Crunchy ‘Nanas

Back in September, my 12 week ultrasound had me entranced. I was at the stage where I knew I was pregnant, I felt pregnant, and yet I still had moments where I’d look at Crunchy husband and say, “I am pregnant, right?” When I sat back and had the gel smeared on my belly, I was excited, but I just wasn’t prepared for the first image I ever saw of my baby to be that of its beating heart.  I didn’t expect movement, there right in front of me, of the baby growing inside me. Once I got over pinching back my tears, I just stared and stared. Or, stared and stared until I had to start performing acrobatics, and feats of unimaginable human skill - yes! I half emptied my bladder!- to coax it to move into position so the sonographer could take its nuchal measurements. I know medically that is why I was there, to make sure baby is healthy, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy seeing the life growing inside me, the visual-emotional connection with what’s inside.

Back in September, I had to wait about 35 minutes before being called into the scan room. Yesterday, at my 20 week scan, I was called in literally 1 minute past my appointment time. That should have been my clue that yesterday’s sonographer meant business. And business she meant. As I laid back, I said, “we don’t really want to know if it’s a boy or a girl, but we might ask you to write it down, if you can tell.” She responded with a bit of a smirk and that was the end of all chit chat. She turned her attention toward her screen and to the lady who we can only assume was training, and explained each image as she went. This flap here, that liquid there, arm bones, ribs, heart connections, all normal and healthy.  Even though it wasn’t really directed at me, it was nice to hear the explanations. At one point she had us turn our head to measure the thigh bone, just in case other bits might be showing, if present. Though her brusqueness was a bit off putting, I am grateful to know the scan was done correctly and seriously, and that I can trust the results sheet when it says, “normal”.

Though this check was much more clinically driven, a check list of body parts and measurements to tick off, it still was magical for me. I realized pretty soon into the scan that the sonographer wasn’t really talking to me, and so I just sat back, tried not to laugh when the baby kicked or moved its hands, and just let her do her thing. She spent a lot of time looking at the heart, and that just amazes me, to know that there is another heart beating inside me right now. One moment, baby looked so peaceful, just chillin’, sitting back and relaxing, taking it easy. And then the angle changed and you could see it was clenching its fist, you could count the knuckles, ready to punch mommy. Cool. My kid’s got balls.

Or, not. We don’t know. Turns out the sonographer didn’t look. She was closing up shop, wiping my belly, and I was like, “um, well would you mind looking and writing it down?” You could tell she thought that I was really silly, but with a hint of exasperation, she did it. I tried explaining that while we like the anticipation now, we are not sure we are going to want to wonder for another 20 weeks.  I had a feeling she wanted to say, “that is not what we’re here for,” which I understand, but thankfully she did it anyway.

So, though we don’t know the baby’s sex, we could know. The answer rests in the sealed envelope inside my maternity folder, right next to the scans of my baby looking this time much more like a baby and less like I had a fling with an alien.

The envelope’s sealed, mom. We’ll know if you peak when you come for Christmas.

I woke up this morning thinking about my mom and my grandma. I have no idea why, as I don’t think I was dreaming about them, but I was just thinking about how wonderful a caregiver my mom was to my grandma for the last 15 years of her life, and how important it is to be close to family.

When I first met with my midwife in August, buried within the “do you smoke?,” “when was your last period?” and other various medical questions, she asked me, “do you have support?” Without hesitation, I replied, “oh yeah.” And she looked at me, and I thought a moment more and said, “it’s all about 5,000 miles away, though.” And then I started making the excuses, the provisions on why that didn’t matter: my parents will be coming around the time of the birth, my husband’s great, we’ve wanted this for so long…All true, yes, but still don’t necessarily mean that support is not needed. Yet, it was silence that needed filling, and I didn’t really expect her to magically build me a community.

But, the fact still remains that community is lacking. Web cams are awesome, amazing even, but they are no substitute for being in the same room.  Not when video calls are the norm and actual physical closeness is the rarity.

I am not whining or complaining, or I should say, I don’t mean to.  I take full responsibility for every choice I’ve made in my life that’s led me to this point, and I don’t regret a thing. I can’t wait to have a child, I don’t care where in the world, and am looking forward to the rest of my life. But, it doesn’t mean it’s easy.  Crunchy husband’s been great, outstanding, the poor guy has had to deal with the fact that I am having so much difficulty functioning, but sometimes I need someone else to call and hug when the sight of a left-hand drive minivan sets the tears streaming (oh, if only I were making that up).  I want to share and celebrate with people too.  This should all be so fun, so exciting and yet it’s lonely as ever, and it’d be nice if we were able to share it with people who care.

I know that on top of exhaustion from pregnancy, the crazy hormones (I mean, minivan?! I don’t even like minivans!) and a lot on at work, I am coming up on my wall. It’s the wall I hit whenever it’s been longer than about 5-6 months since I have seen my family and girl friends. I am hoping that wall will be surmounted with ease or distraction by the fact that my parents are coming for Christmas (!) and also it’s really only 20 more weeks till baby (!), but only time will tell. As will how all this pans out. I keep telling myself that we will not be in England forever, and that tends to keep the crazies down, but I need to get better at accepting the uncertainties. This child will be born in England, after that, who knows how long we’ll be here. Just not forever.

