It's official, I have become a bottom sniffer.
I used to look at parents sniffing their children's bottoms and say to myself "is that really necessary?". Well I can tell you it is. There is nothing quite as disheartening as stripping a fighting baby to change his nappy only to discover there was no need. Other than opening the parcel, the sniff test is the only way to distinguish a fart from a full on follow-through.
We're nearly 7 weeks in, I would guess I'm nearing my 500th nappy change and that's not counting those done by Ivan. The books say that in the second month that the number of changes diminishes, but it also says that I should be able to change a nappy one-handed...I'm becoming pretty good, but I'm not that good. So every nappy that I don't have to change is a blessing. Hurrah for bottom sniffers.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
6th time lucky??
So the whole process has taken over an hour, but I'm determined to persist today. We have a beautiful, perfect little boy who's starting to smile but who refuses to sleep in his cot or in his pram. In fact he refuses to be asleep or awake in anything but arms, but I am also persisting with his new hammock and so far we have a record of 5 minutes to beat. Finally he's sparked out in his pram (who knows for how long?) on the 6th attempt (2 in the pram, 4 in the cot). Each time I lower him in, Nico's fast asleep, but as he reaches the mattress it's as if he switches on. The arms come up, the fists ball, the legs pump, the blankets come off, the face crumples and the screaming starts.
The scene earlier this morning of me walking along the beach with the baby tucked under one arm and pushing the pram with the other has not been an uncommon one these last few weeks. According to just about all of the advice I've read, he's too little to be left to cry for any length of time, so after ten minutes of screaming I feel I have little choice. As if by magic, on my shoulder he stops. I appear to have the shoulder to not cry on.
Afternoon snoozes are regular and long, just as long as Nico has someone warm to nap on.
Night time sleeps have reached a record blissful 5 hours, but just as long as Nico has someone warm to sleep on. In his cot, that record is about 3 hours and appears to be diminishing every night.
So we're on a mission. From today, all daytime naps are to be in his cot or his pram. From January 1st, night time equals cot.
The scene earlier this morning of me walking along the beach with the baby tucked under one arm and pushing the pram with the other has not been an uncommon one these last few weeks. According to just about all of the advice I've read, he's too little to be left to cry for any length of time, so after ten minutes of screaming I feel I have little choice. As if by magic, on my shoulder he stops. I appear to have the shoulder to not cry on.
Afternoon snoozes are regular and long, just as long as Nico has someone warm to nap on.
Night time sleeps have reached a record blissful 5 hours, but just as long as Nico has someone warm to sleep on. In his cot, that record is about 3 hours and appears to be diminishing every night.
So we're on a mission. From today, all daytime naps are to be in his cot or his pram. From January 1st, night time equals cot.
5th time lucky...
...and the baby is asleep in his cot for his afternoon nap. Famous last words. Crying again...
Friday, 18 December 2009
The let down sensation of milk
I wanted to write what this feels like as it is quite unlike anything I have known before.
Is your let down letting you down?
Let down is the term for describing the flow of breastmilk through the breast to the nipple. It can happen at anytime, usually when you're out and about having forgotten the indispensable breast pads and wearing a cream silk blouse.
I can only describe the sensation as if my breats were gradually turning to stone as a coldness and hardness seeps from the armpits. It's not terribly pleasant and is accompanied by the desire to wrap my arms around my chest, close my eyes and count to 30 as the pain passes. If you're quick enough you can catch the ensuing leakage, but from the start of the sensation you've got less than a minute. Interestingly each breast functions independently so they don't have to let down at the same time, but for me they work a double act every time.
Is your let down letting you down?
Let down is the term for describing the flow of breastmilk through the breast to the nipple. It can happen at anytime, usually when you're out and about having forgotten the indispensable breast pads and wearing a cream silk blouse.
I can only describe the sensation as if my breats were gradually turning to stone as a coldness and hardness seeps from the armpits. It's not terribly pleasant and is accompanied by the desire to wrap my arms around my chest, close my eyes and count to 30 as the pain passes. If you're quick enough you can catch the ensuing leakage, but from the start of the sensation you've got less than a minute. Interestingly each breast functions independently so they don't have to let down at the same time, but for me they work a double act every time.
Cot or arms?
Nico - Week 6
In a rare moment where the baby is actually napping in his cot I have a little time for some updates.
My frustration with Nico's lack of interest in his cot can only be short lived. Our flat feels like the coldest place known to man. With outside temperatures not reaching much about 8 (I know, I know in London it's struggling to push above zero, but hear me out...) who on earth thought it would be a good idea to build flats without central heating? A major oversight when choosing our place to live and a mistake that we won't make again.
The fact is that houses and flats in the UK, with their shagpile carpets and insulation as standard are built to cope with the cold weather whereas here they are built for the heat. So the whitewashed walls and the white stone tiles will no doubt be a relief when the heat arrives next year, but for now I hate them. I feel as if I'm in a white prison with only the baby to keep me warm (shouldn't that be the other way around?) and a hot water bottle to prevent my feet from turning to ice.
Is it any wonder that our 5 week old baby prefers to nap and sleep in arms rather than in his vast cold cot. I know which option I'd choose.
In a rare moment where the baby is actually napping in his cot I have a little time for some updates.
My frustration with Nico's lack of interest in his cot can only be short lived. Our flat feels like the coldest place known to man. With outside temperatures not reaching much about 8 (I know, I know in London it's struggling to push above zero, but hear me out...) who on earth thought it would be a good idea to build flats without central heating? A major oversight when choosing our place to live and a mistake that we won't make again.
The fact is that houses and flats in the UK, with their shagpile carpets and insulation as standard are built to cope with the cold weather whereas here they are built for the heat. So the whitewashed walls and the white stone tiles will no doubt be a relief when the heat arrives next year, but for now I hate them. I feel as if I'm in a white prison with only the baby to keep me warm (shouldn't that be the other way around?) and a hot water bottle to prevent my feet from turning to ice.
Is it any wonder that our 5 week old baby prefers to nap and sleep in arms rather than in his vast cold cot. I know which option I'd choose.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
The girl with the golden tits
Nico - Week 5
As time passes and I'm still breastfeeding Nico then I will have to figure out how to feed him in public unless I want to stay indoors for the next six months.
Actually I've surprised myself by not being too bothered with the world watching. My philosophy is that if you are comfortable being a spectator at feeding time then so am I. If you're not comfortable then I'll go somewhere else. You won't see much of me however as he still feeds between eight and ten times a day.
Despite Nico being my parents-in-law's fourth grandchild it seems I have broken some bounderies by allowing them to watch me feed the baby. I'm certainly not the girl with the golden tits...
As time passes and I'm still breastfeeding Nico then I will have to figure out how to feed him in public unless I want to stay indoors for the next six months.
