So here we are in the third trimester

Well, someone was in a good mood when they wrote that last post, eh? Well ,things are as always evolving, and I am now about six and a half months pregnant, with another ten weeks to go until wee sproglet (code name: Elspeth) is due. I've been taken off work by the gynecologist as what i thought were harmless Braxton-Hicks contractions mixed with indigestion were actually the real deal, with mademoiselle ready to pop out and brave the world: have been prescribed between 2 and 4 weeks in bed as a result. 

So, what's new so far this trimester?

A) Hugeness
On the plus side, people are nice: they notice, they stand up, they smile in the street, they pat you on the head and make friendly noises. On the down side, they have no issue with commenting on size and girth:  "Jesus, you're overdue aren't you??", "Bloody hell, are you expecting triplets??", or the rather simpler "Wow, you're fat". Well, guess what, actually I'm not. I started this pregnancy at 62 kgs (can't believe I've just made that figure official & public) and am now just under 70. Some people put on that kind of weight over the Xmas holidays for fuck's sake. The simple fact is that one rarely sees heavily heavily pregnant women, maybe because going out is a waddling, breathless pain in the arse. Anyway, for the record, this is what nearly 7 months pregnant looks like.

B) Constant peeing II
I mentioned this way back, but it really doesn't get better; my heart goes out to you guys with prostate issues. We're talking every 45 minutes here, maybe every couple of hours at night. My friend Amélie reckons this is nature's way of preparing me to the sleepless and interrupted nights Elspeth will be imposing in a few weeks, but that's pretty small comfort. What's particularly frustrating is that desperate need which turns out to be a pathetic little dribble. Loo roll consumption has gone through the roof, and an estimated 8 hours a day are spent on the throne. On the plus side, I'm getting a lot of reading done.

C) Appetite and nutrition    
So first three months were dedicated to puking, the following three to eating everything that couldn't run away fast enough, and these are all about moderation. Yup, Elspeth now takes up so much room (THIS IS NORMAL, I repeat) that the uterus is now where the stomach and liver should be. These two now have to squeeze into a small cavity between my boobs. The result is that a boiled egg and a small bowl of soup is enough to make one puke violently as poor old tummy just doesn't have the capacity to hold so much. Shame cos one is still pretty hungry and needs something like 2500 calories a day to keep Spawn happy and healthy and fatten her up. More to the point if I don't ingurgitate enough nutrients, babe will take them from me, i.e bones, teeth, internal organs and soon. I can imagine the result: "wow, you're huge and you've lost all your teeth and you're going bald!" Still waiting for this amazing pregnancy bloom people rave on about... Always eager to share lovely anecdotes with you, here's the latest to illustrate my point.

Was craving Indian on Sunday, so Gorgeous Chook and I headed off to our local (which luckily for us is amazing by Parisian standards, Comptoir des Indes). I ate frugally, half a portion of rice and some lovely spinach and paneer. Also drank a huge pot of tea which turned out to be a mistake. So lay down in bed, turned off light and gravity being gravity, Elspeth pushed against my stomach making everything come shooting out, green-geyser-style. The best way to describe would be this wonderful line by Stephen King in Different Seasons: "puke rumbled up his throat like a six-ton Peterbilt shooting through a tunnel." GC thought my waters had broken as "water" splashed merrily over, well,everything (I seriously hope my waters breaking will be less dramatic). Oops. Anyway, that lesson has been learnt, I now eat tiny portions frequently and pop anti-puke pills regularly. 

D) Being beaten up 
by something the size of a loaf of bread whatsmore! Typical, you spend months waiting for that first magic kick, that little flutter which is the first sign of life, and then very quickly you pray that she will grow so much she'll be unable to move, uncomfortably squashed. I didn't realise foetuses (foeti?) could be so bloody violent. It's in the evening that it's the most obvious: crash bang wallop especially after the evening "meal". A good thump every 3/4 minutes, with a special mention to her getting her feet tangled in my rib cage and trying to yank them out. It's pretty bad at night  too; in fact there's an inverse correlation between our levels of activity: the more relaxed I am, the more kung-fu she is. GC is of course ridiculoulsy proud.  

E) Libido
God, yes, it's true. Without going into detail, well, I'd shag the furniture. Twenty times a day. One wakes up in the night randy as hell. One wakes up with morning glory or female equivalent. Everyone/thing is incredibly sexy and attractive. Unfortunately because I'm threatened with premature labour I can't actually act on any of this, sex potentially leading to contractions And apparently it gets better (or worse, depends really doesn't it).

