Stranger is the Night

Lately I've been dropping off the radar at about 10h15 pm or so. This is the time of day when my body is so heavy and exhausted, that even the idea of going to the loo before heading upstairs to bed seems a deeply, and unforgivably, onerous task.

Bother.

So last night, despite passing a pleasant evening with my MIL while the kids, their father and their grandfather were downstairs watching a space opera on the telly (they are loving the borrowed Battlestar Galactica series I brought home), I eventually hauled my poor beleaguered body upstairs to lie (delightfully) between cool sheets before dropping off asleep after a smattering of pages from my book.

Zzzzz.

Imagine my disheartened and grouchy surprise when Mr C wandered upstairs to bed a couple of hours later. I didn't hear him enter the room, but I sure as hell was brought out of my slumber when that git fellow snuggled up close to my warm body. Dude was FREEZING!

"Go 'way." I mumbled and turned away.

Wheedling. "Take me into your arms."

"No. Ge' lost." I could feel the tentacles of sleep reclaiming me when Mr C hiked up my shoulders from underneath and forcibly pulled me towards him. I thus ate chest hair.

Then he proceeded to coo and snorfle into my neck. Waking me up completely. Not from desire, mind. Let us get that straight.

No.

Peevishness.

Lovey doving is fine. I'm just as amenable. But not after pulling me from a sound sleep. Oh no. You're more likely to wake up my caustic side. With a side of acid.

"Your parents know now? How did you tell them?"

"They ambushed me. Together. A concerted effort."

Aha! Bloodshed.

However, now I could not sleep. I was wide awake and my limbs were no longer willing to slumber. They wanted to move about. They felt rusty. A condition I have noticed on a couple of occasions already and each time has brought about a disconcerting feeling. I tossed and turned.

"I'm sorry for waking you."

Grumble.

I finally gave up and went downstairs. Mr C followed me and proceeded to eat all the dairy in the kitchen. I ate an apple.

He went back to bed.

I fired up my twitter feed and complained.

I slowly hauled my butt back upstairs. Laid down and waited. Praying that the need to wee wouldn't hit me again until morning.

Finally sleep overcame me. And I dreamed.

I dreamed about a baby.

A relatively small one. The baby wasn't crying or anything but I still remember feeling slightly terrified.

Because the baby was covered in poo. Poo I tell you! Newborn baby goo. Covered.

And I was running out of baby wipes.

Poo baby was in a onesie and had those little spindly limbs that newborn babies have that sort of jerk around like facial tics and every time I wiped one limb down, another would be slimed over.

You know the guy condemned to push a rock up a hill for the rest of his existence?

It felt like that!

Lordy, lordy. What in the hell am I getting myself into?...

Baby Tripping

Mr C has still not told his mother that there'll be another face in our house come May 2010.

Don't ask me why, for I cannot tell you.

But as his parents are at our house this week, I can tell you that I'm enjoying the kerfuffle that has since ensued.

I didn't expect this.  In fact, I expected that his mother would get all confrontational and uppity with me, the one who wanted her to be told ASAP because I know how much she adores my children already on the ground, but no.... it has not been that way at all.

She has been slowly wearing her son down.  With questions.  And I'm enjoying Mr C being backed into corners.

BECAUSE I'M SURE SHE KNOWS.  She took one look at me when she got to the house, at my already distorted shape and penchant for comfy clothes, and there was a spring in her step.  A twinkle in her eye. 

I like to call it mischief.

And now.... ?

The game is on. 

Mr C vs. Mrs C Sr.  A battle of wits and wiles.

The first night?  I overheard her ask Mr C about how tired I looked.  How run down.  Was there anything the matter?

He replied that I had recently been off work due to high blood pressure.

Hmm. Technically the truth. But not the full truth.

When I came home from work on Monday, the children were silent.  They took me aside and said that Kilian had made a gaff in mentioning that he'd rather a little brother than a little sister (don't blame him really).  But that upon their souls, they're sure that Mrs C Sr hadn't [seemed to hear or] reacted to their chatter.

I doubt that very much.  Mrs C Sr is sneaky. 

She's just biding her time.  I can well imagine her giggling on the inside.

Yesterday was the humdinger though and it was then that I realised that the "not telling" thing had turned into a game.  Mrs C Sr.... ever the one to keep busy around the house, started folding up our clean clothes and came across a pair of my pants.

And a particularly bizarre set of pants at that.  Maternity pants.

Of course she went right to Mr C and asked him what maternity pants were doing in the house.  In the wash.

His response?  That I had just found them among my things and was washing them before returning them to a friend.

Shameful.  A bald lie.

Though funny.

Now I'm wondering what other things I can lay around the house to trip him up. 

A book of baby names?  Should I buy a soother and place it someplace obvious?

IDEAS PLEASE!