Actually I've surprised myself by not being too bothered with the world watching. My philosophy is that if you are comfortable being a spectator at feeding time then so am I. If you're not comfortable then I'll go somewhere else. You won't see much of me however as he still feeds between eight and ten times a day.
Despite Nico being my parents-in-law's fourth grandchild it seems I have broken some bounderies by allowing them to watch me feed the baby. I'm certainly not the girl with the golden tits...
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Fight, fight, fight
Nico - Day 27
It looks like we have a fighter on our hands.
Nico fights almost everything. If we put a hat on him he wriggles until it comes off, if we cover his hands with mittens he pulls them off, if we snuggle him up in a blanket he kicks it off, and nappy changes are a daily challenge with flailing arms and legs curled into his chest.
It seems we have been lucky with the basics however. He loves to eat (like his Daddy) and he loves to sleep, although a pair of cuddling arms is much more preferable to his cot. We have to sneak him into his cot once he's fast asleep and clench every muscle in anticipation for the cry that he's woken and is reaching up to be cuddled. He's not yet four weeks old so for now that's fine and he's so cuddly and fluffy that holding him in arms while he sleeps is a time to treasure.
It looks like we have a fighter on our hands.
Nico fights almost everything. If we put a hat on him he wriggles until it comes off, if we cover his hands with mittens he pulls them off, if we snuggle him up in a blanket he kicks it off, and nappy changes are a daily challenge with flailing arms and legs curled into his chest.
It seems we have been lucky with the basics however. He loves to eat (like his Daddy) and he loves to sleep, although a pair of cuddling arms is much more preferable to his cot. We have to sneak him into his cot once he's fast asleep and clench every muscle in anticipation for the cry that he's woken and is reaching up to be cuddled. He's not yet four weeks old so for now that's fine and he's so cuddly and fluffy that holding him in arms while he sleeps is a time to treasure.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Beauty regime
Nico - Day 21
For someone who used to balk at the idea of going to the shops without a full face on, I now find myself to be an avid non make-up wearer. The time to put in on and then the hassle of having to take it off at night time is just too precious to lose. I'm managing a daily shower, face cleanse and moisturise, but my bag of essentials from MAC and Benefit have been replaced by Lansinoh, wound wash and and healing oil. I won't be throwing out the make up brushes just yet as once my nipples have toughened up and the scars have healed, I'm sure I'll be horrified with my bare face and resort to at least some covering up.
So am I letting myself go? More like letting myself grow....not only have I not worn make up since giving birth, I've not shaved and it's only today that I got around to cutting my toenails. My disastrous Spanish hairdo is also in need of some attention but that may have to wait until I take a trip to the UK as I'm not sure I'm prepared to put my trust in the local stylists again just yet.
For someone who used to balk at the idea of going to the shops without a full face on, I now find myself to be an avid non make-up wearer. The time to put in on and then the hassle of having to take it off at night time is just too precious to lose. I'm managing a daily shower, face cleanse and moisturise, but my bag of essentials from MAC and Benefit have been replaced by Lansinoh, wound wash and and healing oil. I won't be throwing out the make up brushes just yet as once my nipples have toughened up and the scars have healed, I'm sure I'll be horrified with my bare face and resort to at least some covering up.
So am I letting myself go? More like letting myself grow....not only have I not worn make up since giving birth, I've not shaved and it's only today that I got around to cutting my toenails. My disastrous Spanish hairdo is also in need of some attention but that may have to wait until I take a trip to the UK as I'm not sure I'm prepared to put my trust in the local stylists again just yet.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Major achievements
Nico - Day 19
Change of perception
It's funny how perception changes. At some stage in my life running a half marathon would have been considered to be a major achievement. Completing a major transaction at work or producing a coherent set of month end results on time would have felt like major achievements. But today it feels like a major achievement to have had a shower, eaten breakfast, done two loads of washing, fed the baby, been for a walk and done some food shopping all before midday. I did have to leave the baby to cry in his cot for five minutes to manage to have the shower, but a cuddle from a soaking mummy soon stopped the cries.
Home alone with Nico
It's our first day alone today as Ivan has gone back to work and I need to learn quickly not to be a slave to the baby whilst still managing to make him feel secure and loved. And for the sake of my sanity some routine needs to emerge soon. So every day we'll have a new challenge. Today it was just getting out and about, tomorrow it may be walking up to the next town for coffee. In a couple of weeks, amidst the frenetic Christmas shoppers, we'll brave the trip to the big city. Speaking of which, it doesn't even begin to feel festive at all. I know we haven't quite made it to December, but with the weather still good and no frost in sight Christmas doesn't feel like it's only around the corner.
Change of perception
It's funny how perception changes. At some stage in my life running a half marathon would have been considered to be a major achievement. Completing a major transaction at work or producing a coherent set of month end results on time would have felt like major achievements. But today it feels like a major achievement to have had a shower, eaten breakfast, done two loads of washing, fed the baby, been for a walk and done some food shopping all before midday. I did have to leave the baby to cry in his cot for five minutes to manage to have the shower, but a cuddle from a soaking mummy soon stopped the cries.
Home alone with Nico
It's our first day alone today as Ivan has gone back to work and I need to learn quickly not to be a slave to the baby whilst still managing to make him feel secure and loved. And for the sake of my sanity some routine needs to emerge soon. So every day we'll have a new challenge. Today it was just getting out and about, tomorrow it may be walking up to the next town for coffee. In a couple of weeks, amidst the frenetic Christmas shoppers, we'll brave the trip to the big city. Speaking of which, it doesn't even begin to feel festive at all. I know we haven't quite made it to December, but with the weather still good and no frost in sight Christmas doesn't feel like it's only around the corner.
And so it begins...
Apparently the English woman in this small Spanish town is being criticised by local gossipers for taking her baby out and about in babygrows. It seems I am expected to dress him up in a three piece suit complete with bowler hat for every outing. Someone forgot to tell them that new babies sleep for much of the time and need to feel warm and cosy. Comfort and easy access currently rate above fashion and will continue to do so for some time to come. So screw the gossiping masses.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Tits like bricks
Nico - Day 16
Before I had Nico I used to watch women feeding their babies and making it look effortless. After all, it's the most natural thing the world - isn't it? It's what we're designed to do. But natural as it may be, it is still learned. Sex is natural, but you still have to learn how to do it, and breastfeeding has felt much the same.
Snuggling up with your newborn and feeding them is a truly wonderful experience as they cuddle in during the feed and then burp with contentment. But what no one really tells you is that it hurts like hell for the first couple of weeks. The books come clean, but I don't recall any of my friends warning me in advance although some have sympathised in agreement since. Even my NCT classes didn't quite prepare me for the impact of having a baby suckle at my breast for 12 hours a day (at least that's what it feels like at the moment).
