Gitmo

Well. I must speak the truth. Motherhood has taken me by surprise. RJ is an absolute joy, and I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have him (thus far). This is obviously totally against expectation, but more than that, it is also totally counter-intuitive. Why? Well, because I am becoming increasingly convinced that he is the reincarnation of a prison guard from Gitmo.

For example, using references I sourced from the infallible Wikipedia here.

1. Sleep Deprivation

RJ is EXPERT at ensuring this. By outgrowing his crib at four months instead of the six we’d expected, he ensured that we would have to turn his crib into a cot and therefore have no room to fit his sleeping quarters other than into our own bedroom. I’m actually fairly lucky in that he wakes at about eleven to make sure mum and dad are home before falling back to sleep. He then wakes up around four and comes into bed with us, which is lovely. This, of course, is when he’s not teething. He’s seven months tomorrow and has managed to sprout a tooth for every month, albeit in consecutive weeks that commenced when he was about four and a half months old. I genuinely sometimes feel that I am hallucinating from the exhaustion.

2. Beatings

Given that babies put things in their mouths to learn, and then progress to slapping surfaces, RJ should be a baby genius. Sadly a lot of the things that have ended up in his mouth have been my extremities (see above re teeth), those chompers of his are a force to be reckoned with. I gave him a wooden toy to play with last night, and it actually came away with splinters. I sometimes worry that he’ll gnaw his way out of his crib but then I figure all that fibre must be good for him.

The other beatings I suffer are the slaps to/clawing of my face every morning.

3. Prolonged Constraint in Uncomfortable Positions

Sometimes, when he’s a little ratty, RJ just wants to be held. And held. And held. He weighs about 10kg at the moment, and is as long as a 15 month old, according to the wisdom of H&M kids (the best kids clothes in HK, I think). The combination of these two traits mean that I have to hold him across my belly, wedged under my spaniels ears. This often leads to cramping and stabbing pain in the elbows.

4. Forced Injections

I have to admit that I haven’t had too many of these – he’s actually been the victim of these. Having to hold him down and lull him into a false sense of security while a nurse and pediatrician prepare for the simultaneous injection is fairly traumatic for me. Especially since he went puce the first time it was done (as he holds his breath to ready himself for the massive bawling). Emotionally agonising.

5. Cultural Humiliation

I am constantly berated by random strangers these days. Apparently there are many reasons that I am publicly a terrible parent, one of the most commonly articulated being that I choose not to hood, sock, layer and glove him when the temperature is above fifteen degrees. I am not trying to freeze him to death, as many people accuse me of doing. It’s not actually tough love (though I concede this on other points). I just figure that if I layer him into heat rash, it’s not a good thing. I generally let him tell me what is good and bad for him, and he’s already vocal or quick to respond if he is unhappy about anything. He gets that from his dad.

The other thing that appears to shock people is when I let him eat off my plate. As far as I’m concerned, if it hasn’t been soaked in sugar, brined, or pickled in alcohol, he’s welcome to attempt it. For example, when I was at my favoured burger joint the other day, he ate the burger bun, mushrooms, cheese and a sliver of burger. No fries since that had been salted. He loved it. Random drunk and unwelcome lady came over and told me off for letting him eat. Apparently it was my responsibility to ensure that he didn’t put things in his mouth that could pose a choking risk. Apparently Baby Led Weaning (which, admittedly, I know nothing about), isn’t as well thought of as I’d thought.

The last shocker (apparently), is that he goes to Gymboree, PEKIP (aka naked baby) and Tutor Time for Mandarin immersion. People speak to me as though this is something akin to abuse, paying absolutely no heed to the fact that He. Loves. It. Gymboree is an all singing play time with obstacles courses and all kinds of toys I couldn’t hope to afford on my current paycheck (banking, not what it used to be). What baby doesn’t love being naked and peeing on people? The mandarin classes do confuse him somewhat, but he loves being able to sit at the baby-sized furniture like a little man, eating food and flirting with the ladies.

