Happy Hols

Tatie on the loose with the camera again. I've been spending a lot of time on this chair with Mr. on my lap.

Boy clothes! Makes a change from Red's and O's pink Ts and snugglebags.

Have you ever seen anything more distinguished than this 11-day old man? Yes, that is a tie, a black tie.

What have we been doing? Eating, sleeping, playing with Christmas toys. Tatie and Noah have been scooting for an hour or two each day. Photos will be posted shortly. The Christmas spirit seems to have taken them as well--they have been playing together. I mean, sitting on the floor playing a game, not just running like mad things through the house or trying to annoy one another.

Scott and I have not been playing. Scott has been doing housework. We trade off on the dirty nappies/diapers. I've done a load or 2 of dishes. I wake up a few times each night to tend to Aodh and think of reading my book or drinking a glass of water. But then I just collapse back onto the bed, usually forgetting to turn out the lamp. It is a strange way to live but privileged as well.

Now, to bed. I am going to turn out the lamp this time.

Crowns, Gowns and Gifts

A Friend at Quaker meeting said that she is always thrilled to see the dressing gowns and crowns come out. I suppose it is a sign of Christmas. Here's Noah playing his part.

Versatility. After his dramatic work for the day, Noah came home and made this gorgeous necklace for his Kristkindle. Wouldn't you like to be unwrapping this present on Christmas Eve?

Some Photos From O's Week

Tatie a.k.a The Muslin Lady doing her job. The job is getting clean and dry garments for her baby brother's changes. She also uses wipes to clean any surface that isn't moving and some that are. Like my face.

Tatie's best photo of Baby Aodh this week. He does have outstanding hair.

What Scott looks like from O's point of view.

A wee elf on the way to a party with Santa.

Chaplin Bootleg

Noah giggling.




Happy audience.

The Worst Day of Noah's Life

was likely precipitated by the longest week in his life! Here are the things today that contributed to it being the worst day:

1. Octavia accidentally broke a Hallmark snow globe that has been with us since he can remember.
2. The only big event of the day was Quaker meeting family Christmas celebration and the attendant bag of chocolate coins.
   
3. For dinner, we had to have a mixture of baked beans and ordinary haricot sans sugar & salt as there was only 1 tin of baked beans. And broccoli.

You do remember that Noah had 4 singing engagements (I think they call them gigs in the business), a dress rehearsal, a Christmas party, and a carol-singing party this week. He and Octavia also visited Santa. Finally, last night was the long-awaited, much-anticipated CHARLIE CHAPLIN NIGHT with the Ulster Orchestra. If you take a listen to the bootleg audio in the next blog post, you'll get a great sense of the night. It was everything we'd hoped--Aodh slept right through, Octavia and Noah were enthralled. Noah looked set to expire from laughing several times. There was only 1 drawback: the concert/film began at 7.45 pm which means that Noah and Octavia didn't slip into their wee beds until 10.22. Ah, now we see how the let-down of having realised the Chaplin adventure, a late night, and the worst day ever might be connected.

As a follow up to the Sing Out post I must tell you that the show was great, according to Noah, but paled in comparison to the adventure of a late-night trip to the Christmas Market with Christine and Paula where they bought him doughnuts and sweets. If you can imagine two wild aunties with a reckless disregard for the whole foods diet and a healthy appetite for fun, you'll have a good picture of Noah and his 'audience'.

Tonight's the Night!

Noah's big Sing Out is tonight. Five schools, a gigantic hall, and all the hype you can imagine.

Today was dress rehearsal and, according to Noah, "the hall is, like, massive. You could fit 20 of this room right the way up and 10 across."

And there are risers! "We are going to be on a huge stage with levels with the taller people at the back and shorter ones at the front." When asked if he is at the back he said, "Of course. Coincidentally, most of the back row are Rosetta pupils. We are the tallest of the schools."

They might be giants flashed through my postnatal mind. Or maybe we just have better food in our neighbourhood what with being so close to the major supermarket chains as well as the independent greengrocers, butchers, etc. Or is it the water...just a touch of lead pipe here and there until 2010 when Belfast will have 'tunneled toward the future' and done something about the mains and sewers that have sufficed lo these many years.

