Gingerbread Woman

After all the false starts

I'm up and running again

you can find me at http://musclesthebabyandme.blogspot.com/

much love

me x

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:25 pm 0 comments

New Blog

You can now find me at

yougottamailalotoffrogs.blogspot.com

Julie

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:22 am 0 comments

Christmas Wishes

happy christmas everyone.

I am moving - as long promised, just haven't settled on a new blog title yet - promise to get it sorted before the new year.

This year has ended in the best possible fashion. I am heeding the very wise advice to not get too excited - sort of, but, just can't work out how to implement it. How do you keep yourself calm when something really exciting happens?

I met freddie's dad yesterday, I randomly sent him a text message asking him to meet me for coffee, and, after a year of not responding to such , admittedly infrequent, requests, he called. sod's law that after waiting a year for that call, I missed it. 4 times.
But called back and arranged to meet him.

He says he's sorry, that his head has been in the sand, but he's got a grip now. He says he wants to be involved, wants to meet fred, wants to be a decent parent. he says he hasn't got much to offer but he's working in a reptile centre, fulfilling his passion for all things animal, and he'll always be able to show his son giraffes and crocodiles and talk about blue toungued lizards and dolphins in depth. He says he's told his mum and a few decent friends. that he was mad with me for not asking him what we should do but telling him what I was going to do. he says he is only twenty five. I said 'yes, but you are 25, and that's not exactly a baby is it?'. I said I'd support him, make it easy for him, bend over backwards to facilitate a relationship with his son. I said he didn't need to make forever decisions until Freddie was old enough to remember him, he could just take it as it goes, get to know him, see how he feels, for now. I said his son is beautiful and smiley and giggly and a full on room lighter upper and i'm sure he'll adore him. Even though I'm a tad biased.

He says he's coming to visit in the new year. that he won't dissapear again. That he is a decent man. He says he loves kids and is brilliant with them.

Everyone else said 'keep your hopes in check'

Except mum who said that whilst she thought I'd done the right thing, all the right things, she worried that i was vulnerable and he was pretty and it could all go horribly pearshaped. I can see her point of view. I didn't want to fancy him, but I did. I'd like to say that I'm sure i can rise above that, and I am, but I'm not sure it will be easy. I'd just decided to start dating again, and just started chatting online to a lovely couple of local prospects as well, but I'm not sure I should do that either now. Frazer is still single. And by his own admission, he needs taking care of. I need to work out for myself how much of that I'm prepared to do in order to facilitate a relationship between him and Freddie, and where I need to draw the line. But, for now, I'm parking that to bask in the euphoria of what is certainly, progress. And, seeing if i can get myself a couple of dates with equally pretty, older, men whilst I wait, again, to hear from him.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:51 pm 0 comments

Moving on

Tis time to let go of the preggers tag, old news, it makes me very down with the kids (in Hastings the average age of motherhood seems to be at least half mine), but tis no longer true, and 'what's life without an attempt at truth?' I hear my inner smugone mumble.

I'll send round details of the new blog once she's up and running - I'm still at the title formation stage. In the meantime, here's a glimpse into the current ruminations of my mind

Who should I thank for being gifted the best and cuddliest baby on the planet?
How lucky am I to be offered the role of agent to my favourite photographer bar Annie Lebovitch? (where's the W in that?) and if any of you see opening for Hannah's work, preferably on the architectural side, do please let me know.
If Russell Brand's slept with 2000 women (see Saturday's Guardian), surely I'm in with a chance?' (and does the no mates rules count if he snogged Nicki when they were at school or does her recent matrimony invalidate that for all but the hubby and serious long term exes, like first love boy?)
What can I do to convince Freddie that boobs are cool again, when mine are failing to satisfy him? How long should I continue trying to do the three pronged; boob, bottle, pump, feeding when it's taking over my life and making both of us unhappy?
Sod the knight in shining armour / pretty tomboys, just show me a decent tiler / electrician.
given that it's exactly 11 months since my last fumble, surely it's time for a dating frenzy, but, assuming I can find the dates (do you doubt me?) who should I ask to babysit?
How much will changing the status from no kids to have kids impact on the volume and type of responses my profile gets when I reignite my girl and boy dating sites subscriptions?
If having a threesome has always been a (albeit pretty unorigional) fantasy, should I take up the offers I've had through the girl site and go for it whilst my boobs stand up, my face is half decent and i'm single, or, would I actually do my own head in if I did?
How did I spend five years with that woman and fail to see what a selfish cow she is? (sam came home, again wreaked havoc, cheated on her dogsitting girlfriend and managed to show that getting what she wants has no boundaries, least of all her friendships as she trampled over Hannah's lovelife for the second time).
How cool is it that a Government programme gives me access to baby yoga, baby massage, baby swimming, parenting courses and free counselling?
If I am to fulfill me dream of playing Martha from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, where should I start? This is a rhetorical question. (I've decided that the Stables Theatre in Hastings is as good a place as any - but think that's a role I'm probably a few years off yet).
What's my chances of being made voluntarily redundant from the civil service, and were I to be, what should I do instead?
It is time to ditch the toyboys / toygirls for an older lover?
Is Morocco really too risky a place to take a small baby?


Answers here. elsewhere, or at the new place

xx
p.s. The party's been postponed, sorry but I need a less dangerous kitchen for it, the gang weekend for Amy's birthday will go ahead on the 11th and that party will be rearranged for the new year.

posted by The Gypsy @ 11:49 pm 0 comments

Freddie Rocks

I was worried I wasn't ready for motherhood but actually, I love it. I thought maybe I'd miss the buzz of working, but whilst I know making money will become important pretty quickly, I have no desire to be anywhere but babyside. Freedie is a fabulously happy baby, possible because he seems to be permenantly nestled in one cleavage or another. Mum is being heroic and has him overnight at least once a week which staves off sleep deprivation, as does the fact he sleeps pretty well already. He's smiling now, especially if you blow raspberries on his stomach. Other than that if truth be told, he's not doing loads beyond the usual baby stuff, and I'm looking forward to the stage when what's going on in his head and the blank canvas that is his personality, become a little clearer.

Life by the seaside is lovely. Amy has provided me with a ready made social scene, 4 doors from home. She has usurped herself in hostessing, a weekend with the university gang provided more laughter than I can remember for years, and since then she's introduced me to a plethora of sexy single men over wine and board games on a weekly basis. It's been marvellous, I pack the baby up, wander 4 doors down, he tends to sleep through the frivolity and we stumble home in the early hours which takes all of 30 seconds.

The house is nearly finished and what's done is fabulous, however we've lost all the team, one went on a bender, another - who went on benders every evening made himself so ill he needed major surgery and nearly died and the decorater stropped off when the state of my kitchen floor which needed tiling, overwhelmed him. There's loads still to do but it's beginning to seem conquereable.

I'm offline at the moment, my PC still needs configuring, and I'm currently typing from Mum's bedroom and she wants to sleep, so I'll have to leave it here, there's loads still to tell but luckily, plenty of time to get round to it.

Thanks so much for the cards, pressies, visits, and friendship, you have, as always, been marvellous.

Joo T'adore x

posted by The Gypsy @ 9:52 pm 3 comments

Preggers Goes Pop

This post is for me, I needed to write it to stop thinking about the birth. It's not pretty and it competes in length with Rachel from friends post break up letter to Ross (although doesn't quite make 'thirty pages front and back').

Going to Porters wine bar, watching jazz and ending up in labour after an evening of Freddie dancing in my belly seems a perfectly reasonable thing to happen once but twice, now that's just a tad weird.

Weds 26th July, I get home to mum's around 11pm, we chat for half an hour, I go to bed, go out like a light and wake half an hour later knowing I need to get up.
I do so, my waters wash over my feet, within fifteen minutes the contractions are coming every two minutes, I'm suprised by how strong they are and how quickly they came on so powerfully.

Ring the hospital they say 'come in'. Ring Clare, arrange to meet her there. Get dressed, mum drives us there, faster than she usually drives.
I tell the midwives as I walk in 'I don't think this will take long'.

Duh. Didn't touch wood or anything.

We get settled, the midwives take an age to join us in our room, I'm convinced the baby will turn up before they do. Bloody hell it hurts.

I'm wearing a tens machine. This is the ultimate hippy birthing mum accesssory. A small battery operated machine that apparently sends electrodes to your nerve endings and ensures the body releases it's natural pain relievers, endorphines.

Or, for the more cynical amongst us, works basically as a distraction by giving the woman a few buttons to press and a series of increasingly complicated instructions to follow as the labour progresses.

And, if you get really lucky, as I did, gives you a series of major electric shocks catapulting you in all your naked glory accross the room shouting 'get it off, get it off now', the memory of which will provide those in the room at the time with a visually amusing image for years to come.

'God, is it suppoosed to hurt like this in your back?'

Quite common, yes, apparently.
Marvellous.

The midwives come, announce the contractions aren't long enough yet to justify me staying in hospital, we should go home.
I don't want to go home.
Mum and Clare do lots of glorious back rubbing, I do lots of breathing. Little sis says push out the pain with your breath, like this 'whoo' 'whoo' 'whoo'.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction. She says 'I know, tempting to say 'fuck off' isn't it? But just try it'.
I try it.
I'm not convinced.