6. Sexual Humiliation

I have been peed on, pooed on, puked on. Actually, puked in, since he somehow managed to hit the target that was my mouth. These are games I never previously agreed to.

7. Exposure to Loud Noise or Music

The wheels on the bus, they go round and round, round and round, round and round.

I wonder if this newfound adoration for him is some form of Stockholm Syndrome or PSD?

Houston, We Are Ready For Take Off

Tomorrow is a big day for RJ. We're taking him to Singapore for ten days to spend some time with his grandparents and, specifically, for his grandfather's sixtieth birthday. Ordinarily, the Hubs and I are dab hands at trips to Singapore. He goes pretty much every month for his EMBA, and I go as often as I can to indulge and hang out with the family. This trip though, has been tricky.

1. Booking the flight
Do I need a bassinet seat? I hate the bulkhead seats. The lack of a footrest is so much worse than the advantage of not having a seat tilt back on my knees. For a three hour flight, I think I'll just have him on my lap , though it would be amazing if I could use RJ as a reason to get the exit seats.

2. Checking the details
The airline I'm flying will let me gate-check my pram. My pram is a tank. In Hong Kong, it doesn't fit through MTR turnstiles (but then, neither do a lot of people, since the locals are shrivelled midgets). With the bassinet attached, it is approximately the same size as a jet ski. I assume that's still alright to check, but, wait... how do I keep it clean?

Two days before we're scheduled to leave, I attempt to pack the car seat, which is far more necessary than the bassinet. Sadly, it doesn't fit into anything. Change of plan. I hate changes of plan. The bassinet is no longer getting a stamp in its passport. Instead, the car seat will. Wait .. how will I keep that clean? There's so much more exposed fabric, and he chews on it all the time. I actually don't know.

3. Considering take-off
All the websites say that breastfeeding (ouch) is the best way to help babies cope with the changing pressure in the cabin. However, the airline advises that they discourage breastfeeding at take off and landing since the baby has to be restrained and secure. Hmm. I will take that under advisement and ignore it.

Having said that, RJ is on bottles now. I'll have to pack a couple of bottles to keep him going, I suppose. I wonder how that will get through airport security. Will they make us taste it? If so, I think it's Hubs' moment, since he hasn't tried it yet. Seriously, who doesn't try breastmilk when it's all over their home? Literally. There are drops of milk everywhere. This keyboard, the floor, every conceivable surface.

4. Milking it
Hmm... so if I bring a couple of bottles, what does he do the next day? Right, I'll have to pack the frozen spares. Ugh.

Hang on, then. If I pack frozen milk, and have two bottles. How do I prevent my breasts from exploding while on the flight? I'd best pack the breast pump. Perhaps some muslins to cover up with too. Jeez, that sounds like extra hand luggage.

Arg, and if I bring the pump, I'll need to bring bottles to store the milk in too. That means I'll have to sterilise just before I travel. Right. Reminder on calendar set.

Welcome to my world. All this just to get to the plane. I wonder what it'll be like on the other side.

Mothering

It's been forty two days since the little guy took his first breath of Hong Kong air. I'd been meaning to write posts about the whole birth/mother experience on a regular basis, but sadly the first lesson I learnt about it was that there is no time to spare. Still, better late than never.

First up - the birth. Everyone's heard the horror stories about deliveries, and so I took a week of maternity ahead of my due date to find my inner zen (and to hang out with my mother before life totally changed). Unfortunately, RJ decided that he would rather be late to the party, and so I found myself checking into the Hotel Matilda on the 7th of August to get induced. This wasn't a particularly unpleasant process, though the Hubs and I ended up listening to the screams of women in labour while waiting for the onset of mine. This turned out to be somewhat anti-climatic as I ended up on a "walking epidural", which left me a little numb from hips down, but still left me able to walk (albeit lopsided). I could feel the odd contraction, but it never really hurt - the Tens machine actually hurt much more. Unfortunately, this meant that 22 hours later, this was the result

(showing the amount the could have fit vs the amount that needed to fit). RJ ended up pooing while he was struggling to get his oval peg through the round (?) hole, and 20 minutes later I was in an operating theatre with a slightly strained Hubs in scrubs.