The first few days are all about toughening up the nipples as there's no real milk until around day 4. The initial sessions give the baby the liquid gold that is colostrum to line his stomach and to provide him with an immunity boost, but really they're practice runs for both mum and baby for when the milk comes in. The advice for these days is to apply medical grade lanolin as often as you can.
My advice for day 4...buy a supportive bra, some paracetemol, pads that you can chill in the fridge and watch with wonder as the breasts that had grown so much during pregnancy appear to double in size again. Take comfort from the fact that the pain of the milk coming in will pass after a couple of days, only to revisit when the mature milk comes in around day 12.
I'm pleased to say that 16 days in and all of the pain appears to have past and the feeding sessions are no longer dreaded but treasured as a very special time of bonding.
Before I had Nico I used to watch women feeding their babies and making it look effortless. After all, it's the most natural thing the world - isn't it? It's what we're designed to do. But natural as it may be, it is still learned. Sex is natural, but you still have to learn how to do it, and breastfeeding has felt much the same.
Snuggling up with your newborn and feeding them is a truly wonderful experience as they cuddle in during the feed and then burp with contentment. But what no one really tells you is that it hurts like hell for the first couple of weeks. The books come clean, but I don't recall any of my friends warning me in advance although some have sympathised in agreement since. Even my NCT classes didn't quite prepare me for the impact of having a baby suckle at my breast for 12 hours a day (at least that's what it feels like at the moment).
The first few days are all about toughening up the nipples as there's no real milk until around day 4. The initial sessions give the baby the liquid gold that is colostrum to line his stomach and to provide him with an immunity boost, but really they're practice runs for both mum and baby for when the milk comes in. The advice for these days is to apply medical grade lanolin as often as you can.
My advice for day 4...buy a supportive bra, some paracetemol, pads that you can chill in the fridge and watch with wonder as the breasts that had grown so much during pregnancy appear to double in size again. Take comfort from the fact that the pain of the milk coming in will pass after a couple of days, only to revisit when the mature milk comes in around day 12.
I'm pleased to say that 16 days in and all of the pain appears to have past and the feeding sessions are no longer dreaded but treasured as a very special time of bonding.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Don't sweat the small stuff
That's the advice to remain sane in early motherhood and I've been taking deep breaths and muttering it to myself all weekend.
The problem comes in figuring out the small stuff from the big stuff.
Housework and cooking definitely come under small stuff. That said we have to have clean clothes and we have to eat. And I really would be doing myself an injustice if I weren't making the most of my additional 500 calories a day that's meant to be awarded to lactating mothers.
But it's been a tough weekend as I'm already finding that I will have to find a way of coping with letting go so that other people can enjoy Nico. He is, after all, a grandson, a half-brother (although there is no distinction between "full" and "half" in Spain), a nephew, a great-nephew and a cousin.
Watching my seven year-old stepson push the pram with his nine day-old brother was enough to set my heart racing and bring me out in a sweat. "Don't sweat the small stuff", I chanted, but I've barely been allowed to push the pram myself yet as for now it seems that the natural monopoly for pram pushing rests with Dad as some kind of car substitute. I know I'll get plenty of practice from next week when Ivan goes back to work, so again, clearly small stuff. But there have been times when it was all I could do to stop myself from picking Nico up and keeping him in the safety of my arms all weekend. He's still so tiny (although he's gained a mammoth quarter of a kilo just in the last week), and he's my pride and joy, however, I'll have to get used to it but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
The problem comes in figuring out the small stuff from the big stuff.
Housework and cooking definitely come under small stuff. That said we have to have clean clothes and we have to eat. And I really would be doing myself an injustice if I weren't making the most of my additional 500 calories a day that's meant to be awarded to lactating mothers.
But it's been a tough weekend as I'm already finding that I will have to find a way of coping with letting go so that other people can enjoy Nico. He is, after all, a grandson, a half-brother (although there is no distinction between "full" and "half" in Spain), a nephew, a great-nephew and a cousin.
Watching my seven year-old stepson push the pram with his nine day-old brother was enough to set my heart racing and bring me out in a sweat. "Don't sweat the small stuff", I chanted, but I've barely been allowed to push the pram myself yet as for now it seems that the natural monopoly for pram pushing rests with Dad as some kind of car substitute. I know I'll get plenty of practice from next week when Ivan goes back to work, so again, clearly small stuff. But there have been times when it was all I could do to stop myself from picking Nico up and keeping him in the safety of my arms all weekend. He's still so tiny (although he's gained a mammoth quarter of a kilo just in the last week), and he's my pride and joy, however, I'll have to get used to it but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Friday, 20 November 2009
To dummy or not to dummy
It's a tough one.
For the woman, with two natural dummies in her tool box, it's much easier to take a tougher stance. No dummies please.
For the man, a dummy may just represent the saviour of all sanity.
The facts are there in the books and to my untrained eye any pros are largely outweighed by the cons.
For me the argument is won by the fact that if used within the first few weeks of life, a dummy (so the the experts say) can provide too much sucking satisfaction which then makes the baby lazy at the breast. It doesn't seem to be the case yet...we appear to have a good sucker...but we've had a couple of pretty tough days where it seems that the baby was more hungry than we thought, and I can't help but wonder if the dummy is in some way to blame. Every time Nico spits it out I breathe a sigh of relief that he still prefers to suck on me, but for how long will it last?
So for now, Daddy's treat only, and only at night.
Here's hoping that the photo below really represents what Nico thinks about his dummy.
For the woman, with two natural dummies in her tool box, it's much easier to take a tougher stance. No dummies please.
For the man, a dummy may just represent the saviour of all sanity.
The facts are there in the books and to my untrained eye any pros are largely outweighed by the cons.
For me the argument is won by the fact that if used within the first few weeks of life, a dummy (so the the experts say) can provide too much sucking satisfaction which then makes the baby lazy at the breast. It doesn't seem to be the case yet...we appear to have a good sucker...but we've had a couple of pretty tough days where it seems that the baby was more hungry than we thought, and I can't help but wonder if the dummy is in some way to blame. Every time Nico spits it out I breathe a sigh of relief that he still prefers to suck on me, but for how long will it last?
So for now, Daddy's treat only, and only at night.
Here's hoping that the photo below really represents what Nico thinks about his dummy.
Correspondence with Nico
Barcelona - week 7
Nico - day 8
Letter from Mummy & Daddy to Nico:
Dear Nico,
Please stop crying.
Lots of love Mummy and Daddy xxxx
Nico's response:
Dear Mummy & Daddy,
I'm sorry I've been crying, but the word "should" doesn't seem to apply to me. While maybe I should only be feeding every 3-4 hours, I'm feeling a bit hungry after only 2.
