Foreigner by Default

Extra deep cleavages and traditional values

2008-04-22T09:16:00.006+01:00

Shockingly we were all out of bed more than half an hour before we had to head out of the door. Sir Sprout was changed, dressed and busy disassembling his wooden train when The Ultimate Other Half got out of shower.

That doesn't mean that I was any more efficient than any other morning though. Lazy and sleepy as usual I curled myself into comfy bundle on the duvet while the boys were having discussions about the right location of dirty socks (wash basket, not Daddys feet) or mobile phone (Daddys pocket, all other options unacceptable). Eventually, after the boys had overcome all their differences and pranced towards the staircase, hand in hand, I headed to bathroom.

When I came out my bra was nowhere to be found. Or my top.

Yes, I do have more than one bra and top but those were the ones I wanted to wear! Ever tried to reason with pregnant woman? Don't waste your time!

Anyway, that's how I ended up downstairs in jeans and unzipped hoodie, tits akimbo.

The Ultimate Other Half gave me a long thoughtful look.

"Don't you think you've overdone it a bit with the cleavage," he said, staring at my not so covered boobs and belly.

"What's wrong with it," I snorted. "Don't you like it?"

"No, I do, it's just, you know, Irish traditional values and stuff ... People might not accept it. I know that you're proud of your bump but it's not really that noticeable."

"YES IT BLOODY IS!" I announced clutching the bra and top located on bench in the hallway.

"Trust me, you go to work like that and nobody will notice the bump!" he sneered.

Maybe I should start a poll about cleavage-tolerance of traditional Irish values.

And the top is firmly on. No need to traumatize beloved colleagues with topless whale.

Swift guide to happiness

2008-04-17T11:57:00.003+01:00

1) Run around like mad

2) Get stuck in traffic jam

3) Eat crap

Not much of a traveller, me

2008-04-17T09:29:00.001+01:00

There's a lot of blank spots left even on European map! Gotta get cracking ... as soon as Sprout is 18 or so.

create your personalized map of europe
or check out our Barcelona travel guide

Of course some of those countries I've only been driving through so my actual count of visited places is even less impressive.

Internal matters. Literally.

2008-04-15T15:32:00.009+01:00

It was a lovely sunny day, I'd just gobbled down mighty lunch and made my way back to my desk. Since working (Booooo!) was totally not an option out came my trusted Google reader and thus the blog wander began.

There I was, blissfully giggling my way through Xboxes uterine musings involving Dutch no-nonsense approach to the privacy of ones privates, when it happened.

I had another Foreigner Moment. Meaning - whoa, just remembered how differently things really work here and back on (Ex)Home Ground.

And those a bit wary of all things vaginal should stop reading now. OK. And if you do decide to stay with me - no whingeing. You've been warned.

As Sir Sprouts birth was looming closer my lovely mild-mannered Gentleman Doctor started to gently prepare me.

"You see, Foreigner," he said soothingly, "I would need to do an internal examination about a week before the due date, just to see how things are going down there." (you'd swear he almost blushed at "down there" point.) "Now, it's not really pleasant and a lot of women are afraid of it but it doesn't hurt and I wouldn't get too worried if I was you."

I was about 37 weeks pregnant, huge, drowsy and with very delayed reactions, otherwise I would have probably blessed him with fairly chavy "What da fuck are ya talkin' about??"

As it was, I only mastered a muted "Hrmmpphh!?" and never really thought about it any further.

Until the next appointment when he politely asked me to remove my knickers after a scan. Before I could even reach my hand down there (it takes a bit of effort if you have to navigate around a belly of monstrous proportions) he made a magician-like swift move and I was covered with cellular blanket from my bump down to my toes and curtains were drawn in front of apprehensive-looking Ultimate Other Half.

It didn't really make the knicker-removal operation any smoother but somehow I managed it without knocking off the blanket. It still puzzled me why the cover was needed as it would surely be taken off for the examination itself.

It wasn't. My doctor inserted his gloved hand under the blanket, skillfully located my vagina and performed a feather-gentle probing-around all the while giving a live commentary accompanied by numerous apologies for discomfort and intrusion of privacy and whatnot.

I got off the table in mild shock.

Why, you ask. Surely the doctor was as delicate and tactful and the experience was anything else than nasty?

Well, herein lays the issue. You see, in Ireland most women won't get an internal before they're in labor and some give birth getting away without it altogether.

Not so on Home Ground.

You get internal examination if they SUSPECT you're pregnant.
You get it if they don't think you are.
You get it every single time you darken the door of gynecologist.
It's quite surprising really that dentists don't perform internals.

I was 15 when all the girls of our class had to go to the gynecologist, as a part of overall medical assessment.

To speed things up the doctor had one girl stripping "from waist" as she was performing examination on the other. The stirruped high chair was facing the bloody door. There was no feathery touch or talking through the process involved.

"Relax!" she barked and shoved next instrument in. It was usually something metal, big, slightly sharp and stone cold. "What did I tell you - relax!"

As you might imagine, relaxing was quite out of question, especially for 15-year olds with no experiences of any intrusive activity in the neither regions to start with.

For years I harbored distrust and deep desire to run and hide as soon as I saw a sign "Gynecologist" on the door. Not all of them were so bad though and eventually I DID learn to relax all the relevant muscles which made the yearly visits that much less stressful.

I only see the blessing side now though, when another doctor at the hospital pales and hides her/his eyes half-whispering "We need to do an internal". It's so easy for me to just whisk off my pants, plonk on my back, spread the knees wide, put the hands behind my head and relax.

"Bring it on!"

Straight from life - honest!

2008-04-11T15:36:00.002+01:00

Rumors had reached me that there have been some sightings of snow in Ireland today.

So I snook out and snapped that little picture on the main (only) street of our village this morning.

Shopping assistance needed - Vol. 1

2008-04-10T17:03:00.004+01:00

Where could I get T-shirt like that??

They have bucket loads of vomit-inducing slogans like "Fertile Goddess" or "Baby Love" but nothing really RELEVANT like this little number I had to design myself.

Bummer.

P.S. And no, it's not me on the picture, thank you very much, I'm far from blonde and svelte. I nicked the photo from some maternity wear site. I think it was Funmum.com.

Answer to (some of) my problems

2008-04-08T10:50:00.005+01:00

Life was so much more predictable when I wasn't driving yet.

Granted, I had to drag hapless Ultimate Other Half with me either I needed to get a PPS number or bikini wax. But it was his own fault for not protesting more and only making very subtle remarks in lines "when will you learn to drive" once in couple of months or so.

Perhaps he was slightly put off by me barking "Never!" or giving long epic lectures about how cars are stronger than me, scary, unpredictable and you can't NEGOTIATE with them.

Or I just patted his hand lovingly and assured him that he's a brilliant driver and I have every confidence that he can get me wherever we going safely. Which he did.

He's driving skills faltered only once when he reversed forcefully into a lamp post in front of maternity hospital.

Who puts lamp posts in the middle of a parking lot anyway?

Anyway, we always got where we wanted to go in reasonable time and in one piece.

This Sunday I took Sir Sprout to a indoor play center in a nearby little town. After spending couple of hours propping him up to all kinds of attractions so he could slide down happily squealing (as a result I've been handicapped for 2 days, he's 15kg, have I mentioned that?) I decided to do the proper Mommy thing and have lunch in nearby restaurant.

About 40 minutes later Sir Sprout was stuffed with toasted sandwich and chicken from my salad. So we headed towards home.

Now, did I mention I go to work to that town? Five days a week.

Thus you would presume I'd have learned my way back home by now.

So how the hell did I end up in a village about 20km from the town IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION???

The fact that I just shrugged, turned the car around and drove home, shows how unsurprised I was. Sir Sprout didn't notice a thing. He was snoring in his seat.

Clearly there's only one answer to my problem. A personal chauffeur. All we need now, is to win a lottery.

Before I'll go to take Sir Sprout to the creche one of these mornings and will next be spotted someplace in Southern Spain, a bit puzzled since I still haven't come across local Supervalu.

About love, briefly

2008-04-05T15:39:00.003+01:00

Morning, not a particularly early one.

Grumpy Foreigner has spread her considerable bulk all over the bed, leaving a quaint wee corner for The Ultimate Other Half to balance on. She is in very whingy mood.

"Sir Sprout has been whacking me the whole morning," she complains.

"And kicking," adds The Ultimate Other Half helpfully.

"Exactly. I think he doesn't like me," states Foreigner gloomily.

The Ultimate Other Half can see things going downhill rapidly and dives in for a save:
"No, that's because he LOVES you!"

"So THAT'S how you're supposed to express your love nowadays," snorts Foreigner. Then she pauses to think and bursts into a wail:
"YOU don't love me!!!"

A tad confused here

2008-04-04T11:24:00.006+01:00

Courtesy of K8:

You Are 70% Boyish and 30% Girlish

How Boyish or Girlish Are You?

And there was me thinking I'm dead cute and feminine and stuff!

Does that mean that I'm pregnant with a boy???

Will The Ultimate Other Half feel a bit awkward around me now????

Where can I get some chocolate?????

Reports from the home front

2008-04-04T11:00:00.003+01:00

The Ultimate Other Half is staying at home today with still a bit iffy and feverish Sir Sprout.

Nice relaxing day for him, you think naively.

Wrong!

I just got email from him:

"Could be a long day. He likes this:"

Learning to fly

2008-04-04T10:37:00.002+01:00

I'm in sharing mood today:

Whoopin' Bug

2008-04-03T09:33:00.005+01:00

I have yet to see the day when everything goes by plan.

But despite my shaky fingers, cranky disposition, car running out of petrol and having to take slightly feverish Sir Sprout with us we made it to the doctor alright.

Didn't take long before I was facing the No-Nonsense-Nurse again. I remembered her from last round. All too well.

So I wasn't as startled as first time couple of years ago when she started to bomb me with questions with all the subtlety and gentleness on Gestapo officer.

I know now she's quite nice really, just terribly abrupt.

"So, give me a letter from your GP!"

I felt blood draining from my head.

"Ehmmm... I forgot it at home," I mumbled.

No-Nonsense-Nurse made a noise which could only be described as "harrumphhhh".

"Where are your blood results?"

"In the letter," I squeaked and attempted to make a feeble stab at her sense of humour and/or tolerance. "Must be the pregnancy brain kicking in."

"Harrrruuummphhhh."

OK. Obviously not working.

"I see. Give me your urine sample."

At this point I almost burst into tears.

"Didn't bring one. I'm really sorry."

"It's fine. I'm getting used to it at this point." Maybe, just MAYBE I spotted a little hint of amused twinkle in her eyes.

After 20 minutes of intensive chat I was so relieved to get out that I almost plummeted down the stairs getting out of her office.

Luckily we didn't have to wait long to see a consultant since Sir Sprout was trying to take (absolutely lovely) waiting room apart.

Not to mention that I was ready to burst after all the water I had dutifully drunk. So much so that one of the first statements during the scan was: "You have done a very good job with a bladder."

Really? Total news to me but hey, you're the expert. Can I just kick you and lunge for loo, please?

Well, long story short - Tummy Bug is not an octopus. All the limbs were counted and correct numbers resulted. Nasal bone was also spotted (a positive sign if you're a bit freaked about chromosomal disorders). And it was one fidgety bouncer in there. Or as the consultant politely put it "Very nice active baby."

I can foresee months of sore ribs already.

Then came the measuring time and shouldn't have really been surprised when the doctor said "Oh, I think we have to bring dates forward."

Yep, Tummy Bug is a whooper. At least so far. And most likely will continue to grow vigorously.

"If you had 9 pound 2 baby before it's unlikely you're gonna have seven pounder the second time around." explained my doctor kindly.

So if I haven't "gone" by due date they will drag me into hospital and stick needles in. With drugs in them. To get me "going". Eeewwwwww.

I guess it's too early to freak about THAT perspective yet. But I will anyway, just to keep busy.

And to take my mind away from other issues to freak about.

Because, truth is, there is no 100% guarantee that Tummy Bug is perfectly healthy & OK. But so far the signs are on a good side. Fingers crossed.

Precious, precious moments

2008-04-02T10:25:00.004+01:00

I don't know if I should be feeling happy or proud or faintly disturbed and worried.

