The Boy isn't walking yet.
My Mum has now started to remark on it, every time she sees him. "Oh, dear, you're so lazy! You don't walk!"
One of the very nice ladies at work has pointed out that we all learn things in our own time and that he is busy learning other things (he is obsessed with sorting and stacking at the moment) when he is not learning to walk, and that there's no point in trying to persuade him otherwise.
Despite mocking a woman we saw on holiday who spent the entire week bent over double trying to "walk" her baby around the campsite, my husband is now starting to do the same to him.
The Boy is fine. He responds to us, he makes eye contact, he chases the cat, he babbles wordlessly to us about his best toys, he is energetic. He hits all his developmental milestones apart from the walking; he can climb alarmingly quickly, and is beginning to be able to work my laptop, which is kind of weird when you only got introduced to touchpads in your mid 20s and your 16 month old has it sussed already.
Yeah, it is a bit disheartening for me when a kid half his age toddles past him. But, he doesn't care. We don't all do things at the same speeds. Maybe, given his familiarity with my laptop and working at home, he already knows he doesn't need to leave the house to survive; evolution in action.
And you can bet your bottom dollar that the people doing the "Oh! My baby walked at 9 months!" are exactly the sort of people as the person who say things like "Gosh! You need to get a move on with having kids".
Next time, it might get a "Nah, not walking, but he spent 18 months in the freezer so he's just chilled!"
Friday, 23 August 2013
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Packing
Some of our stuff goes into storage tomorrow, so we can do up our flat. Realistically, we're not going to be able to sell quickly, so it's more of a long goodbye for six months than a long weekend away.
I think I'm fairly ruthless and pragmatic about these things; I've only kept what I think I'll need. Books, cookery books and kitchen gadgets, clothes and the wee man's baby gear has been packed away or stored fairly efficiently.
Even so, there have been a few things that I couldn't help but look over, or read, before they went away. Novels, mainly. Not impressive ones, but historic chick lit and pulp sci fi that had survived previous purges and I had to remind myself why. But after, well, possibly too many minutes with each, I reminded myself of my Kindle and that it wasn't goodby forever, and put them in the box.
I can't bear to put away some things, though, even impractical ones. There aren't many. So far, they are:
My 2001 travel guide to the whole of Eastern Europe. It is massively out of date, even to the point that some countries it features have since split up. But then, it has maps, and city descriptions, and ever since I've bought it (which was for the most tame holiday I've had in my life; a package trip to Bulgaria), I've used it as an initial guide to plan some fantastic trips I will long remember. Within the last few weeks, I've flicked through it again, trying to figure out a child-friendly route around Poland...
My spice grinder. I've had it for about ten years too now. It came as a present, a food processor with a juicer attachment. I never used the juicer much and the blender jug was broken ages ago. I actually packed it and then pulled it out, because I need it to grind spices for everything from Indian curries to Hungarian sausages, and it would feel a bit miserable to do without them until whenever we move.
A selection of cookery books: A couple of Hairy Bikers, the canon Nigella Lawson, the Wahaca book - I went for recipes that had a wide range of different cuisines. I must not start collecting receipe books again before we move.
My blue coat: I got it before the whole IVF thing kicked off. It's deeply unfashionable now. It was in the charity shop pile, but I pulled it out. Because I quite like it, if for nothing else.
What couldn't you live without?
I think I'm fairly ruthless and pragmatic about these things; I've only kept what I think I'll need. Books, cookery books and kitchen gadgets, clothes and the wee man's baby gear has been packed away or stored fairly efficiently.
Even so, there have been a few things that I couldn't help but look over, or read, before they went away. Novels, mainly. Not impressive ones, but historic chick lit and pulp sci fi that had survived previous purges and I had to remind myself why. But after, well, possibly too many minutes with each, I reminded myself of my Kindle and that it wasn't goodby forever, and put them in the box.
I can't bear to put away some things, though, even impractical ones. There aren't many. So far, they are:
My 2001 travel guide to the whole of Eastern Europe. It is massively out of date, even to the point that some countries it features have since split up. But then, it has maps, and city descriptions, and ever since I've bought it (which was for the most tame holiday I've had in my life; a package trip to Bulgaria), I've used it as an initial guide to plan some fantastic trips I will long remember. Within the last few weeks, I've flicked through it again, trying to figure out a child-friendly route around Poland...
My spice grinder. I've had it for about ten years too now. It came as a present, a food processor with a juicer attachment. I never used the juicer much and the blender jug was broken ages ago. I actually packed it and then pulled it out, because I need it to grind spices for everything from Indian curries to Hungarian sausages, and it would feel a bit miserable to do without them until whenever we move.