Scans to this point had suggested that RJ was going to be a nicely average eight pound baby, which would have been a nice number to go with the eight-eight-one-one date of birth. The first clue we had that he might be a little larger was after the incision was made for the C-section, and the OB tried to get him out. We heard her say "Hang On" and then she had to make another incision. Seconds later, we were parents to a screaming near-ten pound baby who needed to get poo pumped out of his lungs. Not exactly an auspicious start to his life, given the date and all. Still, at least I managed to get the anaesthetist to skip the Natasha Bedingfield tracks on his ipod, preventing RJ from an inauspicious musical start to life.

All in all I think I had a pretty good birth experience. I felt pretty much nothing but dehydrated and lopsided for a couple of hours. The incision(s) didn't hurt much since there was a competing source of pain (more on this later). A C-section meant he was a pretty baby too, and didn't have a mekon head for more than a couple of days. The Matilda hospital experience is incredible. We were in a room with a view, room service that included dishes like osso bucco, an excellent spag bol and a mean burger, as well as midwives on call. Bless those midwives. We stayed at the Matilda for a week and those midwives were amazing. We made the decision to dive headfirst into parenting and had him rooming in with us. Every time RJ needed anything, a midwife or nurse would appear and show us what to do. As a result, the first week of RJ's life went by really smoothly. We even had a couple of parties, since the food was so good.

Sadly, all good things had to come to an end, and we were left to take the five day old child home in our care. It was terrifying. It still is. Without the nurses and midwives there to ensure we were doing things right, I managed to get breastfeeding wrong, and had cracked nipples within the week. This led me to a whole new understanding of pain. I remember reading about how the Japanese tortured Elizabeth Choy by electrocuting her via her nipples. I cannot comprehend how she withstood it. The pain of feeding took me pretty much to the brink of homicide. Every time RJ cried I literally wished him away. Even when he was sleeping adorably, I would view him with trepidation and something fairly close to hate. If my parents hadn't been there, I'm fairly sure I would have sunk into PND. Thankfully, I had my parents, a weekly midwife visit and two doctors on call to get me through. One of the best bits of advice that I received was from the midwife, who said that when I was verging on mastitis, I should pump all the milk out of my breast, letting the pump keep going for two hours after the initial milk flow stops if it comes to it. That broke my fever and stopped my breasts aching so much that I was in tears.

The breastfeeding experience, now winding down as I put RJ on bottles, did teach me something. If ever I have to give a gift to someone having a baby who is hoping to breastfeed, it shall be this:
- lanolin
- breastpads
- breastshells
- More nipple cream (I like this one better)
- fenugreek (though this makes you smell funny)
... and ideally midwife visits.

I have to admit that, despite the initial misgivings, RJ's managed to totally charm me. Now that the pain is fleeting (despite the cracks persisting), I can appreciate that he's a good baby. He feeds every three hours or so generally, and manages a five hour stretch in the evening. He's responsive and pretty (apart from the odd bout of baby acne). He also smells pretty good. That's right - I've been suckered.

Maternal Instinct

I have clearly been very remiss about updating this blog lately, for which I can only apologise. Truth be told, life in Hong Kong is a shadow of what life in London was, and so I struggle to find much of interest to share. This is despite being pregnant for the first time, which I'd thought might spice things up (though I hear that might come later). Sadly, it's only now, with 14 or so days till D-day, that I feel authoritative enough about to have a view on. First off though, I should caveat this.

I think I've been remarkably lucky. To fall pregnant ("fall" actually seems appropriate here, since one of the first things I said was "oops"), to have largely escaped the more difficult symptoms such as narcolepsy/exhaustion, spontaneous leakage, chronic incontinence, etc. My symptoms have largely been limited to SPD of a bearable level, massive junk food requirements, five days of exhaustion and, most recently, insomnia. Oh, and pregnancy Swiss cheese brain. Sadly, I also missed out on some of the good stuff. I didn't get really good nails, luxuriant hair, or a glow. I certainly haven't been wandering around in a state of bliss (my colleagues made a sign that said "pregnancy postal" to warn idiots away from my desk). I have a market going for buyers of amniotic fluid or anything else gruesome I might have to offer for use as a Carrie-style substitute for pigs blood).