Thing is, Sip Sprout has taken an epic step on speech development field. This morning he actually uttered something which (with application of some creative thinking) could qualify as a sentence.

Fever again this morning so this time The Ultimate Other Half volunteered to miss work today. As I was pulling on my boots a very businesslike Sir Sprout hauled his little green PJ-clad bum onto a couch, settled comfortably on the pillows and pulled a blankie onto his knees. Then he looked at me. Expectantly.

I stared back with blatant disregard of his obvious intentions.

He then proceeded to point at television and said loud and (fairly) clear:
"Mommy TV peaaze*!"

Mixed feelings here. Very mixed.

But I DID put on CBeebies. After all he made SOME effort.

* peaaze = please. He's still working on that speech lark, give him a break!

House still disease-ridden

2008-04-01T15:09:00.000+01:00

Sir Sprout woke up this morning with high fever again. We flipped a coin with The Ultimate Other Half and as a result I got to stay at home with him.

Wee man is cosied up on a couch in his pyjamas with soother, favorite blankie and endless supply of CBeebies.

He is suffering terribly.

Freaking out

2008-04-01T12:52:00.007+01:00

My problem is that I research too much.

It probably stems from the need to make an informed decision which, in theory, is not a bad thing at all. Quite opposite, really.

My second problem is that this approach never quite works.

Lets say you need a buggy (or pram or stroller or however are you supposed to call them). Out come all the product review & price comparison websites & parenting message boards. Months of extensive reading, questioning and budget reviews eventually result in a buggy dutifully hunted down from the umpteenth baby store tried.

Half a year and three buggies later you come to the sad conclusion that you cannot really make genuinely informed decision without experience and exact assessment of your needs.

And yes, example ( a very expensive one) is taken from life. My life, unfortunately. The thought of needing a double buggy in near future makes my hands shake and raises bitter regrets that I don't drink any more.

But there can be much more serious drawbacks than having to flog off piles of buggies to finally find the right one. Things are easy. They're replaceable.

It's entirely a different story when you (after quite unpoetical act of peeing on a stick) are faced with two bright purple lines. Meaning - yeah, woman, here we go again!

Without much delay you plunge into murky depths of internet only to surface with handful of totally unwelcome facts like:

A chance of Down Syndrome when getting pregnant in your age - 1 in 289
A chance of any other chromosomal disorder - 1 in 156
Heightened chance of diabetes and all kinds of other lovely complications including abruption of placenta and pathologic condition of fetus
Increased risk of miscarriage

I guess probability of complicated and prolonged delivery isn't even worth mentioning. After all I didn't really get off lightly first time around either.

Maybe I would be better off just not knowing and not worrying? Living my life in blissful ignorance? Taking things as they come?

Too late now anyway.

I just hope I won't loose the plot before tomorrow's scan altogether.

Paraphrasing wise woman Hails: "Tomato juice helps."

Gravity's a bitch

2008-03-31T09:45:00.009+01:00

Yep, I'm not afraid to say it out loud.

A nudgy-pushy-destructive-heavyweight bitch. Who lives to eat.

I'm talking about my mother-in-laws old springer spaniel whom we're babysitting while her family is traveling, of course. What did you think?

Why is she called Gravity? Well, according to the Ultimate Other Half she used to fall a lot when she was a pup. From the bed, off the stairs and so on. So he called her Gravity.

Which, looking at her now is a highly appropriate name since there is rarely a dog seen so religiously taking care that even in case of slightly reduced gravity there would be no chance of loosing a ground. Maybe all the time she spent fizzing through the air in her stormy youth has made her paranoid of floating away altogether.

To put it simply - she is humongous. She looks like an ironing table on short furry legs. She used to have a double chin, I kid you not!

That was before she had to seek a refuge in our house four weeks ago.
Grunting with effort she rolled herself out of the car, into the front door and then to kitchen to check out if there's any food in Mutt The Mad's bowl. There wasn't. So she snapped grumpily at Mutt ("Hey, cool, nice to see ya, hey, cool, let's play, hey...") and plonked into the dog bed where she remained, slightly panting with all the effort.

The bed was only very briefly abandoned for extremely short trips to kitchen or garden.

In the evening I discovered that the reason she so patiently stays downstairs when everybody else is upstairs was not an admirable case of doggie-zen. She just couldn't get up the stairs.

There was not a single shudder of horror and compassion in my little cold heart when I put her on a diet.

First results were showing when Gravity actually found enough energy to go hunting-gathering. That, in spoilt pooch world, means "Follow the toddler and hoover up all the bits of dried bananas, raisins, fruit leather, apple, toast etc. he might drop or hand to you. Be persistent and annoying. Make it very clear you WANT the food he's eating. Hover around his high chair when he's having dinner. Beat Mutt The Mad to all the morsels on the floor."

Mutt The Mad learned very quickly that if he wanted to keep the food in his own bowl he'd better a) be fast, b) be prepared to fight for it.

By the beginning of week 3 Gravity was occasionally following me up and down the stairs. Week later she is whizzing around the house, having play fights with Mutt and destroying even more toys (both Mutts and Sprouts, she doesn't discriminate) than usual. I think we now have only one set of wooden puzzles with all the pieces intact and that's the one I took out of wrapper yesterday. Blocks off Sprouts train set have become a sawdust. Most of Mutts soft animals have lost all their stuffing and squeaky ones their squeak.

In a word, Gravity is now hell of a lot happier dog. She is still fat, of course, but the double chin is gone and there is a faint hint around her middle section that someplace there, a long time ago, must have been a waist. One more month and the aforementioned waist would be definitely THERE.

The trouble is Gravity's family is returning from their travels in a week. Back she will go to the land of cookies, chips, fatty bits off cooking, always-full bowls and treats from every person who walks into the door. To the obese dog heaven.

At least we tried.

Toddlers can be surprisingly placid...

2008-03-29T15:10:00.003Z

...while sporting temperatures approaching the top end of your regular thermometer.

This appears to be a sturdy, brave fever stubbornly resisting every medication known to mankind (OK, Foreigner, her Mom and village pharmacist).

A true champion. A fever of all fevers.

I guess I should be proud.

Anybody up for night shift in our house? No?

Thought so.

Neglect and ruin

2008-03-28T10:54:00.006Z

I have been shamefully neglecting this blog (and rest of the blog-world).
Why?

Well, I have been busy doing following things:

1) Sleeping. I can proudly say I can do it now at any time of the day or night and pretty much in every thinkable place or position except maybe standing up - but I'm working on it. On the couch. In the armchair. In the toilet. In the car. Wherever. Yawn.

2) Being queasy. I've really excelled at that. The trick is never (or almost never) to really get sick. Just deeply, naggingly, annoyingly, blindingly nauseous. All the time. Except when you sleep or when you're

3) Eating. Yeah. Food. Mmmmm.
Well, certain foods. Research has shown that carrots, for example, can make you sick. Or smoked mackerel. Or any meat - for a while. And then parsnips. Then skimmed milk.
Fruit has proved to be a trusty staple. A lot of it. Scary amounts, in fact.

4) Sitting at my desk at work all queasy while trying to not fall asleep. That's one of my favorites. You should really try it. Lovely exercise for wilting willpower.

5) Visiting medical institutions. In all the fairness I haven't been doing THAT much of it but I still consider it worth a mention. Euggghh. The day will come and I'll write up a very helpful guide of finding veins on Foreigners chubby arms, with map and all. Including the amount of needles and tut-tutting needed for the job.

6) Driving the Ultimate Other Half mental. However crap one feels, one has got to do her duty.

7) Making feeble stabs at toddler taming. I won't even enter the score here as it might draw some very unwelcome interest from social services. But let me assure you that Sir Sprout is winning hands down.

I'm sure there has been something else as well but I haven't exactly kept a diary so there.

Good news is I seem to start perking up a bit lately.

I've had fairly aware-of-surroundings morning. No nausea. Yesterday I saw a carrot in the fridge and didn't burst into tears, neither did I attempt to vacate my inner regions from consumed nutrient carriers orally.

OK, I did kinda snooze off after 9 but even the strongest among us can be severely traumatized by weekly groceries hunt performed on Thursday night. That's just life. Deeply unfair but merciless.

I still wouldn't go and volunteer to actually EAT the aforementioned carrot though.
Yuk!

Tummy Bug seems to be thriving, thanks for asking!

Hmmmm...

2008-02-07T14:51:00.001Z

About The Quirky Guy

2008-02-01T09:49:00.000Z

It had started to get too awkward for him to squeeze himself into the wheelchair and that was the first day he admitted a defeat. They had wheeled him into the patient smoking area in his bed.

He was lounging in his fancy push-the-button-and something-will-raise/lower/vibrate bed in relaxed manner, gin and tonic in one hand and cigarette in other.
Looking at him it was impossible to believe that his time was running out very fast.

"Sit down and have a fag with me," he ordered.

"But there's sign here saying that smoking area is for patients only," I argued.

He snorted with utter contempt.

"Just sit down, will you, and have a fag!"

So I did.

"I fixed the radiator here," he announced smugly. "AND the alarm button!"

He was always fixing things. Radios. Heating systems. Skirting boards Mutt The Mad had gobbled up in dire times of boredom. Light fittings. Washing machines. You name it - he had fixed it at some point of his life.

The cigarette was almost gone, he put it out and had a good gulp of gin.

"Should we call the nurses and get you back?" I asked.

"Nah, I'm gonna have another one. Sit down, will you!"

When the doctors had told him to give up smoking couple of years ago he kept sneaking behind the house like rebellious teenager and popping into our house to raid my cigarettes. He was quite disappointed when I gave up smoking while pregnant.

"How's Sir Sprout?" he asked.

"The fever seems to be down but he's still not sleeping properly. Otherwise he's fine."

"He always falls asleep on MY lap!" he boasted. "He KNOWS I'm good for him!"

The Quirky Guy was the most doting grandfather you could possibly imagine. There were always some plain biscuits saved in his hospice locker for Sir Sprouts visits (because evil parents wouldn't hear anything about chocolate-covered ones) and all the visitors had to spend some fairly draining time listening to how well-developed, beautiful and talented his grandson is. World hadn't seen a baby as perfect before. He would grow up to be a rugby player, second row, just look at him, such a strong fella! And a golfer, there's good money in golf.

My pitiful protests about Sir Sprout having to make up his own mind were graciously dismissed.

"You'd think he never had children before the way he's going on about his grandson," sniggered Iron Lady, The Wife.

The Quirky Guy would do anything for Sir Sprout. Well, maybe not nappy changes if those could be avoided. That wasn't really his thing.

Opinions were his thing though. And arguing. Sitting at the dinner table with The Ultimate Other Half, his brothers and father was an ultimate test of endurance and patience. They ALL had Opinions.

In the beginning it wasn't too bad cause due to language barrier I lost half of the conversation anyway. Getting more fluent in English had its drawbacks.

The Quirky Guy finished his second cigarette and looked a bit tired now. We helped nurses to wheel him back into his room.

I drove back home to The Ultimate Other Half and blissfully sleeping Sir Sprout.

Couple of days later The Quirky Guys trips to smoking area stopped. He didn't ask for a cigarette during his brief moments of consciousness any more.

Quirky Guy left us a day before Christmas Eve.

I don't know if there is A Restaurant At The End Of The Universe. But if there is, The Quirky Guy will be sitting there nursing his pint of Guinness, puffing a cigarette and explaining the barman where exactly God has gone wrong and how he would do it better.

And fixing the espresso machine while he's at it.

Dizzy and happy

2007-11-28T11:12:00.000Z

Dizzy because I haven't slept much. Nothing new there.

Happy because I PASSED MY DRIVING TEST THIS MORNING! With flying colours and hearty congratulations from the tester.

So I'm feeling bloody good about myself for a change.

Will they fire me if I fall asleep behind the desk?

There goes the diet

2007-11-27T10:12:00.000Z

So I was talking to my mother.
On the phone, naturally, her being On Home Ground.

"Do you have anything specific you want for Christmas? I'm putting the parcel together here," she says.

"Nah, I'm fine, don't need anything. Don't go overboard now, it's expensive to send packages!"

Annoyed silence.

"Well, I'm gonna at least send you some Estonian chocolate! I know you love it!" she declares with victorious air.