A selection of cookery books: A couple of Hairy Bikers, the canon Nigella Lawson, the Wahaca book - I went for recipes that had a wide range of different cuisines. I must not start collecting receipe books again before we move.
My blue coat: I got it before the whole IVF thing kicked off. It's deeply unfashionable now. It was in the charity shop pile, but I pulled it out. Because I quite like it, if for nothing else.
What couldn't you live without?
Monday, 5 August 2013
Picking at an old scab
Mostly, I am fine about being infertile, now. I no longer have that endless well of rage and frustration inside me.
I rolled my eyes and tutted about all the fuss about the royal baby not because any mention of him was like daggers through my heart, but because I was genuinely bored of it dominating the news headlines (I think if I was still going through IVF the palaver would have sent me over the edge).
I managed to lend maternity clothes to a friend without crying over them. I smile at other kids in the park. I am far more normal than I used to be.
Some things still hurt a little though:
Friends' second pregnancies, particularly the ones that arrive right on time. I'm more happy for them than I was when they were pregnant the first time - frankly, the first time I was a seething mass of resentment and pain. But I still feel a little stab that their life will pan out in an easier and more predictable manner than ours ever will.
So, time has healed things a lot, as has the Boy. The scars have faded in the sun and are almost invisible to the casual observer. But they're still there, although I think I'm very fortunate that things have turned out the way they are.
What things make you think about IF?
I rolled my eyes and tutted about all the fuss about the royal baby not because any mention of him was like daggers through my heart, but because I was genuinely bored of it dominating the news headlines (I think if I was still going through IVF the palaver would have sent me over the edge).
I managed to lend maternity clothes to a friend without crying over them. I smile at other kids in the park. I am far more normal than I used to be.
Some things still hurt a little though:
Friends' second pregnancies, particularly the ones that arrive right on time. I'm more happy for them than I was when they were pregnant the first time - frankly, the first time I was a seething mass of resentment and pain. But I still feel a little stab that their life will pan out in an easier and more predictable manner than ours ever will.
- My period. It's not a hurt, exactly. More that it just feels weird that it turns up every month, but my natural cycle is physically divorced from conception efforts. I mean, I'm kind of glad it is there as it gives us more options, but it just seems a bit... inefficient.
- Thinking about the babies that didn't make it and the sheer awfulness of some of the stuff that happened when I was doing treatment. I tend not to dwell on this as I am very lucky, but sometimes the memories pop into my head unbidden.
- My parents' occasional weird comments about kids really enjoying being around other kids and only children being lonely. I don't know why they do this, given that they're completely opposed to me doing more IVF.
- Scan photos - Possibly the most common thing that takes me back to IF is when someone posts a scan photo on Facebook; perhaps that's because I've had innumerably more unpleasant, stressful scans than ones that were fine. They still have the power to make me wince, although mercifully, no-one has shown me on in person; although I did see a film with a short bit of in utero footage and found that really, really uncomfortable.
So, time has healed things a lot, as has the Boy. The scars have faded in the sun and are almost invisible to the casual observer. But they're still there, although I think I'm very fortunate that things have turned out the way they are.
What things make you think about IF?
Friday, 2 August 2013
Bad blogging
I haven't updated in ages - life has rather got in the way.
The Boy is doing really well. He is almost, almost walking - he can stand for a few seconds unsupported until he realises what he's doing and grabs onto a table or chair.
He can manage odd words at surprising times. We were in the park and he picked a daisy. I picked one too and said "Look, David - a daisy!". To my immense delight, he gurgled "'Aisy!" back at me.
We've finally, finally made some progress with the house move. Our stuff goes into storage next week. I feel immensely happier knowing that it's been booked and yes, we are getting out of here.
Job-wise, things are about to get busier with the woodlice. But I've decided that, when we move at the end of the year, I'm going to quit. It'll be tough financially for a while, but manageable.
My husband has suddenly announced that he is going to start looking for different work too, as there's no progression where he is at the moment. He also agreed that we'd probably want to go for #2, although that will have to wait until after the move and all the job stuff is settled.
It feels much better having made all these decisions - I've sometimes felt quite angry with him over the summer as he just seemed so reluctant to make progress.
The Boy is doing really well. He is almost, almost walking - he can stand for a few seconds unsupported until he realises what he's doing and grabs onto a table or chair.
He can manage odd words at surprising times. We were in the park and he picked a daisy. I picked one too and said "Look, David - a daisy!". To my immense delight, he gurgled "'Aisy!" back at me.
We've finally, finally made some progress with the house move. Our stuff goes into storage next week. I feel immensely happier knowing that it's been booked and yes, we are getting out of here.