Please feed me every 2 hours (for now at least), and I will do my best to go easy with the howling. It's just my way of letting you know I need you.
Lots of love and dirty nappies,
Nico xxxx
Nico - day 8
Letter from Mummy & Daddy to Nico:
Dear Nico,
Please stop crying.
Lots of love Mummy and Daddy xxxx
Nico's response:
Dear Mummy & Daddy,
I'm sorry I've been crying, but the word "should" doesn't seem to apply to me. While maybe I should only be feeding every 3-4 hours, I'm feeling a bit hungry after only 2.
Please feed me every 2 hours (for now at least), and I will do my best to go easy with the howling. It's just my way of letting you know I need you.
Lots of love and dirty nappies,
Nico xxxx
Thursday, 19 November 2009
The first week - the essentials
Nico is a week old today and although having looked after him for a week makes me qualified for precisely nothing I wanted to note down the items that have been absolutely essential for this week. This is just a reminder in case I ever find myself in this situation again, or so that if any of my first time pregnant friends ask for advice I can give some as I'm not sure I'd remember without writing it down.
For me (Mum) - for hospital and home:
- 3 pairs of pyjamas with front openings - pyjamas are better than nightdresses as then when you feed you can at least preserve some bottom half modesty.
- Nappies and wipes/cotton wool - we were provided with nappies in hospital, but no wipes. I was severely chastised when I called for help during my first night to explain that I needed some help to change the baby as I didn't have any baby wipes or cotton wool. Nasty nurse.
- Snacks (dried fruit, jamon, nuts, seeds) and water - hospital food appears to be dreadful the world over.
- 10 pairs of paper knickers and a large stock of pads - I'll let anyone reading this use their imagination.
- A large tube of Lansinoh - your nipples will be most grateful.
- Slippers - they seem to be a national obsession here, but to keep your toes warm at night when padding to the bathroom they are very welcome.
- Toiletry bag - make up is a waste of time, you simply won't have time. You'll be thankful for shampoo, facewash, moisturiser, scrunchies and a comb.
- An "outfit" to go home in. I use the term "outfit" loosely, and loose is exactly what you want. Prepare yourself to still look 6 months pregnant for a few weeks. I came home in the same that I went in in - black yoga pants and a long sleeved black T shirt. All very dull, but no thought required. Besides there were no paparazzi.
For baby:
Besides the big stuff (pram, cot, car seat), the rest is REALLY essential, or at least it was for us. Depending on the length of stay in hospital, take some of everything.
- Babygrows - I'd equipped us with a mountain of vests and not many babygrows (well ten may seem like a lot, but they soon run out). I now realise I got this the wrong way round. You'll only need the vest underneath if it's cold. So far, front openers are much easier when it comes to changing. And the first day the milk comes in we not only changed his nappy pretty frequently, but also the rest of him.
- Vests - to go under the babygrows if it's cold.
- Hats - to keep his little head warm.
- Mittens - I was surprised to see the baby arrive with long nails that he wasted no time in trying out on his face.
- Socks - only if the babygrow doesn't have feet, otherwise the nurses will put on the socks under the babygrows.
- Baby blankets.
- A dummy - I was against these from the start but if you have a howler then they might come in handy.
- Nappy rash ointment.
- Protection mats for the changing table (I don't know what they're called in English, but in Spanish they're "salvacamas").
- 70% alcohol - it's recommended here to clean the umbilical stump every day with this, so we have.
Quick note - try to buy as much in the UK as possible. When it comes to babies Spain tugs on every emotional heartstring and pursestring - the mark ups are frankly disgusting.
For Dad:
- Plenty of sleep while Mum & baby are in hospital.
- A good book to take to the hospital.
- Snacks as the canteen is pretty rank and overpriced.
- I'm sure there's more...
Other:
A dollop of sense of humour.
A large helping of patience.
A real acceptance that unbroken sleep is a luxury from the past (for the time being).
Amazing parents in-law...their unending generosity and support has been invaluable and I'm not sure we'll ever be able to thank them enough for taking me to hospital, driving Ivan back and forth every day at least twice, entertaining my parents, providing us with enough food to feed the entire apartment block, and of course their advice. The official advice on that way to do things as far as babies are concerned changes almost daily, but the voice of experience is priceless.
For me (Mum) - for hospital and home:
- 3 pairs of pyjamas with front openings - pyjamas are better than nightdresses as then when you feed you can at least preserve some bottom half modesty.
- Nappies and wipes/cotton wool - we were provided with nappies in hospital, but no wipes. I was severely chastised when I called for help during my first night to explain that I needed some help to change the baby as I didn't have any baby wipes or cotton wool. Nasty nurse.
- Snacks (dried fruit, jamon, nuts, seeds) and water - hospital food appears to be dreadful the world over.
- 10 pairs of paper knickers and a large stock of pads - I'll let anyone reading this use their imagination.
- A large tube of Lansinoh - your nipples will be most grateful.
- Slippers - they seem to be a national obsession here, but to keep your toes warm at night when padding to the bathroom they are very welcome.
- Toiletry bag - make up is a waste of time, you simply won't have time. You'll be thankful for shampoo, facewash, moisturiser, scrunchies and a comb.
- An "outfit" to go home in. I use the term "outfit" loosely, and loose is exactly what you want. Prepare yourself to still look 6 months pregnant for a few weeks. I came home in the same that I went in in - black yoga pants and a long sleeved black T shirt. All very dull, but no thought required. Besides there were no paparazzi.
For baby:
Besides the big stuff (pram, cot, car seat), the rest is REALLY essential, or at least it was for us. Depending on the length of stay in hospital, take some of everything.
- Babygrows - I'd equipped us with a mountain of vests and not many babygrows (well ten may seem like a lot, but they soon run out). I now realise I got this the wrong way round. You'll only need the vest underneath if it's cold. So far, front openers are much easier when it comes to changing. And the first day the milk comes in we not only changed his nappy pretty frequently, but also the rest of him.
- Vests - to go under the babygrows if it's cold.
- Hats - to keep his little head warm.
- Mittens - I was surprised to see the baby arrive with long nails that he wasted no time in trying out on his face.
- Socks - only if the babygrow doesn't have feet, otherwise the nurses will put on the socks under the babygrows.
- Baby blankets.
- A dummy - I was against these from the start but if you have a howler then they might come in handy.
- Nappy rash ointment.
- Protection mats for the changing table (I don't know what they're called in English, but in Spanish they're "salvacamas").
- 70% alcohol - it's recommended here to clean the umbilical stump every day with this, so we have.
Quick note - try to buy as much in the UK as possible. When it comes to babies Spain tugs on every emotional heartstring and pursestring - the mark ups are frankly disgusting.
