On Saturday Krusty went to the local shop to buy us both an ice cream, and halfway through his selection he started thinking that I might be in labour at home. Hurrying back to my side, just in case, he was quickly brought back to reality by the screaming shopkeeper who had followed him out onto the street to let him know that he had not paid!
Good to know I'm not the only one with a one track mind at the moment!
27 April 2010
21 April 2010
Drunken secretaries and boum boum crickets
Krusty and I have long been trying to find something that we can use to further his French education, but so far, no luck.
I started with baby books, but Krusty is just not interested in those, and I tend to understand. We tried the news on the French TV channel, but he's just not ready to understand running commentary without pressing pause at every word. We tried reading the sentences of financial newspapers, but I'm just not ready to stay awake for long enough to see him through it.
And so we stumbled on a magazine supplement called "100 choses à savoir sur la fête quand on est un homme", or "100 things to know about partying for men". And it seems to be working.
Perhaps it's the feeling of not letting go of our social life even when we actually have dialled outings right down in preparation for bambino, or perhaps it's just the opportunity to learn slang like "empiffrer" (to stuff one's face) and "guincher" (party), but it seems to be working.
Every night we read a chapter together, and it has the double benefit of giving me an opportunity to keep Krusty's morals in check - we're on the office party section, and last night's chapter was entitled "Tu n'abuseras pas de la secrétaire ivre au pot de fin d'année", or "You won't abuse the drunken secretary at the end of year party". That's right Krusty, there'll be no office romances in this family!
In exchange for my linguistic knowledge, Krusty is trying to teach me the virtues of zen philosophy, and blocking out sounds that could be stressful (ie every sound in Hong Kong, really). And so, when he comes home and I complain that the THREE sets of jackhammers in our neighbourhood have been at it for 10 hours straight, he just replies "How can these noises bother you? I manage to live here and not even hear a single sound." Never mind the fact that this might be because he's not actually at home all day listening to them...
And so, Krusty's exercise for me today is to consider the jackhammers, who seem to be answering each other in intensity as soon as another one starts, as just a bunch of crickets in Provence, gently calling out to each other in relaxing, rolling rhythms.
Far from me to want to contradict Krusty's idea that a jackhammer could be likened to a cricket, so here's a little extract recorded in our lounge this morning at 9am. That's right, all windows closed, just me sitting on the sofa with the recorder. Perhaps I should send this recording to a spa for their massage soundtrack... You decide: relaxing or mind-blowingly unhealthy?!
I started with baby books, but Krusty is just not interested in those, and I tend to understand. We tried the news on the French TV channel, but he's just not ready to understand running commentary without pressing pause at every word. We tried reading the sentences of financial newspapers, but I'm just not ready to stay awake for long enough to see him through it.
And so we stumbled on a magazine supplement called "100 choses à savoir sur la fête quand on est un homme", or "100 things to know about partying for men". And it seems to be working.
Perhaps it's the feeling of not letting go of our social life even when we actually have dialled outings right down in preparation for bambino, or perhaps it's just the opportunity to learn slang like "empiffrer" (to stuff one's face) and "guincher" (party), but it seems to be working.
Every night we read a chapter together, and it has the double benefit of giving me an opportunity to keep Krusty's morals in check - we're on the office party section, and last night's chapter was entitled "Tu n'abuseras pas de la secrétaire ivre au pot de fin d'année", or "You won't abuse the drunken secretary at the end of year party". That's right Krusty, there'll be no office romances in this family!
In exchange for my linguistic knowledge, Krusty is trying to teach me the virtues of zen philosophy, and blocking out sounds that could be stressful (ie every sound in Hong Kong, really). And so, when he comes home and I complain that the THREE sets of jackhammers in our neighbourhood have been at it for 10 hours straight, he just replies "How can these noises bother you? I manage to live here and not even hear a single sound." Never mind the fact that this might be because he's not actually at home all day listening to them...