F) And luckily...
... So far I have avoided obesity (yes, I fucking well have you ignorant bastards), stretchmarks, hemorrhoids, blotchy skin, fur sprouting out of my nose/chin/ears and blowing a fortune on maternity clothes (my friends are wonderful). Not blowing a fortune on cute baby stuff however is going to be challenging, but hey, how can one resist???

 

So here we are in the second trimester

Well, it's true what they say. The second trimester is much less painful than the first. Exeunt morning sickness, crippling exhaustion and drooling. Welcome a nice rounded belly (people start to notice and make a fuss), no-guilt mega bingeing (perhaps linked to the former) and lots of energy. Of course there are days that are better than others, sometimes the sciatica plays up a bit, or nights cramps appear, and the constant need to pee hasn't really faded, but this is more than made up for by the fact that baby is now kicking a lot, floating around and reacting to food or state of relaxation. It's a simple negative correlation: the more relaxed I am, the more baby is awake and manifesting itself.

More recently (I'm getting to the end of the second term),  a few new uncomfortable symptoms have emerged, mostly linked with a huge gut (huuuge, I mean it). Bending over is impossible, sitting up is challenging, getting up is a painful, picking anything up is uncomfortable, getting wellies off a physical nightmare that ended with me marooned on the floor, on my back, with a trapped nerve. Walking slowly, going very easy up and down stairs... hello I feel 85 years old.

I will pass on the fact that no matter how big the clothes that some friends have given me are, everything is too small. Or are leggings. As it gets colder, one just has to wrap up in more and more layers. Thankfully i finish work in a week and can just start rolling around in jogging bottoms and huge t-shirts, like the awful people you read about in "take a break".

Maybe the newest symptom, which has only developed recently is being shit-terrified. Now that the baby is live and kicking and present and, let's face it, pretty much alive even if it pops out tomorrow, I'm beginning to realise that this is all very nice but fuck, I'm going to be a mother! there is so much to think about, from where we're going to stock all the baby's stuff (we live in a two room 30 sq. metre flat! and babies seem to need more clothes than I do), how we're going to handle those first sleepless, stressful, chaotic weeks, when we're going to buy all the stuff and what the hell i'm going to drink over the Xmas period.

We're also a few weks before the ante-natal classes, and as a result I have had the reality check before the father has which can be kind of frustrating. For example he thought we could get the furniture and so on about a month before delivery (Ikea 8,5 months pregnant anyone?). I don't think he realises how much there is to do and the kind of organisation that's going to be required! Apparently this is the norm for guys who basically get a reality check when the sprog pops out. Not much good for clearing out cupboards and so on beforehand though!

anyway, this latest symptom, which includes feeling a little bitter, cynical, weepy and pissed off is clearly not the nicest of the second term. Still ten more days to go and we'll be in the third... and last before arrival.

So here we are despising the tourists in Paris

Or should I rephrase to sound less grumpy? So here we are explaining to the tourists in Paris the fucking rules of "vivre ensemble" so that the locals don't despise them so much. That sounds a little long to me.

So, as they say here, pourquoi tant de haine? Poor tourists, visiting one of the most beautiful cities in the world, generally with cheerful good humour and injecting billions into the local economy, what have they done to merit such snootiness and disdain? I'd love to say that "it's not them tourists, it's us Parisians." It's partly true, due to the mentality and character of your basic Parisian. Read here for my analysis of this. But this is not the subject today.

To understand why Parisians get so annoyed with all things tourist it's important to understand how the city works. Paris is an incredibly dense city, with around 2,1 million inhabitants living in just over 100 sq. km²; that makes it nearly 21000 people per sq. km², and the 33rd densest city in the world, and four of its closest suburbs are in the top 20. (Thanks wikipedia). And that's just the people living there. As you can imagine millions more commute in and out of it every day for work. Like any ant nest, with all this to-ing and fro-ing, a certain amount of rigourous organisation is required and like a perfect Swiss watch, the force of things has made every individual move and routine interlinked.

Allow me to illustrate.

I start work at 9 o'clock in the 17th. This means I must leave the 10th at 8.15 to be comfortable and 8.21 if I'm pushing it. Anything after and I'm late. At 8.21 there will be a metro that takes me to Arts & Metiers station. The front of the train will be packed due to all the people getting off at République, the back relatively empty. 

At Arts & Metiers I will see some regulars: the old man with a potato nose, the young smooth guy with a briefcase, a orthodox jew dad with his two kids and a few others. On the westward train, I know that the back of the train will be packed, but a lot of people get out at the next stop where they start work at 8.30. You almost always get a seat then.