The things that I have come to realise are:
1. When people say it's the most natural/beautiful thing in the world, they aren't being totally honest. As my belly has stretched over a moving, kicking being, which I can sort of see when I look down, and as my pelvis aches from loosening ligaments, all that tends to come to mind are scenes from the Matrix or Fringe, which really suggests the FX channel rather than NatGeo.

It doesn't feel at all natural to have this belly, though it is relatively amusing. I never really saw myself as the pregnant type, but having to wield this belly (and it is a weapon) means that I can't really get away from it. I'm still not great at playing pregnant, resisting the urge to skive off work or not go out, but I have started to find videos of babies adorable. Well, one video of babies*. I'm still not great with real-life babies, but there has been improvement! More questionable is to use my belly as a weapon in the daily MTR war. These days when people crowd or shove me, I swing around and knock them out of the way with the belly.

2. There is so much more to be afraid of then I realised (sensitive stomachs may want to skip the links). Prior to the education that I've reluctantly received, my key concerns were an inside-out belly button (I escaped this), stretch marks (boo), an eternally damaged love life (tbc), a hairy albino werecub baby (tbc), and babies with fingernails (can't win them all). As things progressed and I started feeling maternal (ie before I discovered the stretch marks), I started worrying about the health of the baby.

Then I went to antenatal classes. Where I learnt about episiotomies no longer being standard (for reasons not worth going into), perineal massage and how an epidural is administered. The term "burger nip" took on a whole new meaning when I was taught that, when breastfeeding, babies should "latch on" as though they were eating a burger. Somehow the reality never lives up to the promise.

* This was a video showing babies instinctively going for the breast after birth. They can't really see, so they kind of wiggle around using their cheeks and chins to work out what's soft (and therefore likely to be the right direction). In some cases, they work out where the nipple is and kind of dive towards it. All very amusing, albeit in a stupid kind of way.

+1 Holiday

As the Hong Kong winter dragged on with absolutely no indication of respite, the Hubs and I grew increasingly desperate for our last just the two of us holiday. We had been planning to go to Osaka for Sumo and cherry blossoms, with a side trip to Kyoto to see Maiko. With the earthquake and domestic refugees in Japan, it just didn't feel right to do that. We considered volunteering for a week, but then were advised that I wouldn't be allowed to travel there pregnant. So we parked Japan and pulled together a trip to Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka has been on my list of locations for some time now, though I knew nothing about it. Thankfully, it was a surprisingly easy trip to organise.

The flights were split HK-SG to Colombo, so I managed to squeeze in a quick visit home, which was an immediate plus for me. It was a three and half hour trip on both legs, a nice amount of time. Unfortunately, it was an awkward arrival time into Sri Lanka, with the plane landing just after midnight. In Sri Lanka, the convention is for drivers to be hired to take tourists around. It is possible for cars to be rented, but roads are mainly signposted in Sinhalese, and so it would be nigh on impossible for someone without knowledge of Sinhalese to navigate them. We were picked up by our driver at the airport and driven three hours from Colombo to Pinnawala. Why Pinnawala? This is why

What was that? Here's another clue

I'm sure it's obvious what Pinnawala's main attraction is now, but I have to pay tribute to my favourite elephants from the trip

First up was the slightly older elephant who had three legs. He lost one to a landmine in the civil war and it left him with a protective side. He now stands on the road and holds off oncoming traffic while the other elephants cross.

Next up is the determined elephant. This one was trying hard to get a log to play with. Sadly, he was chained and the log was just that little bit out of reach. He tried, and tried and stretched, and stretched.

Finally, the little one. Baby elephants were surprisingly sweet. Incredibly hairy and wrinkled.

