when will I ever feel brave enough to, you know, do it again? I told the midwife that abstinence was a particularly effective form of birth control when she went there last week.
- The sleep thing is shithouse, no? I hate daysleep so I'm going to bed by 8pm which seems to be keeping me functional. He's pretty reasonable at night and has developed a good three hourly pattern (eat, poop, sleep) but not so much keen on the sleeping during the day. I've just spent an hour letting him doze off on me and failing to transfer him to the bassinet. Can't say I blame him, cuddling is far nicer.
- Also shithouse: engorgement. Fuck me that was horrific. My left breast is markedly bigger than old righty and I not-so-fondly refer to it as the shit tit - there's always some lump and its always full to
bursting. I cannot wait for them to regulate.
- We had another weekend with my parents, with us travelling to them this time. W was three weeks and managed nicely, but Dad caught bronchitis on his trip to Auckland and was in hospice while we were
there. The last two or three weeks have seen quite a deterioration
for him, which is likely the effects of the tumour growing. It's
awful. We're there again next weekend. I feel time clutching at my
throat.
- Mum is doing it tough. God, I wish I could help.
- My MiL is here and my house has never been so spotless. I feel
terribly guilty as I fanny about cuddling the baby and she does all
the housework and cooks the meals and wishes I'd relax enough to let
her get paws on the baby. I should just relax and enjoy but the sight
of someone else handling my smalls is stressing me out.
- P continues to be the father I knew he'd be. He was fabulous onparental leave. Each day when he gets home from work he's genuinely
devastated when W is already in bed. He sits up for at least one
night feeding, marvelling at W. I have a feeling that watching P
watch W will be one of my favourite memories. I'm trying so hard to
imprint some of these things on my brain - the dim light, P's wonder,
W's lovely noises.
- I was doing the deliberate memory stocktake for Dad, for a long time
post-diagnosis. I've stopped, somewhere along the line. Somewhere
where the essence of Dad changed and he retreated to help himself
survive, as contradictory as that sounds. The only thing I cling to
now is the feel of his hands and the 'love you very muches' that end
each visit. That, and watching Dad with W. It breaks my heart as it
mends it too - the contradiction is profound.
Showing posts with label P. Show all posts
Showing posts with label P. Show all posts
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Saturday, 27 June 2015
38 & 3
It's the crack of dawn on Sunday and I am pleased because I managed to stay asleep until after 5am. The cats are thrilled I got up; the bikkie bowl is now full.
I sleep best before midnight, assuming no reflux, then the parade of toilet trips and resettling starts. Too many naps might have something to do with it, too. I resent the implication the terrible sleep is getting me ready for baby -- shouldn't I be packing away a good 8 hours a night now, while I still can? I guess it's like everything else that people say you should enjoy in your last days of pregnancy -- you know, doing all those couple things, going out by yourselves etc -- most of them are already off the cards because I can't sit in one place for too long, I can't have a drink anyway, my conversational skills are not what you'd call sparkling right now.
That sounds like a giant moan but really, I love being at home with my husband most of all just now in any case. Last night, he watched rugby while lying back on me and the baby (a little), feeling the kid belt his ear when he got too excited about the Hurricanes' peformance. It was truly very nice.
We waved our hippie flag at the yoga birth prep course yesterday. Actually, we waved our mainstream flag in front of many hippies because we were the only people booked in to give birth at the hospital, rather than Birthcare (Central Auckland's birthing unit, where epidurals are most certainly not available.) I have been enjoying practicing the birthing positions with P -- because of my heat and general discomfort/size, I haven't been as physically affectionate with him as I would normally be. Hanging off his neck to rock my hips and doing some gentle squats using each other as support was surprisingly intimate and relaxing. Here's hoping some of it sticks.
I got cross after speaking to Dad yesterday. I guess it's a sign of greediness and Dad's general stability over past weeks that when I hung up, I blurted to P that I wanted my old Dad back. Not all that long ago, even this version of Dad seemed impossible. I have been grateful, don't get me wrong, but I still reserve the right to miss him as he was. And don't worry, I can also see the day when I read this back and get furious because this is so, so much better than no Dad at all. I think I see this happening with Mum too - we all want continued improvement and when he has a bad day with blood pressure issues, or when he can't recall what was said or gets confused, we get frustrated now, rather than despairing. I suspect it's natural. At the very least, it's better than crying. I try not to let him see it.
I want to write him a letter, but what on earth do I say? Maybe just that it made my life to get a birthday card signed by him, wobbly and with two extra 'd's at the end of Dad and all. I need to do it now. I never want it to be too late.
I sleep best before midnight, assuming no reflux, then the parade of toilet trips and resettling starts. Too many naps might have something to do with it, too. I resent the implication the terrible sleep is getting me ready for baby -- shouldn't I be packing away a good 8 hours a night now, while I still can? I guess it's like everything else that people say you should enjoy in your last days of pregnancy -- you know, doing all those couple things, going out by yourselves etc -- most of them are already off the cards because I can't sit in one place for too long, I can't have a drink anyway, my conversational skills are not what you'd call sparkling right now.
That sounds like a giant moan but really, I love being at home with my husband most of all just now in any case. Last night, he watched rugby while lying back on me and the baby (a little), feeling the kid belt his ear when he got too excited about the Hurricanes' peformance. It was truly very nice.
We waved our hippie flag at the yoga birth prep course yesterday. Actually, we waved our mainstream flag in front of many hippies because we were the only people booked in to give birth at the hospital, rather than Birthcare (Central Auckland's birthing unit, where epidurals are most certainly not available.) I have been enjoying practicing the birthing positions with P -- because of my heat and general discomfort/size, I haven't been as physically affectionate with him as I would normally be. Hanging off his neck to rock my hips and doing some gentle squats using each other as support was surprisingly intimate and relaxing. Here's hoping some of it sticks.