At St Lazare, where the platform is packed and passengers risk falling on the rails, two-thirds get off and then everybody crams in. They work at Levallois at the end of the line (the 13th densest city in the world btw, and top in Europe) and start at 9 - 9.15.

When I get out and walk the rest to work it's five to nine and parents are running with pushchairs, a little late, to get their kids to the nearby school. It's all incredibly predictable, and one immediately knows when it's the school holidays, or a long bank holiday, or if there is something amazing happening like the Tour de France, because the pace and the routine change ever so slightly. And so it continues for every journey, every day, in public transport or on foot or in shops.

It's also how everything ticks along, because there is a place for everyone at a certain time and a certain place. And somehow, Parisians instinctively know all of this. For commuting, for going out, for relaxing, for eating.

And there are basic rules to apply to avoid clogging the smooth flow of people. Everything is geared for maximum efficiency.

The first is DO NOT IDLE ALONG IN THE STREET, taking up all the room on the pavement, ambling as if this were a beach or something. "Hellloooooo? I do not have time to crawl behind you; I need to grab a sandwich and be back at the office in 20 minutes." 

Second, the same as above in the metro, DO NOT STAND AND GAWP GORMLESSLY IN THE METRO. It's not difficult to buy a ticket, and even if it is, you don't have to stand there consulting a map in the middle of a busy subterranean intersection.

RESPECT THE RULES OF THE METRO.
These are simple: you let people get out before you get in. To do that you stand on the platform on one side of the door. When the last person is off you may charge in.
You do not sit on the folding seats if it is packed.
If you have bulky pushchairs, suitcases and so on, you push your way to the back, away from the door so you don't prevent flow of people getting on and off. 
If you are next to the door and a lot of people want to get off, YOU get off, pushing your way into the front of the queue which has formed on the platform by the side of the door.
In the metro mothers with huge pushchairs are usually quickly and efficiently helped up or down the stairs without a break in anyone's stride.

 DO NOT ACT LIKE SHOPS ARE MUSEUM GIFT SHOPS. If you want cheese, buy it, don't stand there taking pictures of them all admiring their mould. If you don't know what to buy, ask the fromager in passable french for what you want, then take the ticket, go to the cash desk and pay. It should take between 20 seconds if you know what you want, and 4 minutes if you don't.

On ESCALATORS STAND ON THE RIGHT AND WALK ON THE LEFT. This applies to everyone, with or without luggage, pushchair, obese, etc.

With these rules, Paris never stops (none of this applies to traffic of course, you'd be mad to drive), people are constantly moving, generally pushing to go a little bit faster.

Tourists appear like clots at Christmas, Easter, late spring, then all of July and August in their masses. Suddenly the population seems to be wearing trainers and carrying maps, shouting on café terraces with huge shopping bags at their feet. They break the flow of the waiters and the shop assistants, the flow of the streets and the metro. They take pictures of the metro and stand in the middle of the street, or ride bicycles on the pavement.

One must also remember, in the poor Parisian's defense, that we would also like to hang out in Montmartre in the summer, or on the Champs de Mars, or in the Tuileries, because it's been a long winter and we really don't have that many green places to hang out in.

I was in the Tuileries, which runs from the Louvre to the place de la Concorde, last wednesday as the weather was good. Actually the sun was shining for the fist time in about 3 months and armed with book and water I went to find a chair and a spot. All the chairs were taken and, I regret to say that this is the absolute truth, taken by families of tourists who were using them as picnic tables or lying with their feet on them or just for resting their bags. "Yo guys! There's potentially 21000 of us needing a chair here! WTF!"

I asked for one and got it, brushed of the crumbs and crap and went for a quiet read in the sun. An incredible-looking Parisienne, in her late 60s, obtained a chair nearby and took out her magazines. She had short, perfectly bouffant red hair, and full make up: foundation, blue eyeshadow, red lipstick and nails like Rihanna, square and about 4 cms long. She had a coral crocodile handbag, 10cm beige stilettos and a pink silk shirt, with a matching carré Hermès tied around her neck. She sat there in the sun, I was amazed she didn't melt.

