Here's a helpful tip for all of you baby daddies out there who want the chance to repeat the baby making experience again, at some point in your life.
If baby mommy wants food, either get it for her quickly, or get the fuck out of her way. Pronto. This means NOW.
I was a little naive. I have observed pregnant ladies eat a little more than they perhaps need.
'I'm eating for two!' they'll claim. 'Baby wants corn-dogs covered in syrup!' they'll call. 'Bullshit' I'll call back, under my breath of course.
Alise has been eating a little more than usual, but nothing totally out of the ordinary. She is trying to eat more healthily, and frequently. This helps the nausea you see.
The one thing that we have learned though, is that when she needs to eat, she needs to eat immediately.
The other day we were both in the kitchen. I was putting away dishes (primarily clean ones), while she was making herself a tuna melt.
I was, as usual, messing around.
'I need to get a pan out of that cupboard', she told me. I was standing in front of this cupboard, putting stuff away.
'One sec' I told her, moving slowly.
'I really need that pan' she said.
'Yep, moving quick as I can'. I wasn't, I was messing around.
'PLEASE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!'
I don't blame her, but you see, I wasn't aware. She went from being a little peckish to feeling like she'd faint without instant nourishment. I slinked away and made myself a mental note.
Never come between a pregnant woman and her food!Regrettably, my lack of a post yesterday isn't due to the fact that we actually won $170 million squillion dollars, more because we were busy, got home late, and I crashed into bed, neglecting my blogging duties. I'm ashamed and terribly upset with myself.
We went to friends for dinner last night. They have a young son (between the age of a year and a half and two years, I think) who is a lovely little brat. He is, according to his parents, a ball of terror but he has a wonderful smile and in my book at least, could get away with murder. He's quite taken with me, apparently, and spend most of the evening playing with me, sitting on my knee, handing me hats and glasses to wear, calling my name and warming my stone cold heart.
Anyway, to the first symptom of pregnancy in the first trimester. The frequent urges to pee.
This was the first sign that we had, that Alise might be 'with child'. Even before the pregnancy tests were even unwrapped and peed on (yeah, I'm sensing a theme here too), Alise spent a couple of nights of discomfort because she had to keep getting up, sometimes hourly, to use the bathroom.
Honestly, I have no idea why this happens. No doubt Alise will read this blog and then tell me. Obviously further along in the pregnancy baby will be big enough to put pressure on momma's bladder which will have much the same effect, but for now I'm going to take a guess at 'hormones'. Hormones take the blame for a lot of things, rightly so.
The constant urges to pee have followed Alise for the last 10 weeks. We only have the one bathroom at home (unless you count the toilet in the basement… ever seen 'Trainspotting'? The toilet that we have is much the same as the 'worst toilet in Scotland'), but thankfully, so far, there have been no arguments over ownership of the facilities. I do feel terribly sorry for Alise though, it must be an awful wrench to have to keep getting up to pee, and to have to always be worried about where to pee when we're out.
There were some violent thunderstorms in Massachusetts last night.
We did have fair warning. It had been threatening to rain all day, the air felt very heavy, it was incredibly humid, and weather.com told us it would storm. Sadly, even though we knew what was coming, no-one had thought to tell Coco the dog.
At around 2am Coco got scared. Coco is a very large chocolate lab who is old enough to know better; but there are things that scare her. Like being woken from a dream. Or like loud bangs. or like cats that look strange, or like riding in the back of a car. She's a funny dog sometimes, but she's as cute as a button.
By the way, we were watching an entertainment program on the television set the other night, when an product advertisement came on. It was for some homeopathy 'squirt' for old dogs, that 'improves' their hips and bad joints and such. One of the 'paid testimonial' women said, and I quote, 'my dog is now the love of my life'…
Coco will always be the love of my life (well, one of them). Don't matter if she can't see, can't hear, can't walk or can't poop unaided, she'll always be my best friend. Lady, if that's your attitude, then I hope that your dog, full of life now that you've taken to poisoning her water with some shit that a phony vet paid you $100 to talk up, pushes you down the stairs and breaks your fucking hip.
Ahem. Sorry. It's been a long day already.
Anyway, Coco got scared and made a bit of noise. In her defense, this was very loud thunder. She lost control a little, and made a puddle downstairs in the hallway. All of the cats too went a little loopy, and tried to climb into our pillowcases. I'm not sure how the mice coped, but I imagine that the smart one was building a bomb shelter with a reinforced roof, while the other one ran around a lot panicking. In short, the house was a little out of control.
Apart from on my side of the bed.