I got cross after speaking to Dad yesterday. I guess it's a sign of greediness and Dad's general stability over past weeks that when I hung up, I blurted to P that I wanted my old Dad back. Not all that long ago, even this version of Dad seemed impossible. I have been grateful, don't get me wrong, but I still reserve the right to miss him as he was. And don't worry, I can also see the day when I read this back and get furious because this is so, so much better than no Dad at all. I think I see this happening with Mum too - we all want continued improvement and when he has a bad day with blood pressure issues, or when he can't recall what was said or gets confused, we get frustrated now, rather than despairing. I suspect it's natural. At the very least, it's better than crying. I try not to let him see it.
I want to write him a letter, but what on earth do I say? Maybe just that it made my life to get a birthday card signed by him, wobbly and with two extra 'd's at the end of Dad and all. I need to do it now. I never want it to be too late.
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
37 + 6
I don't know what I've done to our piece of shit laptop but I can't type or paste into the new post box on Blogger. I've been typing these last posts in Gmail and using my phone to paste them into Blogger but the formatting is completely screwed. However, it doesn't appear I care enough to fix the problem just at the moment. I am saving some of my weekly discretionary income at present and perhaps a
new laptop or tablet is called for. However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.
So, since I last posted two weeks ago? Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good. Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues. I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture. This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.
So, I have not yet had a baby. 38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough. I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.
Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues. Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief. I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross. I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks). So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care). For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.
Are we ready for a baby? I guess so. We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend. I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc. While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.
There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy). This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all. I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me. Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered). P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans. Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash. Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)
I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc. This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy. It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile. Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.
*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now. I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.
new laptop or tablet is called for. However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.
So, since I last posted two weeks ago? Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good. Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues. I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture. This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.
So, I have not yet had a baby. 38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough. I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.
Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues. Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief. I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross. I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks). So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care). For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.
Are we ready for a baby? I guess so. We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend. I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc. While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.
There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy). This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all. I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me. Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered). P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans. Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash. Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)
I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc. This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy. It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile. Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.
*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now. I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
36 years
The trip to the hospice helped, a lot. The seizures are now largely under control and the episodes of confusion have lessened. Following release from the hospice, we had about a week during which Dad's
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad. Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now. They can reminisce together, which is huge. Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.
I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room. They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house. I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed. My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges. P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.
We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday). It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date. I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder. I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them. Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think. No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support. I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.
At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her. As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad. Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time. We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long. I don't think we have that
long. I don't know.
And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death. The baby feels huge to me now. I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime). To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers. My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture. The indigestion has
eased. There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related. I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder. I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies. We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.
We've finished antenatal classes. At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression. She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry. I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to. Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.
Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary. 36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough. Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another. They had plans, together. Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy. She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return. She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad. Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross. Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder. It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum. It's awful and it'slovely, both.
Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad. Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now. They can reminisce together, which is huge. Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.
I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room. They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house. I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed. My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges. P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.
We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday). It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date. I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder. I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them. Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think. No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support. I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.
At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her. As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad. Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time. We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long. I don't think we have that
long. I don't know.
And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death. The baby feels huge to me now. I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime). To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers. My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture. The indigestion has
eased. There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related. I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder. I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies. We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.
We've finished antenatal classes. At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression. She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry. I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to. Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.
Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary. 36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough. Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another. They had plans, together. Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy. She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return. She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad. Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross. Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder. It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum. It's awful and it'slovely, both.
Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
pollyanna
Do you know, I've been cheerful today. I mean, what the fuck is that? I'd forgotten a bit what cheerful was like and I've missed it. Dad's had two good days in a row which, despite the fact that the third good day may not materialise, is apparently enough for me to relax for two minutes. Just call me Pollyanna.
I just really wanted to write that down. Something positive, hopeful even, for once. Oh don't get me wrong, my dad is still dying, I've made police complaints recently, my family is a mess, I'm woefully underprepared for impending parenthood, peeing about a dozen times a day, slugging apple cider vinegar as a homemade remedy for heartburn and thoroughly fucked off at my bank but I AM FEELING POSITIVE right here and right now. Here are some things I can say are genuinely good:
I just really wanted to write that down. Something positive, hopeful even, for once. Oh don't get me wrong, my dad is still dying, I've made police complaints recently, my family is a mess, I'm woefully underprepared for impending parenthood, peeing about a dozen times a day, slugging apple cider vinegar as a homemade remedy for heartburn and thoroughly fucked off at my bank but I AM FEELING POSITIVE right here and right now. Here are some things I can say are genuinely good:
- My in-laws have helped immensely with painting my freshly re-constructed bedroom. I love the paint colour we chose (Resene Half Athens Grey, should you care) and the room is lovely. They've been so wonderful to us.
- I listened to the rain on the roof last night and thought fondly of all the extra insulation we installed in the new bedroom as well as the heated towel rail in the bathroom (still not over it. It's like christmas every time I pick up a towel).
- I'm babysitting P's cousin's very cute baby this evening.
- I had a moment of real excitement about Cletus' arrival in July the other day. It's looking like I'm going to have a real live baby who is fathered by my favourite person and should be awesome in his or her own right. That's pretty great.
- My boss has been so understanding, patient and kind (as have my colleagues).
- My husband has been beyond. I love him.
- I made people laugh at yoga the other night, rather than being the quiet sad sack in the corner prone to a wobbly chin.
- Tabby cat has been sleeping by my belly. It's been lovely and soothing.
- I baked an excellent apple loaf that is basically butter and brown sugar and makes me fat and happy.
- I'm going to see my mum and dad this weekend.
Sunday, 12 April 2015
mid-April
The cloud of gloom has lifted a little bit. Dad's back at home and is a bit more himself, though still reasonably subdued. He was asking questions about our renovation on the phone, and while not proffering pearls of wisdom on the point as he would normally, the interest itself is incredibly satisfying to hear.