Job-wise, things are about to get busier with the woodlice. But I've decided that, when we move at the end of the year, I'm going to quit. It'll be tough financially for a while, but manageable.
My husband has suddenly announced that he is going to start looking for different work too, as there's no progression where he is at the moment. He also agreed that we'd probably want to go for #2, although that will have to wait until after the move and all the job stuff is settled.
It feels much better having made all these decisions - I've sometimes felt quite angry with him over the summer as he just seemed so reluctant to make progress.
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Hot hot hot
I live in a fairly miserable climate. In winter, it can range between drizzly, cold rain and heavy snow. In summer, it ranges between drizzly, cold rain, occasional snow, and the occasional burst of sunlight, for a day or two.
The thing is that you can never predict if a sunny couple of hours is just that, or a sunny afternoon, or a sunny week. You don't really get sunny months. You more look for the spots of good weather interspersed drizzly, cold rain, or sometimes hail. It is very badly mixed up and unpredictable, but mostly cold.
When the weather does heat up, the "taps aff" phenomenon hits. This mass showing of man boobs that really should be kept hidden away happens because you live in a miserable climate, and so, when the sun shines you have to take full advantage of any vitamin D that might otherwise not creep into your skin. This also means skiving off work, drinking outside, and generally doing anything you can to take advantage of the sunshine. The massive flipside is that the said man boobs crop up in your mind forever afterwards, and you may need CBT to suppress the bad thoughts.
So, anyway, on even borderline warm afternoon, you suddenly find acres of wobbly flesh, badly done tattoos and cellulite exposed to the sun. When it is actually hot, there is no air conditioning or cool beers on offer or anything that you usually get in a society that's used to coping with heat.
The weird thing is - and this really is a once in a generation thing - we're into our second week of sun in a month. People are getting tanned and less bonkers about the "taps aff" thing. The usually busy local restaurant is less busy, as people head to the park. There is also - whisper it - an undercurrent that things are Too Hot, and that this heat is unnatural.
The plus side is that the Boy has had much interaction with dogs, which he loves, and people in the park; there's so many people about, and the hot weather is a reason to chat. People are more open, I think.
The downsides are that the Boy loves the park and the sun, but we can't collectively cope with the hot nights (light nights are one thing, it being hot at night are another); he wakes up screaming. We don't do air conditioning because a freak heat wave once every few years doesn't merit it.
I'm sunbathing as much as I can and making sure the Boy gets sunscreen on, as he loves playing outside (he's also very, very dirty). But despite the instinct to worship the sun's intermittent attention, I'm also longingly looking up knitting patterns for when its cold. The sun may put in an appearance every so often, but I live in a society that is used to being chilly,
What would happen if, where you live, the climate changed?
The thing is that you can never predict if a sunny couple of hours is just that, or a sunny afternoon, or a sunny week. You don't really get sunny months. You more look for the spots of good weather interspersed drizzly, cold rain, or sometimes hail. It is very badly mixed up and unpredictable, but mostly cold.
When the weather does heat up, the "taps aff" phenomenon hits. This mass showing of man boobs that really should be kept hidden away happens because you live in a miserable climate, and so, when the sun shines you have to take full advantage of any vitamin D that might otherwise not creep into your skin. This also means skiving off work, drinking outside, and generally doing anything you can to take advantage of the sunshine. The massive flipside is that the said man boobs crop up in your mind forever afterwards, and you may need CBT to suppress the bad thoughts.
So, anyway, on even borderline warm afternoon, you suddenly find acres of wobbly flesh, badly done tattoos and cellulite exposed to the sun. When it is actually hot, there is no air conditioning or cool beers on offer or anything that you usually get in a society that's used to coping with heat.
The weird thing is - and this really is a once in a generation thing - we're into our second week of sun in a month. People are getting tanned and less bonkers about the "taps aff" thing. The usually busy local restaurant is less busy, as people head to the park. There is also - whisper it - an undercurrent that things are Too Hot, and that this heat is unnatural.
The plus side is that the Boy has had much interaction with dogs, which he loves, and people in the park; there's so many people about, and the hot weather is a reason to chat. People are more open, I think.
The downsides are that the Boy loves the park and the sun, but we can't collectively cope with the hot nights (light nights are one thing, it being hot at night are another); he wakes up screaming. We don't do air conditioning because a freak heat wave once every few years doesn't merit it.
I'm sunbathing as much as I can and making sure the Boy gets sunscreen on, as he loves playing outside (he's also very, very dirty). But despite the instinct to worship the sun's intermittent attention, I'm also longingly looking up knitting patterns for when its cold. The sun may put in an appearance every so often, but I live in a society that is used to being chilly,
What would happen if, where you live, the climate changed?