We set up the music.
I get in the bath. Mum comes with me. The contractions are longer and stronger now, surely it's coming?

Clare comes, says they want us to go home, I lie low in the bathtub. The water helps. Mum helps. Sometimes I need to jump out, stand against the wall whilst mum rubs my back.
I can see how nakedness doesn't get to be an issue.
I don't care about anything, bar the pain.
'whoo' 'whoo' 'whoo'.
Clare sleeps whilst mum and I hide in the bathroom.
Mum tries her hardest to distract me with conversation. 'Do you want to take up horseriding again?' she asks, inviting the inevitable 'not right now, no' 'did you know that the ears grow throughout your life? there's another body part that also does, the nose I think'.
She rubs my back.
I think that this childbirth thing is pretty rubbish, but a lot less so because I have mum and little sis there, still, I can't resist taking the piss on the ear thing.

6am, out of the bath. Clare's talked the midwives into letting us stay, they say, 'you do know that this could go for days don't you?' I think how they don't understand, the baby is coming. 'whoo whoo whoo' says little sis, I echo her. I'm visualising lying on my belly at the edge of my cliff, pushing the clouds , which come in the full range of colours found in a packet of refreshers, over the ocean. 'whoo' 'whoo' 'whoo', I can't believe it actually helps but it does.
The contractions start to slow.
3pm, Amy joins us so mum can get a bit of kip. I've put on my face, knowing she won't be worried about me as long as my eyeliner is nicely shaded. It works, 'you've got your face on' she says with an audible sigh of 'ahh, this is ok' as she enters the room. It's very calm. Little sis is again encouraging me onto the big ball thing.

Now, I have to say, on the tour of the labour ward, the temptation to shout 'you are having a laugh aren't you?' was almost unsupressible when I saw the big blue balls . They look like the last thing worth having at your birth, only they're not. They allow mum and little sis to promise, though not deliver, a spacehopper race (minus the ears /handles), and, they're suprising comfortable to bounce on, and serve as an extra seat when the room gets busy. Only they make the contractions come on hard. Little sister thinks this is a good thing. But then she's not the one having them. They're hard enough as it is thank you very much.

Only they're not says the senior nurse, they're soft as, go home, the fact this isn't the worst pain I'll feel sends a shiver down my very sore spine. 'Or' says Annie, my glorious midwife, 'you can have another internal examination and if you're dilated enough you can stay, but chances are you won't be'.
I'm agreeing to go home faster than you can say 'let me outta here'.
We wait for them to do the release paperwork. We laugh a lot. I dance round the room to Voodoo child, which feels pretty apt.
They keep telling me to eat, to keep up my energy levels, I can't believe I'm being implored to take in high sugar foods, mum, always a weight watcher is suddenly shoving an array of cakes at me and bugger, I can't think of a time when food was ever so unappetising a suggestion.

7pm Thursday, we're home. I head back to the bath. Needless to say the contractions started strenthening practically the minute we walk in the door. By midnight we're heading back to hospital. I lean against the car for a particularly painful contraction before we set off and wonder if I can bear that much pain sitting down in a car. I can. Just, but inside I'm crying.

Externally I discovered I am not a screamer in times of incredible pain, which brought me some comfort. As did the knowledge that I'd gone 24 hours without drugs and had found resources inside myself to cope with pain I'd never have believed possible to cope with without chemical relief. I felt strong, proud of myself that I was still laughing, managing to get through it.

The screams of other women were one of the worse things about the hospital, my first thought was always, selfishly, 'horray, I've that bit to look forward to'.

Back at the hospital and the inevital examination is no longer delayable. It was a tribute to Annie's charm that I not only let her do it but agreed to be examined by Vanessa, the first year midwifery student she was coaching so supportively, but then as little sis whispered to me 'should be ok, she's got small hands'. It was.

The results were almost worth the procedure. I needed to get to 10cm dilated, I was at eight, shouldn't be long now.
Clare had a short snooze.

Annie broke the news that after over 24 hours without so much as a sniff of gas and air, a water birth was actually untenable as it had been too long since my waters had broken and the baby was at risk of infection. They needed to strap me to a bed and constantly monitor me. I'd stayed drug free in hope of using the birthing pool but with the news that I couldn't move around or do that, the desire to just get rid of the pain, which by this point was incredible despite any amount of tens magic or whoo whooing, led to a request for an epidural.

The procedure itself was terrifying, there is nothing like having a needle in your spine and the surgeon explain the possible extent of nerve damage if you flinch mid contraction, to see me rigid with fear I discovered. I told my body sternly that under no circumstances was it to contract at the point the needle went in, and amazingly, it obeyed. My contractions by now were every two minutes for 90 seconds, bar the three minute gap whilst the epidural was administered.

By 5am I was at 9 and a half centimetres.
'hurry up girl' said Annie 'I want to deliver this baby and I'm off shift at 7'.
Clare came back, mum popped out for a snooze.
The epidural was mindblowing. The relief instantaneous. My body finally had a break and I wanted to cry at the joy of it.

We turned our minds to a whole load of decisions I'd never known needed to be made. Did I want one of my birthing partners to cut the cord? Clare's face was exactly as mine would have been under the circumstances, a huge sign saying 'fuck off if you think I'd enjoy that'. We decided we should tell mum I wanted her to do it. It was meant to be a joke, only I forgot to tell her until three days later at which point she said she'd have liked to. Not that she got the chance. I was happy to let the afterbirth come out naturally, unless it took hours and hours in which case I may ask for the injection.
We turned our attention to the music, to idle chat, I was in fine form as were little sis, Annie and Vanessa. the mood was merry in our little room.

Annie couldn't find the contractions on the monitor, but the bloody thing had been playing up for a while so none of us took it seriously. She changed machine.
Still no sign.
I was definately having them I joked, like she hadn't spotted me doubled over in pain begging Clare to rub my back harder.

Then the pain hit, it was worse than any of the contractions, searing down my right side, I curled up. Annie was telling Vanessa to get someone. The anethestist I think, then the consultant, suddenly the room was filling with people, I couldn't focus on what was going on, I could only focus on the pain. I couldn't believe anything could feel this bad, and through an epidural. I looked over at the monitor. Where the baby's heartbeat had been, there was nothing.

I felt as if my own stopped. I remember fighting the panic, telling myself the only thing I could offer myself or the baby was to keep calm, that I wasn't going to change anything and panic would only make it worse. I was sure he was dead and remember thinking I could be heading that way too. I could see the panic in faces all around me. Who were all these people? Clare was telling me I needed an emergency cesarean, I nodded. Should she get mum now? I noodded again.

I asked. 'Is he dead?'. The monitor exploded to life. An audible sigh of relief all round. 'No', said the senior consultant. Who then explained I could continue with a natural birth if I wanted now that the baby was back, but he was facing the wrong way, crashing into my spine, and if he went down again they'd have to operate anyway. I explained the pain, said something was very wrong, they needed to just get him out.

Clare had gone to change, she came back looking like an extra from ER, testament to her own beauty that I remember thinking how good she looked with a blue hair net hat thing on.

She was magnificent in the operating theatre, she told me afterwards about the tray of huge metal instruments that went past her, but she never even flinched at the time, she just held my hand, and when it turned our my own hands were to weak, held my baby for me. He came out after ten minutes, 7.35am friday morning. He was the perfect distraction from the team of people washing up in my stomach. I didn't have the 'oh he's beautiful' emotion. It was replaced by 'are they normally that purple?' (nope) and relief that he was moving. Clare did the tear filled eyes bit for both of us, I was too tired. The waves of love came later, for now, I just needed to lie still.

Annie turned up in the recovery room.
'You're supposed to knock off at 7, it's 8, what you doing here?' I said 'oh I just had a bit of paperwork to finish' she replied, we both knew she was lying, I loved her for seeing us through.

posted by The Gypsy @ 1:14 am 2 comments

bungs down a quick gauntlet....

I asked Freddie's father a while ago to think of a middle name. I explained that I thought it would be a nice thing to be able to tell Fred in later years that his middle name came from his Dad. Frazer never got back.

As many of you know, I'm personally quite attached to Byron. I like the floaty shirt sleeve connotations, despite the fact I seem to be in a minority of one on that. I like the thought of adopting the name of a man I admire, whose work ranks amongst the classics of English literature and gets the romantic tag attached to boot. The fact that Byron Bay also happens to be my favourite place on the planet, a spiritual utopia built on an Aborigional healing site, with an ocean to send the camera crazy and is home to dolphins, whales and some of my favourite memories, all adds to the allure.

However, it's fair to say that the almost universal disapproval has got me doubting, it's also fair to say that I thought it worked better as a first name followed by Freddie, before Dad won the 'name him after grandad' lobby, Freddie Byron doesn't, I aquiest, sound quite right.