I slept soundly through the whole event. Alise was woken first by thunder, and then by Coco's howls. She went downstairs to clean up the puddle and to comfort the dog, eventually bringing her bed upstairs to let her sleep closer to us. She got up again to let Coco out during what was, I'm told, a very heavy rain storm. Alise took care of the situation, while I snored loudly, unaware of the pandemonium that surrounded me.
I am a very heavy sleeper.
Thunderstorms are forecast for the rest of the week. My hope is that the next time this happens, Alise rolls over, shakes me until I awaken, to tell me 'it's your turn'. That would only be fair, don't you think?
Dear Mr. Crossland,
Thank you for your email regarding your fan. We apologize that you experienced problems with the fan. The issue with the installation is not one that we are hearing of. With the exception of the ceiling plate installation (as referenced on the box) the assembly time from that step forward averages 5 minutes. We are forwarding your feedback to the appropriate party and we appreciate you taking the time to contact us.
Please contact us again if we can help in any way.
Sincerely,
Laurie M.
Technical Support Representative
Hunter Fan Company
so... not only do I feel like I'm not a man, but so apparently do Hunter Fans!
I work in Downtown Boston.
Boston is a strange city in a number of ways. Because it isn't a grid city there are few discernable 'blocks', roads and walkways ramble and twist themselves around with no thought to the sanity of the lost and the confused. New York has its 42nd, 43rd etc etc streets, Boston has School Street (upon which there is no school), Water Street (without water of any kind), Court Street (reliably, sans Court) and Milk Street. I haven't been to Milk Street in a while, so can't comment on the lack or presence of milk.
I work on Summer Street, which you can get to by walking straight down Winter. Winter turns into Summer. It's so cute.
This morning I got off the train at Park Street, which sits at the top of Winter Street. For the last few days Boston hasn't been exactly a delight to walk in, it's very humid and hot right now and the city smells like the laundry basket of a fat drunk. The heat can be oppressive at times, and my pale skin doesn't appreciate it.
I walked down Winter Street, soon crossing the border with Summer Street. Just a couple of minutes until I get to work. I noticed a man walking towards me who was clearly suffering in the heat, his situation probably not helped by the fact that he was wearing boots, thick trousers, a woolen sweater and a generously plump overcoat.
'Excuse me!' he said walking towards me.
'Oh god', I whispered to myself.
'Do you know where Winter is?' he asked.
'Right there', I told him pointing behind me.
'Thank the Lord!' he exalted. 'Summer is too hot for me!'.
Classic. He walked away chuckling, I did the same.
Alise and I have often talked about possibly moving to the UK some day, my family is all there and we both like the place. If we do go though, one thing I am sure of is that I'll miss Boston and its inhabitants terribly.
My job is so fucking unbelievable. I'll try to sum it up by first telling you about the folks I work with:
First, there is this supermodel wanna-be chick. Yeah, okay, she is pretty hot, but damn is she completely useless. The girl is constantly fixing her hair or putting on makeup. She is extremely self-centered and has never once considered the needs or wants of anyone but herself. She is as dumb as a box of rocks, and I still find it surprising that she has enough brain power to continue to breathe.
The next chick is completely the opposite. She might even be one of the smartest people on the planet. Her career opportunities are endless, and yet she is here with us. She is a zero on a scale of 1 to 10. I'm not sure she even showers, much less shaves her "womanly" parts. I think she might be a lesbian, because every time we drive by the hardware store, she moans like a cat in heat.
But the jewel of the crowd has got to be the fucking stoner. And this guy is more than just your average pothead. In fact, he is baked before he comes to work, during work, and I'm sure after work. He probably hasn't been sober anytime in the last ten years, and he's only 22. He dresses like a beatnik throwback from the 1960's, and to make things worse, he brings his big fucking dog to work. Every fucking day I have to look at this huge Great Dane walk around half-stoned from the second-hand smoke. Hell, sometimes I even think it's trying to talk with its constant bellowing. Also, both of them are constantly hungry, requiring multiple stops to McDonalds and Burger King, every single fucking day.
Anyway, I drive these fucktards around in my van and we solve mysteries and shit.
I've been a little depressed recently.
There's been a lot to think about, a lot to do. There's been a lot to be worried about, a lot to be hopeful for. A lot to be thankful for, a lot to be scared about. In short, there's been a lot of 'stuff' on my mind.