I digress and insert silliness because I am sad not to be seeing Noah in his big moment. Baby Aodh is a tinsy bit yellow and his belly button needs an airing. The lowliest among us requires my presence so the mightiest voice will have to be celebrated by Cousin Flash and Friend Paula. (Don't worry, they were the fans Noah was hoping to impress anyway).

That's one from Holywood

Baby Aodh in action

.

The boy is beginning to wake up.

The Newest Shively-Blinn

If you wonder what early labour looks like at our house, this is it. As you can see, Noah was busy building some lego boats. Scott thought maybe the idea was to sail them in the birth pool. Noah, being 9 and 3/4, has enough sense only to dream of putting a boat into a birth pool...both he and Octavia helped with topping up the hot water in the pool which was in the front room before a roaring fire. Scott has a special talent for roaring fires. The temperatures on Saturday made this a special talent indeed!

Now you enter a time warp...not many photos whilst I was in the pool. But I had good chats and jokes with my doulas and midwives, listened to the HypnoBirthing cds, and really enjoyed U2's It's a Beautiful Day. The decor for Birth Day included a Guatemalan painting of mother and baby, a stone from the sea, a red poinsettia, a photo of my ma, a collage from my L'Arche friends, and of course, a candle. This part of the labour, which lasted only about 3 hours, seemed an absolute eternity. I really found myself thinking more than once, "I don't want to do this job." But the relaxation, the encouragement of my family and friends, the thought of holding a baby got me through most of it. Then the cramp started! It started in my right calf, stayed there, and then began to spread to my hamstring. All well and good as I was trying to stretch it against the pool until the left leg decided to join in the fun. Suffice it to say that when things got serious and I really needed to be able to use my legs well, I was stymied. So I asked the team, in a gentle tone (ha ha ha) to get me out of the pool. They hauled me out and Aodh took his sweet time spiraling into the world on a rug before the fire. He wasn't halfway into the world before Octavia was saying "I want to touch the baby!" and Noah was agog, just as he had been at the birth of his wee sister.

The entrance was more in keeping with this boy's choice of birthdays: a Saggitarian under a big full moon would prefer fire to water. Also, his Irish name Aodh [pronounced 'ay' or like 8 without the T] means fire or fiery. Things were as they ought to be.

He is perfect. 4.050 kilo, 52 cm. If I texted you, I may have said 9 lbs. Forgive me as I have an English degree and my conversion was half-hearted after the birthing effort. He weighed 8 lbs 15 oz.

The waiting is over and Aodh Emmanuel Patrick is among us, just in time for the holidays. Ah, yes! Baby A knew the P name he wanted. I phoned my Grandma after the birth, who is the last of her siblings and had hoped the baby would arrive on her birthday, the 9th. I apologized for not getting the baby out on her birthday but she was over that big full moon because December 13 was her father's birthday. I never knew my great grandpa Pat but he was a family doctor who still attended home births and he was born at home himself. So Patrick it is...

I stand corrected, and still pregnant

Apparently my reading ability has been affected by this pregnancy. Elvis's birthday is not until January 8, so FORGIVE ME. Presley has dropped off the name list because I am not waiting an entire month to meet this child, even if he were The King of Everything!

But the reading skills thing is interesting. I have noticed over the past couple months that I will look at a billboard or a book title in passing and understand it to mean something absolutely unlike what is actually printed in front of me. We are not talking about eyesight changes or even a bit of simple, transitory transposition. For the life of me, I cannot think of the best example right at this moment, but I have been shocked by the independence of whichever part of my brain has taken over in the reading comprehension department.

Noah got locked in school today. He was late getting home because "the P7 who locks the gate outside the side door locked up before everyone was out". That means, the older kid who looks after the key supposedly locked them in. And, according to Noah, the front door of the school was jammed shut (it has a safety lock to keep stranger danger out) and his teacher didn't want them to set off the fire alarm by going out the fire door so they had to wait until an extra key was found for the gate or the buzzer door was sorted out. I admit, I do wonder, since I saw him walking the alternate route, which takes in a detour to his friend Finn's house, whether I might be having the wool somewhat pulled over my eyes here.