We're taking it as 'today is a good day, we'll see about tomorrow' every day at the moment, because inevitably the peaks and troughs will continue.
On Thursday I was on the point of abandoning everything again and jumping on a plane (the evident misery in Mum's voice and the pain Dad was in being too much to be so far away), but as things improved and my aunt confirmed she was going for a visit, I left it be. It was really nice to spend the entire weekend (aside from a grocery trip) in our house, snuggling the cats, baking, preparing meals for the kind volunteers helping with painting and digging kukuyu grass from the lawn (bizarre therapy, I know, but therapy nonetheless). P's been a saint. He gently suggested catching up with friends, but left it alone when I didn't display any enthusiasm. I sense he's chafing a bit from the confinement and the unrelenting renovation work but he's being so understanding and patient. I'm back with Mum and Dad Saturday morning at the latest.
Autumn set in yesterday, though we still managed to eat lunch outside. Grey cloud, a little later drizzle, rain overnight. Someone lit a fire nearby and the smoke smelled appropriate, even though it was all through my clean laundry fresh off the line. Our bedroom is very close to complete and will be lovely and warm once we move in following the wardrobe installation this Friday. We'll start the second bedroom immediately after, to prepare for the colder months to come.
We're taking it as 'today is a good day, we'll see about tomorrow' every day at the moment, because inevitably the peaks and troughs will continue.
On Thursday I was on the point of abandoning everything again and jumping on a plane (the evident misery in Mum's voice and the pain Dad was in being too much to be so far away), but as things improved and my aunt confirmed she was going for a visit, I left it be. It was really nice to spend the entire weekend (aside from a grocery trip) in our house, snuggling the cats, baking, preparing meals for the kind volunteers helping with painting and digging kukuyu grass from the lawn (bizarre therapy, I know, but therapy nonetheless). P's been a saint. He gently suggested catching up with friends, but left it alone when I didn't display any enthusiasm. I sense he's chafing a bit from the confinement and the unrelenting renovation work but he's being so understanding and patient. I'm back with Mum and Dad Saturday morning at the latest.
Autumn set in yesterday, though we still managed to eat lunch outside. Grey cloud, a little later drizzle, rain overnight. Someone lit a fire nearby and the smoke smelled appropriate, even though it was all through my clean laundry fresh off the line. Our bedroom is very close to complete and will be lovely and warm once we move in following the wardrobe installation this Friday. We'll start the second bedroom immediately after, to prepare for the colder months to come.
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
26+6
I am a bit waddly after a long day or sitting for extended periods. Rolling over at night is getting harder. Bending over occasions a grunt or two.
The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night. When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy. I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus.
P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.
I walk slowly up the hill to work.
At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits. The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway. At home, I mow the lawn steadily. I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much.
I baked muffins, twice. It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before.
I still have an innie. It's shallow and strained but it's tidy. When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more. When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.
All facets of my boobs are still expanding. I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.
If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless.
I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage. Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started. That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date. We'll get there, we tell ourselves.
I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow. I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it. I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday.
I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure. I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained.
It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday. He turned 32. I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped. We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip. It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they? His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys. We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18. I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.
I am well. The baby is well. I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.
The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night. When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy. I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus.
P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.
I walk slowly up the hill to work.
At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits. The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway. At home, I mow the lawn steadily. I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much.
I baked muffins, twice. It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before.
I still have an innie. It's shallow and strained but it's tidy. When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more. When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.
All facets of my boobs are still expanding. I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.
If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless.
I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage. Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started. That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date. We'll get there, we tell ourselves.
I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow. I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it. I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday.
I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure. I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained.
It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday. He turned 32. I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped. We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip. It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they? His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys. We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18. I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.
I am well. The baby is well. I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.
Thursday, 26 March 2015
update (my house is still standing, I'm not injured) (yet, anyway)
After another perfectly awful email, this time directly threatening our persons, we spent the night out of our house and pursued the police, asking them just to raise the fact of the complaints and investigation with the builder and to ask him to stop contacting us other than through formal channels. They visited him last night, I'm told, with "consequences [of his actions] explained and understood". So far, nothing further. I'll be going home this evening with P and trying to enjoy being there, in my space, with my family.
I trust we won't be chased further by him, but who knows. I believe the threats are bluster to try and squeeze a few more dollars out of us, but, like I said, who the fuck knows. In any case, we've taken them seriously out of an abundance of caution. You know, I'm a lawyer and I've seen far worse, but it really is different when you're the person intimately involved with the crime, not just the advisor.
Thank god for insurance, an excellent and responsive police force, an understanding workplace and P's family for accomodating and caring for us last night.
In the interim, Dad's not doing so well and Mum's struggling with the burden a bit, I think. I've booked last minute flights to see them this weekend, even though we're booked to go at Easter. I've rented a car so they don't have to make trips to the airport and even if all I do is sit quietly with Dad, at least Mum can have a breather and some space. He's still himself, but there are aspects of him that are changing, from what I'm able to tell over the phone. I need to see them both, I think.
In brighter news, how about that cricket world cup semi-final?! Poor old P had tickets to the game -- I wouldn't have otherwise felt sorry for him, but this was during the threat crisis and a very busy period at work, followed a hard weekend of work on the house and stag do for a close friend, at a time when he was dealing with a pregnant, ill wife, his father-in-law's illness and has the pressure of completing the renovation -- I think the stress of the game nearly gave him a heart attack! The result and the game were thrilling, of course, but when it comes to the wire like that it's stressful. My heart goes out to the South Africans but we're so excited for the final on Sunday :) I'm backing the Black Caps - go Kiwis!
I trust we won't be chased further by him, but who knows. I believe the threats are bluster to try and squeeze a few more dollars out of us, but, like I said, who the fuck knows. In any case, we've taken them seriously out of an abundance of caution. You know, I'm a lawyer and I've seen far worse, but it really is different when you're the person intimately involved with the crime, not just the advisor.