The Pinnawala orphanage allows for bottle feeding the elephants, which gave me some opportunity to play maternal. All in though, it was a good trip and good fun. Perfect for a half day at US$20!

Things People Don’t Tell You About Pregnancy

I’ve been pretty lucky thus far with the burden I bear, and I’m really grateful for it. The little ‘un is already taking after (his) parents and showing an aggressive streak (more on this below. He also seems to have a general sense of humour. I haven’t lost half my body weight (damn!) from nausea. My belly button is still comfortably hollow. The following are things I didn’t realise or anticipate. Some are good, some are gag-worthy, most are probably unique to me.

1. Co-ordination is incredibly hard
I put this down to things distending and extending at a horrific rate. In my case, this was evidenced when I accidentally shut (a) boob in the bathroom door. Ouch.

2. At first, men check you out…
When I was working my way up to the halfway mark, I noticed people staring and smiling a lot. These were normally men. I’m still confused by this and it may have been something to do with Christmas and other festivals around the time, but I’m choosing to believe in bright sides.

3. Until the women start to look revolted
After the halfway mark, I suddenly became huge. The Hubs was using terms like “bowling”, “big top” and “rotund”… to comfort me. Women walking by started to stare at my middle and look revolted. Thankfully, this is HK, so I was generally able to stare at their clothing and laugh.

4. The sleepless nights don’t wait for baby
Oh no.. if it’s not needing to pee, it’s random leg cramps. If it’s not random leg cramps, it’s the sexy sounding Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. Admittedly, the latter doesn’t hit only at night, but can sneak up on you in meetings, forcing you to jump out of your seat while maintaining your game face.

5. People don’t judge you for wine-drinking as much as you think
I’ve had many tell me a glass of red a night is acceptable, and most people here seem comfortable with my mantra of one a week. Admittedly, there is time to go yet, and I am showing now. I have, however, been told off for eating unpeeled fruit, spicy food and drinking coffee.

6. Babies hate their fathers
The first time I felt the alien move, it was when I tried to cuddle the Hubs. The Hubs is pretty warm and I think perhaps alien didn’t like it. He didn’t like something anyway, because all of a sudden there were little punches that even the Hubs could even feel on his back.

Since then, the alien has tried to kick back against ultrasounds, dopplers and the Hubs.

7.Maternity dresses are confusing
This is particularly true of the wraps. There are just so many loops and gaps, and so much material! It sometimes is worse than the bottle-in-a-wooden-puzzle Christmas gift I once received.

8.Everyday activities are hazardous
For example, yesterday I pushed through the MTR turnstiles belly first, only to be reminded that they were designed for small Cantonese people as they smacked me on the behind on the way through.

A second, borrowed example is when a relative went to the gym, only to be wedged into the gym equipment, which then had to be dismantled around her. She suspended her membership the next day.

9. Elizabeth Taylor (RIP) did it
I never saw Elizabeth Taylor as the maternal type, but if she could stomach it, than goddamnit, so can I.

No Idea Which Week I'm At...

... since my due date changed after the alien had a growth spurt.

Life has been mostly about TV lately. We've just finished season 1 of the Good Wife and Fringe. After watching freakshow activities for twenty hours, I was ready to face my weekly update on pregnancy. Here's what it had this week: "By now, the ears are positioned properly on the sides of the head (they used to be in the neck) and the eyes are moving from the side of the head to the front of the face"

I think I just threw up a little.

Week 9 : Redux

This week was a landmark week. We had our first scan and saw the wriggler. Its heart was going a mile and minute and it was waving its mutant arms everywhere. Already more like the Hubs than I.

The downside was... it's due 5 August. That makes us a week behind where we thought we'd be. FML. One more week on cut back booze rations.

So here's the alien:

Week 9: Turning into an olive...

... I hope the Brindisa-style Gordal olive, stuffed with orange, slathered in olive oil and with a sprinkling of sea salt.