I hate leaving day. Whether I’m leaving California, or like today, my family or friends are leaving England, I hate it. I know they are essential; they walk hand-in-hand with arrival days and I would never wish those to end. But even though I’ve been doing this for four and half years now - longer even if you count Crunchy husband’s leaving days before I moved - leaving day never gets easier and it always goes pretty much the same.

I wake up with the “first day of school” knots twisting my stomach. I feel agitated, but don’t want to be grumpy in the final minutes until I part from the people I love. Thinking about this and trying to correct it, the pendulum swings to emotional and weepy. I get myself out of bed and allow myself to cry in the shower and then once the water’s off, tell myself “that’s it” and try to act normal.  Which doesn’t really happen, but we all pretend it does, so that’s fine. I manage to keep it together, or together enough, until we get to the security line at the airport and then, without fail, the together starts to leak salty tears. Which usually get stifled fairly quickly (or in today’s case, quick enough anyway), and I hold it together again until I get back into my car and allow myself to collapse into sobs for a couple minutes until I talk myself into enough composure again to hit the M25 safely.

That was pretty much my day, in a nutshell. The one thing that didn’t go quite as usual, but was a welcome laugh was breakfast. Halfway through breakfast my mom stood up from the table, walked into the kitchen and started cracking up. Last night Crunchy husband cooked a fine chili. A chili with chili powder. Chili powder that was placed back on the shelf in front of all the other spices, including the cinnamon.  This morning, following her usual breakfast routine, my mother grabbed the spice marked with a large C and laced her sultana bran with chili powder instead of cinnamon.  Which was funny in itself, but even funnier because it took her half the bowl to realize her mouth was on fire and even longer to connect up what had happened.

Thank goodness for comic relief. It makes leaving day just that little bit easier.

I know four months is not that long. I’ve done longer, maybe not happily, but I’ve done longer. But, still October feels like ages ago. Christmas was hard. It was always going to be hard, but with my Grandma’s death a week before the holiday, it was even harder for me not to be home.

Today I get to do the fun bit: I get to stand outside Heathrow arrivals, eager in anticipation, waiting to breathe that little bit easier once I see their plane has landed and easier still when they walk into the arrivals area.

I can’t wait to give my mom a hug.

We were listening to Flight of the Conchords over dinner the other night, and Crunchy husband looks up from his sprouts and says to me, “do you think your parents would like this?”

I thought for a moment, and said, “I’m not sure. It might be too random for them. And they may not get all the references.” The song was Mutha’Uckers and, perfectly timed to make my point, shouts of “on AP, yeah you know me” came from the kitchen speakers. “Like ‘O.P.P.’ They wouldn’t get it.”

Blank stare.

Disbelieving stare back, “you down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know me!”

Nothing.

I love moments like this. It’s one of the many benefits of marrying a slightly (ahem) older man, who grew up across the world from me. I believe we enrich each other’s lives, give each other glimpses of a completely different worlds. Even if my contributions happen to be tales of Hot 97.7 on the bus to school, middle school dances in the early ’90s and a really, uh suggestive (I can guarantee you when I was 13, I did not get all the references to various meanings of that second P!) Naughty by Nature rap.

We got our Christmas tree last night. I abstained from insisting on the tallest available. It probably helped that I had just spent £32 on international postage for Christmas cards. But, I was a bit proud of myself none the less. So I “compromised” with a 6 footer. (I know, not much of a compromise, but it saved us £10, so that’s good.) It is short, but what it lacks in height it makes up in girth. It’s a bit wonky, but I love it!

Besides having beautiful greenery in the house, the Christmas tree brought a much needed surprise. We were unpacking the Christmas ornaments and we came across a cookie tin. Crunchy husband asked what was inside, and I said “ornaments, I guess” and continued with the box I was working on. When I got to the tin, I was a little confused as I had pretty much brought out all the ornaments - we don’t have very many. I opened it and was greeted with all the ornaments from my Grandma Alice. I forgot I brought them back to England after last Christmas at my parents’ house. I almost cried, but didn’t. (The season’s been a little touch and go already. 1 point for holding it together when Last Christmas came on the radio, but no points for falling apart while writing cards to my family.)

I looked at Crunchy husband and said, “these are very special, we have to be very careful.” He looked at me like “duh!” My Grandma died when I was 11, so he never got to meet her, but he knows our relationship was close.

We are remembering special people, as today would have been my mother-in-law’s birthday. This month was always going to be hard: first birthday, first Christmas and the anniversary of her death closely following, along with not being with my family and friends this Christmas. I didn’t realize it would, but having the tree has helped. I know it’s just a tree, but it makes me think of family. It makes me feel warmth and love. It’s beautiful. In its own short, wonky way.