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Smalltown girl
I just spent a week in a small town, for the first time since I left the one I grew up in. Living in a flat that was between lets, helping to clear father in law's almost endless junk from another house up the road.
The flat smelled like the various digs I had as a student - damp downstairs, bare walls upstairs, the minimum of furnishing. It smelled like transience.
Almost automatically, I started doing what I used to do as a student to decorate - use empty wine bottles as candle holders and artfully dribble wax down the sides. If we'd been there any longer I would have doubtless bought a Star Wars poster and some rag rugs.
I experienced that small town mixture of peace and boredom. I had brought work to do but a lack of internet connection meant it was difficult to do. So I spent a fair bit of time walking to the park, walking by the river, browsing in local shops and just generally pottering about.
I ended up being on greeting terms with the guy who worked in the only cafe with wireless, and stopped to chat a few times with our next door neighbour. Less anonymous than in the city - although the next door neighbour reminded me that smalltown friendliness sometimes gets a bit overbearing, as shortly after we arrived he actually tried the door of our flat before knocking and then gabbled something about thinking one of the workmen hired to renovate the flat was working late and he wanted to "check on his car" when my husband went out to ask what he was doing!
I began to think that we could live there forever; we own the property outright and could do low paid jobs while just bumming around the rest of the time. Sort of like being New Age Travellers without the travelling.
Then I realised that I would probably go spare with boredom after a fortnight, and that it was ok during the sunny weather but that the thought of the three of us living in a small flat the other 51 weeks of the year wasn't very enticing.
Still, it was fun for a week. I'd been a bit worried about coping with small town life, but it convinced me more than ever that it's time to get out of the city.
The flat smelled like the various digs I had as a student - damp downstairs, bare walls upstairs, the minimum of furnishing. It smelled like transience.
Almost automatically, I started doing what I used to do as a student to decorate - use empty wine bottles as candle holders and artfully dribble wax down the sides. If we'd been there any longer I would have doubtless bought a Star Wars poster and some rag rugs.
I experienced that small town mixture of peace and boredom. I had brought work to do but a lack of internet connection meant it was difficult to do. So I spent a fair bit of time walking to the park, walking by the river, browsing in local shops and just generally pottering about.
I ended up being on greeting terms with the guy who worked in the only cafe with wireless, and stopped to chat a few times with our next door neighbour. Less anonymous than in the city - although the next door neighbour reminded me that smalltown friendliness sometimes gets a bit overbearing, as shortly after we arrived he actually tried the door of our flat before knocking and then gabbled something about thinking one of the workmen hired to renovate the flat was working late and he wanted to "check on his car" when my husband went out to ask what he was doing!
I began to think that we could live there forever; we own the property outright and could do low paid jobs while just bumming around the rest of the time. Sort of like being New Age Travellers without the travelling.
Then I realised that I would probably go spare with boredom after a fortnight, and that it was ok during the sunny weather but that the thought of the three of us living in a small flat the other 51 weeks of the year wasn't very enticing.
Still, it was fun for a week. I'd been a bit worried about coping with small town life, but it convinced me more than ever that it's time to get out of the city.
Friday, 5 July 2013
The crossover
It's fairly well documented that you get to a point in your life when the responsibility and capability shifts from your aging parents' shoulders onto yours. You expect to have to help them as they become more infirm.
My parents - compared to my father in law, anyway - have been pretty good at planning ahead for their dotage. They moved into a smaller house, didn't get another dog when the one I grew up with died, and generally were winding down.
Until, I think they must have decided that they were too young to die. So suddenly they started swinging wildly in the other direction. They got an enormous, bouncy dog. Mum's 70th birthday was originally scheduled to begin with champagne cocktails at 10am, until we pointed out that none of her kids could actually travel to her house to begin drinking that early without getting up at 6am. Fair enough.
What does have me chewing my fingernails is my Mum's relentless hyperactivity. It's like dealing with an energetic toddler, who knows no reason. My Dad finds it quite wearing too, when she tears off into the distance without having a clue where she's going, but wants to get there first, wherever it is. He's got a dodgy hip and can't go that fast, but she still zooms off, leaving him and everyone else trailing in her wake.
Mum wanted to go fabric shopping in the city, so Dad, her, the Boy and me went to the market district. It is in one of the dodgiest bits of town. Mum, having initially claimed she knew where she was going, announced that she didn't really know, but thought the shop was up a random, dark alley. I tried to persuade her that this was unlikely, and was not a good bit of town to explore. She insisted on going on her own.
