A Blog Trilogy: The Last Weekend

I'm back...

Temporarily at least...

Or until I have to feed, burp, change, jiggle or rock the baby. Or, maybe I will have to stop blogging so I can just sit statuesque, holding my new addition perfectly still, monitoring my own breathing to ensure it doesn't interfere with the perfect peaceful aura needed to surround him..

But I do have some stories to tell, (or blogs to write) and I would like to get them published before lack of sleep and malnutrition (who will feed me?) erodes my remaining short term memory.

Therefore I have three blogs to write, or  one blog split into three parts; a trilogy of sorts:


The Last Weekend


The Baby


His First Christmas


Here I go with part one...

The Last Weekend.

So time rewinds to the weekend before my section date. the last weekend of life as we knew it, the weekend before someone else joined our family and everything tipped on its head again and the dynamics of three children would be juggled and dropped, picked back up and juggled again.. We were excited, slightly nervous, but most of all glad that the pregnancy was finally over. We planned to celebrate our last weekend of pregnancy; we were going to eat nothing but takeaways, wear nothing but pyjamas and ensure we had a huge stockpile of treats and DVD's. Well this was the last time I could use pregnancy as an excuse for such debauchery, so as a pregnant woman, I was going to go out with a bang!

Thursday arrived. I think it would be fair to say, as it was my last week of pregnancy, I was emotional. Emotional to the point that losing an eyelash would have bought on a blubbering, incoherent soliloquy. In addition, I was so forgetful that I had misplaced my glasses 3 times in a ten minute window.On this fine evening The Future Husband arrived home only to be sent straight down to the supermarket. Even though I was very pleased with myself for having done the weekly shop that afternoon, I appeared to have forgotten to pick up a couple of things needed for dinner. On the menu was sausage mash and onion gravy, so The FH was sent out to buy some sausages, potatoes and onions. He set off with eldest child in tow, and returned 15 minutes later empty handed and looking slightly pissed off.
"Where's my cash card Fran? It's not in my wallet!" (he had discovered this at the checkout).
"Shit! I must have put it back in my purse" I said fumbling in my handbag, then my coat pocket, then the pushchair, then the sides of the sofa... only to return empty handed. "I can't find my purse!"

I checked my parent's car. which I had temporarily kidnapped to get me and bump from A to B, the interior light was as much use as a flagging firefly but after some swearing and kicking of car upholstery I decided I'd lost my purse. I re-entered the house tearful, frantic and irrational. How could I have lost my purse, with his cash card in, the weekend before I was to have a baby? How would we get money? How would we cope? How would we LIVE?

Inside the house, things had got worse. I found The FH holding an ashen Fearless and both of them, and the Leather Arm Chair (the one worthy of a second trip to Ikea), were all covered in Fearless's vomit.

In clearing up the sick we found my purse under the chair, but like the rest of the living room, it had not escaped  the amazing range of the projectile vomit, but alas, the cash card still worked and The FH set off to retrieve the shopping from the kind supermarket cashier, who had stashed it behind her desk, hoping the dramas had not taken us into a shift change.

27 hours later...

Fearless slept soundly in my bed, after 12 hours of vomiting and diarrhoea, he was exhausted. Little O had been asleep an hour and for us adults there had not been a whisper of a takeaway, a snippet of a DVD or a sweet wrapper in sight... We had been far too busy cleaning up shit and spew to bother.


28 hours later Little O covered his bed with vomit, thus ensuring his bedroom and its contents were infused with the most pungent spewy aroma imaginable. Little O and a red bucket joined me in my bedroom and The FH had declared the boys' bedroom a no go area and pulled the spare mattress onto the landing and was going to sleep there as the smell alone could reduce a grown man to tears.

29 hours later and the red bucket was being well and truly made of use of as me and little O practised the technique of synchronised spewing.

30 hours later and I stepped over The FH's head for the 15th time as I made my way to the bathroom, trying to decide en route which end to stick down the loo first.

31 hours later and all 3 of us were elbowing each other out the way to reach the bog first and I actually lost the plot and became hysterical. As I sat on the loo, The FH groaning and griping on the landing floor and Little O booting the red bucket every time he wretched, I lost myself control somewhere between laughter and crying. The FH said he would have got up and given me a slap but he was too busy on concentrating on staying alive.

48 hours later and I found myself in the A and E.waiting room.