Do I sound hungry? That's because I sort of am. Starving, actually. Only when I get to the food places, I don't want anything. When I try to eat things, I fill up and get nauseous. A little bit like when one of my eyebrows fell off and the other remained bushy, I feel like someone out there has a twisted sense of humour.

I've previously thought that pregnancy is a parenting crash-course, teaching me to live with a lack of control and constant fear. I guess this must be chapter three - dealing with inconsistency.

So far my theory of everything in moderation (apart from maybe air travel) seems to be working well. A colleague of mine who is pretty far along hasn't eaten any chocolate for months, because it has caffeine. This strikes me as ridiculous. In a time where you allegedly shouldn't be eating anything or drinking very much, that level of deprivation strikes me as depraved.

Week 8: Alien is a raspberry..

... has a tail, webbed feet and its third set of kidneys.

Gross.

Week 6: Alien is petit pois sized

According to the web, which I used to trust implicitly, it's making what will "eventually become one adorable face". Sadly, that statement has destroyed that trust. I'm pretty convinced the alien is not going to have an adorable face. In fact, based on how dopey and exhausted I've been, I'd say it's getting the Hubs' nose, which is not adorable.

What else does the net tell me? "The pregnancy hormone hCG is causing an increase of blood flow to your pelvic area, and your kidneys are becoming more efficient at ridding your body of waste". Well, I suppose that explains having to get up every hour between 7pm and 10am on Tuesday night to puke (and worse) my guts out. I lost five pounds though, which was great. Unfortunately, the second I could eat again, I absolutely murdered a Sausage McMuffin meal. I learnt something new about HK that morning. McDonalds is greasy, like in disgusting greasy, here. Ah well. I had a couple of pou

The fear is not getting any better, though I'm starting to wise up to evolution's tricks. This shenanigans is teaching me (or attempting to) patience, coping with not having any control or power, living with fear and constant exhaustion. No wonder my parents didn't like me.

Speaking of not liking, I'm starting to really not like the Hubs these days. No wonder the movies (my other infallible source of knowledge) show women screaming abuse at fathers in the delivery room. I don't think I need to wait that long. What a sweet fucking ride men get.

Status: Pregnancy is not bliss. Annoyingly, I can no longer find the 20 year record book on sale. I was feeling so inspired by AS Byatt as well.

Fail

Two days ago, we discovered I was pregnant. Which was exciting. We did two tests and it said we were two to three weeks along (though the websites suggest five. Makes sense, the tests work it out from when the magic happened, and everything else goes from the cycle, which just makes it take longer).

Sadly, this was right after we'd gotten back from Singapore, and a particularly heavy weekend. Sadder still, that was after our raucous whistlestop stay in the UK, where I think I was floating in an alcohol haze 80% of the time. The grain of sand sized embryo is probably wasted as I type. Even more sad, it destroys our travel plans for June/July next year. Possibly.

So, what were the clues? In my case, my brain turned to sponge. This may not be meaningful to those who know me, but I became even ditzier. I have literally been unable to properly function. I feel like I have CJD. I also walk into walls and slip on things a lot, though I've always tended to that. I have put on five pounds and a cup size. My boobs are mammoth. I have been nauseous and puking, which I like, and have lost my appetite, also good. I am exhausted all the time, not so good. At this rate, I'm not surprised that it's been so hard for women to get through that glass ceiling (though good news here, folks). If women go through this all the time, I thing we've actually won the war.

The hardest part has been dealing with the knowledge that this could all go suddenly wrong. Every twinge or questionable activity (lifting a case of wine, for example), becomes high risk and rife with paranoia. I'm personally taking the "everything in moderation except maybe smoking and drug-taking" stance. Who knows if it's right, wrong, ridiculous or whatever, but it's still difficult. I said to the Hubs last night that I felt like if anything were to go wrong now, it'd be all on me. His part has pretty much been done. It's strangely isolated. I don't want to talk to people about it, because it's so high risk, but at the same time, I have no idea what's going on. On the advice of some friends who recently popped out some sprogs, I'm subscribing to thebump.com and fitpregnancy.com, which are getting me through (so far).