New Work Monday #39

Medusa
Paper & Ink
18cm x 26cm


This little creation sprung from a half-baked idea.  I was walking in the metro, minding my own business when I saw an exhibit poster of native art.  It was of a wooden head with a headdress that I could only remember half of and it was when I was in a part of the metro I'm never in (usually).

Well, wouldn't you know it, but damn, that little wooden head stuck in my brain and nigh on drove me mad, so Saturday morning, while the kids were watching cartoons, I tried to draw something out.

Zippola.  The face was all right, but damn if I couldn't figure out what kind of headdress to give the face.  I did a number of attempts and they all looked strange (don't even get me started on the headdress of cutlery. It was not pretty).  So I started going all lapping fire, as I'm wont to do, and lo', you put a snake's head on the deal and everything is golden.  It all came together.

As I was inking my little sallow-faced, sad Medusa (which I was quite pleased with in that HER eyes are closed), Brenna came up to me and said that it was amazing.

Further, she said, "Maman, of all the artwork in the world, yours is the most artificielle."

Um.

"Really?"

"ABSOLUTELY!"

"What's artificial mean again?  You know how I sometimes have trouble with French words that sound like English ones."

"It means awesome."

Oh.

Thanks.

Emptying the Brain Junk

I don't know what I feel like writing about today.

Awesome.

I feel I should write about something though. Got niggles flying around in my head and yet, I stare at this space and my brain stays blank when I think about what I could actually write.

Maybe I should write about all this fantastic sleep I've been getting lately.

Or the fact that I'm dragging my ass around by 8pm.  That my daughter spends dinner time acting out things that happen during the day and I look at her (slightly hating) and tell her to get a move on, eat your damn dinner, spaghetti is not a toy, etc. ad nauseum.

But that's no fun.  I'd probably enjoy the theatrics if every muscle in my body didn't want her to stop moving around so energetically.

You probably don't care about my metro experiences either.  Not that they've been bad, only that they've been draining me of my will to live.  Status quo really.

I haven't even been doing much drawing either lately.  Which is terrible.  Really terrible.  I even have a niggle for an illo in my brain.  The only motivation I have in the evening, when the kids are finally tucked up, is for knitting. Gah. 

Productive and yet, oddly, not.  Phooey.

So. OF COURSE. At this moment, when it is completely natural for me to dead tired, I'm feeling slightly antsy. Creative-wise... why can I not get my butt in gear? Why can't I get anything "started".

It doesn't help that I spent the morning trolling Stephen King related stuff.  He started from nothing and got "somewhere".  And when I mean "somewhere", I mean doing the thing he loves to do.

Sometimes I wonder, really, what I love to do.

(UH OH, I SEE A TRAINWRECK OF EMOTIONS AND FEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLIIINGGGSSS COMING UP.

BATTEN THE HATCHES!)

I may have mentioned this before, but sometimes, I feel like I'm not really good at any one thing.  That I'm relatively OK at a bunch of things and that, because of this, my attentions are continually refracted and aren't allowing me to really excel at that one thing that'll propel me into "something".

Bah.

Shouldn't I be working my tail off to try and bring in a commission (or two)?  Should I work more on marketing or the actual work?  Have I lost confidence in myself? What about that little story that I started writing (of which I've posted 3 chapters to an online writer's group and have gotten some nice constructive comments in return)?  I've sort of planned out a few more chapters.  Why haven't I done anything about them?

I don't know what the answer is. I'm not sure why my motivation level is at a zero (though of course I understand why my energy level is at a zero. Should I just accept that these two are related?). 

Mid-March I'll be on maternity leave.  That'll leave me almost 2 precious months, where the kids'll be at school that, though I have good intentions, I will probably SQUANDER because I. am. a. lazy. cow.

And after the baby?

Ha ha ha ha ha.

Especially when you consider summer holidays.

Excuse me while I have another fit:  Ha ha ha ha ha.

Oh my.  I'm out of breath. 

Add to all this, that my PLAN is to take parental leave (subsidized in this country), but would love to somehow figure out an "at home" regular paying job for the long term.  My original plan (that I hinted at earlier this year) was to see if I couldn't find a job as a cyber-English teacher.  But honestly, I don't know if I can be bothered to do coursework for this by getting the TEFL (though one or two of you might insist that this certification isn't necessary).

Translation may be possible, but I'm not keen enough on that either.  I mean.  It wouldn't be a passion.

So.

I guess I'm wishing I could figure out how to do "something" that I'm keen about and be able to still eat.

Though there is something that I found heartening which has been attributed to Stephen King (I found this on his wiki).  This is what he (apparently) wrote:

"If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn't bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented."

I didn't write something in my case. I drew something for a book cover. I got sent a check.  OK.  The check bounced (because it was drawn on the wrong bank account) but the second check didn't bounce and yes, I paid a bill with it. 

I think.  I might have done something frivalous with a part of it.

So I should be thrilled, right?