For Dad:
- Plenty of sleep while Mum & baby are in hospital.
- A good book to take to the hospital.
- Snacks as the canteen is pretty rank and overpriced.
- I'm sure there's more...
Other:
A dollop of sense of humour.
A large helping of patience.
A real acceptance that unbroken sleep is a luxury from the past (for the time being).
Amazing parents in-law...their unending generosity and support has been invaluable and I'm not sure we'll ever be able to thank them enough for taking me to hospital, driving Ivan back and forth every day at least twice, entertaining my parents, providing us with enough food to feed the entire apartment block, and of course their advice. The official advice on that way to do things as far as babies are concerned changes almost daily, but the voice of experience is priceless.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Daytime good, nighttime needs some work...
Nico - day 7
Our few days home have been happy, challenging, emotional and full of learning for us all.
The day goes something like this:
Nico wakes around 7 for a feed, then I squeeze in a feed of my own and take a shower before he's ready for more food around 10.
I switch the radio on and Nico sleeps peacefully in his cot until he's feeling peckish again. Thankfully my in-laws arrive at some point with a mountain of food - so much that we can't keep up. The fridge is overflowing with Tupperware pots full of soup, fish, olives, chicken stew, rice pudding - it goes on. There's no worry that I'm not eating.
The nights are proving a little more of a challenge....
Sleeping during the day with the light and the noise (including the hoover!) is not a problem. A feed, a burp, a change, a quick cuddle and he's happy to be back in his cot. But sleeping at night without the arms of Mummy or Daddy cuddling him is not proving very successful. I don't know if it's the dark or the silence that keeps him awake or something else altogether that makes him angry. Is he already remembering that if he cries then he'll be picked up and reassured and kissed and cuddled? The nurses in the hospital said that for the first few weeks that "arm time" was extremely important as the trust is established. And I keep reminding myself that he is less than a week old, but I know that continuing to let Nico sleep in our arms is spelling difficult times ahead, not to mention high levels of sleep deprivation.
All suggestions welcome :-)
Our few days home have been happy, challenging, emotional and full of learning for us all.
The day goes something like this:
Nico wakes around 7 for a feed, then I squeeze in a feed of my own and take a shower before he's ready for more food around 10.
I switch the radio on and Nico sleeps peacefully in his cot until he's feeling peckish again. Thankfully my in-laws arrive at some point with a mountain of food - so much that we can't keep up. The fridge is overflowing with Tupperware pots full of soup, fish, olives, chicken stew, rice pudding - it goes on. There's no worry that I'm not eating.
The nights are proving a little more of a challenge....
Sleeping during the day with the light and the noise (including the hoover!) is not a problem. A feed, a burp, a change, a quick cuddle and he's happy to be back in his cot. But sleeping at night without the arms of Mummy or Daddy cuddling him is not proving very successful. I don't know if it's the dark or the silence that keeps him awake or something else altogether that makes him angry. Is he already remembering that if he cries then he'll be picked up and reassured and kissed and cuddled? The nurses in the hospital said that for the first few weeks that "arm time" was extremely important as the trust is established. And I keep reminding myself that he is less than a week old, but I know that continuing to let Nico sleep in our arms is spelling difficult times ahead, not to mention high levels of sleep deprivation.
All suggestions welcome :-)
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Letter of redemption
Dear Husband,
I take it back.
You have proved me wrong (again!).
Thank you for buying me baked beans, tabasco sauce, Worcestershire sauce and salt & vinegar crisps. Clearly I wasn't looking hard enough. I'll have to update my list of what I can and cannot buy here in Spain.
I'm so pleased our little boy will know what baked beans are :-).
Your Wife
xxx
I take it back.
You have proved me wrong (again!).
Thank you for buying me baked beans, tabasco sauce, Worcestershire sauce and salt & vinegar crisps. Clearly I wasn't looking hard enough. I'll have to update my list of what I can and cannot buy here in Spain.
I'm so pleased our little boy will know what baked beans are :-).
Your Wife
xxx
I'm sorry I haven't a clue...
Nico - Day 5
Barcelona - Week 6
...that's what I'm listening to right now, and as I embark on motherhood it seems rather apt. But one day at a time as we all embark on this new journey.
I feel so blessed to be with Ivan who has done it all before. It makes me calmer to know that at least one of the three of us has some experience.
Any doubts that I had about moving to Spain to have the baby have vanished in the last few days. Just two hours after giving birth Ivan's Mum and Dad and his two brothers were all in the hospital to meet the new addition to the family.
And since he arrived my in-laws have been wonderful with regular deliveries of Spanish home cooked food and wholehearted support in all that we need. A paella on Saturday, Catalan soup on Sunday (beans and rice all in a pork soup), steak on Monday and now chicken casserole today - all accompanied by loads of fresh fruit, yogurt, blue fish and dried fruit. It's wonderful, although I know that at some stage I'll have to start cooking myself, but for now I'll enjoy being spoiled.
Barcelona - Week 6
...that's what I'm listening to right now, and as I embark on motherhood it seems rather apt. But one day at a time as we all embark on this new journey.
I feel so blessed to be with Ivan who has done it all before. It makes me calmer to know that at least one of the three of us has some experience.
Any doubts that I had about moving to Spain to have the baby have vanished in the last few days. Just two hours after giving birth Ivan's Mum and Dad and his two brothers were all in the hospital to meet the new addition to the family.
And since he arrived my in-laws have been wonderful with regular deliveries of Spanish home cooked food and wholehearted support in all that we need. A paella on Saturday, Catalan soup on Sunday (beans and rice all in a pork soup), steak on Monday and now chicken casserole today - all accompanied by loads of fresh fruit, yogurt, blue fish and dried fruit. It's wonderful, although I know that at some stage I'll have to start cooking myself, but for now I'll enjoy being spoiled.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Hello World - Nicolas Alexander Pedrazas...
.....was born at 7.15am on Thursday 12 November 2009.
My fears of waking my husband who would then have to wake his parents to take me to the hospital turned out to be entirely unfounded. The baby was knocking on the door to the world.
It went something like this...
3.30am woke Ivan
3.35am Ivan called his parents while I took a quick shower
3.45am Ivan's Mum & Dad arrived to take us to the hospital
4.00am arrived at Hospital de Mataro at A&E
4.15am a nursing assistant put me in a room that flon my back and strapped monitors to me before admitting that she wasn't quite sure what I was allowed to do and not to do (sorry Cathy if you're reading this...I was desperately trying to move off my back but then the monitors weren't working)
4.30am the midwife came to see me and declared that this was going to be quick, I was already pretty much fully dilated
4.45am the pain was pretty intense and the urge to push overbearing. I was still on my back and beginning to think that perhaps trying to have a natural labour here in Spain where they didn't seem to be comfortable with me being in any position other than my back and not letting me move about was not quite what I'd wanted and perhaps not the best idea. Besides, my interview for natural labour isn't until next Monday so I really didn't quite know what to expect. Bring on the epidural. It had to be now or it was going to be too late...