And Octavia had a good day at playgroup but she forgot her Christmas tree in Susan's car! Mrs. Mac and Co are busy with the advent crafts--we've got an advent calendar, a bell, and now the Christmas tree will arrive soon. The house is piled with glitter which is a tinsy bit annoying when one is trying to keep a balanced pelvis and therefore not wanting to drag the Dyson around several times a day. (That is Octavia talking to Baby Sister in the photo.)

I hope that next time you pull up this blog REAL NEWS is waiting. But if not, we'll take into consideration Procrastia.

Search no further

I am not talking about Geoffrey, or David, or Bunting. For the wiseacres who tease me about 'P' names, I have just now, about 2 minutes ago, realised why deep down I want this baby to fall into the world on Monday. It has nothing to do with midwives' work schedules or Noah having no parties that day. It isn't because a child could be named Immaculata or Conceptus or have a birthdate that is 8 + 4 - 4. Nope. The reason is because December 8 presents an Immaculate Opportunity: the P name that Geoffrey would adore.

PRESLEY!

If you ain't an Elvis fan, I forgive you for not knowing that's The King's birthday.

Do you know Mikey Blinn

Then check out this photo! Perhaps not a twin, but not far off it.

Noah's Family Tree

Octavia by a fancy 'cyawr'.


Noah approving Jack Frost's big efforts last weekend.


Noah has been working on his family tree at school. When we went for the fabulous parent-teacher meeting last week, we saw the tree. He left a space open for our new baby.

Last night after our advent reading when Octavia was getting ready for bed, I had that squeal feeling that I recall from being about 3, 4, 5, 6 maybe and on the way to visit Becah. "What, Mama?" Octavia asked.

"Soon there will be a new person on Noah's Family Tree," I offered.

"On Noah's Family Christmas Tree?" the reply.

Yes, Noah's family Christmas tree.

These next couple weeks are busy for the boy. He is singing carols with his choir next week at a joint concert in town and at a Carol Service at a local church. His class is going to the cinema for their Christmas Treat. He has to finish his Christmas preparations. And, of course, become a big brother x 2.

I've been asking baby to try to be considerate and come on a day when Noah sees the addition to his family Christmas tree as a light on a bough and not a branch that interferes with his decorating plans!

With Friends like These

A woman can go into labour at any time and know that there is no looking back, no looking forward. Just doing the work that needs to be done to bring a new person through her into the world.

These friends planned a wonderful blessing way for me, complete with roses, poinsettia, laughter, love, wee gifts, Alison Krauss, plaster and henna. Susan is holding the results of the casting. Later perhaps we will have a photo of the 'bowl' that came of the bump. Left to right you see Gill, Nicole, Maria, Susan, Roisin, and Cary, all of whom have been present in their own way on my mothering journey over the past 10 years.

Gill started off with the henna. This was the one sanctioned time in the past 8 weeks when I was allowed to forget about OFP and spend a half hour reclining on the sofa! The baby either liked it or didn't, depending on how one reads the constant roiling and kicking. The elephant is not visible but it is there, just to the right in the photo below, looking as if it had finally been given a proper habitat.

Don't you wonder who is inside there? You shouldn't have but a few more weeks to wonder. Octavia still says it is a baby sister but the rest of us, we're not so sure...

Baddies

Tomorrow afternoon is another session with Alex and Octavia. I am looking forward to eavesdropping. Last week we walked all the way from Ormeau Park to our house, through the shortcut of the Grammar School, and they chattered away. We travelled a good pace for about 7/8 of the journey but as soon as we got to Knock Eden Park they lost momentum. Stopping to pick leaves from the privet hedges, smash windfall crab apples, comment on neighbourhood cats. It was less entertaining than usual because I really needed to get to a powder room.