So I thought I'd throw it open. You know the routine by now, suggestions any which way you want to get them to me, and if anyone can equal Byron (even if equal is a subjective term in this context) I'll post options here and throw it open to a vote. Contributions optional, how you got there ditto, although the 'Byron is pants' brigade (you know who you are) will need to keep stumn from here on in if you don't offer alternatives.

Oh, and if you're thinking it's a flippant way to treat something that accompanies one for life, fear not. I'm big into the significance of naming, not for nothing did I get obsessed by the importance of it in (predominantly black) women's writing. I reckon that a bit of democracy, albeit with a mother's veto, is a way to show how much value I place both on naming my son and having you lot involved in every step of Freddie's journey.

popped xxx

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:46 am 1 comments

Bring on the dancing girls, get out your trumpets

But, not just yet. First, I just want to say 'respect sisters' to each and every lioness who ever did that, and to prostrate myself, Julie humbled at the temple of the warrioresses who return to the state of Childbirth, forearmed with knowledge of that place.

You may imagine dear blog watchers that I've been too distracted lately to think much about writing. You'd be wrong. I'm up to my eyes in muse, and, whilst all I want to do at times is wrap him in my arms and trace the outline of his face in wonder with my fingertips, the material that the last week has provided has been too rich not to write before I formally abandon the preggers tag and move to a new phase cyber home.

It may be slow progress though as the material is rawer than a wound running from hip to hip and the face tracing is only one in a basket of new distractions.

(Bows, not too low, and exits with a slightly weird walk, leaving the stage free to glisten with dancing girls as trumpeters strike up 'cry me a river / mad about the boy / voodoo child / my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard')

posted by The Gypsy @ 6:11 am 2 comments

Feeling like Lady Macbeth

I couldn't sleep last night. There was a Lebanese woman on the news who's husband and son had been killed who really got to me. She looked into the camera and in perfect English told her story and asked the world for help. I felt like she was addressing me personally and was overwhelmed by my inability to do anything to assist her.

I rejoined the Labour Party a few weeks ago, it wasn't a decision I came lightly to. I'd lapsed partly due to being overseas, partly due to finding it hard to stay motivated with Blair's record on foreign policy.

Watching the 'Yo Blair' 'I've hand knitted you a jumper Mr President' exhange,
Seeing Britian play puppet as the Ayatollah and the Cowboy give others bombs to use in a game of 'who's the big dick?',
Listening to the men I worked so hard for so often, use excuses to explain why a ceasefire is not worth calling for immediately....
Makes me want to tear up my shiny new membership card.
I'm sure the Tories would do the same..
I believe that the way to change things is from the inside not the outside
I know that in lots of other areas my party has a record I can be proud of, but
That woman is in my head and I feel like the blood of her family is on my hands as long as I support a party that has done so little to protect her.

I look around. I know that the foreign policy position of Number Ten doesn't reflect the membership. Where are the voices saying that though? Only Kim Howells has said anything I understand and I know enough to doubt whether that was anything other than an engineered sop to pacify the activists.

I miss Mo, and Robin.
Yet again the supposed outspoken big cheeses, the politicians famed for being blunt and being direct seem to have choked on their toungues. Gordon, predictably by now, is lying low. As if by saying nothing he can be all things to all people, except of course any kind of help to the blood soaked innocents.

I know from my time in NUS how powerful the pro Isreal lobby in London is. I got taken to Israel by them, on a trip designed to make me keep my mouth shut. I understand why so many others do exactly that. It takes a brave politician to stand up and run the risk of being labelled anti-semetic when actually, they're pro peace.

I miss the innocence of opposition. I miss being able to wear my politics with honour. I miss feeling like things, really can, only get better. I don't know what to do about it but I do know that I need to find another career because the one I'm in demands silence and silence breeds complicity. I don't know how yet, but I do know that I need to find a way to feel less impotent when I get asked again for my help.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:52 am 3 comments

false alarm apparently

not in labour at all said the midwife this morning. Thanks for all the ipod suggestions, the playlist is growing and I'm trying hard not to listen to the plethora of top tunes before the big event.

posted by The Gypsy @ 3:02 pm 0 comments

This one's for Ailsa

zip, nothing, nada. The machine's telling fibs I reckon.

posted by The Gypsy @ 4:00 pm 0 comments

Zen despite the crazymakers

I was up to see the sun rise this morning. Candyfloss colours striped the sky as the sun laid a golden path accross the ocean from the beach below the cliff at the end of Dad's garden to the faint line of the mist shrouded horizon. I was assuaged by biblical refernces, Jesus walking on water, the parting of the dead sea, and felt like the sun's bridge accross the ocean was a way of saying Freddie would live without barriers, a life with a clear path imprinted on the canvass of the natural world.

It was five fifteen, I am a tad sleep deprived, still, the natural inclination to take the piss out of myself has been resisted. Now is, I've decided, no time to get all witty at the expense of my spiritual side. I want to revel in gentleness, find things beautiful, be enveloped in mother nature's copuious bosom.

A few hours later, sat on the beach, sobbing for the first time in months, over a spectacular bit of simultaneous crazymaking by my mum and dad, (which I shan't recount for loyalty, and a fear you wouldn't belive the tales...) I reread this hand written entry and managed to rediscover zen with the image of my private sunrise.

I spent last night preparing for Fred's arrival in decadent fashion. I indulged in a pampering session that would suffice were Mr Depp himself coming for dinner. It isn't easy trying to shave, exfoliate and polish legs with a giant beachball obscuring the view of all but my inner ankle, regardless of bathtub angle. I thought of David Blunkett as I used my fingerips to check my handywork and wondered if that's why his usual look is stubbled. I did facepacks and hairpacks, slathered my skin in special bump potions. Everything about my body feels soft and sexy even if my breasts and bump are swelling faster than a behind plumped determinedly in a hornets nest.

I've swapped the witches skirt for new tactile trousers and a seriously flattering maternity top (both soft charcoal), and accessorised with my uber-bling deep green flower ring and a set of natural glossy wood beads that showcase hues of green and gold whilst resting on Freddie's feet.
I've done natural sunkissed make up, painted toes scarlet and finger nails clear in a wink to the supposed virgin/whore of everywoman. I feel fabulous.

'Ready Freddie?' I whisper to the bump
'nope, not yet' the belly replies.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:35 am 0 comments

all quiet on the contraction front

posted by The Gypsy @ 4:24 pm 0 comments

Everybody Deserves Music

Borrowed a title from the delectable Michael Franti, but honestly, I've been swamped for choices. Plan was to have a daily tally of top playlist suggestions, but it all went a bit mad yesterday when you lot filled my inbox with glorious abandon. Nicki spent a whole day not working, then sent through a revised and improved list, Ails's top ten made my mouth water, and the humour has been Fredtastic. Stand and deliver ('your money or your life, Fred'll take both' says lil sis), push it says Paddy, the drugs don't work ('cept the epidural which you should bloody have', lil sis again), Cherish by Jodeci says Justine, mac volunteers buttercup, Karina pops in Jewel's beautiful 'a life uncommon', thank you, you're all lush - your choices have been likewise and vats of apologies to those I haven't thanked here, the mail box is still filling up as we speak.

Deciding that everybody deserves music, I took Freddie out to hear Lianne Carol, a blow your head off jazz singer last night. T'was a fabulous evening, Lisa and her mum, dad and Maggie, Lisa's flatmate and lush new fella and a few random folk who were alone so we adopted them. Fred had a ball, bounced the night away, I did likewise, albeit only in my chair. It was one of those nights where I felt like there was nowhere in the world better to be than where I was. When Lianne sang cry me a river, I nearly did. When she covered Christina's (how exciting, new album out next month, can't wait) beautiful, she did it better than the dirty girl, and I found myself totally smitten with 'your song', even though I've always hated both the Elton and Leonard Cohen versions. She's singing with the BBC's big band for Radio 2, 9pm monday for any jazz fans.

Got home, headed to bed around half twelve and 45 minutes later was woken by abdominal pains. Dad was marvellous when I announced he needed to get up and drive me to hospital. I was calm, for his sake, even though inside I was convinced I'd killed the baby by having a glass and a half of wine. (honestly, this pregnancy thing makes opus dei-ers look chilled on the guiltometre- apparently this is what it's like from here on in). Fortunately it was nought so dramatic, he's fine, but I may be in the very early stages of labour. As was Dad when the nurse rolled on her rubber gloves and announced she was going to give me an internal whilst he was in the room. Here's a man who has never so much as shown me his bum in 34 years of fatherhood. He quite literally went green and shrank back into the armchair till I said 'honey, you can nip out if you prefer' at which point he leapt across the room like a man in no need of a new hip.

Suddenly all thoughts of angel wing mirrors are out, Clarence and I have spent the morning haring round mothercare for much less glamourous purchases, which I won't itemise for you, suffice to say - I never knew there were so many places to pop absorbant fabrics. I haven't packed my bag exactly, but I've got the contents for it. Naturally I've got a full make up bag and some fabulous accessories alongside the things I'm not thinking about. Fred's going to be fabulously dressed in some of the sexy baby clothes you lot have provided.