I think the epidural was administered at about 5am which took most of the pain away and gave me an hour or so to try to rest before the big push. I don't remember much but do remember that I was being told it was extremely important not to move (try staying still when your having contractions every 2 minutes) and to calm down. There's no denying that I was very scared. A few minutes after the epidural I started to tremble and shake - I'm not sure if it was the effect of the anaesthetic or a reaction of being scared and pretty much out of control.
It must have been around 6.30am that Ivan appeared in scrubs looking like an extra from ER and I was moved to what looked like an operating theatre. Nico made it out at 7.15am. See the link to Ivan's blog if you want to see some pictures.
I can't quite believe that he's here already. He's beautiful and every time I look at him I want to cry with relief that he made it out into the world safely.
My fears of waking my husband who would then have to wake his parents to take me to the hospital turned out to be entirely unfounded. The baby was knocking on the door to the world.
It went something like this...
3.30am woke Ivan
3.35am Ivan called his parents while I took a quick shower
3.45am Ivan's Mum & Dad arrived to take us to the hospital
4.00am arrived at Hospital de Mataro at A&E
4.15am a nursing assistant put me in a room that flon my back and strapped monitors to me before admitting that she wasn't quite sure what I was allowed to do and not to do (sorry Cathy if you're reading this...I was desperately trying to move off my back but then the monitors weren't working)
4.30am the midwife came to see me and declared that this was going to be quick, I was already pretty much fully dilated
4.45am the pain was pretty intense and the urge to push overbearing. I was still on my back and beginning to think that perhaps trying to have a natural labour here in Spain where they didn't seem to be comfortable with me being in any position other than my back and not letting me move about was not quite what I'd wanted and perhaps not the best idea. Besides, my interview for natural labour isn't until next Monday so I really didn't quite know what to expect. Bring on the epidural. It had to be now or it was going to be too late...
I think the epidural was administered at about 5am which took most of the pain away and gave me an hour or so to try to rest before the big push. I don't remember much but do remember that I was being told it was extremely important not to move (try staying still when your having contractions every 2 minutes) and to calm down. There's no denying that I was very scared. A few minutes after the epidural I started to tremble and shake - I'm not sure if it was the effect of the anaesthetic or a reaction of being scared and pretty much out of control.
It must have been around 6.30am that Ivan appeared in scrubs looking like an extra from ER and I was moved to what looked like an operating theatre. Nico made it out at 7.15am. See the link to Ivan's blog if you want to see some pictures.
I can't quite believe that he's here already. He's beautiful and every time I look at him I want to cry with relief that he made it out into the world safely.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Is this the real thing..?
38 weeks
It's been a hectic day.
Looking after my stepson and using my persuasive techniques to get him up, fed, showered, dressed and into the city after a week off sick (him, not me) took most of the morning. The trip into the city took most of the afternoon, and the day rounded off with a trip to the midwife this evening followed by some logistics to hand back my dogs in-law.
Finally the appointment has come through at the right hospital for next Monday. I fear however that this may be a little late...
I'm not quite sure my hectic day is over. I've been having mild contractions on and off for weeks which is completely normal. But having one just as I was being looked at by the midwife today, I wish I paid more attention as to when exactly she said I should get myself to the hospital. I'm up and having a cup of tea (oh how English), timing the contractions and trying to decide what to do next. Shower? Wake my husband? Read the instructions of the TENS machine that I've hired but haven't quite got round to looking at?
A quick look online tells me that "When you have four to six contractions for two hours in a row, it's time to call the doctor. Chances are good that you're in labor...". I've had 7 in the last forty minutes, but they don't yet appear to be all that regular. I think it could be time to wake Ivan. Shame that I don't yet have a doctor. Looks like it's going to have to be A&E.
It's been a hectic day.
Looking after my stepson and using my persuasive techniques to get him up, fed, showered, dressed and into the city after a week off sick (him, not me) took most of the morning. The trip into the city took most of the afternoon, and the day rounded off with a trip to the midwife this evening followed by some logistics to hand back my dogs in-law.
Finally the appointment has come through at the right hospital for next Monday. I fear however that this may be a little late...
I'm not quite sure my hectic day is over. I've been having mild contractions on and off for weeks which is completely normal. But having one just as I was being looked at by the midwife today, I wish I paid more attention as to when exactly she said I should get myself to the hospital. I'm up and having a cup of tea (oh how English), timing the contractions and trying to decide what to do next. Shower? Wake my husband? Read the instructions of the TENS machine that I've hired but haven't quite got round to looking at?
A quick look online tells me that "When you have four to six contractions for two hours in a row, it's time to call the doctor. Chances are good that you're in labor...". I've had 7 in the last forty minutes, but they don't yet appear to be all that regular. I think it could be time to wake Ivan. Shame that I don't yet have a doctor. Looks like it's going to have to be A&E.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Ten stone
37 weeks, 5 days
Today is the day that I tipped the scales at ten stone. Officially the heaviest I've ever been, and fast catching up with my husband :-). "Jack Sprat could eat no fat his wife could eat no lean" springs to mind. So that's just shy of two stone so far. Given that the baby weighs in at less than a quarter of this (just over 6 pounds at the latest scan), it seems a lot, but I've been assured that anything between 25 to 35 pounds is considered normal.
I've been reading about one of the not quite so pleasant post partum effects...profuse night sweating as my body attempts to shed all of the extra fluid it's been holding on to. And if my legs are anything to go by it feels like there could be quite a lot. I look down at them and feel about a hundred and fifty years old. Ankles bones appear to be history for now.
And my activities for the next day or so? I shall be mostly eating it seems, which may just blow the "normal" 35 pounds out of the water.
And why shall I be mostly eating? I have been left in charge of my in-laws' house and their dogs as they head to Madrid. Last night I was given a tour of the kitchen to show me all of the food that has been left for us. They are away for 36 hours. The amount of food makes it look as if it could be nearer 36 weeks. Both fridges and the freezer are packed to the gills with pre-cooked and fresh food, the table is groaning under the weight of the fruit fresh from yesterday's market and they've bought in extra chocolate in case my sweet cravings kick in. At least taking the dogs for a walk will give me some exercise, although a 19 year-old Yorkshire terrier and an 8 year-old Basset Hound that has to be coaxed out of the door with biscuits don't threaten much of a sweat.