"Mom, I told you I'm on diet. DON'T send me chocolates! I have a will power of a tatty dish rag, you know that as well!"

"Nonsense! A bit of chocolate won't do you any harm. Gotta treat yourself once in a while, otherwise you'll go nuts." Thoughtful pause. "Well, even more nuts."

"Thank you!!! Well, at least keep it sensible. Just a little of chocolate AND DON'T GET THE BOX TOO HEAVY! You'll be paying for the postage through your nose!"

"Yeah-yeah ...we'll see."

That was the end of it until The Ultimate Other Half went home at lunch time yesterday and found a notification of the package in the post box.

He drove unsuspectingly to the post office only to be presented with a HUGE wooden box (made lovingly by my father) weighing 20 kg (44 pounds) and secured with around 500 screws.

I still don't know how he managed to lug it to the car. Trip back home involved open bonnet and anticipation of getting the box from the car into the house.

In the evening my long-suffering husband combined watching The Panel and Podge & Rodge with laboriously unscrewing 250 of 500 screws. To get the box open, like.

The contents included:

1 solid wood rocking sheep covered with natural lambswool (For Sir Sprout, I presume)
pile of Christmas-related soft toys/decorations
2 sets of cookie cutters
8 boxes of liquor-filled chocolates (125 g each)
2 boxes of nut-coated chocolates (200 g each)
6 tablets of nutty chocolate (100 g each)
6 maxi tablets of premium chocolate (300 g each)

That would be 3.8 kg of chocolate (8.4 pounds). Which in my mothers books obviously qualifies as "a little".

I was drooling sadly as I locked the whole pile of it into the room where furniture goes to die. A lot of our friends will receive a presents of Estonian chocolates this year.

We are considering painting the box and declaring it a two-seater bench.

But I love the rocking sheep!

Sleep issues or actually lack of sleep issues

2007-11-21T14:33:00.001Z

OK, here I am again, sitting at my desk.

Yawn.

I distinctly remember most of the baby-related books I read (and oh did I go through plenty) stated that little humans usually start sleeping through the night at the age of 6 months. Well, maybe 9 months if you happen to have a particularly uncooperative baby.

I trust books. Wisdom of the mankind is bound into books. They're solid and smell nice and make me purr much louder than finding David Beckham stark naked in my kitchen ever would.

(Actually, bad parallel, finding Becks in my kitchen (naked or not) would just plain freak me out. But I WOULD jump him alrite - to bloody gag him. Just a thought of that whingy voice of his makes me shudder.)

Anyway, who cares who's wandering around naked in my kitchen!

The point is I have come to a shocking discovery that BOOKS CAN LIE.

And I think it's a conniving plot to lull couples into false sense of security.

You know - ah sure let's not throw him out of the window yet, he'll get better in some months.

And then couple of months pass, you refer back to the book and sure it did mention that it CAN happen a bit later as well so you cross your teeth and suffer on.

By the time you have lost all hope to ever get sleep again it's too late. You've bonded with the little divil. He/she can do nothing wrong and is Generally One Of The Prettiest Children Alive.
Presenting The Most Smashingly Gorgeous Demon Alive Complete With Huge Zit, Manky Face And No Pants

There's nothing to be done now. He can stay up all night screaming for I-don't-know-what-I-want-but-you-better-get-it-for-me-now.
He can keep hiding The Ultimate Other Half's watch, my shoes, his socks, my phone.
He can nick Mutt The Mad's food and keep lovingly smacking our faces (a new charming trait and it flippin hurts, especially if he has a wooden block if his hand).
He can raise a hell every evening when we all get home cause WHY ISN'T DINNER ON THE TABLE YET, I WANT IT NOW, WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE TO COOK IT FIRST.

We still adore him immensely and could not imagine a life without him and will get through another no-sleep period as well.

After all that's what God created Dozol, Bonjela and Nurofen for.

How to drive your husband nuts Vol 1

2007-11-13T15:39:00.000Z

I think I have a lot to contribute to the subject. You could almost say I'm an expert.

And unlike some I am always happy to share my knowledge with the world. So the world could benefit, like.

Lets start with Little Things. They have proved to be extremely efficient.

Thing no 1
KEYS
Frustrated Foreigner after 10-minute search: Have you seen my my keys?
The Ultimate Other Half: I put them into key cabinet.
Foreigner: WHY the hell would you put them into key cabinet??? I NEVER put them there!!! FFS!!! (storms out huffing and puffing)

Thing no 2
CURTAINS
Grumpy Foreigner: Why do you bloody keep opening the curtains?!
Baffled Husband: To let light in, of course.
Foreigner: Well STOP doing it! We'll only need to close them again in the evening and it annoys me!

Thing no 3
OLD T-SHIRTS
Throw them away. Ignore his pleas.

Thing no 4
TOASTED SANDWICH MAKER
The Ultimate Other Half: Where's the toasted sandwich maker?
Foreigner: Dunno. Why do you want it?
Other Half (with poisonous stare): I want to make toasted sandwiches! Why did you move it?
Foreigner: Needed more space in the corner cupboard.
Other Half: The corner cupboard is almost EMPTY!
Foreigner: Well, it was IN MY WAY and annoyed me!
Other Half: So where did you put it?
Foreigner: Told you - I DON'T KNOW!

Oh yeah, don't mention it. I know I'm good!

I might move on to Big Things some time in the future since those inconsiderate people here in the office keep whinging that I should get some work done.

Or maybe I'll just retire and devote myself to blogging, Sprout-rearing and Husband-annoying. Oh what a life would it be!

Picking up the slack - The Pharyngula Mutating Genre

2007-11-12T10:35:00.000Z

Here I am, trying to get my act together.

It appears that long long time ago in county far far away the incredible K8 had tagged me with a meme.

Now first thing I had to do was to find out what the heck is a meme. It wasn't easy. I packed my bags, kissed my family goodbye and took off for the wild planes of Wikipedia.

Thats what I found:
" A meme (pronounced [miːm] in IPA), as defined within memetic theory, comprises a theoretical unit of cultural information, the building block of cultural evolution or diffusion that propagates from one mind to another analogously to the way in which a gene propagates from one organism to another as a unit of genetic information and of biological evolution.^[1] Multiple memes may propagate as cooperative groups called memeplexes (meme complexes)."

Wha'?????

I read it five bleedin' times. Still the same outcome.

Wha'???

After a brief moment of despair I tried a different approach and made a quick search in Google. All became clear then:
"A meme is an idea that is shared and passed from blog to blog, like a question posted in one blog and answered in many other blogs."

OK, I guess I could manage that. Hopefully.

Now to the task itself.

There are a set of statements below that are all of the form:”The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…”. Copy the statements, you may modify them in a limited way, carrying out no more than two of these operations:

You can leave them exactly as is.
You can delete any one
You can mutate either the genre, medium, or subgenre of any one question.

For instance, you could change “The best time travel novel in SF/Fantasy is…” to “The best time travel novel in Westerns is…”, or “The best time travel movie in SF/Fantasy is…”, or “The best romance novel in SF/Fantasy is…”.

You can add a completely new question of your choice to the end of the list, as long as it is still in the form “The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…”. You must have at least one question in your set, or you’ve gone extinct, and you must be able to answer it yourself, or you’re not viable.Then answer your possibly mutant set of questions. Please do include a link back to the blog you got them from, to simplify tracing the ancestry, and include these instructions.

Finally, pass it along to any number of your fellow bloggers.

(And yes, I had to read that three times as well. It's not easy being intellectually challenged. I do my best to cope.)

Here comes the business:

My Ancestry:

My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent is Pharyngula.
My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent is Metamagician and the Hellfire Club.
My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent is Flying Trilobite.
My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent is A Blog Around the Clock.
My great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent is archy.
My great-great-great-great-great grandparent is Why Now?
My great-great-great-great grandparent is Hipparchia.
My great-great-great grandfathers are Archaeopteryx and Kiefus.
My great-great grandfather is Catnapping.
My great grandmother is BirdAnonymous
My grandmother is Baino.

My mummy is K8 .

My statements:

• The best “bad” movie in comedy is: Starship Troopers (I can't take it seriously as SciFi so it qualifies as a comedy and bad one at that)
• The best lifty-uppy in pop music is: "Shine" by Take That (me likes HONEST kitch!)
• The best angst-inducing short story in modern classic literature is: “The Eyes of a Blue Dog” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Since I am not a bad person deep inside I will only pass it to two people:

Firstly XBox4NappyRash as a little MindFuck would certainly be a welcome change to, well, other kinds of fuck. (I will NOT blush hereby. NOOOOOO!)

And of course to gorgeous Hails cause she's always looking for blogging challenges and I am in awfully obliging mood this morning.

Good luck! I'm off to wash my hands now.

First and consequent steps

2007-11-09T11:02:00.000Z

I don't have a baby any more.

Before you offer me your condolences let me assure you that Sir Sprout is going as strong as ever. It's just that he has morphed into a toddler.

Wait, maybe you SHOULD offer the condolences after all.

It all happened in a sneaky and gradual way. First he started to stand up on his own expecting a round of applauds every time he managed not to tumble over within first second. We provided the due ovations without fail although it did get a bit tiring to break into mad cheers at least 10 times in every hour.

So, after couple of weeks or so the standing up trick got a bit old and didn't provoke enough admiration. Sir Sprout decided to take things onto a new level and started taking steps. And then falling onto his face.

Which he didn't mind too much as long as he got his attention boost in a form of boisterous applauds and praises.

We were sitting around with adoring grandparents and counting the steps.

One, two, three...oops, just missed the coffee table!
That was SIX steps, wow!
...four, five...eeewww, that must have hurt!
...three, four, five - DON'T lunge for a dog like that!

Then we stopped counting. Just told him to get up and get on with it.

And he did.

Yesterday morning I was looking at my boy as he was waddling from bathroom to our bedroom sporting only his nappy pants. He was happily clutching a My First Animals book, gave Mutt The Mad a loving kiss and hug while passing and stopped to try and stick his fingers into electrical socket.

Yes, definitely a toddler.

The fun has begun.

How sun SHOULD set

2007-10-19T11:42:00.000+01:00

About 10-11 years ago (oh. I'm old) my interesting-but-poverty-inducing job back in Home Ground started to pay a little more. Enough to fund my move into an apartment with running water.

I know - wow!

Location-wise the place was pretty much next to hellhole, around the corner from the end of all hopes. A huge and stunningly gloomy region of endless apartment blocks, grey, dirty and criminogenious. It doesn't look that bad on the picture, that's what good camera work and fortunate light conditions can do.

The apartment block itself was a genius work of Soviet architect suffering from severe depression and deep hate of fellow humans. Huge. Coulourless. Square. Grey. The front door couldn't be locked thus the stairs were constantly stinking of urine, garbage, cigarettes, alcohol and whatnot. Especially whatnot.
There was a lift of course. Usually broken. Anybody who has lugged shopping bags to 7th floor on regular basis will NOT tolerate any fitness-related lectures. Proven fact.

Walls between apartments were made of sturdy corrugated cardboard or at least from something just as soundproof. You'd know most of the intimate details about neighbours 4 floors below.

I thought I had died and moved into paradise.

Before you decide that I am a sick masochistic freak let me assure you that once you had jumped over piles of faeces and cigarette butts, snook past any more or less violent discussions on stairs and caught your breath after climbing 7 floors; the apartment itself wasn't that bad at all. It was quite roomy and clean with no heart-tearing attempts at creative interior decoration.

And let me once again stress the running water the apartment featured.

But my favorite part didn't have much to do with interior or exterior of the building. It was all about the position of the place which was fortunate indeed. Because they had built that blunder of a monsterhouse on the very edge of the huge apartment-block area. On top of the hill. Facing the sea...

So on nights I actually got home before dark I would stand at the sitting room window having a fag and watching the sun setting into my beloved Tallinn Bay.

It was different every night. From smoky shaded highlights to cold pastel bursts to warm mysterious glow to vicious bleeding skies. You name it.They don't make sunsets like that any more. Especially in Ireland.

Sigh.

Lathering up - rant warning!