Don't panic, we're probably still days from full on contractions, although, sadly, as the nurse confirmed for me, somewhere between 12 and 20 (when i reckon my house will be habitatable for a little 'un) is looking a tad optimistic at this point. And, as I told the person who lamented spending all that time picking top tunes, I'll have them all with me, that's top job after the bag's been packed.

Wish me luck, and, I'll keep you posted

(Nearly not) Preggers

posted by The Gypsy @ 1:16 pm 0 comments

Please Read This - or, with a little help from your friends / calling all the heros

My life has a theme tune. There are songs that can flood me with memories and turn me from animated storyteller reaching the comedy climax to battler of the overflowing tear ducts in opening bars. Some songs have stayed with me for years making a plethora of impacts, Everything but the Girl's amplified heart, Groove Amarda's sandunes, Eddie Reader's joke.

Others offer just a glimpse of a moment. Driving through the country lanes in Nicki's old banger singing the Beautiful Souths a little time or primal scream's (all together as one?), dancing with Gavin and Sam as the bats came in to roost against the sunset of Centennial Park in Sydney with Roisin Murphy stood resplendent in a viking helmet and royal blue costume drama dress seducing the audience with (Moloko's) cannot contain this, swooning in the arms of the street hockey player famous, momentarily, for being in a tango advert at Southborough village hall as a teenager to crowded house's weather with you.
My friends, family, lovers, are all set to music in my head. As are places, events, eras. There's wedding songs, funeral songs, passion tunes, break up anthems, songs to dance round the kitchen to, songs to put on when my world needs sunshine... so it seems only right there should be a soundtrack to give birth to.

Not only does that give me something to get excited about over the whole childbirth thing, but it means there's a chance me, mum and little sis can distract ourselves from the less glamorous aspects of labour by harmonising round the birthing pool. (Been there, done it's, sshhhh please if that's wildly optimistic!)

I've checked, it's allowed, so all I need now is a playlist.
Amy has somewhat predictably volunteered Wham (for those that don't know her, her musical world revolves round them), I'm your man and wake me up before you go go to be precise. I've bagged here comes the sun and never tear us apart. Dad's thrown in wild thing (I don't know who he's referring to, best not to ask) So that's the first quarter of an hour seen to. Just need another 38 or so hours to be on the safe side. So this is a plea to all of you beautiful blog followers to help me fill the time. There are no rules, you can play with the title, pick a song for it's soothing or uplifting virtues, bung something in cos you like it, work on the basis that your choices will be at least a distraction from pain, get witty, crude, cheesy or anything else you feel like being, as long as it's involved. Every song offered will be added from itunes to my ipod, or popped onto 'freddie's welcome' if I already have it and they'll be played on random during the labour. That way I get to feel the glow of having all my friends in the same room, without putting any of us through that at one moment when that wouldn't actually be pleasurable. There's no genre boundaries, I'll struggle to love thrash metal but I'll play it if you volunteer it, other than that my tastes are pretty prolific. You can volunteer the rationale or throw me the artist and title.

Please pass this round to anyone who knows me but doesn't visit here, and get your suggestions to me any way you fancy, email, text, here, letter, carrier pigeon.. but don't leave it too long to think about cos I could need them at any moment, you can always add more later if we get there.

I'm actually smiling at the idea of something connected to childbirth, how cool is that, and how cool are you lot for being so fabulous that I know you'll come through on this....

Joo T'adore

posted by The Gypsy @ 5:47 pm 6 comments

Oh and

Lots of you have asked about whether I've heard from Fred's dad. The answer's no. The way I see it he didn't have a choice in whether I had the baby so he's entitled to a choice about whether to get involved. I actually feel lots of empathy for him, I suspect, if he choses to stay away, that's probably a tough call long term. He struck me as a decent guy embroiled in a battle with his self esteem and I'm not sure he'll be too kind with himself if he stays silent.

I may drop him a line when Fred's here just to say he's here, here's a picture, I'll support your decision if you stay away and won't bother you again, but this is where we are if you change your mind. I may just leave him be. I'm struggling with what's the right thing to do on that one so any private advice / wisdom welcome.

posted by The Gypsy @ 1:17 am 0 comments

Things to make you go 'yum'

Maybe it's the confirmation that the nasty scan man in London really did get it wrong and Fred in fact has a perfectly normal sized head, maybe it's the copious amounts of play time with the family or maybe I'm getting high on sea air, but I can't stop smiling.

Things that have made the smile broaden this week include

Walking out of my front door, turning right and finding a 270 degree panaroma featuring a castle, rolling hills, fishing boats, cliff edges and vats of ocean. I know it's going to be there but every time I see I inhale like I've just stumbled across it.
Hearing Nina Simone's acoustic version of 'here comes the sun'. And some song on the radio called voodoo girl I think, that I know will make the dance round the kitchen list.
Finding out little Toto the Cheetah cub survived the baboons in the BBC's big cat week (let's not go to the final episode where something else got him).
An afternoon giggling with Lisa, a sparkling artist I met in Sydney who's back from down under and moved round the corner.
All 376 of Nicki's beautiful wedding pictures, she looked like a 1950's movie star.
Walking across the cliffs and being assailed by the scent of salt water mixed with freshly mown grass.
Making ginger bread men with my neices.
An email from lovely man showcasing a playful side.
Knowing Ben came top of his year in his SATs scoring over 90% in maths and science.
Seeing my head images for my house come true and loving every one of them.

The house is a long way from finished but it's giving much pleasure now. The kitchen has been totally transformed, infused by light by swapping a tiny window for french doors and moving the units round. It's still full of cement buckets and bits of dismantled units but I can close my eyes and hear the laughter of hostessing friends in the future.
My bedroom and the nursery are almost finished, the colours are so calm and fresh I float up the stairs.

I'm loving the fact that for the first time as a homeowner, the decisions are mine alone there's no need for compromise. Sam was all minimialist by instinct, straight lines and hard edged surfaces. Her ideal homes were full of industrial materials and colours reminiscent of school uniforms, greys, taupes, navys, browns.
I don't know whether it's about discovering my own taste or bloody mindedness, but I've rebelled against every home we ever made together and gone uber feminine throughout, everything's curvy and tactile. Even the walls look soft enough to stroke. School uniform is out, soft aquarmarines and pastels are in. Where she would have had brilliant white, I've popped a splash of pink in to make it chalky. Where she would have kept the stainless steel lights, I've put a creamy chandalier with tiny crystals and dusty pink flowers in it's place.

I've been getting my priorites a bit wrong again, but having fun with the freedom to do so. I still need a cot mattress for example, but I've brought one of Lisa's paintings for the nursery, (how could I not? It's called head in the clouds and features a gangly giraffe with, you guessed it, his head...). I still need curtains and carpets, but I'm ok for ostrich feather table lamps and the kitschest mirror in the world, studded with lights to create huge shimmering angel wings once plugged in.

Hastings has gone all Boho and I'm revelling in it. Dad has an eclectic group of friends who gather for breakfast in a cafe opposite the fishing huts. I've started joining them, and loving it. There's Dave, the Daily Mail reading illiberal old git, side by side with Brian the hippy from the second hand book shop and Paddy the eccentric Irishman who sleeps in a beach hut.

I've found out about a writers group, am collecting info on the acting scene and have already been recruited to help the local Labour party with their press and campaigning strategies. Those activities are all on hold until the house is done and I've bonded with baby but I'm excited about getting to them at a later date.

This not working thing.....yum.

posted by The Gypsy @ 11:06 pm 0 comments

Mad about the boy

A friend asked at the weekend 'is it boys now then?'. Questions like this are pretty much par for the course for anyone honest enough to own the title bisexual (and you'd be suprised how many aren't, I know women who describe themselves as straight because, for example, 'i sleep with women but only love men' and lesbians who refuse to shift that tag despite having had long and if you probe, for a time at least, sexually and romantically fulfilling marriages). Whilst internet dating I was amazed by the number of men who had ticked the 'straight' box who sent me confessional emails explaining their same sex sex filled schooldays, because I hadn't. I understand all this. Bi isn't an easy title to wear. People assume you're into swinging or polymonogomy (I love that word, it's hilariously lacking it's own irony), or that life is all open relationships and ditching girls for boys and boys for girls. None of which have ever been what it's about for me.

I never intended to start dating women, I just fell for one and am too much of a romantic to let what feels like it may be a good thing, pass me by. When I met Hannah I had assumed that my first girlfriend was a one off and that dating men again was the future. Hannah had an initial impact that no one else had ever had. I felt, literally, blown across the room at the sight of her and realised pretty quickly that maybe the girl thing was more prolific than 'a' girl. Then, after two long term relationships with women, spanning more than a decade, it seemed silly on some levels to object when people used words to describe me other than bisexual. I knew I was a person not gender romantic, but explaining that and getting past all the phobia it entailed was something I only did around my gay friends, or when asked.

Things have shifted a tad for me lately though. Part of the attraction of women for me has always been that they're not men. The men in my life have, on the whole, been a bit rubbish. The women in my life have been emotionally intelligent, strong, loyal and easy to communicate with. I learnt pretty quickly that dating girls didn't actually guarantee a sense of sisterhood free from the worst of male female relationships, girlfriend number one went off to have tea with an ex and didn't come back for three days, for example. But I still felt until very recently, like, on the whole, women were much more my thing.

