Moata's Blog Idle
In every life there are certain weeks or days that stand out as phenomenally more difficult than the others. The week before your thesis is due. The day your father died. That time you got your heart broken. A massive earthquake damn near destroys your city. These are what we call Tough Times and once you've made our way out the other side you can quite rightly feel proud that you got through with your sanity intact.
Sometimes it's a single momentous event that makes normal life impossible for a while. If you're really unlucky a whole bunch of things happen at once or in rapid succession in a veritable cascade of catastrophe.
This is the story of one such week (and a bit) in my life.
Saturday: Had a baby! Whoop! In the course of having said baby have to have major abdominal surgery. Am weeing into a plastic bag attached to the side of my bed. Am afraid to touch my own stomach. Am in love with whoever invented codeine, for it is a miracle drug.
I have no milk to feed the baby with. Nurses come in periodically to "milk" me. The last one couldn't even fill a 1ml syringe. Massive fail. What is the point of having huge boobs if they can't even do what they're designed for? And I don't mean "bringing all the boys to the yard".
Back in the nineties (back when my hair was a mess, not because I had no time to groom properly*, but because I simply didn't know any better) I took a course in Mandarin chinese.
Because I neither live in China, nor spend significant amounts of time with any Chinese people my list of Mandarin phrases has shrunk from being enough to manage a somewhat stilted conversation on a variety of bland, safe topics to "hello", "how are you?", "my name is...", "thank you", "goodbye", "no problem", "I don't know", "happy birthday" and the oddly specific "I would like to buy a sweater".
During this time, it wasn't unknown for my fellow students and I to go to a local Chinese restaurant. We got to practice reading the menu and this is also how I know that chickens' feet are actually quite tasty if you can get past the fact that they look a bit like tiny, wizened hands. Our Chinese teacher would sometimes accompany us and would explain which of the doughy dimsum bundles that all looked the same to us were savoury and which were (weirdly) sweet.
He also provided informal tutelage in the art of wielding chopsticks which has stood me in good stead many years down the line. Because, let's face it, chopsticks can be mighty tricky at the best of times but if you have bad technique they're nigh on torturous.
Yep, if you're ever in Shanghai and want to go sweater shopping followed by lunch at a noodle house, I, apparently, am your girl.
Last week I explained about how my son was born.
Naturally, this event has changed my life quite significantly. This was expected, of course. I knew going in that I had no idea what I was getting myself in for, and how true that was.
It's difficult as a yet-to-be-parent to fully grasp quite how terrifying, overwhelming, and well, hard it is to care for a baby. Certainly no one was able to sufficiently describe it to me, pre-baby, in a way that even scratched the surface of the thing.
It truly is the hardest job in the world.
In that vein, in case any non-parental types out there are wondering what that particular line of work is like I have created a series of visual aides below that use an everyday office environment as a frame of reference. Just how much does motherhood differ from an office job?
When last I posted I was partway through recounting the long and rather worrying entrance my son made into the world, in particular I was about to get a bit of preoperative "ladyscaping" done by a perfect stranger.
The doctor has informed me that the caesarean section will take place in about half an hour so I quickly give the Silver Fox a ring. It's 4:36am and he sounds very sleepy though he wakes up once he's told that he has to get back to the hospital ASAP.
It's on like Donkey Kong, as the saying goes.
I also give my sister a ring to let her know what's going on. Unfortunately only one support person is allowed in the operating theatre and the SF has quite reasonably bagsiesed this spot. So she's changed flights and taken leave from work... so that she can wait in a corridor. That's kind of sucky.
It ends up being closer to any hour before we go into theatre and in the meantime someone brings the SF a set of surgical scrubs to put on. He gets into them and... is transformed. It's entirely inappropriate to make this observation but he basically looks like this:
As you are probably aware last week I returned to blogging for the first time since my son was born about six months ago.
This is the story of how he came to be born.
This post is not a birth "horror story" but if you think you'd be happier avoiding the topic altogether then this would be your chance to go find some baby goats to look at. I like these ones.
It's also worth remembering that we're fine now. So shall we?
At the very end of Spring last year I was booked in for an ultrasound scan.
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