2007-10-18T11:16:00.000+01:00

Due to some (not entirely unforeseen) family circumstances we've been staying at The Ultimate Other Halfs parents house this week. Luckily we don't live too far from them so situations in lines of "oh shoot, those bodysuits don't really fit Sir Sprout any more" can be rectified with swift drive there and back.

Are kids SUPPOSED to grow that fast? I mean - I could swear those things were fine on him last week. Either that or we were just too sleepy to take any notice that we had to apply extra muscle to squeeze Sir Sprout into his underwear.

I have also been blessed with Extra Mad With Topping Of Despair And Panic week at work.

All that together translates to ourselves rushing around until the young one has been knocked out for night (if we're lucky, he's teething on top of it all) and then collapsing on inlaws fancy (blue!) leather couch.

That's when the going gets really tough.

You see, we have entered The Soap Zone. Every single soap is watched in that house. Eastenders, Corrie, Home and Away, Fair City - bring it on!

For some mysterious reason Emmerdale seems to be blatantly ignored. I should bring up that issue in the future. When I'm out of the house again.

I am not a soap person. They annoy me with endless string of stupidity, see-through story lines and repetitions. The fake "realness" they strain to achieve. The token characters every single soap features - a wise old strong-minded woman, a vicious womanizing bastard, a long suffering mother on the verge of breakdown, an adorable kid, a rebellious teenager, a loudmouth vulgar woman (comic relief), a nasty Bitch From Hell etc. Because of that I don't even notice when one soap ends and another one starts. Same issues, same stereotypes. Same "keep it simple" very regulated directing style. Loooooong shots of talking heads. Brief inserts shot outside the set (why push the costs up...) usually when something really drastic is supposed to happen.

Above all I just don't have a stamina. You'd really want to be determined to watch the same story with slight variations for years and years (A was married to B and cheated her with C while running shoddy business with D. Two years later A is married to E, still cheating her with C, D blackmails him and there is probably also F-the-long-lost-love-child bouncin around while B-the-abandoned-and-deceived-ex-wife is plotting to ruin/kill A. Yaaawwwnnn.). Sometimes I admire people who have endured decades of mind-numbing nonsense like that, still insist on turning on the TV on Holy Hours Of Lathering and actually seem to have their sanity more or less intact.

Plus the limitation all that soap business puts on your life. Oh, I really can't meet you at 8, Corrie's on or Why have a conversation at dinner table when we can all watch Home and Away instead?

Oh well. Shouldn't get too carried away here.

After all I have my dirty little secrets/weaknesses as well. Wanna know what?

I watch CSI. All of them. In all their glossy morbid sci-fiesque glory.

So there. Now you know.

I'm a winner after all!

2007-10-12T16:19:00.000+01:00

Here's the proof:

“This award casts a spotlight on bloggers who are just beginning to draw lotsa attention — the equivalent of a song with a bullet on Billboard’s Top 100 chart. Lotsa good posts. Lotsa good buzz. These bloggers are going places in a hurry.”


Thanks, K8!     I am one smug woman now!

Couple time

2007-10-12T12:32:00.000+01:00

It is now 4 years and 2 days since I and The Ultimate Other Half became A Very Official Item and got a fancy binded document to prove it.

On Wednesday morning he dutifully handed me the flowers and I provided him with A Day Of Slightly Less Nagging. I was able to master such a substantial gift mainly by making sure we didn't spend much time together.

After getting home from work we stuffed Sir Sprout with random leftovers from the fridge, let him run riot for a while, hosed him down, squeezed into pyjamas (WAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAA!!), pumped full of milk and deposited him into his cot for night.

Then I donned my dancing gear (read:track suit + runners) and took off with The Fancy Neighbouress to attend our third lesson in salsa dancing. I don't know why it's called salsa dancing since so far we've been shown the basics of cha-cha-cha and rumba but, quite frankly, I don't care.

I am also determined to ignore all the minor earthquakes caused by my attempts of booty-shaking.

And if any of you experienced some particularly nasty bouts of wind knocking over the dog houses or fences on Wednesday - sorry, but we were TOLD to wiggle our racks and I'm not the one to disobey the teacher. It has got me into all sorts of trouble back in high school and being wiser(ish) now I just salute and do as told.

I might need to strangle The Fancy Neighbouress though if she continuously neglects to put on loads of weight, wear scruffy clothes and look generally frumpy. She should also be considerate enough to at least TRY to match my clumsiness levels somewhat more adequately. You know who you are! Don't say you haven't been warned!

Anyway, that was our wedding anniversary sorted.

Yesterday we agreed to ship Sir Sprout to adoring grandparents and have the night for ourselves.

You know, like couples do. Before they have children and stuff.

It was going pretty smoothly at the start. Sir Sprout didn't have any objections to staying at grandparents since they were just sitting down for dinner. Eating is an activity which our baby tends to take quite seriously. We left him munching mashed veggies in bliss.

After getting home we had some leftovers from the fridge for dinner. (If you're wondering why all we seem to eat, is leftovers - don't ask. Just. Don't.)

And then we decided to go crazy and visit a pub. I hear you - respectable people like yourselves, what kind of a role models will we be for Sir Sprout etc. Well - we're just reckless and youthful like that.

So there we were, drinks on the table, out on our own. Not saying a thing.

You see, I had a fierce resolve NOT to discuss ANYTHING baby-related. It was a COUPLE time after all. We should talk about -erm- something else. Something personal and meaningful and wow-factor intelligent.

The silence was getting a bit awkward.

Eventually I pulled myself together. I raked my head for any witty, fun, nappy free ideas. I looked around for inspiration. There wasn't any available.

But I was DETERMINED to start a lovely loving chatter. The only option was a subject raffle. Just shake the contents of your brain, pick out a random thought slip and throw it on a table.

"So...are you going skiing next year?"

Aaaaarrrgghhhhhhh!!!!

Close your eyes, kiddos!

2007-10-10T17:00:00.000+01:00

And there was me thinking I'm all nice and polite and goodie-goodie!

Just for those nosy ones who'd like to know what I've blurted out to deserve Parental Guidance Requested label - here it is:

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

hell (4x)
hurt (2x)
torture (1x

The shame is killing me, honest.

Thanks to MadMad for the link.

The Flippin Lion Never Sleeps

2007-10-09T14:28:00.000+01:00

There's a moment in every parent's life when (s)he makes A First Big Mistake.

Something that will haunt and torture you for months and maybe even years to come.

I made that mistake last week. Trying to amuse slightly cranky Sir Sprout I showed him this:

It cheered him up a bit so I showed it again. He clapped. He hummed. He waved. He bounced.

Awww, I thought, how cute, he really likes that song.

So I let him watch it again. I showed The Ultimate Other Half how funny Sir Sprout is when he enjoys the lovely lion song.

He found it amusing as well.

Over the weekend we watched the video a lot. Can't say I and Other Half enjoyed it as much as first times but Sir Sprout sure did.

By Sunday evening we were quite relieved when the bath-and-bottle time arrived.

Yesterday when we got home from creche I plonked Sir Sprout quite unceremoniously on the floor and made an urgent run towards loo. Barely had I gotten there when I heard the young one in family room.

"La-la-la-la-laaaa," was his message to the world.

Since I was in quite a hurry I didn't pay much attention. But Sir Sprout kept pleading more and more urgently.

"LALALALALALA-LALALALAAAAAAA!!"

Getting a bit worried I managed to achieve quite impressive result in speedy liquid disposal. I made it to the family room in quite reasonable time. Sir Sprout didn't think so.

He was standing in front of computer, pointing to the screen and demanding angrily.

"LAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAAAA!!!"

I took the hint and proceeded to switching on the computer. Meanwhile Sir Sprout was growing increasingly frustrated.

"LAAAA-FREAKIN-LAAAAA-LAAA-LAAAA!!!"

With shaking hands I started the browser, found the bookmark, propped him on my knee and started the video.

Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh
Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh
Wemoweh, wemoweh, wemoweh, wemoweh..

Baby humming. Baby dancing. Baby clapping. Baby happy.

Parents screwed.

Standstill

2007-10-09T10:31:00.000+01:00

It's very quiet in my head this morning.

Although I'm at work and things are busy enough (not hectic though or I wouldn't be able to write that post) I still seem to be floating above little nuisances with unnerving calm.

People pop up at my desk and ask me complicated questions which under normal circumstances would take half an hours lecture to answer. I manage to get the point across in couple of minutes. Not because I'm particularly efficient at the moment, rather too lazy to go into details.

Messy email threads land in my mailbox and I read them in slight daze. Then I type my response in couple of simple sentences and the moment I press "send" button my head becomes empty again.

Everything seems to move in slow motion.

I feel like I should go out and run couple of times around the building to shake that foggy mist off.I nicked the image here

Why I should be reported to the Animal Welfare

2007-10-08T12:53:00.000+01:00

I am a dog person. Ask any of my friends and they'll confirm that otherwise very sensible (erm - almost sensible) Foreigner will morph into bouncy babbly 3-year old after spotting a random manky pooch on the street.

One of them even have had a nerve to compare me to the spaniel which I wasn't too impressed at the time ("Spaniels are not dignified!!"). Given the breeds tendencies to gluttony and knack for weepy-eyed blackmail sessions to get their way; she was probably right though.

I have walked the same route near the village for over 2 years. Couldn't name you many people I've met on the road. I could, however, give you the full description, life story and name of every dog living around there. Except two grumpy collies who still live in hope that one day I'll whimper and run instead shouting at them in most disrespectful manner. So they could finally attack Mutt The Mad who'd happily oblige them with fair fight.

They don't know what they're up against though. I have nerves of steel as far as growling dogs are concerned and Mutt the Mad is blessed with jaws deserving a movie. "The Hound of Foreigner by Default". Or something more catchy maybe.

Anyway, considering my pet name for Mutt the Mad tends to be The Firstborn you would think I am a caring and responsible owner. Or bonkers. Or both.

About 6-7 weeks ago I noticed that Mutts abundant coat was starting to get a bit more abundant than necessary.

"Should take him to the groomer soon," I mentioned passingly.

4 weeks ago:
"He really needs to be trimmed, I'll call the groomer next week."

3 weeks ago I got a number for newly opened grooming business from Mrs Nononsense, The Ultimate Other Halfs Mom.

2 weeks ago:
"He's so matted now it's kinda embarrassing to show him to the groomer..."

1 week ago:
"Euchhh .... It's not really nice to touch him any more, is it?!"

This Sunday I armed myself with detangle comb, scissors and hefty bag of dog treats; wrestled Mutt The Mad onto floor and addressed the matted coat issue with fatalistic gloom. Mutt was even gloomier since grooming is something he views as totally unnecessary evil, right next to bathing.

Two and half hours later we emerged from family room utterly knackered, stiff, immensely relieved and mostly dematted. The last was true at least about Mutt because I spent ten minutes trying to brush hairs off my clothes and eventually just gave up.

This week I really need to make a groomer appointment for Mutt.

Circle of life, eh?

Alarming tendencies

2007-10-05T12:59:00.000+01:00

The Ultimate Other Half seems to be obsessed on waterproofing everything lately.

Veerryyyy suspicious.

Sounds like he doesn't want to wreck his watch OR miss anything in the soccer match while he's drowning me in the bath.

Note to myself: Keep away from the bathroom.

I did have a calling, honest! Quite a few of them, actually!

2007-10-05T09:40:00.000+01:00

Have you ever met anybody who has become what (s)he actually dreamed about when a kid?

"Since I was 4 I knew my calling was software engineering!" or "My greatest childhood wish was to become a plumber and here I am!" or "I've been into data entry big time since I got hold of the keyboard when I was 10 months old!"

My first calling hit me when I was about 3 years old and visiting relatives in the country. They had chickens, couple of horses, pigs and three big glorious black and white cows.

I liked the cows with their big sad eyes, long lashes and cool moooooo-noise. But I was totally won over when I saw auntie squeezing milk out of them! She actually let me to have a go (it was an old and VERY patient cow) and eventually I succeeded in squirting a bit of milk into the bucket.

I decided to become a milk maid there and then.

What a life would it be, I thought, you get to mingle with cows every day. AND do that fun milking thing. Wow!

My mother killed my dream. She explained me I'd have to be up VERY early every morning. That was a no-go. I've valued my beauty sleep since the tender age of 16 months.