Shots from my niece’s 1st birthday party:

Usain Bolt has his chicken nuggets. Apparently, I have Graham’s Sunday Roast.

Last weekend, we combined socializing, which means eating, with running the Nike+ Human Race in London. The night before the race, we gorged on Indian curry. The next day, four hours before the race, we tucked in to a lovely Sunday roast. I tried to eat daintily, knowing beef, red wine, Bailey’s birthday cake, and Phish food would not make for the best combination in my tummy at mile 5. Or even mile 2. (As it turned out, I ate too sparingly and was STARVING by the time wave 2 was finally let loose on the course, but oh well. I made it.)

The race was fun-ish, but I don’t know if I would do it again. It’s a nice idea, coming together to race against the world. (London came in second. It probably helped that Paula Radcliffe was chasing me…uh, running it in a later wave!) And yeah, leaving from Wembley Stadium sounded cool at the time we signed up. But, logistically, it’s really hard to run with 20,000 people in the dark down a narrow course with sharp bends (who thought that was a good idea?). It is especially challenging when it’s also pouring down rain and everyone is dodging puddles. And really, the area around Wembley, it’s not all that picturesque. So, it was fun, but not a total blast.

However, running-wise the race was a success. My official time is pretty far off my watch time, so I am sticking with my watch time (58:38). Our theory is that perhaps the chip did not log in at the first mat and my official time is actually the gun time and not the chip time. Who knows? I’m not worried. With my watch time, I finished with a pace of 9:26 min/mile, and I am a-okay with that considering I haven’t had the most rigorous of training regimes lately.

And yeah, there was all that beef.

I kept asking, how many people are joining us? (We were five all together.)

Eating my ‘nana on the tube before the race

Wet, but don’t I look cute in my running skirt?

One thing I’ve learned from living in England is you don’t let the weather influence what you do. If you sit at home and wait for a sunny day so you can go to the beach, all I can say is good luck. So, when the last summer bank holiday rolls around, and you have friends coming down from West Yorkshire to go to the seaside, you go to the seaside. Even if it’s rainy and cloudy. And you have fun, gosh darn it!

Rain? Clouds? Who cares!

We went out to Joss Bay on Sunday to catch low tide so that we could go do a little rockpooling and a bit of sand art. That lasted for about 10 minutes before running back to the cars with wet little ones. But, not before a crab had been found!

We got home, dried off, had some lunch and headed back out to Margate. Judging from the weather earlier, I didn’t bother to put my bathing suit back on. Stupid move, it was beautiful! So, we got a chance to splash around, make a starfish in the sand, and create “Emma Island.”

Then, we moved around the coast, had some ice cream at Morelli’s, and everyone was happy!

Perhaps the biggest lesson learned from the weekend was never read Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs if you want the sun to shine in England. (But then again, I’m not sure if I can handle that.) Oh yeah, and I ran 6 miles with hills and didn’t die, so I think that puts me okay for the Nike+ Human Race in London this weekend. I won’t race it hardcore (do I ever??), but I should have fun. Hooray!

Apparently, I’ve grown to be the kind of person that freaks out after the fact. I used to get anxious about shots or getting blood drawn, but now I can do it without worrying and shaking (too much). However, I feel weak in the knees as I’m walking home 10 minutes after the needle’s punctured my skin.

A month ago, one of my best friends asked if I would please be a part of her beauty consultation team and help her and her beautiful bride get ready for their wedding. I accepted with honor, despite not being what you’d say hip in the primping department. The last beauty magazine I can recall reading is so last century. The team also consisted of one of my other friends who, like me, looks at blow dryers and mascara as mysterious entities too scary to fathom, and one who totally knows how to rock the make up world. I wasn’t worried too much though because the request was basically a request to help her put her shirt on.

As it happened, everything went very well, if I do say so myself. We were able to suitably finish up the brides’ glowing natural beauty in a way that Shan’s mother exclaimed, “it’s still my daughter!” I think she may have been worried the circus was coming to town and landing itself at her daughter’s wedding. I was even able to bust out my french-braiding skills on the spot. They were a bit rusty, having not really french-braided since high school, but in the end, no one shouted in horror at Julia’s hair, so we did okay. (My mom reminded me later I received the women’s choir award for best french-braider, but I’ve always believed this was less a statement about my hair-styling skills and more a statement about my vocal qualities.)

And yet, last night I had the craziest dream that we were back two weeks and it was the morning of the wedding. Shannon’s hair was shorter than usual but it looked fine. However, Julia had dyed her hair pink and yellow. And then shaved columns out of it and mohawked the center short bits. I walked in, and was just like, oh my god, has your mom seen your hair?! What are we going to do? The dream didn’t last beyond that thank goodness, but I remember thinking it was all my fault.

I’d like to blame the full dose of advil pm I took to help me sleep last night, but I don’t think the dream was (too) drug-induced. I’ll be back to my usual half-dose if I need it tonight, though.

Me and the beautiful brides, sans pink and yellow mohawk, thank goodness!

Very Official Beauty Consultants!