Thank god for insurance, an excellent and responsive police force, an understanding workplace and P's family for accomodating and caring for us last night.
In the interim, Dad's not doing so well and Mum's struggling with the burden a bit, I think. I've booked last minute flights to see them this weekend, even though we're booked to go at Easter. I've rented a car so they don't have to make trips to the airport and even if all I do is sit quietly with Dad, at least Mum can have a breather and some space. He's still himself, but there are aspects of him that are changing, from what I'm able to tell over the phone. I need to see them both, I think.
In brighter news, how about that cricket world cup semi-final?! Poor old P had tickets to the game -- I wouldn't have otherwise felt sorry for him, but this was during the threat crisis and a very busy period at work, followed a hard weekend of work on the house and stag do for a close friend, at a time when he was dealing with a pregnant, ill wife, his father-in-law's illness and has the pressure of completing the renovation -- I think the stress of the game nearly gave him a heart attack! The result and the game were thrilling, of course, but when it comes to the wire like that it's stressful. My heart goes out to the South Africans but we're so excited for the final on Sunday :) I'm backing the Black Caps - go Kiwis!
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
funny ha ha or funny peculiar
You might be surprised by this, but I'm going to a comedy show this evening. Yes, even though I normally detest staged comedy (exception might be made for Billy Connolly), am terrified of the potential for P to heckle (he thinks he's so clever, sigh) and have not, well, been in the mood for funny business of late,* I saw a sign for a show that P would like and purchased tickets out of the blue. I wanted to do something nice for him. He's been lovely despite the wasting away of our mutual social life -- do you know, I think he might actually like my company and is missing nights out together? Strange as it may seem -- that I thought he would both greatly enjoy a show and recognise it for the clear sacrifice it'll be on my part. Nothing like enjoying a side of martyrdom with your gesture of goodwill.
On Thursday I have a function for work. On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours. I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office. I'm such a drag at the moment.
Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others. Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke. I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose. Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again. It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation.
I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment. Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...
*This goes exactly as far as you think it does. Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.
On Thursday I have a function for work. On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours. I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office. I'm such a drag at the moment.
Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others. Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke. I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose. Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again. It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation.
I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment. Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...
*This goes exactly as far as you think it does. Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
progress
The renovations are actually going quite well, in case you were wondering. Gib went up in the master bedroom yesterday (hah, master bedroom - in a very wee house, it feels odd to describe anything that way!) and today I believe it'll get a new door and a frame for the wardrobe. With any luck the gibstopper will have been in too, to get the walls plastered.
The wardrobe interior and doors are planned and barring a few minor details, should be ordered shortly too. Assuming all the framing and stopping happens this week, P and I (well, P, I am mostly useless) only need to sand and fill the roof, sand the window and then paint the bejesus out of everything and voila, we should be able to move back in.
So yes, it's going well. Mostly because we're paying a professional this time. We've streamlined to our DIY strengths - we can demolish, insulate and paint. With me mostly out of action between visits to family and pregnancy, this being P's busiest time of the year at work and the looming baby deadline, we've decided that it makes sense to pay to get the work done quickly. This does fill my wee nesty heart with horror though, thinking about the unpaid months of parental leave looming on the horizon. So much so that I'm squirrelling tiny amounts of cash away for a rainy day unbeknownst to P. So far, I've saved the princely sum of $350 which isn't going to go far but honestly, just the act of dropping $20 in a savings account from time to time relieves the hormone-induced need to be financially savvy. We're not going to be destitute by losing my income for a while by any means, but I don't know, I'm like a spare change hoarder.
Bedroom 2 is next in line, but isn't getting a new wardrobe. We're just going to insulate, re-line, decorate and replace the door on that bad boy, because we still aren't sure where the bathrooms will eventually end up. The bathroom or rooms may be on the other side of the wall to bedroom 2 and if we decide to have a wee ensuite, the space where a wardrobe might go may need to be a doorway. We thought about leaving the room entirely alone, but it's not properly insulated and eventually this baby will move in there. I think it preferable that the baby have a warm dry space to sleep in, I guess.
(PS Tuesday was a good day, Dad was well enough to go back on chemo. Wednesday, unfortunately, not so hot, Dad feeling terrible. Rollercoaster is the cliche, I believe.)
The wardrobe interior and doors are planned and barring a few minor details, should be ordered shortly too. Assuming all the framing and stopping happens this week, P and I (well, P, I am mostly useless) only need to sand and fill the roof, sand the window and then paint the bejesus out of everything and voila, we should be able to move back in.
So yes, it's going well. Mostly because we're paying a professional this time. We've streamlined to our DIY strengths - we can demolish, insulate and paint. With me mostly out of action between visits to family and pregnancy, this being P's busiest time of the year at work and the looming baby deadline, we've decided that it makes sense to pay to get the work done quickly. This does fill my wee nesty heart with horror though, thinking about the unpaid months of parental leave looming on the horizon. So much so that I'm squirrelling tiny amounts of cash away for a rainy day unbeknownst to P. So far, I've saved the princely sum of $350 which isn't going to go far but honestly, just the act of dropping $20 in a savings account from time to time relieves the hormone-induced need to be financially savvy. We're not going to be destitute by losing my income for a while by any means, but I don't know, I'm like a spare change hoarder.
Bedroom 2 is next in line, but isn't getting a new wardrobe. We're just going to insulate, re-line, decorate and replace the door on that bad boy, because we still aren't sure where the bathrooms will eventually end up. The bathroom or rooms may be on the other side of the wall to bedroom 2 and if we decide to have a wee ensuite, the space where a wardrobe might go may need to be a doorway. We thought about leaving the room entirely alone, but it's not properly insulated and eventually this baby will move in there. I think it preferable that the baby have a warm dry space to sleep in, I guess.