And so, Krusty's exercise for me today is to consider the jackhammers, who seem to be answering each other in intensity as soon as another one starts, as just a bunch of crickets in Provence, gently calling out to each other in relaxing, rolling rhythms.
Far from me to want to contradict Krusty's idea that a jackhammer could be likened to a cricket, so here's a little extract recorded in our lounge this morning at 9am. That's right, all windows closed, just me sitting on the sofa with the recorder. Perhaps I should send this recording to a spa for their massage soundtrack... You decide: relaxing or mind-blowingly unhealthy?!
16 April 2010
Les couilles de bambino
Speaking of boys, I went for a quick check up yesterday, as planned.
Unfortunately the news was not good - bambino has managed to turn back the wrong way up. Either that, or he never turned head down in the first place (I never understood how the nurses could tell by just feeling my tummy, surely an ultrasound is the only real way to find out?). In any case, his GIANT head is now nowhere near the exit point, which means two things: I could be experiencing the joys of ECV soon; or I could be having a C-section.
The only way out of the C-section that I reallllly don't want (there are 30 steps leading up to our flat, I don't necessarily want to experience them under the influence of post-operatic shock) is ECV - or External Cephalic Version. That's where they try to turn the bub around manually from the outside. It would be done about two weeks from now. If he can't turn around himself for lack of space at this stage in the game, you can imagine what it will feel like to be forced around by ruthless medical staff when he's gained a few more grams. I already find normal examinations painful...
Not to mention that his head is about one week ahead of the rest of his body in terms of gestational size. And that's not the only thing - during the ultrasound I mentioned to the doctor that I kept dreaming about the delivery, and that bambino came out as a bambina. Not only did she laugh, pointing as his humongous equipment on the screen, but at the end of the appointment, where she would usually hand me a beautiful black and white side portrait of our baby's head, this time she gave me a picture of... his scrotum!
And in case you were wondering just how huge a foetus' scrotum could look, that's his elbow on the left side of the picture, and his giant balls on the right!
Unfortunately the news was not good - bambino has managed to turn back the wrong way up. Either that, or he never turned head down in the first place (I never understood how the nurses could tell by just feeling my tummy, surely an ultrasound is the only real way to find out?). In any case, his GIANT head is now nowhere near the exit point, which means two things: I could be experiencing the joys of ECV soon; or I could be having a C-section.
The only way out of the C-section that I reallllly don't want (there are 30 steps leading up to our flat, I don't necessarily want to experience them under the influence of post-operatic shock) is ECV - or External Cephalic Version. That's where they try to turn the bub around manually from the outside. It would be done about two weeks from now. If he can't turn around himself for lack of space at this stage in the game, you can imagine what it will feel like to be forced around by ruthless medical staff when he's gained a few more grams. I already find normal examinations painful...
Not to mention that his head is about one week ahead of the rest of his body in terms of gestational size. And that's not the only thing - during the ultrasound I mentioned to the doctor that I kept dreaming about the delivery, and that bambino came out as a bambina. Not only did she laugh, pointing as his humongous equipment on the screen, but at the end of the appointment, where she would usually hand me a beautiful black and white side portrait of our baby's head, this time she gave me a picture of... his scrotum!
And in case you were wondering just how huge a foetus' scrotum could look, that's his elbow on the left side of the picture, and his giant balls on the right!
One down, three to go
I give you baby Kilian, born on Monday, the first of four to come in our group of friends in Hong Kong - one a month from now on, all boys! Problem is, I'm up next...!
14 April 2010
RIP Gordon
Tonight, as I was doing the washing up, I lifted up a tray I was washing, and found the body of our baby gecko in a pool of water underneath.
I lifted him out and on to a tea towel and spent the next few hours pleading with the little guy, encouraging him to pull through, begging him to wiggle his little paws. It might just have been leftover nerves, but I could have sworn I saw his tail move, so I proceeded to give him CPR, gently pressing his lungs and breathing to give him air. I had drowned our baby gecko. I was devastated.