The physical revolution started with Germaine Greer's book on the beauty of boys, published about 2 years ago. Her photographs made me think of men as sexy again, not least because she had taken them. Then came the Balinese prince and the fact he was the first man to have the 'Hannah effect' on me, even if that was the relationship least likely to succeed ever. Then Frazer, Freddie's dad, who I really found sexy and had a very relaxed and amusing time with. So gradually, over a couple of years and the same number of men, I came to stop viewing sexiness as a predominantly female domain.

Then came the more important mental revolution. I'd always had a few lovely male friends, but they were countable on one hand and usually gay. Then my friends finally stopped being fucked about by men not nearly as interesting, beautiful or together as them, and started introducing me to men I actually enjoyed spending time with. Most of my close girlfriends are now settled with men I adore. It still suprises me because mostly, both the school girls and uni girls took a long time finding them and I'd assumed that was because such men didn't exist beyond the cinema and odd Nelson Mandela type.

I am finding this all a bit amazing actually. I feel like life has an miraculous way of delivering what you need, and that, given I'm entering a 'here comes the son' phase of my life, I needed to learn to celebrate men. That doesn't mean I've stopped celebrating women, just that for the first time, there's an equality around gender that I've been missing from my life. Ironically, it's taken this long for me actually to live up to my labels and values. I'm hoping it makes me a better mother as well as a more open minded woman.

posted by The Gypsy @ 9:58 am 0 comments

Life goes on, albeit not for Goldie

Who's carked it, or should that be carped it? I was at Jane Durkin's house at the time, enjoying the hedonism of friendships that have survived more than twenty years and are now more comfortable than a worn Parker Knoll. Lin, partner of Glin, the decorator / plumber / kitchen fitter, fished Goldie out and fed him to the seagulls apparently.

Dad & I clashed, he stormed out in full on diva-style last week, breaking my front door as he went. Then we talked. A really grown up conversation where I explained calmly how he needed to explain calmly to me what was going on in his head, rather than just shout me down every time I voiced a view, idea or thought. Things feel seismically different since and we're more chilled with each other than I can remember being for years.

I'm back to being a gypsy, carrying my bag around from bed to bed whilst Glin and Lin sleep in mine. They've actually worked out well. She's a marvellous northern woman who pretends rock but is obviously more marshmellow, especially when it comes to him. He's a drunk who had a major brain hermorragh several years ago, they've been friends for years and got together shortly after he left hospital. She saved his life he says. He camped out in the pub as a convalescent because he wasn't up to returning to his work as a plasterer. She decided after a few months that enough was enough and having dug out his toolkit, went out to find him some work. He isn't as quick as he once was, but she goes with him, mixes his cement, runs round doing the prep, and together, they are as good as he ever was in his prime, I suspect better. She's been a star, worth her weight in gold round my place. He's in bed today recovering she says, from a 'bug', he's more honest admitting it was a heavy weekend.

I'm over the birth fears, gave myself a stern talking to about how millions of women do it daily and have done throughout time, in circumstances a lot less priviledged than mine. Seems to have done the trick. I'm aiming for as drug and intervention free a labour as possible, but with the flexibility to bend that if bending is called for.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:54 am 0 comments

Wherefore art thou lioness?

One of the things I have always prided myself on is my courage. I have never for example, done that avoid someone thing when something uncomfortable had to be said or done. I have never seen difficulty as a reason to give up on anything or anyone I believe in. I've had scalpels down my throat without anesthetic. I've worked through addictions and betrayals, dated men en route to being women and women en route to being men. I've been abused for holding a girls hand in public and refused to let go nonetheless, been beaten up but not beaten. I've stood in front of someone I cared about to stop him being hurt when I had no certainty I wouldn't be, I've taken on a gang of teenage boys who followed me round a shop shouting about my cleavage, and after dunking one in the crevice he was so keen to comment on, silenced the lot of them.

I have I think, reasons to be proud of my bravery.

Only now, less than a month from Fred's due date, I seem to have misplaced it.

My midwife talks about birth plans, and I have to resist the temptation to pop my fingers in my ears and hum loudly.
My pregnacy book gives me a list of things to plan around the delivery, I slam it shut and pop it back in storage.
I can't even bring myself to pack an overnight bag.

People ask me if I'm excited, and I tell them I'm doing my pelvic floors to hold him in. I'm not joking.

Mum says very sensibly, 'darling it's a day of pain and unlike most pain, you know it'll end, you know why you're having it, and at the end you'll be holding something special'.

I agree with her. But, the book remains closed, the birth plan's not written and the bag isn't packed.

It's not the pain so much as the invasion of my body I fear. Here I am, for all the bravado, a girl who needs half a bottle of wine and preferably a couple of joints to get her kit off in front of someone for the first time....about to be poked and prodded by people I've never met before. I'm scared of having my waters broken which sounds nasty, of being cut, which makes me gag, of stirrups and forceps and stiches. I'm scared of feeling out of control whilst the medical profession make decisions about incisions and talk in a a language I don't immediately understand and that, if the going gets tough, they could be hesitant to translate.

I'm scared to make a plan in case I need to tear it up, and scared not to in case I get there and don't know how I want it to go if could all go to one.

I'm scared for Freddie and his big head, scared he'll be in distress or hurt on the way out, or have something wrong with him when he gets here.

I can't even decide whether I want to do the earth mum jasmine scented water birth holistic thing, or fill myself up and float away on a wave of pethadine and an epidural.

I do know, as the false labour pains keep reminding me, that actually at some point, ready or not, it's happening, and that when it does, I'll need the lioness. So if anyone sees her, please, give her a stroke and send her this way.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:26 am 2 comments

a case of mistaken identity rather than a miracle

But I promised not to go there.

Today has been stressful. Mostly of the father generated kind. Dad has been fabulous in helping with the house, but as is so often the case, his involvement comes at a price, usually yielding of complete control. He's stressed that I've followed his advice to get the guys to do tasks rather than rooms, i.e strip all the walls, then paint all the ceilings, and hence the whole place is in chaos. He's worried, as I am, that the baby will come before anything gets finished.

So he decided to lampoon Les, my terrific builder. Les is a love, so concerned was he about me sleeping in a house with a hole in the wall that he turned up with a full tool kit at 8am Saturday morning to build me a makeshift back door. Admittedly, it was mostly fabric and not hard to get through with the aid of say, a knife, but I loved him for it regardless.

He's also rearranged his other jobs to get my french windows in in the shortest possible time, thus solving the hole in the wall dilemma, and has just been an all round superstar.The argument centred round Les's reluctance to plumb in my kitchen, Les' argument, he's not a plumber. 'Fair enough' says the bump lugger, 'let's find a plumber then'. Ken,'do it on the cheap' Eason objects. Him and Les scream at each other for an hour, I retreat. Try and make amends when Dad has gone with vats of coffee and the advice of 'just say 'yes Ken' and then you and I will do our own thing Les'.

Dad then nearly starts on Shane who turns in a bit late, but I put my foot down and shoo him out the door.

An hour later he's back.
He's found a plumber, who also happens to be a plasterer and a decorator and horray, is moving into my house with his wife for two weeks tomorrow. So I need to find them a double bed and could Shane just stop making a decent job of my paintwork and finish it all off with a quick slap of paint so my bedroom is sorted cos they can sleep there seeing as how there is only one double bed, and could I get the place hoovered so they have a nice room, and sort out towels and bedding and stuff and by the way, they're a pair of boozers but harmless enough though I may want to find somewhere else to live cos they do row when they've had a few, but he comes for fifty quid a day and she comes with him.

I say 'Dad, could they stay with you tomorrow seeing as how they don't start work till Thursday as I've a paper to finish that's urgent for work, and a midwife appointment, and an antenatal class and could do without being under pressure to get this tip into guest house status at the same time and finding somewhere to stay to boot?' he says 'no way, they're not staying with me, I just have them work for me but not stay, they're at yours'.
I say, 'thanks very much, I appreciate you're trying to get me sorted, cheers for organising that'. I then mention that whilst I'd be glad of the help on the plastering and decorating front, I have stayed in a house this man has plumbed, and it was a tad on the noisy side (think space shuttle lift off every time you pull a chain / run a tap), but that didn't go down well so naturally they're starting with the plumbing.

Through all of this he's dreadful, lampooning me at one point for the fact there's a wardrobe in the top room left by the old inhabitants which will interefere with the plastering. I mention that lugging this down 4 flights of stairs to the unpacked stuff room whilst pregnant is not really an option, but whilst I know he'd go ballistic if I tried to, he's in an unreasonable mood and that fails to pacify him.

Maggie mentions that his hip is playing up quite badly, hence the short fuse and then rings me later to say she's got the bedding and towels, bless her as I have no washing machine due to the unplumbed kitchen and my towels are awaiting one.