They were about 2 driveways behind me messing with a hedge and looking at "fancy cars" when a car drove up and wanted to get into the driveway. While I was trying to chivvy them along they stood there staring at the guy driving, clearly in no rush to make his life easy. Once they moved on he revved it into the drive.

"Monkeys, it is a good idea when a car is coming at you to get out of a driveway," says I. "Yeah, Alex, so you don't get deaded," commented Octavia.

"I didn't, Octavia," he pointed out. "I didn't get dead."

Well, they didn't get dead but when they got home several of the 'baddies' who were involved in their brick-built farm did. They got dead with swords and even by pinching. Human nature rears its ugly head. I hope tomorrow is a more peaceful, kinder sort of a day with O and A.

A Tisket, A Tasket

The weekend was my big treat for the year. I spent 2 days at the Ulster Folk Museum on a willow basketry course. In the photos below you will see the base and uprights of my basket and a bit of the weaving. The finished project is a special gift for a special day for a special someone, so I won't post a photo. Rest assured, it looks like a woven willow basket.

Nad, if you are reading, close your eyes for the next sentence. We used traditional tools, among them pig grease for inserting new willow into tight spaces. Okay, Nad, you can open your eyes again. I wasn't keen on the pig grease but found that it wasn't smelly and if I didn't really look at it I might have mistaken the feel of it for shea butter or some other plant product. Yes, Nad, I suppose one could use shea butter or coconut oil but it was hard to come by these greases in Ulster in the early 1900s.

While I was wrecking my thumbs because thumbs do the work in willow weaving, I sat before a window enjoying the beech leaves and thinking about basketmakers who used to weave day in and day out. Some still do but rarely do they make 'a living' doing it. I saw a basket the same style and size as mine a couple days later at a hardware shop on the Lisburn Road. £14.99. Now, I paid around £60 and 10 hours for the pleasure of learning the craft. According to Bob, the fabulous basketmaker who was teaching, he can turn one out in about 4 hours. So, if Bob made that basket he could expect to be paid just less than £3.75 per hour [$5.60] as a MASTER basketmaker. That is, if he grew and harvested the willow himself and sold direct to the person needing a basket. Add in a middle person and he'd probably be making less than £1.50 [£1] an hour.

Anyway, as you can see I came out of the weekend with chapped hands, the smell of wet willow fresh in my memory, and a renewed sense of the importance of valuing the work of craftspeople all over the world. I don't quite know how I am going to manage to weave that willow coffin I've been talking about for a decade or more now--perhaps just make the same kind of basket, just really tall?--but I will definitely be pleased to know that I haven't cheated any master crafter!

The Inner Mind

from "A Lament for the Makers" by Anne Stevenson
But now it's here,
the season of deciduous souls,
gold smouldering to umber

when the sun illuminates
briefly that reredos of beeches
with Byzantine fire.

A last, late finger of grace
still brightens far reaches
of a barbarous empire

lyrically and lovingly.
Most of what we write
time will erase.

I just finished my certification review papers for HypnoBirthing. The writing is not nearly as lovely or as lyrical as these words by Stevenson. Concentrating so hard on the power of the subconscious mind for several hours today, I forgot all about my own Inner Mind. I told Scott at dinner time that I felt low. Maybe just the hard work of growing a baby? The news that Republican splinter groups are recruiting (and we aren't talking about Sarah Barracuda)? The thought of a doula colleague accompanying clients to a Caesarean birth for their breech baby tomorrow? A full day of indigestion?

No, these things are not the cause. The cause is that today is November 10, and I miss my mama. She was born on this day in 1950 in Butte, America. Her birthday was always associated with a bit of sadness for me, falling as it does next to Veteran's Day/Remembrance Day and Armistice Day. It isn't the same as a birthday, for example Noah's, that happens when the tulips are popping up and Easter hope lifts us above our human failings. Or even my own that falls in the dark of winter, with all the sparkling stars and perfectly shining snow to show that light will overcome. The November birthday is one that is clearly there amidst the human strife, the pain of life, and dying leaves.