Nearby was a typical Parisian water fountain, the type you find in all the parks. Short, green, with a metal handle you turn to get the water flowing. Great fun for kids of course. So when a Spanish (?) family started to have a water fight a few meters from us, laughing and shouting and then picnicing loudly nearby, old Parisienne turned around and gave them a severe reprimand in pretty good english. She told me she lived Avenue MacMahon, right next to the Champs Elysées and Arc de Triomphe and she couldn't wait to leave Paris for the summer. It seems a bit mean I agree, but it sure was nice to be able to lie back in the sun and snooze a bit. None of us has a garden, a small terrace at best.

So dear tourists, it's not that the Parisians hate you per se, it's just that they think you take up so much room in an already tiny city, and when you block the streets by day and bellow in the streets by night, it's actually right on their way and under their windows. Paris looks like a museum but loads of people live here, and they don't like to have to queue at local shops or get stuck behind you in the metro. So if there can't be fewer of you, maybe you could be a bit less loud, or walk a bit faster, or stand up in the metro if it's packed. And stop asking the waiter for the bill, he'll bring it when it's ready.

So here we are telling the truth II

2) Single neurone syndrome (SNS), or unique brain cell condition (UBCC)

Known more popularly as "where the fuck am I and why am I here?". This was something I was totally unaware of about pregnancy: your brain actually shrivels and doesn't work. In my case, it has gone down to the size of a largish walnut, and can do about as much. Not very practical on a day to day basis. So you go down to the shops to get something you desperately need and stare glumly at the shelves. Or you're talking to somebody and mid-sentence you suddenly have no idea why or where this was going ("Ah yes, the kitchen is on fire"). Or you stare sadly at the person behind the desk who has just asked for your phone number, or the name of your doctor, or yours for that matter. Filling in forms takes ages, which is a shame as the paperwork required to fill in when you're expecting a baby is endless. Having meaningful conversations is just too exhausting: you have to take notes. So, you get the idea. One's brain is like the end result of a chronic drug abuser's meeting an Alzheimer-riddled one on a hangover. Only slightly less sharp. This is also why the sentences I write on this blog are getting ever shorter. It's just too confusing to play with syntax.

3) Constant peeing

does not start when you have a huge belly/baby pressing down on your bladder. It starts when you have a minuscule bump and tiny baby pressing down on your bladder. The annoying thing is that even though you need to go every HOUR or so, you don't actually have much to evacuate. So now we are like a hungover Alzheimer suffering chronic drug abuser with a prostate problem.

4) Exhaustion

Not a word to be taken lightly. The lack of 8 shots of espresso a day doesn't help, but there are clearly other maleficient forces at play. It's not about being a little dozy or feeling tired cos it's been a long week. It's waking up in the morning, going to work, and realising as you get there at 9 AM that you feel like you've already done a full and difficult day. It's eating lunch and realising that it's bedtime because your body has just retired for the day. It's sitting down to watch the news and waking up 3 hours later. Movements and speech slow down, instinctive reflexes disappear. Yawning becomes rampant. Again, so practical when your job is based on teaching people 6 hours a day. Doing simple things like going up and down stairs, carrying a bit of shopping, commuting and remembering the day of the week (SNS!) triggers the need to crawl around in a circle and settle down for the night. Still, it's pretty good to have an excuse to sleep about 11 hours a day as there probably won't be a lot of that in a few months. maybe i'll look back on this in 6 months or so and laugh bitterly, as the true definition of exhaustion willhave hit me in a whirl of night feeds and nappies. I'll keep you posted... 

So here we are telling the truth

Of course every women is different. That's the only thing all these different women can agree on. And this of course applies to pregnancy so, reader, be aware that within these pages you shall find only my experiences, no more no less. if you are expecting I can only hope that this is alien to you. If not, then you've been warned...

Also, this is written in no particular order (except maybe the most horrible painful spring to mind first).

1) Morning sickness.

Bullshit. Morning? Unless morning lasts 6 weeks and counting I'm not sure I get. So at first you feel fine. In fact you feel exactly the same as usual: you fancy nicotine and alcohol and coffee and food, preferably consumed together. Then one day you look at some pleasant ravioli in the fridge and hurl. Appetite disappears. Every smell (which is magnified to its millionth power) pulls on some long fragile cable that suspends the stomach and makes the guts wobble. The mildewy smell under the sink, the fresh paint, the cigarette smoke, the shower gel, the grilled sausages, candle wax, cooked spinach... everything sets off drool and retching.

