Day 22 of 'The Daily Post'.
When you’re in labour, your mind does odd things.
With my first, I remember thinking, with surprise, “Mrs McConnell is right. It IS just like doing a great big poo.” So much for all that talk of ‘bearing down’, and visualizing the petals of a flower gently opening.
I should explain. I had a friend and colleague called Holly McConnell. She hadn’t been through labour herself, but had quoted her mother’s pennyworth on the subject. I didn’t have the mental capacity to think this bit through when I was giving birth, but it later dawned on me that the woman in question wasn’t Mrs McConnell at all. That’s Holly’s married name. I had no idea what her maiden name was. But Mrs McConnell was good enough for me at the time, and if that bit of wisdom ever gets passed into formal theory for antenatal instruction, it should be called ‘the Mrs McConnell approach’ now for all time.
With my second and third labours, I followed the advice of a friend, and just kept my mind focused on the tea and toast that you are served once it’s all over. It tastes like no tea and toast has ever tasted before or since. It is the tea and toast to end all tea and toast. The anticipation of that tea and toast didn’t leave any mental space for odd stray thoughts, and of course by that time, I already knew that Mrs McConnell was right.
Did you have any random thoughts in labour? What’s your Mrs McConnell moment? Did the promise of tea and toast keep you going, or was it something else for you?
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Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Hardwood floors
Day 21 of 'The Daily Post'.
I am unique in the world. I don't see the attraction of hardwood floors.
Carpets are cosy and warm, and soft and quiet. Hardwood floors are clean and hygienic, I grant you that much, but they are noisy and have an unwelcoming look about them. Hardwood floors are unforgiving. Every speck of dust, every hair, every drop, every footprint shows. They are a pain to live with, unless you want to vacuum every day. I don't. Either want to vacuum every day, or vacuum every day.
Hardwood floors are for catalogue people. You know, the ones whose beds are made perfectly every morning, and whose sofas have scatter cushions beautifully placed on them. Whose bathrooms have bottles in neat rows, and no toothpaste smears round the basins. Whose hand towels hang square in the ring, and whose kitchens have clutter-free counters. Hardwood floors are for these people.
Kitchen counters. That's another one. I don't like granite kitchen counter tops. I just don't. I find them dark and oppressive, and they reflect the lights too much. I go to my kitchen for comfort and homeliness, not for a space age experience.
And yes, I know hardwood floors do not make much of a blog post, but this is day 21 of my month of daily posts, I've had 3 out of 3 children off sick in the past week, and you have to hand it to me, I did throw in granite counter tops at the last.
This is not a sponsored post, by the way.
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I am unique in the world. I don't see the attraction of hardwood floors.
Carpets are cosy and warm, and soft and quiet. Hardwood floors are clean and hygienic, I grant you that much, but they are noisy and have an unwelcoming look about them. Hardwood floors are unforgiving. Every speck of dust, every hair, every drop, every footprint shows. They are a pain to live with, unless you want to vacuum every day. I don't. Either want to vacuum every day, or vacuum every day.
Hardwood floors are for catalogue people. You know, the ones whose beds are made perfectly every morning, and whose sofas have scatter cushions beautifully placed on them. Whose bathrooms have bottles in neat rows, and no toothpaste smears round the basins. Whose hand towels hang square in the ring, and whose kitchens have clutter-free counters. Hardwood floors are for these people.
Kitchen counters. That's another one. I don't like granite kitchen counter tops. I just don't. I find them dark and oppressive, and they reflect the lights too much. I go to my kitchen for comfort and homeliness, not for a space age experience.
And yes, I know hardwood floors do not make much of a blog post, but this is day 21 of my month of daily posts, I've had 3 out of 3 children off sick in the past week, and you have to hand it to me, I did throw in granite counter tops at the last.
This is not a sponsored post, by the way.
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Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A real gentleman
Day 20 of 'The Daily Post'.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Monday, October 12, 2009
More words
Day 19 of 'The Daily Post'.