I'd probably have cried if not screamed and started rocking, but as always there's someone looking after me. Today she sent the kind man from work who turns out not to think I'm nuts and has been the perfect gentle antedote to distract me from the roaring. Cathy also sent me a moving in card with a frog on the front and the words, 'frog / mermaid - quite similar?' inside, which made me laugh out loud.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:04 pm 0 comments

No loaves, but fishes

It's a miracle. I go to feed the fish this morning and the previously floppy Goldie is nipping round the pond Schumacher stylie. Better still, his mouth is healed and as I plop the food in, he's straight there, feasting post famine.

I'm almost tempted to get down on my knees and thank the deity, but, as a secular type, I just do a little 'cheers big woman' under my breath and hope that suffices.

This is, I promise, barring a relapse, the end of the fish posts.

x

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:31 am 0 comments

It's the quiet ones you have to watch

as any paramedic will tell you. Apparently if you're screaming, chances are you'll pull through.

So there I was getting all distracted by Goldie's dramatic non fish face-ness, when actually, t'was (another stunningly titled specimen, who, until his ceremony this morning didn't even merit naming) Silver, I should have kept an eye on.
Goldie is still swimming, Silver's in a bin sack awaiting collection.

My poor decorator, Shane, who I've kmown for at least a decade since he worked for Dad, is being very brave about it all. He doesn't wince or flinch when he turns up for work in the morning to have me do my best 'ignore the bump, pretend I'm sexy' impression as, all pathetically put on girlish helplessness, I hand him the fishing net and send him pondward for yet another carcass removal.

I'm not sure how he'll feel however when I tell him what's in store if Goldie's latest growth treatment fails to work magic. After another trip to fishworld, we've upped the strength of his medicine. I have however been warned that 'chances are love, it won't do a darn thing and you'll have to put him out of his misery'. Fishworld woman softened a little on seeing my face at this news, and, no doubt mistaking me for a fish fettishist, said, 'you never know though, some pull through'. I ventured, half an hour later, after stocking up on pond aloe vera to calm Goldie whilst he starves, to enquire as to the best method of stopping the suffering should it come to that. You'll be gladder than Shane to hear that popping him in a plastic bag and whacking him on the head with a saucepan was the expert recommendation. I haven't broached it with Shane yet, I'm preparing him with little gifts of ice lollies and 'it's so hot, do nip off early' in case I need the credit. On the upside, Goldie and his mates, plus all his accessories are in the local paper so Shane & I are hoping they'll be someone elses problem shortly. On the good news front, it seems that balancing precariously after a good clamber up some slabs of awful faux waterfall and getting elbow deep in waterfall weed, in order to clear the way for the water to fall, has reaped dividends. The goldfish pond appears no longer to be leaking.

The other silver lining in all this is that it gives me a chance to meet the neighbours, who are taking advantage of the lovely weather to relax seaward in their gardens. I'm not doing that partly due to the fact I'm stuck trying to write a paper for a Minister, and partly because my decking is currently a rubble dump. The other upside is that I'm not a 'what will the neighbours think?' woman, or else I'd be seriously concerned that they only see me sixteen times as day as I fly out the back door to stand on the steps and headcount the ponds or adjust the hosepipe.

There is a life beyond the fish, I will be able to blog once they've been flogged, but, I'm too tired to relay it so I'll pray on your knowledge that I may be a woman possessed, but I'll get it back in perspective.

xxx

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:45 pm 0 comments

fish and foolishness

My head is full of all the wrong things, I should be finishing off some work from home, trying to create a nest from a building site and making sure things like my overnight bag are sorted. Instead I'm dreaming of fish and making a man at work think I have mental health issues.

The fish in particular that's occupying my brain is an origionally named specimen, Goldie. He's actually a koi rather than a goldfish, which basically in his case means he's like a goldfish but a lot bigger. He's got a bad mouth. Fish pond man (who despite being notified of leaking pond and promising to show up to resolve the problems he's 'fixed' twice now, has been notably nowhere), said last time I needed some anti-groth stuff. Off I dutifully popeed to fish supply shop, yet still, Goldie's growth grows. He's a poor fish indeed now, unable to do that 'boob' 'boob' thing his species are so famed for. There was a point last week when he floated so lethargically that any outcome bar the flat on his back, eyes up to fish heaven seemed a remote dream. Then, with a slug of fresh water added to the pond, he perked up and fueled my 'go fighter fish' admiration. Now howeever his mouth is so sore that he's stopped eating, plus he seems to have some kind of wound on his fin. His pond mates are all verging on instant obesity as I keep throwing little pinches of fish food in his path in the hope he'll make it to a pellet, and bigger clumps elsewhere in the pond to distract the healthy fish from the food with his name on. He nearly makes it, gets to the surface, sees the pellet, sometimes sums up the energy to head towards it then, 'wham' either a better fed fish beats him to it or swims nearby blowing his fading frame off course.

He's going to die despite all his progress and knowing it, waiting for it, has obviously pervaded my subconscious. Last night's sleep was filled with images of goldie in various states of rigour mortis.

Awake, i'm contemplating a range of strategies, like moving him to a pond water with some hand dredged slime for familiarity filled bucket so he can feast in peace. But I suspect having watched him grab one tiny pellet last night that actually the food is proving hard to swallow with all the swelling round his mouth. Please fish pond man, show and know.

Honestly, here I am, the proud exclaimer of 'fish are really not my thing', several times this week, traumatised by the plight of the poor fellow. Must be the Aquarian in me.

Meanwhile the goldfish pond is hemorraging at an ever faster rate. Luckily I've been lent a (legal for fish ponds I'm assured) hosepipe, so the bucket trekking is over. Sadly, I'm not sure that so much fresh water is good for the fish and I now need to go find some special stuff that apparently makes it easier for them to adjust to being in a refilled environment at least twice a day.

On the warmer blooded front, there's a man from work I want to get to know. He's a man who's impressed me by being incredibly kind and having vats of integrity. Now, were he a woman, I'd just have got to know him, but as you know, I'm spectacularly rubbish at being relaxed around most hetrosexual men, and whilst this guy has nothing threatening about him whatsoever, I seem incapable of just being me around him. The inevitable conclusion to be drawn from this is that I have a crush. Which I haven't ruled out, but on many levels that seems wrong, he's, even for someone as unwedded to a 'type' as I am, not it. Or maybe I've just grown up and started to realised that looking like Mr Depp or a member of a boy band, is much less sexy than being a decent human being.
I haven't decided. And in fact, have no idea whether deciding is even something I'm ever likely to have the privildge of doing. He may not be single, or, if he is, he may decide that a heavily pregnant bisexual woman with a house full of holes and an fish obsession, is a very bad bet.
What I do know is that even if I don't have a crush, and it is just that I like him, I want him around. Maybe I'm so wedded to the idea because my circle is so female dominated and I want Freddie to know a few more lovely men than I do. Or maybe it's the eerily erotic dreams I keep having about this guy that is making my brain go wirey.

Anyway, I decided to just go for his friendship and take it from there, but I think I went for it a tad too enthusiastically and he now thinks I'm nuts.

This is not new, this is a lesson I should have learnt by now, I keep hoping that one day, someone will come along who goes 'exhurberance, marvellous' rather than 'lunatic, leggit' at the let's just get to know each other stage when I do brave and uncensored. I think I'm so nurtured by folk who know and love me that I forget those who don't, don't, and then by not moderating myself I overdose them. I feel like the problem I have is being my balanced self, either I'm none of me and a tongue tied idiot, or so much of me that the none of me seems more appealing.

It's all a tad embarrassing, given I work with this guy and that most of my friends at work are his friends too. I'm contemplating sending a 'sorry, should be more temperate' email, or even a 'damn, so easily scared' but know Ailsa would scream 'just leave it woman' so I've parked that thought until at least the end of next week. On the up side, I'm out of the office now and will have plenty of other stuff going on to distract me from my own blushes.

posted by The Gypsy @ 10:05 pm 2 comments

oh happy return

Finally I'm pc-re-enabled. So much has happened.....

The baby was a girl. Iris. Until they found testicles on my 7th scan. Apparently it was just how he was lying that hid them previously - the nice 7th scan lady even printed me off a picture of his tackle to 'give your husband, show him, everything good size'. No pictures of a face or ought but I've got his well formed baby bits nestled amongst the pages of a Salam Rushdie novel in case I locate that husband.

Marvellous.

The reason I had 7 (now 9) scans was cos said baby (we'll call him Freddie as I intend to) was worrying large. His head in particular was shown on scan 8 to be wider than any woman attached, as I am, to the notion of getting her flaps some action in the future, would want to contemplate.

Then today it turns out it may not be. It turns out that the nasty 8th scan man who seemed more interested in 'accidentally' rubbing my breasts whilst taking the last set of pictures, may have so distracted himself that the measurements he took were frankly, way off. Either that or by some strange quirk of fate my baby has actually shrunk in the last three weeks, a time known for being a growth spurt. Naturally I've now got to have scan 10 to check that the amazing growing baby isn't actually shrivelling.