Now I wasn't there because of the bout of gastroenteritis.  Even though it had been bloody awful and there had been points I thought I was on the brink of death. It had been the fact I was unable to get out of bed the all day and when I did I couldn't bear weight on my right leg, where I noticed a protruding vein , an unusual bruise and some swelling. A quick call to the midwife and I was told to go to A&E because I could have DVT.

That morning I had already called in my parents to look after Fearless, who by the way now was as bright as a button, my dad had come to collect him and retrieve his car, which by the way wouldn't start as it had a dead battery because someone had left the interior light on all night. (In my defence it's hard to tell whether it's on or off because as far as giving off light goes it's fucking useless). So we dropped older, almost recovered, child off there and headed to sample the delights of A & E on a Saturday evening.

I sat in A&E holding a cardboard tub and praying I wouldn't have to do the whole throwing-up-in-public whilst heavily pregnant and surrounded by half battered, pissed teenage no-marks and a range of very sick elderly patients. One of whom was an Alzheimer's sufferer and every minute repeated the same three sentences: 1)We haven't been here before 2) What are we waiting for? AND 3) I want to home. It took my last ounce of energy to kick the FH whenever he started to hum Michael Bublé's 'Home' into my ear.

When being "seen" by a doctor I started to have contractions, so I was quickly shipped off to Maternity, where the contractions stopped, and they decided I probably didn't have DVT but they discovered due to the stomach bug, my pulse, temperature and blood pressure were all sky high so I needed to be kept in overnight.

On the upside, being disgustingly ill and contagious I got my own room - en suite! And a TV ll to myself, no Beebies in sight, with some on-demand films too. So I finally got to lie down, wearing pyjamas (we'd taken the hospital bag so we were prepared), whilst watching Mamma Mia (well it was quite a poor choice of films), unfortunately there wasn't any calorific delights, but I had an IV drip to top up my fluids, so I guess my needs were being met!

And the moral of the story is... be careful what you wish for, because some twisted bastard might actually be listening!

Organised? Me? In December?

The background. (Christmases from The Past ... in bullets)

• Trees are very important - in our house they were always real and always a Spruce, we always had two (a big one and a small one) and we would spend hours scouring Garden centres to get the perfect tree. Height, shape and bushiness all had to be considered.
• Our trees notoriously spend longer outside the house than they do inside the house and have been known to go up on Christmas Eve.
• We don't make deadlines - we hit them! Hit them right at the very last second. As the post office, on the very last day for parcel postage, starts to dim the lights and loosen the shutters our parcels for relatives are being boxed, sealed and labelled.
• I didn't know this country had a second class post till I left home.
• Last year my Sister posted my Mum's Cards, in the snow, at 8pm on Christmas Eve. She was still writing them at 7.45pm
• We have had French dinner guests for Christmas Dinner, that none of us have met before.
• One Year my Mum put her Christmas Cards up on boxing day.
• One Christmas Day My Mum rang her friend Margaret and asked if she had a spare orange she could borrow for the stuffing as she had forgotten to buy any. The phone call was brief and she looked puzzled, "I don't who that was" she said as she hung up "but I'm pretty sure I didn't ring Margaret". We made do with a lemon.
• Every single year I receive a present on boxing day, not as tradition, just someone usually finds one they forgot to wrap/give
• The table decoration is very important, and changes each year. One year it was a huge bowl of floating candles and poinsettia flower heads, which cracked mid meal, flooding the table and washing away the spouts and parsnips.
• The Christmas pudding wouldn't light one year because the brandy had been watered down so drastically by teenagers raiding the drinks cabinet
• One year my Mum invited her brother and his family to have Christmas with us. She, unfortunately, developed Flu on Christmas Eve and him and his wife cooked the Christmas dinner for the rest of us. They never came for Christmas again.
•  One year, we sent parcels to my Mum's family with dodgy labels she'd bought at the market - they all fell off. They had to open them and guess who they were for.

This Year...

Obviously, if you're having a c-section on the 14th of December your Christmas Eve (the cut off point) is moved to the 13th of December. So that means, without  question, no matter what, I will be organised this year.

But there are drawbacks to organising those who live in chaos, like trying to tame unruly hair, the chaos has its own ideas.

Example 1 - Cards

They were bought in October, Written the last week of November and posted a couple of days ago (didn't want to be the Christmas geek whose Card arrives first). "Well done Me" I thought, but then when lay in bed last night, letting my mind wander, had a flashback that I had wrote in most of them "Hope we can catch up in 2011" and "Hope 2011 rocks" and other new year good will gestures for the passing year! Duh!