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Conversation
Day 18 of 'The Daily Post'.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Paul's house: take two
Day 17 of 'The Daily Post'.
Since I discovered the 'if you can type, you can make movies' website, we've been entertaining ourselves with it. It's quite fun when your kids get to the age when they are able to do this kind of thing with you, rather than building train tracks (though I do miss the train tracks). It's a little humiliating, because they are so much more adept at the technical stuff, but once you've got over that, you can have some laughs. And there's less to tidy up at the end of the afternoon.
The boys also enjoyed browsing Youtube with me (it's out of bounds for them on their own) for remixes of the 'Poo at Paul's' Glade advertisement.
12-yo has masterfully combined the two, and made his own movie version of Poo at Paul's. Here it is (and it's only 27 seconds).
Since I discovered the 'if you can type, you can make movies' website, we've been entertaining ourselves with it. It's quite fun when your kids get to the age when they are able to do this kind of thing with you, rather than building train tracks (though I do miss the train tracks). It's a little humiliating, because they are so much more adept at the technical stuff, but once you've got over that, you can have some laughs. And there's less to tidy up at the end of the afternoon.
The boys also enjoyed browsing Youtube with me (it's out of bounds for them on their own) for remixes of the 'Poo at Paul's' Glade advertisement.
12-yo has masterfully combined the two, and made his own movie version of Poo at Paul's. Here it is (and it's only 27 seconds).
Friday, October 9, 2009
In retrospect
Day 16 of 'The Daily Post'.
The Daily Post nearly ground to a halt today. With two ill children at home, I didn't think I'd get much blogging time. Two ill children with different complaints. One with headache and sore throat, and one with vomiting. You'd think they would have had the decency to co-ordinate illnesses.
Then I remembered a post I'd written when I was deep in the middle of chemotherapy. It was the school holidays, and I had such amazing, supportive friends, who helped me out at every turn. Husband was around and ran the show, but friends stood alongside him in an incredible way. For the children, they turned what could have been long, boring days into fun, exciting play dates.
But there was a darker side for me. I wrote about it at the time, but it seemed too sad to post. It feels ok to post it in retrospect, though, and it makes me glad for days like this, when my life is full of vomit in a bucket, fractious children, smelly laundry, washing-up to be done, relentless Spongebob Squarepants, and other such joy-giving things. Joy-giving, literally.
This is what I wrote a few weeks ago:
Kind people bring me books on CD, and dinner for tonight, and take my children away to play. They load my excited children into their cars, and wave and smile as they drive away. On the porch, I lift a hand and furrow my cheeks with my lips in reply.
Please bring back the children and take away the CDs.
I don’t want your lasagna. I want my life.
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The Daily Post nearly ground to a halt today. With two ill children at home, I didn't think I'd get much blogging time. Two ill children with different complaints. One with headache and sore throat, and one with vomiting. You'd think they would have had the decency to co-ordinate illnesses.
Then I remembered a post I'd written when I was deep in the middle of chemotherapy. It was the school holidays, and I had such amazing, supportive friends, who helped me out at every turn. Husband was around and ran the show, but friends stood alongside him in an incredible way. For the children, they turned what could have been long, boring days into fun, exciting play dates.
But there was a darker side for me. I wrote about it at the time, but it seemed too sad to post. It feels ok to post it in retrospect, though, and it makes me glad for days like this, when my life is full of vomit in a bucket, fractious children, smelly laundry, washing-up to be done, relentless Spongebob Squarepants, and other such joy-giving things. Joy-giving, literally.
This is what I wrote a few weeks ago:
Kind people bring me books on CD, and dinner for tonight, and take my children away to play. They load my excited children into their cars, and wave and smile as they drive away. On the porch, I lift a hand and furrow my cheeks with my lips in reply.
Please bring back the children and take away the CDs.
I don’t want your lasagna. I want my life.
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