I'm tempted to go find 8th scan man (who I should have known was bad news when his phone rang mid session with the Bond theme tune) and reduce his testicles to Freddie's size given that on the basis of freak scan, I missed one of my best friend's weddings as the Dr wouldn't give me a certificate to fly through fear that elephant head would drop out somewhere between London and Dublin.

I've moved. My house in London got flooded and I'm trying and failing to coordinate decorators so it can be rented. The prospects of two mortgage payments and no income on London for this month and next seems impossible to avoid. My new house in Hastings will be beautiful, but it's currently in that state of transition from hideous to gorgeous that requires everything to be worse before it's better. There's a hole where my kitchen wall should be, chunks of cement that came off with the wallpaper round the skirting of every bedroom, and my sink and kitchen units are currently propped up by the back door. Nothimgs unpacked to allow the builder / decorator space to work, so I climb over my life every morning to find a fresh pair of knickers.

I've got fish. Very fancy expensive big koi fish, and thousands of goldfish in two ponds that the previous inhabitants were due to empty and didn't. They are beautiful, and whilst they may be totally impractical to keep in a house I expect to fill with my neices, nephews and new baby, I would probably have enjoyed their beauty, had they not been the source of more trauma than both houses and all ten scans combined. So far three have died. It transpires through cancerous lumps rather than neglect, but I spent a few days self-flaggellating before fish pond man turned up to do a post mortem. One of the ponds is leaking and having entertained aforementioned fish pond expert three times with more cups of tea, and a wildly overpolite audience for his fish fettisism, I still seem to find myself running up and down steps at 8 months pregnant lugging buckets of water to the gasping goldfish so they can stop shivering in two centimetres of water, and swim again.

Fortunately amidst all this the pregnancy hormones seem to have finally kicked in a way that's worth talking about. I'm floating in a sea of calm and great humour. My friends and family have also been fabulous beyond even their own usual high standards. I managed to move with a posse of helpers who united to ensure I didn't lift so much as a glove. Jane Durks in particular who did both legs was superhuman, she was well aided at the London end with Ails and Renee, and in Hastings managed to get everything shifted with a posse of injured assistants, Dad in need of a hip replacement, Ray with a bad back, and Clare with pluresy. Great Grandma was on hand to get under her feet and mention repeatedly how big the house was.

Mum has been magic, running me to the hospital, buying groceries, coming round to help me clean up when the decorating debris gets too much. Dad has overseen the work on the house and keeps finding useful and expensive items like a spare sert of french doors, in his garage. Added to which I've been showered by a million acts of random kindness. Ames cooked dinner for all the helpers on move day, Simon invites me round to watch the footie on their telly, Cathy sent me sexy pink pyjamas in the post so I can sparkle whilst I tear on delivery day, my colleagues at work have picked up the pieces time and again whilst I've missed meetings due to collapsing ceilings and yet more hospital visits. Ails and Damo have lifted futons from dust drenched lofts and tucked me up on their sofa bed on a regular basis. Kate brough me a set of glamourous pashminas with breast feeding in mind, a lady at work knitted me a baby cardy......

I feel, amidst the mayhem, like I am still blessed with being the luckiest girl in the world.

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:54 pm 0 comments

It's been a funny old week at the Office

It's not every week the boss admits having a fling with a friend of yours and the paparazzi are queuing outside your office.

It's all been a tad tragic. Poor Tracey Temple has been gloriously dumped on by the establishment with the press running tales of how she'd be moved not only from her post but to another department altogether. That seems harsh. She's good at her job and has served as a civil servant for over two decades. There's thousands of us working for Big John and, at her level, they'd have had no trouble finding a role that wouldn't involve coming into contact with him.

We just recently had a survey round asking for views on how the Department views women. My answer would be that it's still a world where rank and gender have a role in how you're treated, and that this episode has served to underline that.

This morning's news that she's sold her story will no doubt put paid to any return at all but I can't help wondering if she'd have maintained her silence had she not been so swiftly shafted and her imminient departure announced in a week where she was sent into hiding. Ironically we had a circular come round senior staff which claimed that Tracey was being supported through the difficult circumstances. If having The Times announce your job has been whisked away, within 24hours of the story breaking is support, and being told that in a place where there are thousands of staff, spread accross a wide range of offices, there's no space left for you is manifestation of how it feels to be cosseted through turbulent times, I'd too have contemplated calling Mr Clifford.

Then there's the DPM.
He's married. He's taken a stupid risk with his career and his relationship. Yet I can't muster ought besides empathy for him. He came back to work and had the courage to eat his lunch in the staff canteen which I think showed his true colours. He's a courageous fellow who faces things head on.
He's also universally adored by staff.
He may not be some new age new Labour new man. But he's a boss who seems to genuinely surround himself with those best equipped to do the job. He has employed more senior women and gay staff than any other Minister I've worked with. I'm sure he's not a man without prejudice, but when it comes to recruitment and opportunity, he lives the ethos that other, more apparently right on men, purely pay lipservice to.
He entertains his staff. He treats his civil servants with respect, his asks their views and listens to their answers. Unlike another ministers who ooze contempt and superiority in every decision they make, who treat civil servants like idiots who need watching, telling, controlling... Big John knows how to empower his staff.

David Blunkett was known to have been almost universally hated by those who worked for him. I'm sure when his moment came there were many ready to administer the final shove.

What's been really interesting with the DPM and Tracey is that, in a week where the Sun has offered the lure of large wadges of cash for those to come forward who know them; the best that's elicited is a bitter ex-husband and ex wife of the ex husband.

The feelings I've picked up from everyone I've spoken to has been genuine sadness for all those involved, a story, that in itself, tells a thousand stories.

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:11 pm 2 comments

I get all excited

Bragging 'bout how I can post from work, then, whippp, rug from feet, it's no longer true. Sorry folks, I've been technologically adrift without writing to anchor me, and there's no sign of my PC yet. I am however promised it's en route, albeit via Australia. (I'm exaggerating, but honestly, the delivery man is giving Ms West a run on the procrastinating re getting stuff to me, front).

Life is better. I'm still shattered but that's just cos I'm a sudden insomniac and to all those who have 'all good practice this sleep deprivation malarky' on the tips of tongues, I say maybe but personally I'd forgo the training secure in the knowledge that's to come, overdosing on the stuff in order to be functional when it hits. Other than that I'm well. Which makes a nice change. Tadpole is wriggling around and I can feel him now. I'm not sure he's a he cos I had the tell me scan (and YES, of course I want to know, when did you ever hear me say 'in four months please' when asked the 'you want it now, or in four months?' question). Sadly the little bugger wouldn't play ball, rebelling already, not being in the vein of mummy at all, refusing to open it's legs so the nice scanner lady could get a good look. 'Well it'll have to be a surprise then' she said to one crestfallen fat girl with a jelly smeared belly.
Other than that all was well when tadpole went on the telly. Cept that she's got the world's biggest head (and I mean in diameter, on a scale of head measurements) rather than just that, baby's have heads that are too big, hence why their necks can't hold them up for ages, stuff. And the widest hips, in fact, on every measurement she came up right on the edge of 'normal' veering heartlessly towards the big, seriously big, rip mum open, end of scale. Lil sis says 'ignore the nasty nurse who told you that, he's just had a growth spurt, will surely slow down and be just the right size to slip out'. I refrain from saying 'like yours were, what with the forceps and stirrups and two hundred stitches', but only just. My eyes water imagining it, so I pop it in the box labeled 'plenty of time to go there', alongside the birthing chapters of my pregnancy books. I worry for a bit she's a fatty, which you all know is something I've battled with and wouldn't wish on any child of mine, then I read that she's just baggy skin and bones at this stage, and wish she was a fatty, cos fat wouldn't hurt like cartilage.

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:38 am 0 comments

Life is rubbish, with silver linings

So much to tell, and where to start?
I went to the circus, no ordinary ciurcus, cirque de soleil. It was beautiful, you'll not, I'm sure, be shocked to hear that not only did I fall in love with a troupe, but, it made me cry.
So did Brokeback mountain, so hard in fact that once the girls saw my post lights up face, in particular my mascara streaked chin, and giggled thus breaking the silence that had underlined my sobbing, I harumphed (you know that convulsive huh oo huh post crying / choking sound) and needed ten minutes to compose myself before being ready to leave the cinema.
March of the Penguins, you'll be pleased to hear, hardly made me cry at all.

So the hormones are up then.

I met a boy. Only I'm not sure he is a boy, well, I am sure he is but I'm not sure he thinks of himself as such.
He was a guy I had been emailing following my departure from Dating Direct. He was only looking for friends, I had stopped dating, we emailed fror 4 months, he screamed a lot about not wanting a relationship - I told him 'honey, I'm pregnant not desperate', and we met up. Naturally, I loved him.
He's a filmmaker, very unconventional, made my mind hurt. Used to be a Jehovah's witness, had lots of gender issues but could talk about the matriarchial / patriarchial leadership patterns of the Bonovor monkeys like no man I've ever met, oh, and he's married, in an open, we don't live together and we're not boyfriend and girlfriend way, to a poledancer.

We had a marvellous evening.
Then a brief email exchange in which I made it clear that I wasn't up for a 'freindship' like the range of other 'friendships' he described to me he had, and, naturally, I haven't heard from him since.