But I still needed some plans for my future so I did a bit of brainstorming and came up with a great alternative - a vet! Surely vets wouldn't need to wake up early!? And doctors have even cooler equipment than a bucket and footstool. I'm talking about syringes here! Stethoscopes! Otoscopes! Them little hammers that make your leg bounce up!

I saw myself examining horses tonsils and administering aspirin pills to the chicken.

Life was going to be so much fun!

Eventually it dawned to me that being a vet I would need to deal with hurt animals on daily basis. Hurt animals made me cry.

So there - another no-go.

I think I was playing with an idea to become a doctor with human patients for a while but it never got hold of me properly, obviously wasn't fun enough.

Once I started reading my future job choices started to reflect the current preference in literature.

Archaeologist - History books and historic novels
Lawyer - detective books
Teacher - some cheesy novels with teacher protagonist
etc

I'd say one of the few things I never wanted to become was a journalist.

I ended up working in media for twelve years.
Then I packed my bags and became Foreigner by Default. That actually WAS a calling, I guess. Only a very different one.

So, confess, who did you want to become?

Outings and innings

2007-10-01T11:30:00.000+01:00

In an effort to insert some girly activities into our nappy-infested lives Fancy Neighbouress and I decided to go shopping on Saturday morning.

"Around half nine or ten," guessed The Fancy Neighbouress. "I'll just feed and dress The Limbo Baby and pick you up."

I broke the news to The Ultimate Other Half whose face lit up like main street at Christmas time. Usually he's the one who has to taxi me from one retail park to another keeping his fingers crossed that I pick the one which at least sports the likes of PC World or Homebase.

His relief was obviously a bit overwhelming since he carelessly mentioned something about taking care of both babies while we're gone.

I was over to the phone before he could change his mind and broke the news to The Fancy Neighbouress who cheered with delight and promised to give us half an hours warning before she arrives in the morning.

Which she did.

I kicked The Ultimate Other Half out of the bed providing him with clear instructions to take his shower quickly and roll out the red carpet for The Limbo Baby.

"We'll be gone at least couple of hours," I warned him when The Fancy Neighbouress was emerging from her car looking like a lost celebrity attempting to fish for directions from rugged locals. Only thing spoiling the impression somewhat was her choice of accessories - clearly non-traumatized baby and huge plastic khaki-coloured ride on toy car.

I took a gloomy glance at my tracksuit-bottoms-will-go-with-anything outfit and promised myself to make more effort in the future.

"Are you sure you will cope?" I asked The Ultimate Other Half.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

I wasn't sure if he's sleepy or plain freaked so we took off quickly.

We got back five and half hours later.

Both babies were intact. In fact, they were quite perky and happy-looking.

"Does The Limbo Baby ever sleep?" asked The Ultimate Other Half with mild curiosity. "Sir Sprout had a nap but he didn't show any signs of slowing down."

I made a big joint of roast pork for dinner. Gotta compensate somehow.

Oh, and he got to have long baby-free Sunday afternoon with The Suave Neighbour. Watching rugby. On a BIG screen (involved the projector borrowed from a friend and a sitting room wall). Drinking beer.

I think we're even now.

Our son the bulldozer

2007-09-28T11:26:00.000+01:00

Yesterday evening we were picking up Sir Sprout from the creche. We tend to do it every night as they get unexplainably cross if they have to keep him for night.

We peeled main layers of muck off two children remaining there to identify our son. I usually try to dress him in blindingly bright colours to fasten up the identification process.

He was in good form, busily trashing a toy tractor and shouting piercing "Hiya!-s". Through some difficulties we squeezed him into his fleece and stuck the hat on top.

As we were heading towards the door one of the teachers came over to bid him a proper goodbye. With tickles and hug and all.

"We call him Bull McCabe!" she said affectionately.

Seeing our puzzled faces she rushed to explain.

"Oh but it's a compliment. You see, Sir Sprout Foreigner does not stop for anything, neither does he go AROUND things. He goes over or through!"

We stared for a moment at our beaming boy who had used our moment of distraction and was trying to pull down a cardboard lantern hanging from the ceiling.

Then we said our polite goodbyes as Sir Sprout was blowing kisses and made an escape.

Once outside I stopped for a moment.

"Do you realize that he's gonna grow up to be quite a rogue?" I asked The Ultimate Other Half who was heading towards the car, Sir Sprout propped up onto his shoulder.

"Yes of course," he said happily.

...............................................

This morning I shared the story with The Sarcastic Colleague.

He sniggered a little.

"Well he's definitely getting that from his father!" he stated.

I must have looked a bit baffled.

"I've played soccer with him," he elaborated.

Oh. I see.

Twilight zone that is our house

2007-09-27T12:23:00.000+01:00

Our household is not the most tidy and organized one by long run. In fact things have been known to mysteriously disappear and then just as mysteriously reappear couple of years later.

I am still looking for:
1) Waffle/toasted sandwich maker
2) Peeling knife
3) Around 300 single socks as my washing machine is located on top of sock consuming Black Hole
4) numerous other household items which I currently can't think of. Cause I've become kinda blasè on the subject.

Yesterday evening The Ultimate Other Half came upstairs to find me trying to read a book in the bed on my belly, duvet pulled up to my ears.

"Do you think I should take out the winter duvet?" he asked carefully.

I agreed that it might be a good idea.

"Where is it?" he queried.

"Ehmmm... Might be in the press next to stairs or in the junk room," I guessed.

You can see where it's going, can't you?!

The duvet wasn't in the press next to stairs or in the junk room. Neither was it in the guest room. Or in any of the wardrobes. Or anywhere at all.

It had just vanished.

Now let me tell you - it's one thing to lose a waffle maker or a peeling knife. No art to it really.

But a huge king sized feather filled duvet - that takes some skill!

Somehow we didn't feel too proud, just increasingly cold. Two old tired double duvets were dragged out from obscurity and spread on the bed.

Next twenty minutes were spent discussing who exactly had lost the duvet. The Ultimate Other Half kept insisting it wasn't him which didn't do much for his popularity levels. If it goes on like that he'll be watching rugby at home on Sunday, I'm telling you! On the SMALL TV!!!

Eventually I was able to move my toes again.

"It's getting kinda too hot with two duvets," I complained.

The Ultimate Other Half thought about it for a moment.

"You realize of course that when we throw it off the bed now we'll probably never see it again," he said.

The duvet stayed on the bed.

Men in doghouse - 2

2007-09-26T15:46:00.000+01:00

I thought it was bad enough that Sir Sprout, the fruit of my own loins, treacherously let us sleep in this morning.

Boy was I wrong.

After having Quite A Day at work I noticed that The Ultimate Other Half had posted something in his blog. So over I wandered, for a relaxing moment, like.

He has spent his day ogling at SLIM orange women in bikinis!

Have I ever mentioned I could easily model for Michelin ads? No costumes needed or anything, quite a saving they would make.

Them wee white bikinis would probably serve me as wrist bands at best.

Although I'm quite lost at why on Earth would I (or anybody) need a wrist band.

I wonder what will Mutt The Mad come up with. Move out and marry a Chihuahua?

Kids nowadays

2007-09-26T11:21:00.000+01:00

There was a time (long-long ago in galaxy far away) when we used to have alarm clock set for every morning. It would go off and we'd be happily ignoring said alarm for half an hour or more and then beat all the records in speed-showering, jump into first available clothes and usually make it to the work in time.

Things were good back then.

The arrival of Sir Sprout shook our routine somewhat to put it mildly.

I'm not even going into first months of staggering out of the bed every 2 hours for performing necessary nutritional/sanitary procedures.

Eventually the sleeping patterns settled and some nights we might even get about 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep. We were delighted. Well, at least we ceased to be desperate.

It was around that time we did away with an alarm clock. We never heard it any more anyway and there were two options:
a) it woke up Sir Sprout who quite understandably became severely indignant thus ensuring we sprang out from bed like couple of jacks-in-the-box.
b) Sir Sprout was already awake, usually in process of consuming scary amounts of milk or getting dressed (not his favorite pass-time, let me assure you), alarm clock being just added annoyance to yawning parents.

Last months haven't been too bad. Sir Sprout wakes up between 6.30 - 7.30 proceeding to shaking the sides of his cot and shouting from top of his lungs. He's trying to get Mutt The Mads attention, you see (on Sir Sprouts popularity charts we are WAY below Mutt The Mad).

Mutt The Mad ignores him blatantly. We try as well but eventually it gets really stuffy under the pillow. Sir Sprout is removed from the cot, scrubbed up, fed, dressed. Then we banish him onto bedroom floor where he gobbles some fruit, throws around toys and harasses Mutt The Mad while his parents are enjoying some tea and coffee in the bed.

We have it all worked out. To the T.

Actually - we thought we did.

This morning I woke up to the sound of Sir Sprout disassembling his cot as usual. Only it was a bit lighter outside than it should have been so I took quick glance at the clock.

8 freakin 44!!!!

You can't even trust your own child nowadays!

Why I haven't got anything done this morning

2007-09-25T11:51:00.001+01:00

Because I went to check out The Ultimate Other Halfs blog and naively clicked on the link he had submitted.

I am a doomed woman.

Can you call in sick while ALREADY at work?

Not just any reason to celebrate

2007-09-24T16:39:00.000+01:00

So I'm here trying to figure out why I can't reach anybody in Taipei office today (I know it sounds all worky-worky & boooring but just bear with me) when I have The First Bright Moment Of The Day and make my way to the company intranet to check out the holidays around the world from the World Calendar.

And there it is - obviously they're celebrating The Festival of Autumn Moon in Taipei today.

Awwww it sounds so poetic, I think while casually scrolling down the list past Al Israa Wal Mairaj, Eid Al Fitr and Sultan Selangor Birthday.

Suddenly my finger freezes on November 20th.

It says: Celebration of Black Conscience, Brazil.

Lucky buggers, I think, not only do they not have to worry about their wicked little ways, they actually get a day off to celebrate it!

I announce my find to the colleagues.

"You're joking," states my Gentle Boss knowingly.

"Nah, this can't be right," argues The Pedantic Colleague. "You must be misreading something."

I summon them to my monitor and point onto the screen.

There it is, black on white: November 20th, Celebration of Black Conscience, Brazil.

The Gentle Boss disappears in fits of laughter to have a calming fag.

The Pedantic Colleague dives furiously into the depths of Wikipedia.

Couple of minutes later he comes up with this.

Black Consciousness Day it is so. Gotta admit it makes more sense.

Still - bummer!

It's Monday

2007-09-24T11:49:00.000+01:00

Why? Why? WHY?

I mean - it wasn't the greatest of weekends but it was still a weekend and it's just not fair it has to be followed by a major downer called Monday.

I'm at my bitchy best today.

So far:
Heads bitten off - 3.5. Felt a bit sorry for last one as he really can't help he's intellectually challenged.
Cups of coffee consumed - 3. Usually have just one. I'm sensible like that.
Threats to send me home received - 2. Doing a bit poorly there. But the day is young.
Laptops dropped - 1. The most annoying bit being that the bloody thing is still working.
Beds yearned for - just 1. But on continuous basis.

Main issues within Irish rugby team - the reasons for poor performance

2007-09-21T10:33:00.000+01:00

Sharing some spam here:

"Drico found Shaggy in bed with Darcy, he's not talking to either of them now, says he won't pass to Darcy, hence all the skip passes going astray.

In the A v B match Murphy scored 15 try's and a drop goal from the dead ball line at the opposite end of the pitch

Rows over the food, Munster lads prefer their meat raw, Leinster lads want it medium rare served on a bed of sun-dried spinach with a drizzle of basil and a hint of rosemary.

Drico picks the team and then makes all the lads guess who is playing through a game of charades, ROG wasn't happy that Drico made w@nker gestures when asked who was out half, big row followed.

John Hayes has leprosy and his head came off in training the other day.

Northern contingent won't play unless God Save the Queen is played before match.

Quinlan and Hickie not talking, Hickie's wife is Quinlan's mothers, aunts neighbours dogs cousin twice removed, causing tension.

Darcy playing bad because his head is wrecked from Su Doku, EOS has banned it from dressing room.

Stringer was dropped because EOS found out he was a Hobbit."