Example 2 - Tree

Last weekend we bought it early, just so we were both involved in the decision making, as The FH didn't want to have to the burden of my disapproving glare haunting him over the holidays if he were forced to buy it on its own. "We'll just keep it out side for a week" I said, as there was no way a tree would be put up in my house any earlier than the 11th of December, especially not a Spruce.

"Have you put it in water?" My Mum asked the following Monday. Then I was quickly sent home, carrying a manky blue bucket, retrieved from the depths of her yard, to fill and put tree in. The next morning, after a blowy night, I opened the patio curtains to discover the back gate open and the tree missing "Fucking Hell someone's nicked my tree!" I gasped running barefoot outside, to discover it had merely been the wind that had blown the gate over and blown the tree of the decking.Every morning since then, I find the tree in a new part of the yard, fallen over, a little more bashed, a little less green, water bucket empty. By Sunday I am sure it will still be the the same shape, they we spent 45 minutes debating on in the nursery.

Example 3 - The Children's Cards

So last year I didn't factor in that I would have to give Christmas Cards to my child's nursery class. But it worked out quite well, as I waited till that last day of term so I could just them to the kids he got a card from. This year trying to be organised, there are 60 kids in reception and I have a four year old who isn't great with surnames - how do I differentiate between the four Rubys, 3 Graces and 6 Harrys? Guess who will be stalking the school name pegs on Monday morning?

The Death of a Doorbell.

Any of you remember the post about the Comedy Doorbell the FH ordered?

Well it's died. No longer will Chopsticks trickle through house, no more will Yankee Doodle Dandy announce a caller and no more will a cuckoo's crow scare delivery men. We are left again, with the old fashioned, abrupt and monotonous, hard-fisted knock.

After eight months of cringing when "Oh Me Darling" echoed up the stairs and eight months of apologising to salesmen, and postmen, as they had wait for Tchaikovsky's Ssymphony no. 6 to finish before they could begin their spiel, I'm slightly disappointed.

At first I was all I felt was relief as The FH fiddled with the batteries, unplugged and replugged the blasted contraption, pressed the bell for the umpteenth time then declared it was "knackered" and pointed at his two sons innocently playing in the playroom and mouthed "SWINES!". But then, disappointment set in; it was the last week of November and I had been secretly looking forward to ensuring the setting stayed on Jingle Bells and Silent Night through all of Decemeber. I was going to embrace the novelty, and the Christmas Spirit, answer the door with a beaming smile and blurting greetings of merriment, joke about mistletoe and  wear nothing but red and green, Alas, the doorbell had other ideas, or my children did... and sabotaged it.

So I reluctantly turn back to Mrs Scrooge, complaining about people putting their trees up in November, cursing hearing the same CD in the supermarket for eight weeks, turning down offers of mince pies EVERYWHERE I go and begrudgingly recording the Christmas Specials on CBeebies in the first week of December.

Doorbell, it seems you have missed your Christmas moment, and  so may have I.

A letter to the parent and child spaces at supermarkets...

Dear Family Parking Spaces,

I am glad you exist.

Generally my driving is not good, however, there is one thing I can do - I can reverse park. I actually hover over "exceptional" on the scale of reverse parking.  And, occasionally, when The FH is in the passenger seat (only if he has had a drink), we  have a moment similar to the end of Toy Story 2 when Buzz's wings pop out. "Good Jockeying" he says and smiles at me like I just scored Liverpool's winning goal. Normally  my passengers look terrified, so this compliment goes a long way. 


So I can reverse park - but can I get a car in between those two white lines in a car park? No I can not. So Parent and child spaces, when they invented you, I thought: "I need a child"


I have a theory about you, my dear and lovely family spaces. And even though my theory should enrage my feminist roots, it doesn't bother me. Because the fact that you little gems exist makes me so happy, I have no room left for anger or feminism.


The Official Reason You Were Invented -  you were devised to help parents get the children in and out of the car, park buggies safely at the side of the car and walk safely, with child, to and from the supermarket.


My Theory - That you were devised specifically for drivers like me - bad ones. And as there is still a (very sexist) notion that the majority of bad drivers are women, plus, statistically, more women still do the family shop, and, statistically, more women than men take their children to the supermarket, then the "Big Brains" thought they would make the lives of those poor, little women, who struggle to make a decision at a roundabout, easier by giving them more room to park in when they are shopping.