I wouldn't have you think that I am drowning in alligator tears. No, many happy images float past the aperature of my conscious mind now that I am aware of what I was living today. The pig squealing free round the garden with a slippered Mary Beth in pursuit, the clicking of her knees as she ran her miles while I cycled alongside, her penchant for hooded sweatshirts. My mother was the original hoodie.

Obviously, Inner Mind was celebrating and memorializing this morning as I chose a far-less-than-flattering brown hooded sweatshirt handed down to me by a friend who shrunk it. I have even been wearing the hood, and my slippers, and considering how, if heartburn weren't a real concern, an amaretto coffee would be just the swill.

Little Surprises

On Sunday the sounds of a distracted Hemingway woke me. Thump, thump, thump on the keys and then a break. Thump, thump, thump. Consciousness clarified that it was Noah in his room above me, typing away.

Day 2 of willow basket weaving at the Folk Museum awaited so I mosied down to get some breakfast and, like a virtuous and credit-crunched family woman, pack my leftover squash soup for lunch. The soup flask was easy enough to find, PTB (that's Praise to Buddha in case you aren't familiar with the abbreviation) , but I was surprised at its contents.

Even while Octavia rejoiced at the recovery of the lost markers she'd been moaning about all week, Hemingway's ghost tottered down the stairs to join us with the creative endeavour in hand.

Hard maths (that is the British/Irish-English for Math, for all you Americans) are not my idea of a nice little surprise at 8 of the morn on a Sunday, but I sidestepped the work and relished the stories of the problems.

The last question, especially, tickled my fancy as there are so many ways to read the parenthetical statement:

A bank has 9,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000£. IF there were a roberey and 2,000,000 were stolen, how much would be left? (From the managers point of view)

I couldn't bring myself to work with those kind of numbers but I was interested to wonder whether Noah was trying to steer us away from thinking of our own savings being stolen, or if he meant how much did the manager think he'd lose personally after the security breech was reported? Or maybe Noah was imagining being the so-called Rober and how much money he might have if he robed 2,000,000,000? In any case, an interesting hard maths problem considering the constant news on the radio about money, lost money, stolen money, who ended up with the money, and of course, bank managers.... This all before he listened to Go For It on Sunday and heard that some bank managers had been very naughty.

The world is full of little surprises.

Elves Get Working Early

when they have a baby brother or sister on the way during Advent. No secrets are being revealed here but you might enjoy the workshop atmosphere. Full-sized rolling pins are a bit unwieldy and sticky and toy ones lack heft. O preferes a water bottle.

Noah spent a whack of pocket money on some good-quality paper on which to express his Christmas Cheer. It was hard to invest in paper when there are so many other ways to splurge: hot chocolate, crepes, LEGO, chewing gum. But his better nature won out, encouraged by the security of 12 chocolate bars, 9 lollipops, and 3 miscellaneous items stockpiled in his Halloween haul.

23 seconds peace for the workshop forefolks as the industrious elves lost themselves in the joy of creation. Rocking Horse in the foreground was not made by these elves but looks on happily anticipating the reception of their work.

A Frightfully Good Weekend

Halloween was what you might call unprogrammed at 58 Knock Eden Park this year. Noah had attended the school disco before his midterm break last week, so the day sneaked up on us. At the 11th hour we were in Lisburn for a chiropractic appointment and Noah picked up the frightening mask pictured below. After a pizza (that I swear was made at Butte Silverbow Pizza Parlor and shipped to Pizzarelli's in Lisburn) we tore home and pulled the monkey suit out of storage.

For those of you privileged enough to spend Halloween with 1.5 year old Noah, this photos of Erin's handiwork clothing my handiwork is a blast from the past. The only difference: Octavia is 3! Oh, yeah, it was a teensy bit long on Noah that year but still...he was a big boy. Note Tatie's bag. Empty. Pretty big. By the time we'd worked our way through Mount Merrion Crescent, up Flush Park and over to the Ember it was nearly full. At the Ember there were a few games to delight: pin the tail on the cat, ghost toss, and the traditional apple bobbing. Noah quickly mastered the apple bob. Those swimming lessons this summer paid off!