(PS Tuesday was a good day, Dad was well enough to go back on chemo. Wednesday, unfortunately, not so hot, Dad feeling terrible. Rollercoaster is the cliche, I believe.)
Sunday, 30 November 2014
end of spring 2014
I was in Christchurch last week, alternatively squinting as the sun beat down on me through the windows of various meeting rooms or pushing back my hair as the wind blew a gale when I managed to escape outside. It's been a disappointing spring, really. Gusty, drizzly, grey. I shouldn't complain - in the two years since we returned to New Zealand, the seasons have outdone themselves. Aucklanders grow to expect six weeks of rain during spring, standard so there's nothing new with what we've been experiencing to date. It's just that springtime elsewhere seems to have bright days (notable exception: London, Spring 2012, miseryfest).
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
frazzled, variously
So work has seriously kicked off. I think it's that 'Christmas is coming' mentality setting in - oh fuck, say all of my clients, ever, at once, let's get that stuff sorted before the Christmas holidays! And I proceed to flip the flip out because I am incapable of any setting on my personal toaster between warm bread and JEEBERS TURN OFF THE SMOKE ALARMS.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
Monday, 13 October 2014
octoberish
Had the first casual wine on the back deck of the season, this weekend gone. It was a chardonnay I'd popped in the fridge in anticipation, waking on Saturday morning to a clear sky. Two friends visited to check out an open home over the back fence* and we ruminated over the marketing material over a glass or two of wine. I shared sunscreen with my visitors. Towels were drying on the washing line, flapping in a gentle breeze. Felt properly summerish and not a moment before time.
P had disappeared for the weekend on his annual migration to the river to 'catch fish' (for which, read: commune with nature in the company of male relations). He did manage to bring home a fat trout so I think he's assuaged the hunter-gatherer urges for another few months. Fishing has been a hot topic in our household, of late. He's organised a charter to catch kingfish or hapuka over the Christmas holidays, as well as a snapper expedition with work. I will gladly eat the spoils.
I'm planning the next set of work on the house. I booked a plumber to add some exterior taps (nothing's gonna die on my watch, this year! Filling the watering can in the bathtub got a bit tedious, after a while. No doubt I've just jinxed the summer into being wet, wet, wet.) I've also planned a quick refresh of the kitchen window. But the real buzz is getting a builder in to replace weatherboards in anticipation of an exterior paint job. We're going to leave that to the professionals, I think, but I'll find it satisfying nonetheless.
*It would be so nice if they bought the place but the eau-de-dog permeating the front rooms was powerful. I know it can be overcome but boy, it affects your first impression!
 |
| SUNDAY AFTERNOON GROUP SNOOZE |
P had disappeared for the weekend on his annual migration to the river to 'catch fish' (for which, read: commune with nature in the company of male relations). He did manage to bring home a fat trout so I think he's assuaged the hunter-gatherer urges for another few months. Fishing has been a hot topic in our household, of late. He's organised a charter to catch kingfish or hapuka over the Christmas holidays, as well as a snapper expedition with work. I will gladly eat the spoils.
I'm planning the next set of work on the house. I booked a plumber to add some exterior taps (nothing's gonna die on my watch, this year! Filling the watering can in the bathtub got a bit tedious, after a while. No doubt I've just jinxed the summer into being wet, wet, wet.) I've also planned a quick refresh of the kitchen window. But the real buzz is getting a builder in to replace weatherboards in anticipation of an exterior paint job. We're going to leave that to the professionals, I think, but I'll find it satisfying nonetheless.
 |
| OH HEY LOOK HERE IS MY NEW LIGHT FIXTURE IN THE DINING ROOM. SEE ALSO: CEILING OF SANDING DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM |
*It would be so nice if they bought the place but the eau-de-dog permeating the front rooms was powerful. I know it can be overcome but boy, it affects your first impression!
Monday, 15 September 2014
there is paint in my hairline, still
We have finally finished the dining room. Well, when I say finished, I mean, we've moved the dining table back in and all the major works are done, as of Sunday evening. We are still fighting about pendant lights and sideboards and the best arrangement of art and shelves and whatnot. But, I ate a meal at the table last night for the first time in a long time and we congratulated ourselves mightily. One room: took us thirteen and a half months to start, one month and three days to finish. At this rate, our house will be renovated some time this century!
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
why i'm unlikely to attend any revival of 'cats'
One of (my) life's little mysteries is why I don't like musical theatre as an adult, when I was completely enamoured of it as a child?
Here are my theories:
1) Bitterness and envy.
My parents took me to the Founder's Theatre in Hamilton to see My Fair Lady (starring Max Cryer; I forget who played Eliza, but she was beautiful, I thought) when I was about 7 or 8. My sister was deemed too young, or it was a treat for just me, I don't remember the details. In any case, she was dropped at the neighbours while Mum and Dad took me to the show. It was dinner theatre, I think, a late-80s small-town fancy-pants evening. I was entranced and decided then and there, that's what I want to be. The star. Long story short, I am now a lawyer, not a musical theatre performer, worse luck. Not cut out for it, sadly. Maybe I'm just jealous, which means I avoid watching?
2) P's curmudgeonliness is rubbing off.
I can't believe it's true, but I married a man who has never watched the Sound of Music. Or Grease. He has shunned two mainstay films of my childhood (the other being Pippi Longstocking. I haven't asked P to join the fan club for that one).
One of Auckland's main theatres is on our commute. As we pass, P mournfully intones things like, 'you're not going to make me take you to...Wicked, are you?' I truly believe he thinks Annie or Mamma Mia would scar him for life. He happily joins me for plays and has been the driving force behind visiting the opera and orchestral events, but he has drawn a very bright line at musical theatre. I'm afraid I've never seen him chant a chorus or, you know, shimmy. Perhaps it's catching?