In the spirit of rugby - 1:0 to French

2007-09-21T10:09:00.000+01:00

For those not in know - the Rugby World Cup is on. France & Ireland will be meeting tonight.

The only reason I happen to be informed is because The Ultimate Other Half has been soaking my shoulder with bitter tears for a week.

Ireland has been performing poorly, you see. Appearantly. It's a bit confusing since so far they've been winning all the games in their group.

But the country is just a step away from national mourning. I'm trying hard to symphatize, I really am.

Best I can usually come up with is something in lines of "Nah, they're gonna get whacked tonight".

"If you won't shut up I'll send you home," says my boss gloomily.

Now there's an incentive to keep talking!

The French Colleague sent an email to the whole group:
"Bonjour a tous,
As the hosting nation for the rugby world cup I have brought in a few croissant and pains au chocolat to give you an avant-taste of what is coming and put in the swing of things…
Bring your cup of coffee along the bakery stand (Absent Ladys desk).
Bonne Journee et bonne chance!

The French Colleague
PS: How about some baguette for lunch…"

The cheek of him!

Gonna go and grab some coffee now.

1:0 to The Ultimate Other Half

2007-09-21T09:25:00.000+01:00

"I remembered to buy you your yogurts yesterday so you can't say I'm a totally shite wife!"

"Excuse me! I have NEVER said you're a shite wife."

"But you have thought it!"

"So now you're a mind reader as well!"

"Sure am! You look at me and think "She's an utterly shite wife". There's no deceiving me!"

"No, I look at you and think - she's an utterly shite mind reader!"

Why I should never open my mouth

2007-09-20T15:48:00.000+01:00

I throw a magazine onto the bed and it hits The Ultimate Other Halfs knee.

"OUCH!!!"

"What?"

"It hurts!"

"You're a sissy ... you're a GIRL!"

"Boooo-hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!"

-------------------------------------------

Fancy Neighbouress and I are lounging in her sitting room discussing the size of the head of The Limbo Baby, her son.

"... and the doctor says it's definitely on the big side according to them charts so he'll send us to the pediatrician."

"Nah, I wouldn't worry, he'll grow into his head eventually. It's probably just hereditary, sure you have a big head as well!"

--------------------------------------------

Fancy Neighbouress presents me with a low cut tunic in crowded Dunnes Stores.

"That colour would look lovely on you!"

"Are you mad?" I announce with an optimistic air of DJ who's microphone has just stopped working. "My tits would constantly be hangin out of that thing!"

Fancy Neighbouress goes slightly pale and looks nervously around.

"What? What did I say?" I demand.

"MEN say TITS," she hisses. "Girls say BOOBS!"

Explosive stuff

2007-09-19T17:19:00.000+01:00

There must be some truth in blond jokes.

Lets talk about weather

2007-09-19T11:25:00.000+01:00

It seems that whoever I run into this morning kicks off the conversation with complaints about the weather. Main points brought to my attention so far are:
a) it's cold
b) it's windy
c) the summer is over.

None of which comes as a surprise to me. In fact I noticed it yesterday when I had to insist that we need to put the heating on for an hour or so.

The Ultimate Other Half noticed the change in climate when I was attempting to thaw my toes by placing them strategically in close vicinity of his calves under the duvet.

Mutt The Mad got the picture when his pooch-esteem was once again injured by a dressing gown. It's to stop him drying himself on couches and carpet, honestly. AND we think it's dead funny.

Sir Sprout couldn't care less. He was wrapped into snuggly pyjamas and cozy sleeping bag, snoozing away in his cot.

But I love autumn. So I considered it my duty to explain people that I adore the wind, the cold, the rain, sudden crispness of air and long dark evenings. They edged themselves towards the door with a heavy touch of "get away from the freaky woman before she attacks me with a stapler" in their eyes.

Autumn is also one time I get really nostalgic. I miss the colours and fresh feeling of the season back in Home Ground. I miss the crunch of leaves under my feet while wandering in my favorite parks. I even miss the long wet and very-very dark late autumn.

Most of all I miss my friends.

The colours of autumn in Estonia

There's no business like show business..

2007-09-18T12:06:00.001+01:00

If I was a man I'd be wincing big time looking at that photo.
It's Russia, you see. ANYTHING is possible there.

Alice In Wonderland seems tame in comparison. Really.

How to annoy fellow drivers - tips for L plate holders

2007-09-18T10:34:00.000+01:00

1) Insist on waiting until the road is COMPLETELY clear before making a turn. By that I mean no cars in sight at all. Works especially well on busy junctions at rush hour.

2) Following tip only works if you have any other cars behind you. It goes like that: drive with normal sensible speed. Wait until you reach continuous white line "no overtaking" zone. Slow down drastically. Speed up as soon as continuous white line stops. Repeat. Soaring blood pressures behind you guaranteed.

3) Keep gently touching the break while casually driving along. Your blinking break lights will get drivers behind you mighty nervous.

4) Drive twice around every single roundabout before taking desired exit. Puzzling about your actions will keep other drivers alert and interested. To make things a bit more exciting you could also do it in outside lane.

Any additional ideas welcome.
Oh, and just for your information: you don't need to be L plate holder to annoy the crap out of the rest of humanity.

Sprout-proofing

2007-09-17T12:26:00.000+01:00

Sir Sprout has become obsessed with a staircase.

Maybe I should be thankful that something has replaced his obsession with Mutt The Mads water bowl but surprisingly I SO prefer changing his wet clothes and mopping a floor to a constantly pending trip to A&E.

It only takes turning your back for split second and Sir Sprout is halfway up the stairs like oiled lightning squealing with delight.

Thing is, he hasn't really worked out that climbing down trick yet. He eases himself backwards for a step or two, gets kinda flustered and attempts to speed things up by taking a dive. Not the smartest of approaches considering there's tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs.

We got a fool proof easy-to-install pressure fit standard stair gate from my friend who assured us that she has 4 more and can bring in any additional ones should we need them.

That's when we discovered we have a non-standard house. The stairs are too wide. Never would have thought THAT could become a problem.

Options were quickly considered, purchasing a smaller house amongst them. Since we like the current one (and hate moving with passion) it left us with a task to find a wider pressure fit stair gate. The Ultimate Other Half is appearantly not partial to wrecking our so far pretty undamaged walls with screws.

Sunday was spent strip searching Argos & Smyths & Atlantic Homecare. We got home with a brand new gate, one 14cm extension & one 7cm extension. The Ultimate Other Half multitasked by trying to screw the whole lot together while prying Mutt The Mads water bowl out of Sir Sprouts eager hands.

When it came to installing the gate it appeared that due to additional non standard feature of the staircase it can't be fitted at the bottom.

Now we have a base bar of the gate hovering just in front of third step.

It's totally baby-proof.

Bets are taken as to which one of loving parents will break a neck first.

Diplomatic highlights of Saturday evening

2007-09-15T21:09:00.000+01:00

Tonight the Ultimate Other Half decided to cash in some brownie points. To be honest, his virtual biscuit tin had been overflowing dangerously and something had to be done.

He had given it a thorough thought and came to conclusion that nothing beats a night of rugby in local lad-watering-hole with The Suave Neighbour. Text messages were exchanged and The Fancy Neighbouress negotiated with. The project got green lights.

Thats when The Ultimate Other Half pranced into the family room wearing "Superman wears Paul O'Connell pyjamas" T-shirt in attractive shade of shamrock suffering from overactive thyroid.

"Is this T-shirt OK? Not dirty or anything?"

"Well..." I said.

He turned up the lights so I could see better.

"Ehmm... looks clean enough," I mumbled. T-shirt was several sizes too big and only missed a wee frill on the bottom to pass off as a dress.

Spotting the lack of enthusiasm in my voice he proceeded to tuck the shirt into his jeans.

On a positive side he ceased looking pregnant. On the negative side any innocent bystander couldn't have helped but wonder why he went through all the trouble of nicking Paul O'Connells (or Supermans, who knows) cheap pyjamas and then decided to wear the top part with jeans.

"Does it look better like that?" he asked hopefully.

Thank Heavens I've never had any aspirations to pursue a career in international relations. Current delicate enough balance would have been long destroyed by some of my utterly unelegant blurts.

"It's positively vile!" I announced.

The Ultimate Other Half raced out of the room to change a T-shirt. I panicked.

"Oh, don't bother! I wouldn't care!" I shouted encouragingly.

A split second later I wanted to bang my head against the monitor, only it's a flat screen one and doesn't really help much as far as whipping brains back into shape is concerned.

Luckily (as I have mentioned before) The Ultimate Other Half is shockingly good-natured and did not present me with divorce papers there and then.

Instead he donned a neatish black T-shirt (13 - Unlucky For The Other Side) and was just in time to prevent Mutt The Mad mauling The Suave Neighbour through the front door glass.

Off they went. To the pub. Hope they'll have fun.

PS. To the Ultimate Other Half: In case you're reading this - Paul O'Connell called. He wants his pyjamas back.

See - he's DISTRESSED!

High hopes

2007-09-14T11:53:00.000+01:00

When I grow up I want to be a Santa.

I love-love-love giving presents. Well, unless it's a sin-ugly mug shot worthy plastic candlestick Auntie Clotilde found on pound shop clearance sale. BUT - if I was a Santa all the presents would have a lot of thought and a fancy wrapping! Beat that!

No padding needed, my generous proportions would ensure just-right cuddly Santa looks. Might need to do something about the boobs though. Any suggestions welcome. Will not consider mastectomy.

My beard is coming on nicely, especially after all the childbirth lark. All I need to do is bleach it and voilà! - Santa!

One can dream.

Today is all about sharing

2007-09-13T14:10:00.000+01:00

Recently I posted an idea about changes in Irish employment law.

Well, my Web-digging Ultimate Other Half has found that Russians have come up with MUCH better idea!

Reminds me of my colleague who was disgusted finding out that company Christmas party will be on Saturday this year.

"I will NOT be drinking on my OWN time," he exclaimed.

Boost your immune system - laugh a little

2007-09-13T12:19:00.000+01:00

OK, being a Foreigner by Default I just HAD to share:

www.engrish.com

I had some good giggles.

Enjoy!

Something practical for a change - Bookmooch.com

2007-09-12T14:38:00.000+01:00

I read a lot and by "a lot" I mean "enough to spend copious amounts of money to support my addiction and flood all the available surfaces in the house with books".

I am also very fond of my library and believe firmly that a person should have well loved books on standby so (s)he could pick them up whenever it feels like that, be it day or night.

However - there will always be books you'll just enjoy once and never pick up again. They'll just gradually take over the shelves, covered with dust and doomed to be never opened again.

Those books could find MUCH happier homes if you put them up on Bookmooch.com.

It's a very simple book exchange system. You put up a list of books you are willing to give away. For every book given you get points which you can then use to mooch books from others. You can also make wish lists and get notifications when somebody has put up the book you'd like to get.

And it's brilliant!

Couple of tips in case you're thinking of joining:

For every book sent abroad you get 3 points and every book sent locally 2 points. Mooching a book locally just costs you 1 point and from abroad 2 points. So it's well worth to ship worldwide as in theory you could get 3 books for 1.

Big heavy books are quite expensive to post. Either don't put them up or add a note in book condition that you'll only post them locally due to cost & weight.

That's kinda petty but it really annoys me when people are not willing to post worldwide but will happily expect other people to send them books from all over the world. I think it's a bad trend and should be addressed. If you feel the same you can always specify that you will post worldwide only to people who are doing the same.

The whole system is based on trust, but people can leave comments on your transactions. So be precise about your posting, let people know about delays and keep communication always open.

The site can be down sometimes - maybe for maintenance, maybe the server is just not coping with traffic. Don't let that throw you off. Just try again a little later.

And then Sir Sprout was born...

2007-09-11T11:45:00.000+01:00

I know I was supposed to feel elated, blissfully happy, moved, fiercely protective and attached to a little warm slightly slimy lump they placed on my chest. I was supposed to be bonding at the speed of light, knowing that My Life Finally Has A Meaning.

Instead I was dazed, confused and hugely relieved that the pain had finally eased off. My body was sweaty, enormous and very-very exposed to all the people prodding and poking and pulling and pushing. Not that I minded, it seemed like whole world was behind thick slightly transparent curtains and all I could do was just observe. It was almost funny.