I was going to post a photo of our friend Gosia here but her mask was far too scary for the general audience. Amazingly enough, Octavia was not fooled nor even much alarmed.

Saturday was busy with the farmer's market at St. George's and my novice attempt at gumbo. I didn't want to rue the attempt so my roux was not as dark as it should have been. Still, the dish was tasty and a good use of the peppers and okra I got on the reduced shelf at the shop midweek. I am less preoccupied with food than with the change of seasons that requires more soups and hot dishes. Scott made a lovely baked dinner today of garden root veg, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy and veggie roast. For those of you accustomed to fowl, if you perceive chicken, it is veggie roast which has its origins in 'mycoprotein'. Look it up.

The chef (and the kitchen looked like a chef had been at work!) followed the meal with an Applescotch Pie. The blurry bit of my shirt is The Bump, not my bust, trying to overshadow dessert. The only thing that might have improved the dining experience was a roll of easy-off duct tape for certain small chatterboxes who insisted on babbling away at fairly high volume whilst Scott and I attempted to converse and enjoy the autumn leaving blazing out the window.

Stand up for Yourself

I nearly forgot to tell you this anecdote.

When we were leaving the Meeting House having decided, without consulting O, not to go to the nearby playground, she began to lament in the backseat. "We not going to the park. We not going to the park?! I wanna go the park." I suggested we might go to another park after lunch hoping to appease her.

"What park? Oh! My park, I wanna go my park."

To which Noah replied, "It isn't actually your park, Octavia."

I was getting ready to step in and let him have it, since she was obviously showing great coping and negotiating skills in a disappointing situation. But she took care of it.

"It's not your deal, Noah. Actually. It's not your deal."

She can also take a photo, imperfect though it is, that makes my cheeks look a bit less chubby.

They are a Heavy Burden, Socks.

You all know yesterday was Octavia's 3rd birthday and that I was up late last night organising photos and updating you. So it was a hard slog to have to wake thrice in the night to help Ms. Pants Only No Pullups to the toilet on her first big night. And there was the snack she requested at 6, which was actually 5, though I forgot to turn back the clock. So at a certain point in the morning when I was dragging myself up from the abyss, I heard mad scrambling for a clean pair of undies from the one child and the father declaiming to the other that it is customary to change one's undergarments and socks daily. The response was, "Oououh, they are so heavy!" presumably on his way to the shower. And Scott's response: "Yes, they are a heavy burden, socks." Laughter is the best cup of coffee they say. I thought the day could only get better.

But then, somewhere after we got to Quaker meeting an hour early, since we'd forgotten to Fall Back, and I'd gone to meet a group of expectant parents to answer questions about local maternity services, the cranks set in. I was aware that the house is a scattered mess of toys and papers. Christmas gifts are wrapped, yes, but have I got any baby clothes organised? My calendar is filling (when you are 34 weeks pregnant having 1 item in the daily diary seems full) and the kids are off school for the week. Hallowe'en. Oh, dear. Costumes.

And then I remembered that most of the trousers I have been wearing require a belt. Not because I am overly slim but because I have Bunting Syndrome: a belly larger than the hips with a bit of lordosis thrown in for good measure. My solution? The loan of Scott's belt. Now, if one's mate has a 34-36 inch waist, it is not such a come-down to wear his belt around the hips. After all, when I was but a girl they used to remark that 36 was the ideal hip measurement. Of course, they didn't encourage a 39-inch bust and a 42.1-inch waist. But these are the metamorphoses we endure for our children. My 42.1" waist looks nothing as chubby as the cheeks in the photo Scott took of Octavia and me yesterday. When I remarked, Octavia said "Yes, and my cheeks are too!" with great glee.

What am I really worrying about? Not much. Just those little details that keep us from focusing on the big details. We'll be welcoming this new person out of me in so few weeks now. Only about 6 medium-sized projects and a wall of fatigue stand between me & baby and labour and birth. I sense that just around a nearby corner I will find that I am excited. Ready for the challenge and the miracle. But right now socks are a heavy burden and there are several loads of dirty ones floating through the house.