And do I find my theory offensive? No it don't. Because I am that woman. I single-handedly shame the whole of my gender when I get behind the wheel. I am the woman who gives good female drivers a bad name. And for all you good-women-drivers out there, you know that story an arrogant, sexist turd tells that always begins with "I was behind this woman driver..." I am sorry you had to listen to that; that was woman probably me.


Therefore, Family Spaces I would like to thank you, not just for the extension of the white lines, but you also encourage me to take my children shopping more, something without your existence would be a rarity.


Though, I do have a confession whilst I have been pregnant, I have been even been abusing the privilege; I have actually parked upon  you without any children in my car. But I honestly thought you would be sympathetic as I dare the car park attendant to challenge me, my rant fully prepared, (which included asking him to squeeze a bump this size out of a car door in a regular space and explaining how if there was ever a time a person needed an extra 50cm to help them park it is was when they were 8 months pregnant).


Take care Family Spaces and may you continue to bring joy to the car park, the bad driver and the world!


Yours,


The woman who got a license based purely on her reverse park.

The major flaw with internet shopping

I love Internet shopping. I spend far too much time on the Internet, I am aware of this, but for ease, convenience and pure introverted pleasure, Internet shopping is marvellous!

Since having children I can count the amount of times we have been to a BIG supermarket to do a BIG shop on one hand. And it is rare, that a friend or relative living further afield than a 1 mile radius, will receive a gift, that hasn't been bought online, wrapped beautifully by someone else and sporting a typed gift message.

However, there is one major flaw with Internet shopping... 

Sometimes a picture can be very deceptive.

Example 1
My sister (Curls) and her partner were looking for a coal bunker. They were aghast at the prices. Much more expensive than they thought. Then, whilst trawling e bay, he found a cheap one. "Look at this, it's only 8 quid"
She had a look. "Yeah that looks great - get it, quick before it goes"
But being the sensible one in their relationship, her partner said "I think I'll go measure the space outside first, just to make sure it fits. What are the dimensions?"
Curls read them, then with a  puzzled expression said "3 centimetres by 5 centimetres.? That can't be right?"
He took the laptop from her, scrutinized the description for a few moments then fell about laughing "It's a coal bunker for a fucking doll's house"


Example 2
A friend had just started doing their weekly food shop online. Originally, they had been against the idea, but had been won round when completing their first shop by the amount of bargains they had found, that they would have usually missed in the Supermarket. They were a little excited when it arrived (don't judge - I was too). He immediately rooted through the shopping bags in search of the bargain toiletries he'd purchased.
 "I still can't believe how cheap they were, I normally pay triple that for them" he said, then pausing and pulled them out the bag "Why are they so small?" he asked holding travel size deodorant and moisturiser in each hand.


Example 3
My Mum had been trying to get hold of some vintage cooking utensils.

Finally, she found some on e bay. But a bit disappointed when they arrived.

Here they are... lovely, authentic and beautifully formed.

And next to a regular sized cup...

They are quite small!



Vintage TOY utensils - who knew?

So that's what I sound like when I'm really scared...

Last night, we had no tea and watched X Factor in bed, things were all a bit muddled with the clock change.

After X Factor it dawned on me that a 7 and half month pregnant woman needs to eat something to get through the night, so I left The FH in bed, netbook on his stomach, trawling e bay , whilst I went in hot pursuit of a tuna and cucumber sandwich with too much butter.

I considered putting on a dressing gown, fully aware that a once short nightie, was now skin tight and indecently short due to the material taken up covering the bump, but then thought "sod it" anyone peeping into my back windows is clearly too desperate to be consequential.

There I was, at 9pm, all lights on downstairs, pitch black outside, hunting for the salad cream in the fridge, when I heard a noise outside. I am a little bit neurotic about noises and have an overactive imagination. Usually I chide myself for being jumpy, but something had unerved me to the point I had to check the patio doors. Just as I got to them, I caught sight of a figure, tangled up in the washing line, heading towards me.

The next sound that came out of my mouth is a sound I had never heard before. In my head I was shouting The FH, but in reality I warbled a high pitched yelp, that had such an impact he appeared in seconds. It was the sound of true fear.

The figure was our builder picking up some ladders he'd left behind a fortnight ago. He had texted earlier, but the iphone had been drained to empty by the kids.