Somebody somewhere had said: "Its a boy!"

Oh, I thought. I liked the girls name better. No idea what to do with boys. They have willies and weird attraction to ball games. So there then, I have a boy. Wow.

He moved slightly on my chest, very quiet slippery thing.

I looked at him.

His pupils were extremely dilated with sudden surge of unfamiliar light. Head a bit conical from vacuum delivery. Skin of soft olive shade and very smooth, not a single wrinkle or blotch. He didn't look like anything I had ever seen or imagined. Little stranger.

"He looks like alien," I mused.

Those were the words I greeted my son into the world with. Not "I love you!" or "He's beautiful!" or "Isn't he absolutely perfect?" like you read or hear from most stories. I wonder if anybody ACTUALLY ever says those things?

I was mostly just utterly surprised that the 9 month bulge in my body had actually resulted in tiny being who was not a part of me any more.

Except he wasn't that tiny at all. Ouch.

There I was, consultant happily embroidering my neither regions, belly gracefully draping all over the bed and boobs so bulky and bursting they could have easily been classified as weapons of mass destruction. Not happy, not unhappy - just tired.

The Ultimate Other Half was a bit teary announcing the birth of Sir Sprout to his parents over the phone. I love him so much, I thought watching him watching me. I guess things are good.

Not for long.

"Did they test you for diabetes during pregnancy," the midwife asked. "You have gained a LOT of weight."

Oh thank you, I thought, JUST what I needed to hear. I'm a bloody, sweaty, icky mountain hooked up to every possible tube and cable they could get their hands onto in the maternity ward. Lovely. I remember I used to be a person. I guess THATS over then. Shite.

At least it perked me up a bit. So I could wallow in self pity and disgust.

---------------------------------------------

Some hours later, after I had finally had a shower and a third change of sheets/nightgown; I sat on the bed and stared at little baby in tiny transparent plastic crib.

He is mine. Still weird.

I guess I should change his nappy. Cause that's what mothers do, isn't it?

The nappy was dry. I changed it anyway.

He slept through whole thing, opening his slightly slanted almond eyes for a brief moment only. They were piercing blue, just like his Dads. And he WAS perfect, tiny sturdy creature with button nose, long gracious fingers and fluffs of red hair. Or strawberry blond as nurses kept insisting.

Other Half had gone home to get a bit of sleep. I would have needed some badly but couldn't. My world was a bit too upside down and shaken at that.

I stayed up most of the day. And night. Watching and thinking and worrying.

There were 3 other babies in the ward who kept crying most of the time.

Sir Sprout slept and slept and slept. He didn't want to eat or cuddle or even have a pee.

I guess he was tired too.

It's just gonne be a little party, nothing much, she said

2007-09-07T23:01:00.000+01:00

OK, I must admit I might have a slight problem with stress-free easy-going nah-things-will-sort-itselves-out party planning.

I start with good intentions all relaxed and smiley. Heck, it's only a tiny little party, some friends and grandparents and babies (including Sir Sprout The Birthday Child). And one toddler.

In no time I'm all hot, bothered & irritable.

I've organized public events, concerts, survived a studio full of 50 allegedly singing children, 7 annoyed cameramen, 1 dog, drunken lighting technician and a Sound Engineer Who Wasn't There. I remained calm when presenter was going through his 39th unsuccessful attempt to memorize opening lines with 7 minutes to go before live.

Somehow I just cannot re-create the attitude and composure.

Is that what happens when you have kids? Why didn't anybody warn me I'd like to know.

I've gone soft.

So far I've baked:

12 apple-oatmeal muffins
12 crumble-topped jam filled muffins
12 blueberry muffins
12 lemon-poppyseed muffins
1 eggy sponge with cocoa flavored creme fraiche icing
1 layer sponge with whipped cream and fruit topping

Heeeellppp!

There's hope for me still!

2007-09-06T15:36:00.000+01:00

As we were lazing in bed this morning drinking tea(Other Half) and coffee(me) & watching Sir Sprout sharing a bread stick with Mutt The Mad; The Ultimate Other Half broke the news:

"We didn't win the Lotto last night!"
"How do you know?"
"It just said on the radio there was no jackpot won."
"Oh. Bummer. Would have been nice midweek budget boost.... helped with groceries a little on Friday."

"Nam-nam!" said Sir Sprout banging at the bedside locker. "Nam-nam!"
We gave him a piece of apple and he went away.

I kept musing about the groceries issue.
"7 millions would be A LOT of groceries. Wonder if local Tesco would have enough ... Maybe if we bought LOADS of booze as well..."

There was a thoughtful pause on both sides of the bed.

Then The Ultimate Other Half had a visible light bulb moment.

"AND you would get seven grand back on loyalty card bonus points!" he announced.

That calculation sent my brain into finger-counting frenzy.
"Just seven thousand? I think it should be 70 thousand?"

"Nope, seven thousand!" assured The Other Half.

"Nah, come on, it's point per one Euro, has to be more," I insisted.

Himself was just about argue back but stopped to think.

"You know - you're right, it's 70 grand."

I was floating on gentle waves of pride while The Ultimate Other Half was picking bits of half chewed apple out of his tea mug.

I actually got it right! Wow!

To the maths teacher who called me a "mathematical nonsense" in grade 6 - take that!
I can count (and stuff).
And it only took 20+ years.

Changes in Irish employment law as proposed by Foreigner

2007-09-06T11:01:00.000+01:00

All the parents should be entitled for a extra day off on their kids birthday if it falls on a working day. Said days should not be deducted from yearly holiday balance.

If the birthday is on weekend - tough luck. I could live with that.

It is not my idea, The Ultimate Other Half thought of it. But I agree wholeheartedly.

I think the issue should be seriously raised before next government elections.

Sir Sprout hits one tomorrow. To celebrate he emptied his first shelf this morning. Awww...

My dog's not spoiled ... I'm just well trained

2007-09-04T14:53:00.000+01:00

"The dog will not go up on the furniture," declared The Ultimate Other Half firmly eying up the adorable pup we had just brought home from animal rescue.

"Aw come on," I whinged. That concept was utterly shocking to me. I've had dogs since I was a kid, all of them very much part of the family which mostly meant that humans got to pick the spots on the couches dogs weren't overly fond of. "That's just cruel!"

"No!" insisted Himself who appearantly had decided that it was About The Time To Put His Foot Down.

"Ooo-kay... sure, sure," shrugged after long and fruitless pleading.

The Ultimate Other Half had principles and he was not afraid to use them.

"The dog will NOT sleep in our bedroom!" he insisted.

"No way will the dog ever come to our bed! He has his own one!"

At some point I just stopped arguing.

........................................................

It took me well over a year before The Ultimate Other Half was not bothered to grumble when I snuggled up with our pooch on the couch.

Mutt The Mad eventually learned that if you keep your head down and charge straight at the bedroom door it will open. I never said he was quite normal.

At first we still kept closing the door for night and just got used to the loud bang at early hours as Mutt casually leaked into the room, eventually landing on the rug with a satisfied sigh.

Now the door is just left ajar and Mutt comes and goes as he pleases. Other Half keeps tripping over him in the dark and issuing whispering curses.

This morning in the bed as I was untangling Sir Sprouts busy fingers from dogs generous coat while trying to nudge the Mutt out of the bed so I could finally stretch out my legs; I couldn't help a little giggle.

Marriage, you see, is all about compromising.

Couple of handy tips for those who are contemplating attending a wedding

2007-09-03T12:40:00.000+01:00

My brain is still not functioning properly after a weekend dedicated to the wedding but I'll scribble down couple of handy tips. Just in case. Before I forget.

1) Never EVER borrow shoes from your friend!
I admit I should have seen this one coming. Unless you get thrills from simple things like trying to pull off a pair of posh heels crouching in the car. In front of the church. From feet which have magically gone up a size or two in last 2 hours. And have deep dents in attractive shade of blueberry.
I know that beauty demands certain sacrifices but I'd prefer to draw the line at dismemberment. Can't say I'm particularly proud or fond of my feet but would like to keep them nevertheless. I need them. For walking and stuff.

2) Orthopedic rubber-soled sandals - not the best footwear for waltzing.
You could just as well have self-applying brakes installed.
If you're wondering why I was reduced to waltzing in rubber-soled sandals in first place, please refer to Tip no 1.

3) Pack a swimming suit.
Seriously. There is nothing more dampening for glum enough Morning After Spirits than seeing The Ultimate Other Half soaking his troubles away in the hot tub while you are trying to negotiate the vending machine to accept your pitiful coins and spit out some Sprite. Or water. Whatever. A drink.

It was a good party, even considering my hippo feet. Pity I was knocked out before they started a sing-along. Since I only sing when sufficiently pissed it would have been a perfect chance to scar some perfect strangers (and some friends) for life.

The negative side is I can still feel the wedding in my bones.

Half a kingdom for a foot massage!

You live and learn

2007-08-31T00:33:00.000+01:00

I didn't stall the car a single time this morning.

Those of you going "bhah!" should kindly take into account that being a lady of considerable years I just embarked on car-taming adventure quite recently.

Back in Home Ground I was a seasoned townie and fiercely proud of it. Always lived near city center. Walked everywhere (OK-OK, used cabs a lot). It never even occurred to me to learn driving. Even if it did there were several very weighty factors to keep me from doing so.

Traffic. Anybody who has ever experienced city center traffic at rush hour knows that by the time you get from A to B in a car you could have got to said B twice on feet with a little pub stop in between.
Parking. By the time you find a spot to dump your cherished vehicle the movie (meeting/pub crawl/etc) will be long over. When you get back to your car you can happily practice your damage assessment skills by counting broken windows, nicked wheels or some creative key/pen/nail induced artwork on doors.
Money. Petrol+insurance+parking+maintenance=one broke Foreigner. Oh, did I mention you'd have to buy a car first? Oopsie. How could I forget. Such a minor wee expense.

But beyond all those practical reasons I am quite frankly freaked by cars. Don't mind sitting on passenger seat at all. Can happily make my way through the most mind-bogglingly mad junctions (even with a buggy filled with wildly annoyed baby, proven fact). But sitting behind the wheel makes me instantly paranoid.

You see, there is no way I can be in control of 3000 pound concoction of processed natural resources, that's just silly. It's bigger than me. And heavier. And probably just waiting for me to drop my vigilance levels. And THEN it'll get me...

No way I was going to present one of them monsters with an opportunity.

And then I moved to Ireland. Into a village.

Suddenly I couldn't even get a haircut without dragging the poor long suffering Ultimate Other Half with me. I needed him to go shopping, visit a doctor, get a bikini wax, go to work... Time after time I mused aloud that I really SHOULD learn to drive. Leaving it happily at that and dragging Other Half kicking and screaming into the car to give me a lift.

Then Sir Sprout popped out and things got serious. At first it was just driving lessons.

"Some people have natural knack for driving," one of the instructors told me. "Others just need to practice and practice and practice!" Cue thoughtful look in my direction.

Oh. Really. Thanks for words of wisdom. (Bitch!)

Once I managed to keep the amount of stalls per minute below 5 I proceeded to practicing with our own car as suggested by said driving instructor. Most likely to save her some big bucks on Valium.

And, boy, did I hate every minute of it! I growled, I sulked, I snapped, I mumbled, I cried. The Ultimate Other Half, a kind and compassionate human being, did not deserve the horrible realization that he had married a neurotic hag who will probably eventually end up running amok and scalping the cattle.

Therefore I have every right to announce with just pride and satisfaction that I did not stall the car a single time this morning.

I did yesterday though.

Twice.

Figures

2007-08-28T12:50:00.000+01:00

I am not good at mathematics.

True enough, my Mom is still proudly nurturing "Best Mathematician in Class" badge. It was granted to me at the end of first grade. I guess it was my academical high.

All went downhill from there.

For a while things were not too bad. I managed multiplying and dividing with some bravado. Then they brought in equations involving all sorts of unspeakables like "x"-s and "y"s. At that point there was a proverbial "zap!" and the lights were off. For good.

Thing is, my brain just doesn't function on that level. I DO have some traces of abstract thinking. It's just as long as I don't feed any mathematical conundrums into my biological floppy drive.