Today is the day that I tipped the scales at ten stone. Officially the heaviest I've ever been, and fast catching up with my husband :-). "Jack Sprat could eat no fat his wife could eat no lean" springs to mind. So that's just shy of two stone so far. Given that the baby weighs in at less than a quarter of this (just over 6 pounds at the latest scan), it seems a lot, but I've been assured that anything between 25 to 35 pounds is considered normal.
I've been reading about one of the not quite so pleasant post partum effects...profuse night sweating as my body attempts to shed all of the extra fluid it's been holding on to. And if my legs are anything to go by it feels like there could be quite a lot. I look down at them and feel about a hundred and fifty years old. Ankles bones appear to be history for now.
And my activities for the next day or so? I shall be mostly eating it seems, which may just blow the "normal" 35 pounds out of the water.
And why shall I be mostly eating? I have been left in charge of my in-laws' house and their dogs as they head to Madrid. Last night I was given a tour of the kitchen to show me all of the food that has been left for us. They are away for 36 hours. The amount of food makes it look as if it could be nearer 36 weeks. Both fridges and the freezer are packed to the gills with pre-cooked and fresh food, the table is groaning under the weight of the fruit fresh from yesterday's market and they've bought in extra chocolate in case my sweet cravings kick in. At least taking the dogs for a walk will give me some exercise, although a 19 year-old Yorkshire terrier and an 8 year-old Basset Hound that has to be coaxed out of the door with biscuits don't threaten much of a sweat.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Five times a day
3 meals a day here is not acceptable.
5 meals a day are a must.
Any less and the locals feel as if they have been conned.
1. #1 Breakfast. Taken between 6-7am.
Coffee and toast. A pat on the back for getting out of bed.
2. # 2 Breakfast. Taken between 10-11am.
An omelette sandwich. Self congratulation for making it to work, and an excuse for a break.
3. 1-4pm: Lunch. A well deserved rest from the long working day. A four course meal usually eaten out (menu del dia). A standard ration would be soup, salad, main course, dessert and coffee.
4. 5-6pm: Merienda (afternoon snack). Usually biscuits, cake, or perhaps some fruit to keep the sugar levels up until dinner.
5. 9-11pm: Dinner. A chance to discuss the day and of course to talk about what everyone's eaten that day. A full family affair around the table with starter, main course and dessert.
No wonder the working day here is so long. About half of it is taken up with eating!
5 meals a day are a must.
Any less and the locals feel as if they have been conned.
1. #1 Breakfast. Taken between 6-7am.
Coffee and toast. A pat on the back for getting out of bed.
2. # 2 Breakfast. Taken between 10-11am.
An omelette sandwich. Self congratulation for making it to work, and an excuse for a break.
3. 1-4pm: Lunch. A well deserved rest from the long working day. A four course meal usually eaten out (menu del dia). A standard ration would be soup, salad, main course, dessert and coffee.
4. 5-6pm: Merienda (afternoon snack). Usually biscuits, cake, or perhaps some fruit to keep the sugar levels up until dinner.
5. 9-11pm: Dinner. A chance to discuss the day and of course to talk about what everyone's eaten that day. A full family affair around the table with starter, main course and dessert.
No wonder the working day here is so long. About half of it is taken up with eating!
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Strange cravings and rice pudding
It's odd, now that I'm not in the UK, I find myself missing things that have never been especially important to me.
On Friday as part of my trip into the city I definitely wanted to pay a visit to Barcelona's one and only Bagel shop. I can't remember the last time I ate a bagel in the UK, but making sure I had half a dozen on Friday for the weekend suddenly seemed very important.
There are the obvious things that I knew I would miss but our vast amounts of luggage when we left meant that I didn't bring any of them with me. I know they will taste all the sweeter when I do finally get to eat them again...
Baked beans
Salt & vinegar crisps
Marmite
Flapjacks
Tabasco sauce
Sliced bread - you can buy it here but the size of each piece of bread is about enough for two bites, and in most cases the crust has been removed. Eating anything here with the skin on is just considered to be wrong. I'm eyed with enormous suspicion when I bite into an apple or a peach. "Man alive, she's eating the skin."
That said, my mother-in-law has just made me a rice pudding and I've been ordered up the road to go and eat. Rice pudding is something which I've always associated with being very British. But rice here is the food of the Gods and they do know how to make a good one, even if it will inevitably be served cold.
On Friday as part of my trip into the city I definitely wanted to pay a visit to Barcelona's one and only Bagel shop. I can't remember the last time I ate a bagel in the UK, but making sure I had half a dozen on Friday for the weekend suddenly seemed very important.
There are the obvious things that I knew I would miss but our vast amounts of luggage when we left meant that I didn't bring any of them with me. I know they will taste all the sweeter when I do finally get to eat them again...
Baked beans
Salt & vinegar crisps
Marmite
Flapjacks
Tabasco sauce
Sliced bread - you can buy it here but the size of each piece of bread is about enough for two bites, and in most cases the crust has been removed. Eating anything here with the skin on is just considered to be wrong. I'm eyed with enormous suspicion when I bite into an apple or a peach. "Man alive, she's eating the skin."
That said, my mother-in-law has just made me a rice pudding and I've been ordered up the road to go and eat. Rice pudding is something which I've always associated with being very British. But rice here is the food of the Gods and they do know how to make a good one, even if it will inevitably be served cold.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Couples of today are too selfish to be parents...
...that's what I'm listening to now on the radio.
The world population is growing but the European population is shrinking. The chief rabbi has said that Europe is dying as the indigenous population is too selfish to have children. His explanation: that we are hooked on consumerism and instant gratification.
One of nine children has just called into the radio show to say the important things are not constant presents, nintendos or holidays...but much more important is to go for long walks, to learn your place in the family and to always have someone to play with. A mother of two young boys has called in to say that two is her limit and yes she does now want to be selfish and find time for herself and also to dedicate the time that she does have to the development of her two existing children, not to have any more. Clearly there are benefits to both. Any children at all are a blessing but there will be differences in opinion in what provides the best environment to raise them.
It's true that in the UK today it is normal to be one of two or three. A little more unusual to be one of four and considered very unusual to be one of more than five.
In my own direct linage my paternal grandfather was one of eleven (spot the Irish link), my maternal grandmother an only child, my maternal grandfather was one of four, and my maternal grandmother one of four. My father one of two, my mother an only child. I'm one of two, before complicating the scene with step-siblings of which I have another four. My husband is one of three.
But is it true that we are now a generation of people far too selfish to have any children or at a push more than two? And are the chief rabbi's comments correct?
Being 35 and about to have my first, then it's pretty clear that I won't be having nine. I'm simply too old for having a large family to be a consideration. Which triggers a whole host of additional questions: why did I wait so long? did I consciously put my career and my financial independence first? did I deliberately spend my earlier years as avoiding starting a family? I could probably write a book on this, but not here today.
