NS July 16th, 2008

Only nine and some change weeks until my due date. That means I could go into labour as soon as seven weeks. I know that in theory that’s still bags of time but I just suddenly have this slightly-panicky ‘must get everything done now’ feeling. So I’m making exhaustive lists and coming up with budgets and doing trips up to the loft and eying up all available storage space. Surprisingly, I’m not stressed about it at all though. In fact, I quite like getting everything organised and it’s nice to have something to occupy my time besides toddler-wrangling and article-writing and wishing that I owned a crane to turn me over in bed in the middle of the night.

And now that the cat’s out of the bag — that I’m having this baby at home — I can relax about it a bit more. I didn’t purposely not tell anyone, it’s just that no one really asked. The assumption that I’d go into hospital like I did last time has just hung there in the air and I did nothing to dispel it. But now that my parents know and seem relatively ‘okay’ with it (not that I need their permission or approval) and the planning stage is ramping up, I don’t care who knows. It’s not my dirty little secret, it’s my secret joy and I’m extremely excited about it. So any naysayers can check their negativity at the door ’cause nothing is going to bring me down from my homebirthin’ cloud.

Though I will say, many of the things I need to gather for the birth are proving somewhat amusing. Some of the things on my list include old shower curtains, a crock pot, a flashlight, a large resealable bag, olive oil and a bucket. It sounds more like I’m hosting one of those strange Japanese game shows where they humiliate the contestants and pour goopy stuff on them than having a baby! I can’t wait to see The Noble Husband’s face when he sees the final supplies all stacked in a corner. I have a feeling some jokes about a cave and a stick to bite on might surface.

My biggest challenge right now, however, has nothing to do with preparing for the birth, it’s trying to decide on cloth nappies. I never knew there were so many kinds, types and brands. All-in-ones, prefolds, inserts, wraps, fleece liners, disposable liners, boosters, soakers, pockets, poppers, clippers…the terminology and accessories are endless! I need to choose ones that are easy to use (so that there’s at least a glimmer of hope for getting TNH to use them), don’t leak, aren’t too bulky and are relatively inexpensive and cute. Oh, and that are quick to dry on the line. Can’t I just hire a magical nappy fairy to come make all the purchasing decisions, wipe the kid’s ass and take all of the mess away before I’ve even had a chance to sniff the air and wrinkle my nose? Because that would be fabulous.

My last inane pregnancy-related tidbit is that TNH thinks I am a bit strange for so thoroughly enjoying balancing things on my bump. Mugs of tea, books, bowls of ice cream…anything that needs to be closer to my face sits on the bump. It’s like having a built-in coffee table! One that spontaneously jumps and sometimes knocks things off of the previously level surface. It’s not perfect but it’s useful and it amuses me so that’s all that matters. It’s the little things these days.

• The Noble Fetus
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NS July 9th, 2008

TNC is an excitable, busy child, a typical toddler. She runs, jumps, climbs, clambers, explores, pokes, pours, and all of the other typical two-year-old behaviours. She still gives me hugs and kisses when I ask but they are becoming more fleeting, a quick peck and a pat on the back before she’s off again. So yesterday when she curled up on the sofa, stuck her thumb in her mouth, patted the space next to her and said “Lay down Mummy,” I stopped the cleaning I was doing and immediately obliged. I kept waiting for her to tickle me or jump up, teasing me with her feigned stillness. But we laid there for a few silent minutes, looking into each other’s eyes, and I began smoothing the hair back from her face very gently. She closed her eyes and said “Sing, Mummy.”

Now, normally I can belt out a dozen nursery rhymes and kids’ songs at the drop of a hat or think of my own appropriate tune but for some reason, my mind went blank. I wasn’t sure what kind of song the moment called for. Not Row Row Row Your Boat or the raucous Five Little Monkeys, surely. But what, then? At that moment I realised the radio was on in the kitchen and I listened to hear what was on, hoping for inspiration.

It was Madonna’s Like a Prayer.

Without even thinking about it, I began softly singing along, turning the foot-stomping, gospel-singing indignation of a song about the complexity of religion, discrimination and race into a gentle lullaby meant to sooth my beloved girl.

I hear your voice, its like an angel sighing
I have no choice, I hear your voice
Feels like flying
I close my eyes, oh God I think I’m falling
Out of the sky, I close my eyes
Heaven help me

Like a child you whisper softly to me
You’re in control just like a child
Now I’m dancing
It’s like a dream, no end and no beginning
You’re here with me, it’s like a dream
Let the choir sing

Who knew that a controversial pop song from the 80s could have such meaning or would be the backdrop to a moment I will remember for a very long time? Thank you, Madonna. And thank you, TNC, for letting me hold you in my arms for five minutes on a Tuesday afternoon, cherishing the stillness and nearness of you.