In the meantime, while I stood with Dad, a scar-faced passerby asked us directions to the local off-licence. Dad, in a jolly fashion, said he didn't know because we were all from Hicksville, and had scary scar man ever been there? I tried not to hiss "shut uuuup, Dad," like I was 15.
Mum appeared back from her tour of Dickensian alleyways; I made her come with me into a newsagent and I bought a magazine while she actually, literally leapt around the Boy's pushchair making the floor thud with the impact and emitting stupid noises. I asked for directions to her fabric shop.
And then we left the newsagent, and my Mum got bored following the directions after approximately 30 seconds. She veered off to the left for no apparent reason, speeding on by herself, and then spotted the most sinister looking pub in the world; a brick box with no windows. So the best thing, obviously, to do would be to flirtatiously ask the man chainsmoking outside, who had even more scars than the man we met earlier, for directions. Funnily enough, he didn't know where the fabric shop was.
We eventually got there when I stuck to the directions we'd been given.
It's like this all the time; I walked her onto her train earlier today and she practically sprinted off up the station concourse while I struggled with luggage, and then insisted that all the clocks in the station were wrong and her watch wasn't slow.
In a way, it's a good phase as she's very independent. It's also maddening, as both of them seem to have become incredibly unworldly, although I think that's partly from spending three decades staying in a small, remote town. I distinctly remember my Mum telling me to avoid dodgy looking drunks when I was little. Dad used to lecture me about data protection, but now will cheerfully put all his personal details on forms, just because he's asked to, and then wonders why he's plagued by junk phone calls.
But part of the thing about the aging parent situation is that, although you become more responsible, they still think they know best. And, unlike a toddler, it's much more difficult to argue that you're right - because they remember changing your nappy...
My parents - compared to my father in law, anyway - have been pretty good at planning ahead for their dotage. They moved into a smaller house, didn't get another dog when the one I grew up with died, and generally were winding down.
Until, I think they must have decided that they were too young to die. So suddenly they started swinging wildly in the other direction. They got an enormous, bouncy dog. Mum's 70th birthday was originally scheduled to begin with champagne cocktails at 10am, until we pointed out that none of her kids could actually travel to her house to begin drinking that early without getting up at 6am. Fair enough.
What does have me chewing my fingernails is my Mum's relentless hyperactivity. It's like dealing with an energetic toddler, who knows no reason. My Dad finds it quite wearing too, when she tears off into the distance without having a clue where she's going, but wants to get there first, wherever it is. He's got a dodgy hip and can't go that fast, but she still zooms off, leaving him and everyone else trailing in her wake.
Mum wanted to go fabric shopping in the city, so Dad, her, the Boy and me went to the market district. It is in one of the dodgiest bits of town. Mum, having initially claimed she knew where she was going, announced that she didn't really know, but thought the shop was up a random, dark alley. I tried to persuade her that this was unlikely, and was not a good bit of town to explore. She insisted on going on her own.
In the meantime, while I stood with Dad, a scar-faced passerby asked us directions to the local off-licence. Dad, in a jolly fashion, said he didn't know because we were all from Hicksville, and had scary scar man ever been there? I tried not to hiss "shut uuuup, Dad," like I was 15.
Mum appeared back from her tour of Dickensian alleyways; I made her come with me into a newsagent and I bought a magazine while she actually, literally leapt around the Boy's pushchair making the floor thud with the impact and emitting stupid noises. I asked for directions to her fabric shop.
And then we left the newsagent, and my Mum got bored following the directions after approximately 30 seconds. She veered off to the left for no apparent reason, speeding on by herself, and then spotted the most sinister looking pub in the world; a brick box with no windows. So the best thing, obviously, to do would be to flirtatiously ask the man chainsmoking outside, who had even more scars than the man we met earlier, for directions. Funnily enough, he didn't know where the fabric shop was.
We eventually got there when I stuck to the directions we'd been given.
It's like this all the time; I walked her onto her train earlier today and she practically sprinted off up the station concourse while I struggled with luggage, and then insisted that all the clocks in the station were wrong and her watch wasn't slow.
In a way, it's a good phase as she's very independent. It's also maddening, as both of them seem to have become incredibly unworldly, although I think that's partly from spending three decades staying in a small, remote town. I distinctly remember my Mum telling me to avoid dodgy looking drunks when I was little. Dad used to lecture me about data protection, but now will cheerfully put all his personal details on forms, just because he's asked to, and then wonders why he's plagued by junk phone calls.
But part of the thing about the aging parent situation is that, although you become more responsible, they still think they know best. And, unlike a toddler, it's much more difficult to argue that you're right - because they remember changing your nappy...
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