Or maybe I've got the one hit wonder blues.  If you only knew how I got that gig (ie, with no sweat or tears), you might realise that I have no idea how to get gigs like that regularly.  That one literally fell from the sky.

And I think a part of me doesn't believe that I'm good enough to get past the gates if I really have to work at it.

Hmm.

New Work Monday #38

A statue of Charles de Gaulle found in front of the Grand Palais near the "bottom" of the Champs-Elysées.

The following is inscribed in the base of the statue:

Paris
Paris outragé
Paris brisé
Paris martyrisé
mais Paris libéré


Paris
Paris: Outraged
Paris: Shattered
Paris: Martyred
But Paris: Freed


It's much nicer in French.

A Fish Called Wonder

This morning I had the first ultrasound for BB3.

What can I say other than it was A.MAY.ZING.

The photos are all dark, so it wouldn't be beneficial to post them here, but I can tell you that BB3 is an animated little fellow.  He was all over the place, flipping and flopping like a fish out of water.



The doctor had a little bit of trouble getting BB3's measurements because of ALL THE EXCITEMENT that BB3 seemed to be amusing himself with.

Now this side, now that side, off into the corner, ooh look, is that candy over there? LEMME CHECK!.... Etc etc.

BB3 was finally nailed down and we know that he's about 53 mm now (that's an increase in 36 mm in what... 3 weeks? Crazy).

The doctor surprised us when he went into ultrasound 3D. WHICH IS VERY COOL.

"They didn't have this 10 years ago!"  There was a distinct note of awe in my voice.

"Nope.  There've been 2 generations in ultrasound technology since then."

Unfortunately, he didn't give me any of those snapshots which showed us the face, the arms AND FINGERS! 

I SAW FINGERS!

So I'm pleased to say that everything is going swimmingly.

Which I was sort of wondering about because, now that I'm 35 years old, I'm a lot more prone to gnawing my brain raw.  You know... worrying about: defects, bizarre birthmarks, rare and not so rare chromosonal diseases, etc... than I ever thought about when I was pregnant in my 20s.  Where I was all, problems? What problems?

What pleased me the most about the whole visit (other than having a well-organised doctor who was on time for the visit), was that Mr C made a point of coming with me.

And while you may all be unsurprised, let me tell you that Mr C didn't feel the need to be present for the ultrasounds of neither Kilian nor Brenna.

I don't think it was because he didn't care.  I think the reasons were more cavemanish, if anything.  This time, Mr C has been 100% more supportive that I hardly recognise him.  But I sure as hell am thankful.

This morning I was thinking about how we've changed as a couple.  We went from newly in love, to hassled new parents, to bitterness and discord and now?  I don't know.  It sort of feels better than that newly in love feeling.  There's a feeling of trust and feeling so good in his arms that I just can't describe.

And I'm so thankful that we get to experience the wonder of this "new parent" thing again now.

When I think we're finally ready.

Life with the Interloper

After the ob/gyn visit confirming that I am, indeed, knocked up, I showed Brenna the image the doctor gave me. Namely this:



She looked at it. Puzzled and then said, "That blob thing is a baby?"

"Yup."

She looked at me like I was playing her. Babies obviously do not look like blobs of.... "How big is it?"

I look closely at the scan, "17 mm."

"17 mm? Wait a dog-gone minute. Let me get my ruler." She goes and rummages in her school bag, brings the ruler back and says, "This is 17 mm, right?"

"Right."

Brenna stopped. She looked at me. Looked at her ruler. Looked at me and then burst out, "If the baby's that small, why are you so fat?"


....


I wish to god I knew. As far as I can tell, my innards have gotten the message that there's an interloper and have been doing some restructuration. Most of my clothes don't fit me anymore and the ones that do, make me feel ridiculous.

It's like my uterus is Moses and everything else is the Dead Sea.

So, if you'd love to get rid of that stash of maternity clothing, I'm a taker.

I'll pay postage.

New Work Monday #37

Parisians don't generally look up when they are in the street and it's a shame because there's some strange stuff up there on the rooftops.

This roof can be found on the corner of Marbeuf and Clément Marot in the 8th.

Whammy Post

If my unfunny little cartoon has been clear (which I doubt because I have been decidedly out of it lately), then yes. I have lost my mind.

If it hasn't been exactly elucidating, perhaps this'll help:







For the love of all that is holy.... There is only one. It has a heartbeat.

Due sometime early May? Late April?

Doctor says May 7th. The Internet says April 30th.

So....

Spring.

New Work Monday #36

Queen Astrid Square, 8eme arrondissement
Watercolour

Looking towards the Eiffel Tower from the Square de la Reine Astrid (Astrid of the Belgians).

Something I learned with this little painting is that I hate providing Parisians with the spectacle of a poor git painting on a bench. The added spice was when colleagues wandered up and started chatting.

Yeehaw.