3) Perversity and/or snobbery
I worry that something deep and dark in me doesn't want to enjoy musicals like many others do, simply because it's popular and not as 'high brow' as other pursuits. I'd like to think I'm not always an asshole, however, and there's plenty of evidence that I do not give two shits about 'high brow' culture - I often switch the car's radio to deeply uncool top 40 stations, I read and enjoy all sorts of books from all over the scale (Diana Gabaldon to Margaret Atwood to Dickens to Regency to Marian Keyes -- never, ever sports autobiographies -- although, most of the time I suppose you don't catch me reviewing or admitting to the 'low brow' stuff) (BTW, is it 'annoying' how I keep putting 'high/low brow' in quotes? It's because every time I write them I feel like an asshole. But then the quotes also make me feel assholey. Net result = 'asshole'?).
Could be a combo of the three I suppose. Or just a change of taste over time, much like discovering that olives are tasty, around the age of 17. Who knows?
(I really hope you didn't think this post was going anywhere, it totally wasn't and it didn't, I'm afraid. Soz about that.)
Here are my theories:
1) Bitterness and envy.
My parents took me to the Founder's Theatre in Hamilton to see My Fair Lady (starring Max Cryer; I forget who played Eliza, but she was beautiful, I thought) when I was about 7 or 8. My sister was deemed too young, or it was a treat for just me, I don't remember the details. In any case, she was dropped at the neighbours while Mum and Dad took me to the show. It was dinner theatre, I think, a late-80s small-town fancy-pants evening. I was entranced and decided then and there, that's what I want to be. The star. Long story short, I am now a lawyer, not a musical theatre performer, worse luck. Not cut out for it, sadly. Maybe I'm just jealous, which means I avoid watching?
2) P's curmudgeonliness is rubbing off.
I can't believe it's true, but I married a man who has never watched the Sound of Music. Or Grease. He has shunned two mainstay films of my childhood (the other being Pippi Longstocking. I haven't asked P to join the fan club for that one).
One of Auckland's main theatres is on our commute. As we pass, P mournfully intones things like, 'you're not going to make me take you to...Wicked, are you?' I truly believe he thinks Annie or Mamma Mia would scar him for life. He happily joins me for plays and has been the driving force behind visiting the opera and orchestral events, but he has drawn a very bright line at musical theatre. I'm afraid I've never seen him chant a chorus or, you know, shimmy. Perhaps it's catching?
3) Perversity and/or snobbery
I worry that something deep and dark in me doesn't want to enjoy musicals like many others do, simply because it's popular and not as 'high brow' as other pursuits. I'd like to think I'm not always an asshole, however, and there's plenty of evidence that I do not give two shits about 'high brow' culture - I often switch the car's radio to deeply uncool top 40 stations, I read and enjoy all sorts of books from all over the scale (Diana Gabaldon to Margaret Atwood to Dickens to Regency to Marian Keyes -- never, ever sports autobiographies -- although, most of the time I suppose you don't catch me reviewing or admitting to the 'low brow' stuff) (BTW, is it 'annoying' how I keep putting 'high/low brow' in quotes? It's because every time I write them I feel like an asshole. But then the quotes also make me feel assholey. Net result = 'asshole'?).
Could be a combo of the three I suppose. Or just a change of taste over time, much like discovering that olives are tasty, around the age of 17. Who knows?
(I really hope you didn't think this post was going anywhere, it totally wasn't and it didn't, I'm afraid. Soz about that.)
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
day 1, again
In the most roundabout way, I came to the realisation on the weekend that I ought to do something about my weight.
About three months ago, P was gifted a Westfield voucher, to spend at any store in a Westfield mall. At about the same time, he closed down an old credit card and used the last of his points to redeem a voucher. He picked a Bendon voucher for me to spend on frivolous underwear, something which we'd both enjoy. It was hosing down with rain on Sunday and the first voucher was nearly at the expiry date, so we decided to brave the mall.
I've written before that my boobs are not petite, or even mediumish. I am fairly tall and have a long torso, so I can carry some chest weight and I certainly do. I hated my boobs in my younger years because going braless (or even strapless bra'd) is not possible for me. I've learned to like them more as time has passed (familarity, I suppose, which in this case has not bred contempt but rather resignation and acceptance). I hemmed and hawed at Bendon over the bra selection, which was not extensive for those with a reasonably small band size but large cups. I eventually picked out a lovely one, but as I was assessing the fit in the mirror, the damage I've been doing to my midsection over the past couple of years was brutally apparent. We don't have a full length mirror at home, so I've only been looking at it from my own perspective, recently. I shrugged it off - fluorescent lighting always makes you look horrific, I thought.
Finished with the bra selection, we wandered to the electronics store to spend the other voucher. P eventually settled on Apple TV. We also bought an SD card converter thingee to get all our photographs from the camera to the iPad (P recently got one for work). I got antsy with all the people in the store and in the mall, so we scarpered for home.
Back at the Lavender Loveshack, P asked me to model my new knickers and I felt oddly reluctant. I shrugged him off. He set up the Apple TV instead, then downloaded a whole lot of photographs from the camera. Showing me how great the Apple TV is, he set up a slideshow of reasonably old photographs I haven't really seen before on our TV.
I freaked. Internally, I was berating myself that the photographs, none of which are particularly recent, were horrific. In my eyes, I was huge. I asked P to turn it off, snappily. He asked why. I wouldn't speak about it and he got cross.
I got up, and went for a run.
I downloaded food tracking apps and started a plank a day challenge.
I'm not going to be stupid about this. I'm running a 10k in November anyway with my sister (not that far, but she's on the mend from surgery on her ACL), so training is necessary. I could stand to cut back on the booze and treats. I'm not obese; I have a healthy BMI presently, for what that's worth (albeit at the high end of the range). I know that it is not realistic nor even desirable to expect that I'll lose over 10 kilograms. Five kilos would, however, make a world of difference to my own self-image.