I held him in my hand, sobbing and sobbing, thinking about what a bad mother I was going to be. I softly asked him to please not die, until I realised it was too late, and he had probably been dead already when I lifted him out of that pool of washing up liquid.
And then Krusty came home, and told me I was being silly and threw him in the bin outside.
RIP little friend.
I lifted him out and on to a tea towel and spent the next few hours pleading with the little guy, encouraging him to pull through, begging him to wiggle his little paws. It might just have been leftover nerves, but I could have sworn I saw his tail move, so I proceeded to give him CPR, gently pressing his lungs and breathing to give him air. I had drowned our baby gecko. I was devastated.
I held him in my hand, sobbing and sobbing, thinking about what a bad mother I was going to be. I softly asked him to please not die, until I realised it was too late, and he had probably been dead already when I lifted him out of that pool of washing up liquid.
And then Krusty came home, and told me I was being silly and threw him in the bin outside.
RIP little friend.
Time to find a new doctor
I miss seeing bambino, and although there is no medical reason to have another scan, I really want to go back one last time. So when I lost a night's sleep from a nasty ear infection, I was almost happy - maybe I could sneak a peek when I went to get some drops from the doc.
But then I called to get an appointment, and the conversation went like this:
"Hello, can I have an appointment please?"
"No"
"No?! Is the doctor away? Is there another day I can come?"
"No"
"I don't understand..."
"Please hold"
Cue 15 minutes of hold music.
Either they have caller id and hate me, or it's time for me to change my doctor...
But then I called to get an appointment, and the conversation went like this:
"Hello, can I have an appointment please?"
"No"
"No?! Is the doctor away? Is there another day I can come?"
"No"
"I don't understand..."
"Please hold"
Cue 15 minutes of hold music.
Either they have caller id and hate me, or it's time for me to change my doctor...
09 April 2010
You were saying...
What was that? "But we were relaxed. And happy. And ready for bambino to finally arrive."
How ironic that a few hours after writing this, I went for what was supposed to be a routine check-up at the hospital, and ended up having to spend the night there.
Turns out I wasn't as relaxed as I thought I was – my blood pressure was apparently higher than usual. Not much higher, but high enough for them to want to test me again 10 minutes later. Of course as soon as they started telling me why they needed to test me again, and with the nurses running around speaking worried Chinese ("guangdongwa guagdongwa high blood pressure guangdongwa high risk"), my blood pressure went up even more. In the space of half an hour, I had gone from 120/80 to 169/95... Not good.
And so I got carted off to the same hospital ward where I will end up having bambino, dressed in the pink pyjamas that would soon be my uniform for three days. But not before I had disobeyed the nurse and gone home - I was not wearing a bra at the time of the check-up and was getting quite flustered by the idea of going to hospital without one. I don't think that's what made me break down into tears when the doctor told me I'd be kept for observation all night, but you never know...
In any case, I was soon sitting on a bed lined up next to all of the new mothers, not daring to move because my plastified pillow crinkled every time I did. I guess it was good practice for the big day and I couldn't be in a better place to be under observation, this being the best hospital in Hong Kong, and one of the best in the world. And, more importantly, I was now wearing a bra.
I spent the few hours before Krusty could visit sending strong mental messages to my son to stay put and not make an early appearance (turns out I was not "ready for bambino to finally arrive" after all). Looking around, I soon noticed that the "shorts" that I had been given were actually full length trousers on every other woman there, and then I realised I was the only Westerner on the ward. That should reduce the chances of accidental baby swapping! It also means that communication was not so easy, especially since almost half of the ladies were from the mainland and therefore spoke absolutely no English whatsoever. Apparently almost 45% of deliveries in Hong Kong are for mainland Chinese ladies who cross the border specifically to give birth. Whether that is because the level of healthcare is better here or whether it is to get around the "one baby per household" rule, I am not sure...
