Extra deep cleavages and traditional values

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

1) Run around like mad

2) Get stuck in traffic jam

3) Eat crap

Not much of a traveller, me

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.

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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:"