The obvious things that I've been down about are easier to deal with. I know that these aliens cost a lot of money, so we've both been trying to save what we can and buy cheap things when we see them. I'm aware that we won't have nearly as much free time as we do now and that doing the things that now can be done quickly and without pain will suddenly take an age and will make me want to scream. I know that I will feel less the center of attention in Alise's life, basically because I will not be the center of her attentions. A lie in will be a rare event, I won't be able to have 'me' time at home while Alise is in the bath. I know all of these things are coming.
So, why the depression? Alise is no doubt thinking all of these things and is also dealing with raging hormones, sore boobs and nausea. I should be having it easy right now. I don't even have to do anything special for her, she hasn't sent me out to satisfy her food cravings and she can still happily lift things on her own.
Perhaps that's it. Perhaps that's what's causing my mood. I'm not the most patient of people at the best of times, and now we're playing the longest waiting game that we've ever played. We have a long time to wait for baby, and apart from buying a few small things right now (we don't want to get too much or spend too much money right now, just in case); there's just not much that I can do. I really like to 'help', to ease symptoms and look after people. Right now, there's really nothing that I can do to help Alise or the alien that's slowly growing inside her.
Perhaps, perhaps that is it. I'm really not sure; I can't quite put my finger on it. I am totally in love with Alise and totally do want this child, so please don't think that I'm feeling regrets or having cold feet. Maybe these are feelings that all future baby daddies go through, maybe this is just me. Who knows.
The above is a direct quote. Alise on Saturday, as we drove in New Hampshire.
Being pregnant, it turns out, is no picnic. Apart from all of the other early pregnancy side effects that I had already known about (cravings, hormones running a bit wild, boobs getting bigger), the frequent urge to pee is the one that has caused Alise the most trouble in these early weeks.
On Saturday we went to the Friendly Farm in Dublin, NH. The GPS and Alise's memories of her childhood stomping grounds collaborated beautifully to get us there in quick time, with no wild detours. Coming home we stopped at a flea market where we picked up a gliding rocking chair type thing for $30.
It turns out that the gliding rocking chair type things usually come with gliding ottomans, allowing mother (or father, I guess) to sit with baby with legs up, and still rock. I'm planning on making my own with an upturned milk crate, a cushion, duct tape and a couple of skateboards. Regardless, chair sans ottoman was in the back of the car and we were on our way home. and we were a bit lost.
And Alise really needed to pee.
Alise has commonly been getting up in the night, having to go right before leaving work and then when she gets home, and asking me to stop where toilets are found when we are out on a drive. We often go on drives and find ourselves in the middle of nowhere; we now have to consider the location of facilities when we do so. Not planning our trips properly leaves us with the choice of pulling off the road that we are on and hiking a short while into the woods so that she can pee with the wildlife, or bursting into a small town gas station which has one unisex bathroom with no toilet paper and a notice that says that 'the doors will be locked if I find a mess like I did last Tuesday'.
Ah, the joys of early pregnancy. Soon to be replaced by further joys of later pregnancy.
My brother has two children.
Little darlings they are, Ben is the oldest and is… 5? I think? Scarlett their youngest is 2. roughly.
I'm the only one of the family to live in the States, my brother (and wife and kids) live close to Nottingham, England; close to my sister and her husband, and my mother and father and their respective spouses. My grandmother also lives close by, and can often be found in the 'Lord Ted' pub dissecting a piece of fish with the touch of a skilled brain surgeon (or should that be sturgeon? Boom boom!!)
So anyway. They all live close together, I'm 3,000 miles away and visit them roughly once every two years.
Back to Ben and Scarlett. They are adorable little humans who are very well behaved and very sweet. One thing that makes them even sweeter is their delicate middle English accents. They say words properly but with an unmistakable Nottingham accent, and could easily play the parts of lovable urchins in amateur productions of Oliver Twist or something. They really are, that cute and I wish I could see them more often.
Now, I'm not saying for one moment that our child or children won't be cute. With a bit of genetic luck they'll take more after their mother than their father, and they'll hopefully be fairly well raised. They will be taught to respect everyone, to be considerate and kind, and they'll be encouraged to be successful in whatever they want to do. I will of course love them like I've never loved before, and I'll do anything that I can to ensure that they have the best lives ever.
But.
And this is a fairly big but.
They'll be American.
They'll talk with an American accent. They'll consider America their home. They'll probably call American football 'football' and my football 'soccer'. They'll celebrate Thanksgiving and be taught on Independence day that they are celebrating victory against the British. They'll call their mum 'mom'. They'll not only know what snow is but what to do with it. They'll know the words of their national anthem before they know the words to mine. They won't understand cricket and they won't care that they don't.
Maybe Ben and Scarlett would like a playmate or two?