• Antics of The Noble Child , Life's Lyrics
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NS July 7th, 2008

It has been three years since a series of attacks carried out by suicide bombers on the London Underground and one city bus took 52 lives. As I’m sure most Londoners do, I remember that day very vividly. Not only mundane things like what I was wearing or who I talked to about it or where I was, but the emotions — the fear, loss, confusion, anger, heartache, disgust,worry, relief, loneliness and, ultimately, camaraderie. I wrote last year about my experience on that day so I won’t go into the details again but I still surprise myself with how strongly I react when I think about it. My throat still tightens, tears still prick my eyes and sometimes I have to turn the channel or stop reading about it when it’s mentioned. That is my convenience, my privilege, as someone whose entire life wasn’t changed by the bombs. I didn’t lose anyone I loved and I wasn’t permanently maimed. I was not in those dark tunnels nor was I an eyewitness who still dreams of severed limbs flying. I don’t claim to put my experience on par with that, by any means. But still, it affects me. It did change me as a person a little that day and I will forever mourn those who lost their lives and the countless lives still being lost to this bloody “war on terrorism.”

So instead of more words, I give you pictures. Thousands of pictures taken by Londoners, on that day and in the years since, and posted on a community pool in Flickr. They say more than I ever could.

(photo by Danny McL)

(photo by geor gia)

(photo by MichaelSmith)

(photo by yuki*)

• Activism , In The News , Londonista
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NS July 6th, 2008

As the world watches in horror at what is unfolding in Zimbabwe and Gordon Brown calls for tougher action against Mugabe, we now hear that the Home Office is attempting to force thousands of Zimbabwean asylum seekers back to this country in political turmoil. According to an article today in The Observer, as many as 11,000 refugees face either deportation to their home country or destitution in Britain as monetary and social support is withdrawn.

A removal letter, sent at the end of May to an exiled London-based member of the opposition Movement for Democratic Change, states: ‘The support that you have been provided with is to be discontinued … You should note that there is no right to appeal against this decision … You must now leave the United Kingdom.’

The letter, which refugee groups say has been sent to hundreds of Zimbabweans in the past few months, continues: ‘As a failed asylum seeker you are expected to make arrangements to leave the United Kingdom without delay.’

The letter’s recipient, a man who asked not to be named for fear it would jeopardise his safety if he is forced to return to Zimbabwe, said that he had been tortured by President Robert Mugabe’s Zanu-PF party. ‘I have to report to the Home Office every two weeks but I haven’t got any money to pay the travel costs,’ he said.

The majority of Zimbabweans in the UK are too scared to return. As a result, refugee groups and charities say many Zimbabwean asylum seekers are now destitute and relying on friends and charity.

I sincerely hope that the Home Office comes to its senses and doesn’t send these people back into the jaws of Mugabe’s torturous and murderous regime. Especially after seeing for myself the scores of Zimbabweans living in London, terrified to return. Yesterday, as I walked along The Strand, I came across a weekly vigil held outside the Zimbabwean Embassy. There was chanting and drumming and a few dozen people gathered round, signing petitions, collecting donations, talking about the issues and looking at the graphic photos of those who had been beaten and murdered. I stayed for awhile, signing a couple petitions and making a donation and luckily had my camera with me and was able to take a few snaps.

I’ll be writing to my MP, asking him to put pressure on the Home Office and encouraging others to do the same

• In The News , Londonista
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NS July 3rd, 2008

(aka ‘A Guide To Trimming Your Pubic Hair While Pregnant)

Step 1: Give husband/partner/rude stranger at swimming pool a slap when they mention the forest down below

Step 2: After indignation wears off, grab a hand mirror and have a look for yourself

Step 3: Pick self up off floor and splash cold water onto face

Step 4: Gather necessary tools for weeding/pruning/edging and lock bathroom door

Step 5: Put ‘Welcome To The Jungle’ on the stereo

Step 6: With a grimace and a prayer and the aid of a hand mirror, attempt to weed-whack your way through to a recognisable surface

Step 7: Realise the hand mirror is bloody useless and glare at the protruding belly blocking your view

Step 8: Blindly grasp little tufts of hair between two fingers and try to cut by ‘feel’

Step 9: Come perilously close to nicking most delicate parts with sharp little scissors and decide that’s enough

Step 10: Lather up bikini line and grip lady razor in dominant hand; use other hand in a futile attempt to push belly aside for better view

Step 11: Using edges of bath and all available grips, contort self into strange positions for the shaving portion of the event

Step 12: Swear, mutter and think murderous thoughts of everyone who is non-pregnant

Step 13: Nearly slip and envision the headlines after your death: “Hairy, knocked-up idiot falls to death in shower”

Step 14: Wash the shaving cream away, put the razor away and dry off

Step 15: Inform husband/partner/stranger at pool that natural is in now and that if they mention it again you will serve them placenta stew without their knowledge

Step 16: Go eat chocolate cake

• Funny Ha-Ha , Public Service Announcements , The Noble Fetus
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