By the by, P apologised for upsetting me. He thinks I get stupid about my self-image which might well be true but he recognised that what's required is compassion, not ire. In turn, I apologised for behaving petulantly.
I could be setting myself up for failure by writing about this at the outset, but processing it, writing it, makes me accountable, I hope.
About three months ago, P was gifted a Westfield voucher, to spend at any store in a Westfield mall. At about the same time, he closed down an old credit card and used the last of his points to redeem a voucher. He picked a Bendon voucher for me to spend on frivolous underwear, something which we'd both enjoy. It was hosing down with rain on Sunday and the first voucher was nearly at the expiry date, so we decided to brave the mall.
I've written before that my boobs are not petite, or even mediumish. I am fairly tall and have a long torso, so I can carry some chest weight and I certainly do. I hated my boobs in my younger years because going braless (or even strapless bra'd) is not possible for me. I've learned to like them more as time has passed (familarity, I suppose, which in this case has not bred contempt but rather resignation and acceptance). I hemmed and hawed at Bendon over the bra selection, which was not extensive for those with a reasonably small band size but large cups. I eventually picked out a lovely one, but as I was assessing the fit in the mirror, the damage I've been doing to my midsection over the past couple of years was brutally apparent. We don't have a full length mirror at home, so I've only been looking at it from my own perspective, recently. I shrugged it off - fluorescent lighting always makes you look horrific, I thought.
Finished with the bra selection, we wandered to the electronics store to spend the other voucher. P eventually settled on Apple TV. We also bought an SD card converter thingee to get all our photographs from the camera to the iPad (P recently got one for work). I got antsy with all the people in the store and in the mall, so we scarpered for home.
Back at the Lavender Loveshack, P asked me to model my new knickers and I felt oddly reluctant. I shrugged him off. He set up the Apple TV instead, then downloaded a whole lot of photographs from the camera. Showing me how great the Apple TV is, he set up a slideshow of reasonably old photographs I haven't really seen before on our TV.
I freaked. Internally, I was berating myself that the photographs, none of which are particularly recent, were horrific. In my eyes, I was huge. I asked P to turn it off, snappily. He asked why. I wouldn't speak about it and he got cross.
I got up, and went for a run.
I downloaded food tracking apps and started a plank a day challenge.
I'm not going to be stupid about this. I'm running a 10k in November anyway with my sister (not that far, but she's on the mend from surgery on her ACL), so training is necessary. I could stand to cut back on the booze and treats. I'm not obese; I have a healthy BMI presently, for what that's worth (albeit at the high end of the range). I know that it is not realistic nor even desirable to expect that I'll lose over 10 kilograms. Five kilos would, however, make a world of difference to my own self-image.
By the by, P apologised for upsetting me. He thinks I get stupid about my self-image which might well be true but he recognised that what's required is compassion, not ire. In turn, I apologised for behaving petulantly.
I could be setting myself up for failure by writing about this at the outset, but processing it, writing it, makes me accountable, I hope.
Monday, 4 August 2014
day in the life, winter 2014
Hi! For those who are new, I am A. I'm 32, f, married, no kids, 2 cats, from Auckland, New Zealand. My interests include books, wine, eating things, travelling, making questionable choices, being nosy and writing things about myself on the internet. I find that DiTL posts fit nicely with the latter of those two interests!
It's Friday 1 August 2014. It's winter in NZ and a working day for me.
*************************************
5.30am: wake up, but am NOT HAPPY. Lie in the dark, mentally turning over the questionable choices I made last night. We were sending off a colleague who is moving to London; predictably, one beer lead to many beers (the pub was going off! I was having a good time! meeting people! gossiping!), lead to Mickey Dees en route home (I am not proud), lead to furry mouth at 5.30am.
1-5ish: workity working. Incredibly unproductive this afternoon,
however. Drink at least two cups of tea.
9ish: finished with dinner, we wander down the road to Chapel Bar and have another bottle of wine between four, because FRIDAY NIGHT. PJ and his new girlfriend are supposed to be meeting us but they're still at dinner elsewhere, and are trying to scam us into going to the city for dancing. We're not quite in that zone!
10.30ish: wave goodbye to R & PW and walk home arm-in-arm with P. It's about a 15 minute walk, and while I don't remember the conversation, I do remember laughing most of the way home.
10.45: open the door to find Tabby and Cokes on the end of the bed, watching us mournfully. They forgive me when I fill up their bowls.
11pm: bed.
It's Friday 1 August 2014. It's winter in NZ and a working day for me.
*************************************
5.30am: wake up, but am NOT HAPPY. Lie in the dark, mentally turning over the questionable choices I made last night. We were sending off a colleague who is moving to London; predictably, one beer lead to many beers (the pub was going off! I was having a good time! meeting people! gossiping!), lead to Mickey Dees en route home (I am not proud), lead to furry mouth at 5.30am.
6.15am: finally bring myself to get out of
bed. Shake some bikkies into the cats’
bowls and discover the mess I made filling up the biscuit container when a bit
boozled last night. Turn on the
shower. It’s warmer outside this morning
thank god (about 10 degrees celcius) so the bathroom isn’t completely frigid
and I can disrobe without squeaking.
6.25am: flick on the kettle, desperate for tea.
 |
| THIS IS FIRST-RATE COMPELLING PHOTOJOURNALISM, RIGHT HERE |
6.26am: Tabitha hauls in her newest victim
through the cat flap. She has recently
graduated to trapping earthworms, crickets being in short supply this time of
year. Not wanting to waste a good worm
(or watch Tab torture a worm on my kitchen floor), I don a pair of
jandals to deliver the worm to our compost bin outside. Jandals, dressing gown and no knickers – good
thing the neighbouring house is empty at the moment because I am a sight to
behold. I choose not to take a picture
of that – count yourself lucky.
 |
| TABBY AND VICTIM AND THE TERRIBLE STATE OF THE FLOORING IN MY KITCHEN. AT LEAST WORMS ON AN ALREADY DECREPIT FLOOR AREN'T REALLY A BIG DEAL |
6.30am: flick on the TV to catch some
Commonwealth Games coverage while scoffing breakfast and drying my hair
etc. NZ has just won a bronze medal in
the Men’s Floor (Gymnastics) and a Gold in the Women’s Time Trial (Cycling) –
go Kiwis! The coverage is largely of lawn bowls this morning and it’s not quite
as thrilling to follow as, say, 100m sprints or the swimming.