I have a reverent admiration for The Ultimate Other Half whose brain is very much tuned into that sort of thing and who enjoys immensely solving Sudoku puzzles, the more complicated & time-consuming the better. And it serves as an excellent excuse to leave all the bill-paying duties on his shoulders.

But I still prided myself in my ability to add 2 to 3 and get 5. Wrongly so, it appears.

Last week I started to think about my holiday balance for this year. It was a happy thought since I spent good part of 2006 and 2007 on maternity leave thus not using up many holidays. There were couple of days taken there and then and two weeks for a trip to Home Ground this year. Didn't remember much about last year but was quite certain there had been couple of trips and quite a few days off but not all the holidays for the year used up for sure.

I sat down and pondered. I was sure there should be enough to take some time off in October and still cover Christmas weeks. About 15 days, I guessed. That's plenty.

Just to be on safe side and maybe even do some planning ahead I sent short query to HR department. This week I got an email back from them with a little neat Excel report attached. I opened said report with mild curiosity.

Your holiday balance for year 2007 is 26 days, it said.

So, let me get it right, my holiday balance is more than my yearly holiday allowance???

I checked everything twice. They had all the days I had used up marked.

Some people collect stamps. Some people collect old teapots or candy wrappers or tissue box covers or Barbie dolls. I collect available days for vacation.

When I hit 100 I will throw a party. You are invited.

I might even take a day off!

Woo-hoooo!

2007-08-28T12:15:00.000+01:00

Estonian discus thrower Gerd Kant won a gold medal today on Osaka Worlds Championship in Athletics!

Excuse me while I raise the flag!

Good thing we are not wedding planners

2007-08-27T12:59:00.000+01:00

We have a wedding to attend next Saturday. Me and The Ultimate Other Half, just in case you thought I'm using a royal "we" here.

Originally Sir Sprout was supposed to join us. So, typically for first time mother all my preparations were circling around himself. I got him a cute outfit. Soft leather recommended-for-the-babies-under-the-age-of-two-for-
ensuring-healthy-feet-development booties. Adorable little baby braces. Backup outfit for those unpredictable food/barf related incidents.

The Ultimate Other Half didn't say a word.

I had visions of well behaved little angel sitting pertly on my knees while the blushing bride is swanning down the aisle, pausing for a moment just to take in the unearthly beauty of my precious child. I had bought a special not-quite-fancy-but-roomy-enough-to-take-extra-nappy-and-
packet-of-baby-wipes handbag. I was just about to start looking for plain white bibs to harmonize with his outfit.

The Ultimate Other Half still didn't say a word.

Then we sat down to discuss logistics.

"Do you know where the wedding invite is?" he asked.

I thought about it. Hard. No, I didn't.

"Where is the church? Do you remember?" he asked.

"Ermmm ... Ennis???" I guessed.

"Not in Mayo?"

"Or maybe it was Galway," I mused.

We looked at each other.

"We better find that invite," I came to a conclusion.

"Do you know what time is the church?" asked the Ultimate Other half.

I was starting to get a bit annoyed.

"How would I know?"

"Thought you might have remembered," he sighed.

Conclusion was the same. We better find that invite. (We did. Two days later.)

But Other Half had more questions.

"Are you sure the hotel room is booked?"

I was pretty sure. Almost. Not that I had booked it. Or checked. Or knew exactly what hotel we were staying in. So I said the only thing I could have said.

"I think so. Gotta ask Shelly."

The Ultimate Other Half seemed to be satisfied with that answer. Phew.

That's when we started talking about wedding itself.

Once we had got past the fact that Other Half needs a new shirt and that I will get shoes from Shelly the conversation steered towards the joys of juggling the baby and a wedding dinner.

Then it occurred to us that we'll probably miss it. Or at least a big part of it since Sir Sprout does not look kindly at major changes in his bath/bed time. And that unless we put up travel cot in the function room one of us needs to stay with baby while the other one gets merrily drunk.

There was a long sad silence.

"So what will we do?" I asked.

And that's how we decided to dump our bundle of joy with adoring grandparents and take on the wedding on our own. Be it in Ennis, Mayo or Galway.

He can practice his table manners there. Maybe we will take him next time.

From the jungle that is my hard drive

2007-08-26T20:28:00.000+01:00

Information overflow. Crash into a tree.

Just another day

2007-08-23T15:51:00.000+01:00

The Ultimate Other Half (at lunch time, just as I'm starting the car): So have you finished all your reports for today?
Me (shocked): That was an INCREDIBLY insensitive thing to say!
Other Half: What?
Me: grrrrrrrr
Other Half: So have you finished them?
Me: BURN IN HELL!!!!!
Other Half: I guess that's a "no" so...

How come he hasn't shot me yet?

2007-08-22T22:44:00.000+01:00

No honestly, I'd like to know. Sure enough, maybe The Ultimate Other Half doesn't have a gun but appearantly those are not hard to come by nowadays.

Or maybe he is just a particularly nice and sensitive guy with a patience and endurance of a camel.

Now to think about it it must have been on the Top 10 list of Reasons I Married Him.

This time it all started in MSN with a seemingly innocent picture of wooden doll house.

Me: Can you see something constructionally very weird about that house?
Ultimate Other Half: (after a pause for investigating the picture closer) It has chimneys but no fireplaces? Bath but no toilet?
Me: Aw come one. Look at the staircases!
Other Half: What about them?
Me: They don't GO anywhere!!!
Other Half: Yes they do!
Me: No they don't!
Other Half: Look closer, the staircase is coming up next to the bathroom!
Me: FFS! Ain't we lucky you're not an architect!

At this point the phone rang. Obviously The Ultimate Other Half had decided he was not getting anywhere via the messenger.

Other Half: Come on, look in the bedroom next to the wardrobe.

This time I actually looked closer and alas! there it was, staircase coming up next to the wardrobe. Damnation!

Other Half: Can you see it now?
Me: (annoyed mumbling)
Other Half: So what's wrong with it?
Me: (mixed with annoyed mumble) Well, firstly, its coming up into the feckin bedroom...
Other Half: Oh come on, it DOES come up though!
Me: (grudgingly) Yeah, I didn't see that at first.
Other Half: So are you taking it back now?
Me: Taking what back???
Other Half: FFS and stuff...
Me: NO!

I guess I SHOULD take it back though.

FFS!

Should I get worried?

2007-08-21T11:48:00.000+01:00

I mean - VERY worried!

Dads push bulletproof backpacks in schools

Sir Sprout hits one on 7th of September. At some stage he will have to let go from Foreigners (he prefers to call me Mommy) apron strings. Start junior infants. Proceed to academical heights of senior infants, intellect permitting (so far stubbornly squeezing the cubes through round opening, serves Mommy right for buying a SOFT shape sorter... safety me arse).

Maybe, presuming he will have learnt to make a difference between a pyramid and a cube by his teens, he will have to attend high school.

And what THEN??

I mean - of course there wouldn't be a question about spending 175$ for a school backback if necessary. And I never planned to raise Sir Sprout in cotton wool - he'd just get terribly hot, especially in summer. It's just that once we're taking the "safety first" approach the backpack alone is just not cutting it for me. What's the use of backpack that "stands up to bullets as well as machete, hatchet and Ka-bar knife attacks" if there are a whole lot of essential body parts utterly exposed to all kinds of harm. Like whole front, neck, head...

No, that will NOT do!

Perhaps THIS would be an answer to responsible parents prayers?

At least it looks undeniably cool and is bound to grant your offspring some major respect amongst his peers. Come on, who won't be wanting to hang out with a kid who looks like a Transformer!?

Guess I better start saving now. Kids grow out of clothes so fast I'll need at least 4 different sizes.

And how do you launder one, kinda looks like it might not do well in the washing machine.

Mind boggles...

Empty days 1, 2, 3 ...

2007-07-16T22:43:00.000+01:00

It's been raining.

A lot.

I have some annoying (and probably lethal) bug. Unfortunately no picture available. Do not talk to strange bugs!

Might issue further reports in near future, possibly from beyond the grave. At the moment my head is just fit for extremely light reading. TV-guide maybe. Comic books. Barbara Cartland if I had any.

Good night.

Precious moments of parenthood - vol. 1 (Downside of Progress or The Tale of a Drawer)

2007-07-13T11:55:00.000+01:00

Sir Sprout crammed his fingers into a drawer this morning. One moment he was happily decorating the bedroom floor with a tasteful arrangement of socks and tights; the next bawling angrily, little fingers stuck.

I blame modern furniture design. Them blasted drawers sliding smoothly and quietly. The progress and technological revolution and evils of consumer-oriented capitalism.

This would never have happened back when it never rained, grass was greener and I was still sporting nappies (the environment-friendly cloth kind, not that my mother had any choice in the matter). I still have to put in at least weeks worth of gym sessions to brave the drawers back in my parents house. They're big. Heavy. And in constant state of being stuck.

In short - very baby-friendly. No 10-month old could cultivate adequate muscle to pry them open.

Considerable body mass is required to actually close those. It's almost ritual-like - first you steady yourself making sure all available limbs are firmly pressed either against the floor or the drawer. Then you breathe in, concentrate and charge in. On a good day it results in closed drawer. On a typical day you end up with ridiculously tilted drawer, one corner disappearing into the unit, another one sticking out.

I won't even start with horrors of trying to get the blasted drawer open to close it again.

So you see, it's nothing to do with neglectful parenting or lack of supervision.

Oh, and Sir Sprout is fine. He will not have to go through life with flat fingers.
Quite sure he'll stick us into crappiest nursing home available though.
Oh well.

Language barrier à la Foreigner by Default

2007-07-11T15:00:00.000+01:00

I have never had too many illusions about my proficiency in English. Truth is I manage fine and some of my friends have hearts big enough to call me fluent but it is still not my mother tongue and well, things happen.

For years I was living in happy knowledge that "spring water" is something which is only collected seasonally. During precious 3 months a year. Maybe it's something to do with snow melting or dropping cherry blossoms giving it this extra special taste and purity, I don't know. Never really stopped to think about it. Just recently I was reading a book in the bed when a real meaning hit me. Nobody explained anything, it was suddenly just there, so simple and clear and logical I was wondering how come it never occurred to me before.

While one could kind of see where I was coming from with the spring water case the next example doesn't really make any sense at all. Yet it never bothered me, just accepted the fact that language can be pretty quirky.

I often heard The Ultimate Other Half discussing sports with other Male Specimens. That's what the Lad League does when they get together - sit down and talk sports. Or maybe computers if you're lucky. DIY if you're really blessed. Of course if you're not lucky or blessed you can just be smart and not be there at all. But that's besides the point.

The point is I noticed they often referred to "paper view" games. Since I wasn't really terribly interested in the subject to start with I only wondered about it briefly. Are they drawing graphs to catch all the finer details of the beautiful game (read "bunch of sweaty guys rushing around the huge field")? Or have they just missed the game on TV and read about it in the newspaper?

Usually I just shrugged and went back to counting the cracks on the ceiling or (if properly prepared) solving kiddycrosswords, only coming to my senses for long enough to state that yes, I would like another beer.

Once again the moment of enlightenment came utterly out of blue. I was doing something like chopping an aubergine or clipping my toenails when it came to me: of course it's Pay Per View! Duh! Isn't it just so obvious.

Confessed about my misinterpretations to The Ultimate Other Half who thought them a great joke.

Getting more fluent in the language will not prevent mishaps like that. It's more about your brain pulling out the first available drawer, finding something that "will do" in it and then not bothering to look further. Plain old laziness.

Doesn't that just sum me up nicely!

One step at the time

2007-07-11T12:05:00.000+01:00

Being a beginner foreigner is quite a challenge even for an accomplished traveler, nevermind the Citizen by Default. The list of Things To Deal With isn't that long really, just a tad overwhelming. Here it comes:

They're doing everything arseways here (meaning not the way you're used to; that being Wrong by Default)
You're not at home

Simple.
Threeandsomething years, one Ultimate Other Half, three addresses, one dog and one baby later the list has changed somewhat. Now it is good for both New Home Ground AND Old Home Ground and it goes like that:

They're doing everything arseways here/there
You're a bit confused where the home is

Alas, you have become a Foreigner by Default. Congratulations, you may collect your prize at the Passport Control.
Anybody else got an inkling that the problem might be me?