I'm not talking to my mum, or stepdad, or dad. It's a long story, but, suffice to say that between them they've made me cry more than Jake Gyllengorgeous did, so, having worked out that actually, all three of them are totally incapable of holding back on any level, and I can't take any more batterings right now, they've been popped in a box labelled 'uh huh - and I thought my hormones were haywire..'.
Naturally I'm gutted.

I'm selling my house, moving out of London and down to the sea.
My boss is trying to give half my job away because he sees the departure of my deputy as a chance to get another cheif, and has decided they'll need two people to carry on my job so I may as well just hand half over now.

I've said, fine, but send me on secondment somewhere then cos I'm not interested in half the role I am doing thanks very much... he hasn't replied.

So generally, in a nutshell, life has been pretty rubbish. Although

My birthday was beautiful. My friends were amazing. My sister was an angel.
I've got over the 'who'll adopt sproglet, please?' fear stage, and realised that actually, I do want to do this, and do this well.
I'm stopped vomiting, sleeping all the time, and am starting to feel human again.
It's good to know that, even in times of trouble, the silver linings are obvious.

posted by The Gypsy @ 5:31 pm 1 comments

Horray

I've discovered that the embargo on accessing this site from work has been lifted. I'm back in blogness. Naturally, I need to be a little discreet so I'll sign off now and pop back after hours.

Much Love

Preggers

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:09 pm 0 comments

Fear not regular blog followers

I haven't fallen down the bowl whilst attempting to simultaneously lean over and hold my own hair back. Nor has the interminable wait in the Whitechapel Albion Health Centre, least customer friendly doctors surgery in the world, forced me to leapfrog the desk and set up camp there until they find a way of not totally alienating each and every one of their clients.
Naught nearly so exciting has befallen me in fact.
I've been sleeping.
And, on the few occasions when getting out of bed seems remotely manageable (read, the days when work is unavoidable and I haul myself to and from), I've been technologically impoverished. I can't blog from work. The government secure, no tales of Jonny P from here dearie, internet, won't let me on.
It's due to change. A friend of a friend found me a full on PC for a bargain basement £120, and better still, is delivering it, but not for another few weeks.
I have however joined a library (which, we're so cool in Whitechapel we don't call a 'Library') think instead 'ideas centre', and, assuming that the entire student population of the East End aren't in on the same night (which is rarer than you'd think), I'll be back to semi-regular blogging in the meantime. Only they severely time limit me. Half an hour in peak.

Sixteen minutes left.
How come I used nearly half my time and I haven't told you anything yet? I've got three ready written blog entries to tell, saved up and lovingly edited and all, but sadly, time's too sparse, it'll have to be edited highlights.
I'm writing. Loads. I have left the telly in the loft. I've always fancied a telly-free existence and I've got it. It's lush, I'm doing loads of virtuous things that counteract the demon in my belly determined to bring me down.
I shouldn't be mean about Tadpole E.
He's cool, I saw him on a screen last week (another unofficial unscheduled one, following another short bout of bleeding), and no, I don't know yet that he's a he. I will find out though and will be happy to share the news. I just reckon he's a he.
He's nuts. It took them twenty minutes to measure his head (tells you how old he is apparently) because he wouldn't stop bouncing. Little sister said 'it's about reflecting you, if you're bouncingng he's bouncing'. Only I was midway through a week off work in which I had literally done nothing except sleep, sloth stylie. We've concluded he's got ADHD. That may not be the right letters but you know what i mean, Constant bouncing caffeine dosed stylie disorder.
Nine minutes
I saw the midwife last week. Albion health centre, appointment was ten. She let me in at 10.45.
Took a call at 10.55.
Made one at 11.
Had a long chat with her mate about how 'no way is your appointment today darling' at 11.05. Convinced said friend to see the next patient for her ( I assume, but, may be wrong in doing so, that said friend was a fellow midwife)in exchange for the forgotten antenatal appointment.
Popped off to deliver labels to friend at 11.15. Found a spare urine bottle for friend at 11.20. Bloodpressure thing 11.25. Took another call. Complained about how an hour was never long enough, asked me a few questions, popped in to do her mate's appointment as mate's son was waiting in the carpark, complained about being late for the clinic and then looked at me like I was a non-breastfeeding demon when i dared to ask a question. Threw me out two hours later.
Answer to question was no, the hospital here doesn't have a birthing room, has a labour ward. Synchronised pushing. Collective screaming. Multi-womb coordinated tearing.
Uh huh. That seals it. I'm moving out of London to deliver!
no minutes.
Miss you already

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:16 pm 2 comments

Next time, it's coming from a catalogue....

You start off going 'that's daft, how can I possibly be twelve weeks pregnant when I only had sex ten weeks ago?'. Well, I do. Those of you nicely coupled probably don't count down the days from your last shag in quite the same way.
Then you get used to it. Forget that it's nuts and start counting from two weeks before the actual deed with reckless abandon.
Then people start talking about trimesters. There's three, and working on the nine month thing, it's a natural assumption that each last three months. You hear a lot that the first and last ones are frankly, pants, but the middle one is where you get full of energy and bloom all over the shop. I assume I'm heading to the middle one today. Cos today is twelve weeks, three months, one trimester, right?
Wrong. I discover reading under the duvet, last night.
Suddenly, for the transformation from a weary vomiting pasty to blooming, the two weeks when you're not actually pregnant that count, don't.
I don't know I can bear another two weeks of this trimester.
Sleeping, even to a girl like me that's done it on floors, in lecture theatres, on long distance coaches, is suddenly a skill beyond me. Feeling human, ditto. After a couple of weeks of 'I'm not getting the morning sickness' euphoria (quite common at the start I've since read), it sledgehammers you. 24 / 7. Then there's the fact that the only things that cure it are carbs. Bland, tasteless, stodgy carbs. Potatoes, bread, crackers, biscuits. Food in fact with zero nutrients that turn one into a nothot, cross, bun.

It's enough to make me vow that if, and believe me, it's a bloody big if, I do decide to have more kids, they're, without a doubt, coming from the body of another hormone wracked wrench.

posted by The Gypsy @ 6:20 pm 0 comments

Who's the Daddy?

Is on a par with 'how much do you weight?' as a question I relish answering.

I'm not going to pretend I've never had a one night stand before. Some of you would, frankly, roar at the suggestion. It is true to say however that I've never had a one night stand with someone I knew absolutely nothing about, before. He was, you may remember, a very pretty man I met in a pub. Fresh out of college and enchanting on a number of levels. We had a beautiful night together. Having said that, it's not how I'd chose to have babies in my ideal life.

There's actually nothing like a decade of dating women to make child adoring women think about the role of the father. I'd decided I'd adopt or foster, assuming my relationships would continue to be with women. I'd decided that a kid needs a father, and bringing a kid into the world with a set of problems I've created is crazy, when there are so many kids with much worse problems I could solve. I'd decided that having a fathers involvement if I chose to have a kid in a female relationship, would be critical. Then realised how complicated that would be and flopped back, brain weary, onto the 'solve not create problems' pillow.

All of which, with the benefit of hindsight screams, 'ah huh, modern girl, you not heard of sleeping with your wellies on then?'
All of which screams, 'it's not like this is something you've not thought about, so think about it lady'.

I guess I had a hard time with Dad having a hard time partly because he didn't say anything I hadn't thought first when it came to the 'how could you?' strain of the conversation.
I know.

But we are where we are. I've written a lovely letter the boy, and we've talked, gently, kindly to each other. I've told him that given the choice I'd like my kid to know both it's parents. I can't do much more. If I never hear from him again, then letting him know how to contact us and reminding him gently that's is not too late is all I can do.
At a much later date.
For now I'm just leaving him be.
Hoping he'll come to the decision I'd like him to come to, of his own accord. What else can I do? Any pressure from me that led him there would be rubbish later down the line if it wasn't where he wanted to be.

Knowing that actually I need to think 'it's you and me baby and we'll be just fine'.

Which I do, but that doesn't stop me hoping.
Doesn't stop me checking my phone daily and waking up in the middle of every night to ponder if he'll be in touch. It's not about him, for me. I don't want anything for me. I just want to give my kid the best chance of being self assured, feeling adored and spending energy on something more positive that wondering why Daddy doesn't love them or what Daddy is like.

So, whilst I don't mind the nearest and dearest asking 'who's the Daddy', when random folk, like the bloke I dated once who I told to stop him pestering for a date, or the girl who took over my job down under and is now back at my office, ask. I tend to be a tad twitchy about the whole damn thing.

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:46 pm 3 comments

Testing

One, two, three. In a toilet at work. Positive. After ten minutes of determined squinting, faint as though.

Four, at Ailsa's, most likely positive

Five, at the Dr's, negative, then 'ooh, maybe positive, can't tell'.

Six, seven, at Annette's house. Negative

Eight, negative, but broken

Nine, at casualty, positive

Ten, at Annette's house again, positive

See, nothing to it, idiot proof.

posted by The Gypsy @ 1:48 am 0 comments