He was mortified, the builder, who is polite and apologetic by nature. I like to think his mortification came from having terrified me to a quivering wreck, and he overloooked the fact my arse was hanging out of my nightie as I stood, frozen to the spot, considering my weapon of choice, warbling.

I can honestly say this is the most terrified I have ever been...
And this is what I have learnt...

• In a crisis I think too much... Phone? Knife? Lock door? Grab broom? Is this person pissed? etc etc
• When it comes to Fight or Flight? I Freeze.
• Those screams girls make in horror films - so unrealistic - it's a warble!
• The FH will throw a netbook across a room if he believes I am in real danger.
• If you trult believe you are about to die, you don't think about your underwear - even if you're not wearing any at all!

Three things that have tickled me

One

I was sat at my Mums, one child at school, the other asleep; I was relaxing. The phone rang, as it often does there. My Mum answered, already shirked as the caller display hinted it may be a cold caller.

"Hello" she said, appearing, cold, abrupt and stern all at once.

No answer.

"Hello" she repeated, louder and even sterner.

Nothing.

 She hung up, pressing the disconnect button with drama, flourish and anger.

"They make me so cross" she said to me.

Next minute the phone rang again.

"Hello" she shouted with unmistakeable fury bubbling in her tone.

"Did you just hang up on me?" a male asked with a distinctive Indian accent.

"Yes, I did" I hears her say, taken aback.

The caller said something in Indian, which Mum thought could have been loosely translated as "F### You" and hung up on her.

She sat there, aghast, spluttering and spitting feathers.

"How rude?" she finally said after a lot of shaking of the head.

"Very" I replied, stifling the giggles.

Two

If you read my last post, you will be aware about the water meter troubles we've had. If not, in short, we've been stung. Anyway The FH had to determine if we had a leak or  not, this meant he had to read the meter and we were NOT ALLOWED to use any water for an hour, then he had to read it again.

"Right he said coming in from the yard. I've read the meter, nobody is use any water for ONE WHOLE HOUR. Ok?"

"Ok" I replied.

"No water at all Fran, you got that?"

"Yes I replied "I'll take the kids to the park then, just to make sure"

I faffed about finding shoes, coats and hats for a while.

"Are you going?" the FH asked.

"Yep. Just need a wee" I said running up the stairs (or whatever a 7 month pregnant woman does when they intend to move quickly up a flight of stairs).

"Don't use any water." he chided

"Ok" I chirped back.

I had a wee.

Got up.

Flushed the chain.

And then washed my hands.

"FRAAAAAAAAAAAANNN!!!"

"What?" I shouted back arrogantly.

"WATER!"

"Sorry."

Three

I had to follow the FH to hospital the other week, after he was carted off in an ambulance. (It was a false alarm, all is well). When I arrived, and found his ward, he was having his bloods taken and a hospital curtain was concealing him and his hospital bed. I was ushered in and sat on the uncomfortable plastic seat as we made small talk, including inappropriate humour, to pass the time.

The nurse left us, also leaving the curtains drawn. Which is a strange experience; being left in the middle of a ward, concealed behind curtains. You naturally whisper and listen intently to anything going on the other side. Like hiding in a cupboard as a child.

It was a shift change, so the new Nurse was acquainting herself with the ward

The first conversation we hear:

Nurse: (Approaching bed to the right, presumably looking at her notes): Hi there, Alfred isn't it?

Patient: No. Chris.

Nurse: Oh that's a bit different from Alfred. Is that your second name?

Patient: No. It's because my surname is Noel. And that's like Christmas. So people call me Chris

Me and The FH, listening to each other intently turn and pull "WTF" faces?

The second conversation we hear:

Nurse: (Approaching bed to the left, presumably looking at her notes): Hello. Robert isn't it?

Patient: No. Mark.

Nurse: Right, of course. Is that your middle name?

Patient: No, I just get called Mark.

Nurse: Ok, Mark.

Me and The FH stifle giggles. I turn to him and whisper "You have to create an Alias".

He shakes his head, trying not to laugh "Piss off Fran"

The third conversation we hear

Auxiliary: (entering ward) Simon? Is Simon here?

I nudge The FH, but before he can answer, some-one else replies.

Another Scouse Simon: (in a Liverpool accent): Yeah I'm Simon.

Auxiliary: Your brother's on the phone.

Another Souse Simon: I'll call him back.

I turn to The FH (Who is not only called Simon, but is also from Loverpool and has a brother) "Well you're going to have to create a new identity now as he's  just nicked yours."