6.40am: P emerges from the bedroom,
grumbling. As many bad life decisions as
I made last night, he made a few more out on the town a bunch of graduates from
his office, following a training session he ran for them. He likes to think he can keep up with a bunch
of 23 year olds, but looking at him this morning I have my doubts.
7.15am: I have managed to dress and make myself
mostly presentable. I am wearing opaque
tights, a red silk mullet dress fresh from the drycleaners, a black blazer with
a sheer back (sounds very odd when written like that) . P however is struggling to get his stuff
together and is yelling for help to find a grey cardigan. I don’t know where he thinks I might have
secretly stashed it, but if it’s not in the drawers or on the wardrobe rack,
he’s well out of luck.
 |
| OF NOTE: (1) MY HAIR STAYED LIKE THIS UNTIL I WAS APPROX. 5 STEPS OUT MY FRONT DOOR INTO THE FOG. REST OF DAY HAVE BEEN SHAGGY BEAST. (2) THE STATE OF THE LIVING ROOM BEHIND ME. THIS IS REAL LIFE, PEOPLE. PEPPER GRINDERS AND ALL. |
7.30am: the Great Man Cardi Hunt of 2014 has
proved unfruitful and most unsympathetically I throw another sweater at P,
telling him to put a sock in it. We
manage to depart the house for work.
7.30-8am: walk to work with P. He’s on rare form today and, upon hearing
about my DiTL post day, he announces ‘Well I’m looking hot today so you should definitely
take a picture of me for the internet’.
He raced over to a wall nearby and struck a pose and I nearly died
laughing – he thought he was taking the mickey out of magazine styling, but it
is so completely fashion blogger I nearly wet my pants.
 |
| I HOPE NONE OF YOU THINK THIS IS FOR SERIOUS. P'S TONGUE IS FIRMLY IN HIS CHEEK - THIS WAS DONE IN A HEARTBEAT AND WE RAN ON, LAUGHING TIL MY FACE HURT. I'VE ONLY JUST NOW NOTICED ALLTHE CIGGIE BUTTS AT HIS FEET, WHICH MAKES IT EVEN BETTER |
8am: arrive at work. Debrief with my secretary, who was also a
party to yesterday evening’s shenanigans.
She lasted longer than I did but is regretting it!
8-10.30: workity work work. Nothing thrilling, believe you me: drafting,
emailing, considering, reviewing. At about 9.45 I get up to go to the printer
and realise I have a terrible static situation going on with my dress. Slip or no slip, it’s a clinger which is just annoying because the colour is so nice
(a change from my usual drab wardrobe choices).
 |
| THIS PICTURE IS A FAIL AT ILLUSTRATING CLINGAGE, MOSTLY DEMONSTRATING INCREDIBLY WEIRD BODY SHAPE INSTEAD? IT'S THE ANGLE, I PROMISE! THAT'S NOT A GIANT BOOBSHELF! |
10.30: weekly morning tea for the firm with
speeches for colleague S, departing to the UK.
Stuff face with a scone, a cheerio (not the cereal, the sausage-y
type!), carrot sticks and scarper and take a wee sammie & pie for the road (I
don’t eat lunch on Fridays as I usually make a piggy of myself at morning tea). Tell the firm’s chef I love his work.
10.45-12.30: more work, until M calls me. She wants to go for a wander and a
smoothie. We look briefly at cases for
our cellphones. Mine is new and if I don’t
get a case, I’ll probably destroy it. No
dice making a purchase though, I want a pretty one! I order a green smoothie, which I feel good
about (if I don’t consider the quantities of frozen yoghurt in it).
 |
| WINTER. |
5.10pm: nip upstairs where Friday Night Drinks
are happening. Look at beersies and feel
ill. Say goodbye for the final time to S
and depart to meet P to scarper up to Ponsonby Road. Call my sister K on route, because we have to debrief about the amazing video someone from her hockey team posted on FB in which she is doing the Fat Amy Mermaid for her team's amusement. So funny, but she's worried her students might see it (she's a high school teacher).
6pm: Grand Central Bar, Ponsonby. We're meeting R and PW for drinks pre-dinner. R has recently been to Austria for work but
also managed to spend time in the UK with friends en route so I squeeze her for
gossip. It's warm enough that we're able to sit outside under the heaters and enjoy some fresh air for a change.
7ish: we get our call from Orphan’s Kitchen,
which doesn’t take reservations. We rush
in and order wine and tasty treats.
Highlights included smoked porae with a celeriac and green apple slaw, YUM. Hipster central - so many good beards and artfully mismatched water jugs. I love it. They also have a very tasty wine list, highly recommend.
 |
| A WEE SIGN ON THE EXTERIOR WALL OF THE BAR THAT MADE ME SMILE. |
9ish: finished with dinner, we wander down the road to Chapel Bar and have another bottle of wine between four, because FRIDAY NIGHT. PJ and his new girlfriend are supposed to be meeting us but they're still at dinner elsewhere, and are trying to scam us into going to the city for dancing. We're not quite in that zone!
10.30ish: wave goodbye to R & PW and walk home arm-in-arm with P. It's about a 15 minute walk, and while I don't remember the conversation, I do remember laughing most of the way home.
10.45: open the door to find Tabby and Cokes on the end of the bed, watching us mournfully. They forgive me when I fill up their bowls.
11pm: bed.
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