In any case, I didn't need to talk to them – I had Krusty to communicate with. Not by phone (I had to give him mine since he still doesn't have one at his new job), and not in person (the visiting hours are ridiculously few), but by little envelopes he had left me, one to be opened each half hour, containing the sweetest, funniest little messages to keep me entertained. I cannot express how lucky I feel to have such a man to rely on. I complain about him a lot (but then don't I complain about everything a lot) but every time I need him, he's not only there, he completely surpasses all of my expectations.
And just as I was dreamily thinking of Krusty in my bubble of pastel rainbow curtains, a nurse came in saying "congee". As if, at 6am after no sleep because of the baby next to me screaming all night, the thing that was going to make me feel better was a bowl of Chinese porridge. Note to self - pack some nice snacks for delivery day.
By now, despite the lack of sleep and the frustration at having the bed next to the ward's TV (nothing like a little Chinese soap opera at 3am...), my blood pressure had gone down to 100/65, and so I was released with a clean bill of health. I had peed in a pot 5 times, I have a big bruise on my arm where the medical student couldn't find my vein, and I was hungry, tired and dirty.
But I was wearing a bra, and bambino was still in the oven. And I now know that I'm ready to wait at least another month until I learn to live with his crying, no matter how cute he will be...
How ironic that a few hours after writing this, I went for what was supposed to be a routine check-up at the hospital, and ended up having to spend the night there.
Turns out I wasn't as relaxed as I thought I was – my blood pressure was apparently higher than usual. Not much higher, but high enough for them to want to test me again 10 minutes later. Of course as soon as they started telling me why they needed to test me again, and with the nurses running around speaking worried Chinese ("guangdongwa guagdongwa high blood pressure guangdongwa high risk"), my blood pressure went up even more. In the space of half an hour, I had gone from 120/80 to 169/95... Not good.
And so I got carted off to the same hospital ward where I will end up having bambino, dressed in the pink pyjamas that would soon be my uniform for three days. But not before I had disobeyed the nurse and gone home - I was not wearing a bra at the time of the check-up and was getting quite flustered by the idea of going to hospital without one. I don't think that's what made me break down into tears when the doctor told me I'd be kept for observation all night, but you never know...
In any case, I was soon sitting on a bed lined up next to all of the new mothers, not daring to move because my plastified pillow crinkled every time I did. I guess it was good practice for the big day and I couldn't be in a better place to be under observation, this being the best hospital in Hong Kong, and one of the best in the world. And, more importantly, I was now wearing a bra.
I spent the few hours before Krusty could visit sending strong mental messages to my son to stay put and not make an early appearance (turns out I was not "ready for bambino to finally arrive" after all). Looking around, I soon noticed that the "shorts" that I had been given were actually full length trousers on every other woman there, and then I realised I was the only Westerner on the ward. That should reduce the chances of accidental baby swapping! It also means that communication was not so easy, especially since almost half of the ladies were from the mainland and therefore spoke absolutely no English whatsoever. Apparently almost 45% of deliveries in Hong Kong are for mainland Chinese ladies who cross the border specifically to give birth. Whether that is because the level of healthcare is better here or whether it is to get around the "one baby per household" rule, I am not sure...
In any case, I didn't need to talk to them – I had Krusty to communicate with. Not by phone (I had to give him mine since he still doesn't have one at his new job), and not in person (the visiting hours are ridiculously few), but by little envelopes he had left me, one to be opened each half hour, containing the sweetest, funniest little messages to keep me entertained. I cannot express how lucky I feel to have such a man to rely on. I complain about him a lot (but then don't I complain about everything a lot) but every time I need him, he's not only there, he completely surpasses all of my expectations.
And just as I was dreamily thinking of Krusty in my bubble of pastel rainbow curtains, a nurse came in saying "congee". As if, at 6am after no sleep because of the baby next to me screaming all night, the thing that was going to make me feel better was a bowl of Chinese porridge. Note to self - pack some nice snacks for delivery day.
By now, despite the lack of sleep and the frustration at having the bed next to the ward's TV (nothing like a little Chinese soap opera at 3am...), my blood pressure had gone down to 100/65, and so I was released with a clean bill of health. I had peed in a pot 5 times, I have a big bruise on my arm where the medical student couldn't find my vein, and I was hungry, tired and dirty.