Morning sickness set in around week 6, that's about 4 weeks after conception (just because). Chicken nuggets started it off. I really felt like some (I usually won't touch them) so microwaved some frozen at work. Big mistake. After that I could just about chew anything very bland but not swallow. The thought of anything made me feel horrible and perversely, the less you eat, the more the juices flow and the shittier you feel. The doctor, a.k.a Hitler, suggested 6 to 8 small meals a day, which apart from being physically impossible was not pratical. i spend around 6 hours a day in the company of students, teaching them English in a small training room or in their office. Not the right time to start making and eating ham sandwiches and washing apples.

The worst experience came on May 23rd, in a fashionable new restaurant in the 9th. Light, fresh, 3 course menu with wonderful ingredients and a real twist on classics. Cold fennel soup with vanilla and grilled almonds, tranluscent cod on a bed of bright green parsley puree. YUCK!! never has anything been so fragrant and creamy and sweet and green. I can't even remember dessert, I think I spent all evening in the loo.

One day things get better. you wake up  without a cannon ball on your chest. Immediate panic of course because you think you've lost the baby, but no fear, the nausea does come back, in unexpected waves and at odd times, in the night, or in the metro, in the middle of a pronunciation exercise or in the middle of (a light) lunch.

The worst occured of course while teaching. I have many students, though I see most for only a week when they come for an intensive 42-hour course at the school. Others I have scattered in companies and extensive lessons, and I see them every fortnight or so in their office or at the school. General H. is one of the latter. A consultant for France's major defense company, he is a retired general and has seen a lot of battle, negociated extremely tricky situations and is basically a living history book ("War : 1970-2012"). He is also a pleasant, fluffy and dignified old chap, friendly and clearly rather conservative. I was feeling ok and was confident that my lesson would go well with Uncle H. We were at the annex, a small office a few streets away from the main school. It's in an old parisian building, and it has rooms leading off a very long and winding corridor; We were as far away from the loo as possible. Mid-lesson I felt the familiar symptoms (rising drool, need to sneeze, stomach churning battery acid) and excused myself, running down the endless corridor. Into the tiny loo and found relief, not with a gentle plop you understand but with a coughing, hacking, burping opera of empty stomach and hormones. Eventually I got up, red, tears streaming down my face and realised that the tiny window was open and that the concert had been echoing around the silent courtyard, straight into my classroom. When I got back, I understood that he thought I was drunk of  hungover, so I told him the truth and he was delighted for me. That's the plus side. It's horrible but everyone is very nice.

Today I feel fine in the mornings but feel very sick in the afternoons, whether I eat, lightly, or not. There are good days and bad, and the saying that the sickness disappears at 12 weeks is certainly not applicable in my case. Things are better and I can face food. But not all of them all the time, and not sometimes not at all. To be fair, sometimes i can also eat like a monster.

So, at 14 weeks pregnant, i'm hoping that things will have settled before long. it wold be nice to gorge this summer after all.

        

So here we are making it official

Gorgeous Chook and I are expecting a baby! or whatever the combination of our gene pools can muster. So far so good. I'm around three and a half months pregnant and apart from an extremely drunken family wedding and boozy holiday in the UK I've been pretty good (define good). Scans, blood tests and the rest indicate all's normal. So! the baby is due around mid January 2013.

That's the nice part. Now let's talk about uncontrollable farting, shall we? 

So here we are fighting in the Hunger Games

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

In a nutshell: in a post apocalyptic world where 12 districts are ruled under the Capitol's iron fist, Katniss Everdeen, our pubescent rebel, is selected for the Hunger Games where you either kill or are killed, for the amusement of all those watching on live TV.


The blurb: the theme sounds familiar because it is, maybe inspired by the cross-fertilisation of Battle Royale and Lord of the Flies. It is the potentially not-too-distant future and the world has been re-organised. Each of the twelve districts must select 2 teenagers who will be sent like modern gladiators to the Arena, a vast territory where the outcome is either glory or death. One doesn't get a glimpse of the Arena till well into the book, the first half of it dealing with the complex life and personnality of our heroin who struggles to help her family survive and her subsequent grooming as one of the selected. In fact much more of the book is dedicated to the setting of the harsh new world, the description of the characters and their complex relationships than to actual fighting. The themes of totalitarianism, love, duty, friendship and betrayal are much more present here than blind violence. Though the book can be read alone, it is clearly the foundation of what turned out to be a trilogy.  

IMHO this was a lot better than I thought it would be. Panem is an interesting and unusual world and Katniss and her acolytes have rich and developed personalities that twist the storyline in unexpected ways. Though there is nothing new with the concept of the actual Hunger Games ( Battle Royale), the way they are portrayed here touch on the themes of reality TV, modern sponsorship and political repression. A pretty damn good holiday read all in all.