But I was wearing a bra, and bambino was still in the oven. And I now know that I'm ready to wait at least another month until I learn to live with his crying, no matter how cute he will be...
08 April 2010
Last tango in Macau
Since I can't fly now, we decided to spend our Easter weekend in Macau, a Chinese island just an hour's ferry ride away from Hong Kong that used to belong to the Portuguese.
Turns out the rest of China had decided to come along too, so our departure was delayed somewhat by the fact that we hadn't booked tickets because ferries leave every 15 minutes and we were sure we'd catch one without any problems...
But after lunch in the ifc (for a change), we boarded with the Super Class tickets we had been forced to plump for (not that much price difference in fact, and we got priority queuing, lounge access and a food platter, so in the end, we won!) and made our way to what was hopefully going to be a sunny, relaxing holiday by the pool.
We zoomed through immigration (apparently pregnancy is considered a “condition” worthy of the disabled lane...) and arrived at the Westin, where all was “luxe, calme et volupté” – there was a bathtub in which we could actually spread our legs, soft cotton sheets, warm fluffy robes and our own private terrace with an ocean view... OK the view was of muddy brown water and rain, but still, we were content.
That night we dined on Macanese classics in tiny Taipa village at Michelin-rated (but very reasonably-priced) Antonio's. Antonio himself was out all night among the white linen tables and Portuguese azulejos tiles, flambé-ing Crêpes Suzette and telling stories in his strong accent, looking like he hadn't stopped drinking for the last 20 years. On our way out he told us he looked forward to seeing us with a stroller next time... We'll be sure to oblige.
The next morning, in my robe, knitting booties for my child on my ottoman facing the sea, I started reminiscing about my own childhood, and the time, dedication and opportunities I was given. Perhaps it was the rain and fog, but I couldn't help but feeling that having a child is a little like having the attention taken away from you – for the last 30 years it has all been about how well or badly I was fulfilling the potential my daddy told me I had over silly morning games at home, learning how to draw patterns of flowers with a compass, but now that doesn't seem to matter, as if I have reached the apex of my potential, and once that has passed, only the baby's potential will count. It was a bittersweet moment of realisation, but one that I wouldn't swap for the world.
To get my ideas back in order, I decided to get up and affront the beast of a shower in our room and its two heads, but in fact the water pressure was so rubbish that Krusty went down to the spa for his wash (after a massage of course... which they wouldn't give me because, yes, I'm too pregnant...).
Krusty then spent the rest of the day recreating that infamous plastic bag scene from American Beauty, only Krusty's Macanese Beauty involved two hours each of staring at a boat jetty and a rotting bicycle. I see detritus, he sees art. He is practising his photography with panache, you see. But I wouldn't mind if he'd do it somewhere a little nicer...
As the weather was still miserable and the day of staring at a rubbish tip had been quite exhausting, we finished with a long bath in the long bathtub and the ultimate laziness of room service and a bad movie with Keanu Reeves on TV.
The next day, wanting to find somewhere that was interesting for me as well as for photography, we head off to Coloane Village, a sleepy seafront town eaten alive by the weather, where we had encounters with fishermen, churches, temples, students, egg tarts and a few arguments (mainly about where the external flash should go). If only the sun had come with us, we might have enjoyed the scarred walls and peaceful alleyways even more.
Back at the hotel, the Westin had arranged for a few live Easter bunnies to hop around in an enclosure where Krusty could actually climb in and pet them before heading over to the bbq next door. He was a happy man. And yet the weather continued to be bad. We went for the only option we had – a three-hour nap, two-hour swim and more room service before bed.
By then it was our final day, time to leave. We hadn't seen any of the casinos that make Macau the “Las Vegas of Asia”, we hadn't spent much time away from our room at all, and we hadn't spent any time in the outdoor pool that we had actually chosen the hotel for.
But we were relaxed. And happy. And ready for bambino to finally arrive.
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