Would I like more? Of course I would - there's nothing quite like growing up with a brother or sister close in age to share life with, but let's see how this one goes and how the integration goes with our "blended" family. Step-parenting is considered to be even more difficult than parenting, and step-families are more likely to break up than any other family. Throw in a mixed culture (or three) and undoubtedly we have some challenges ahead.
The world population is growing but the European population is shrinking. The chief rabbi has said that Europe is dying as the indigenous population is too selfish to have children. His explanation: that we are hooked on consumerism and instant gratification.
One of nine children has just called into the radio show to say the important things are not constant presents, nintendos or holidays...but much more important is to go for long walks, to learn your place in the family and to always have someone to play with. A mother of two young boys has called in to say that two is her limit and yes she does now want to be selfish and find time for herself and also to dedicate the time that she does have to the development of her two existing children, not to have any more. Clearly there are benefits to both. Any children at all are a blessing but there will be differences in opinion in what provides the best environment to raise them.
It's true that in the UK today it is normal to be one of two or three. A little more unusual to be one of four and considered very unusual to be one of more than five.
In my own direct linage my paternal grandfather was one of eleven (spot the Irish link), my maternal grandmother an only child, my maternal grandfather was one of four, and my maternal grandmother one of four. My father one of two, my mother an only child. I'm one of two, before complicating the scene with step-siblings of which I have another four. My husband is one of three.
But is it true that we are now a generation of people far too selfish to have any children or at a push more than two? And are the chief rabbi's comments correct?
Being 35 and about to have my first, then it's pretty clear that I won't be having nine. I'm simply too old for having a large family to be a consideration. Which triggers a whole host of additional questions: why did I wait so long? did I consciously put my career and my financial independence first? did I deliberately spend my earlier years as avoiding starting a family? I could probably write a book on this, but not here today.
Would I like more? Of course I would - there's nothing quite like growing up with a brother or sister close in age to share life with, but let's see how this one goes and how the integration goes with our "blended" family. Step-parenting is considered to be even more difficult than parenting, and step-families are more likely to break up than any other family. Throw in a mixed culture (or three) and undoubtedly we have some challenges ahead.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
London - not so expensive after all
Barcelona - Day 29
37 weeks - officially classed as full term today, although not expecting any appearances for a few weeks yet
We've been in Spain for almost a month. The transition from the UK has been a fairly expensive one (husband, please don't read on as you will again accuse me of being obsessed with money which is neither true nor fair).
Major move costs included:
Preparing our flat in London for rental - just shy of £4,000 for the year: (safety certificates - £150, boiler repairs due to shoddy installation - £300, decorating - £1,000, deep cleaning - £300, key cutting - £50, professional inventory - £120, estate agent costs for the year - £1,750).
Perhaps it's not fair to include this as a move cost as we would have had to move anyway - a one bedroom flat on the third floor with no lift would have surely scored highly on the impracticability index. Most of the costs should be (hopefully) one-off costs not to be seen again, but we'll see. The good news is that the monthly mortgage payments have reduced by almost £250 so the rental income now more than covers the mortgage and running costs. One less thing to worry about.
Storing items that we didn't ship - £80 per month
Shipping items that we didn't store - £400
New luggage to maxmise our baggage allowance - £200
Excess baggage costs to cover the additional weight we managed to cram into our extra large suitcases - £100
One-way flights from UK to Spain - £150
Equipping our new flat in Barcelona from Ikea with basic living items - £350
Spanish estate agent costs - £550
I'm fast discovering, that other than property rental and public transport; and it is well known that the cost of public transport in London is obscene; that living here in Spain is really no cheaper than living in London. On many counts it certainly feels as expensive if not more so. Our timing as far as the £/Euro rate is concerned has been pretty poor, but even if we were living in the heady times of a couple of years ago when a British pound bought about 1.4 euros, I still think that my conclusion would be the same. Perhaps I need to adjust my buying to buy the same as the locals, which is largely what I've been trying to do, but there are some things that really do feel like daylight robbery.
A bottle of Listerine mouthwash, 6 euros (in the UK, £2.50)
A bottle of baby lotion, 18 euros (in the UK, £2 for a well known brand)
A babygrow, 30 euros (in the UK, £10 for 6 and they would be "not just any babygrows")
5 bananas, 4 apples and 2 custard apples from the market, 6 euros
I have already started compiling my list of things to bring back from my first trip home.
37 weeks - officially classed as full term today, although not expecting any appearances for a few weeks yet
We've been in Spain for almost a month. The transition from the UK has been a fairly expensive one (husband, please don't read on as you will again accuse me of being obsessed with money which is neither true nor fair).
Major move costs included:
Preparing our flat in London for rental - just shy of £4,000 for the year: (safety certificates - £150, boiler repairs due to shoddy installation - £300, decorating - £1,000, deep cleaning - £300, key cutting - £50, professional inventory - £120, estate agent costs for the year - £1,750).
Perhaps it's not fair to include this as a move cost as we would have had to move anyway - a one bedroom flat on the third floor with no lift would have surely scored highly on the impracticability index. Most of the costs should be (hopefully) one-off costs not to be seen again, but we'll see. The good news is that the monthly mortgage payments have reduced by almost £250 so the rental income now more than covers the mortgage and running costs. One less thing to worry about.
Storing items that we didn't ship - £80 per month
Shipping items that we didn't store - £400
New luggage to maxmise our baggage allowance - £200
Excess baggage costs to cover the additional weight we managed to cram into our extra large suitcases - £100
One-way flights from UK to Spain - £150
Equipping our new flat in Barcelona from Ikea with basic living items - £350
Spanish estate agent costs - £550
I'm fast discovering, that other than property rental and public transport; and it is well known that the cost of public transport in London is obscene; that living here in Spain is really no cheaper than living in London. On many counts it certainly feels as expensive if not more so. Our timing as far as the £/Euro rate is concerned has been pretty poor, but even if we were living in the heady times of a couple of years ago when a British pound bought about 1.4 euros, I still think that my conclusion would be the same. Perhaps I need to adjust my buying to buy the same as the locals, which is largely what I've been trying to do, but there are some things that really do feel like daylight robbery.
A bottle of Listerine mouthwash, 6 euros (in the UK, £2.50)
A bottle of baby lotion, 18 euros (in the UK, £2 for a well known brand)
A babygrow, 30 euros (in the UK, £10 for 6 and they would be "not just any babygrows")
5 bananas, 4 apples and 2 custard apples from the market, 6 euros
I have already started compiling my list of things to bring back from my first trip home.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Bag packed
La Canestilla (the hospital bag)
37 weeks is the official time to pack the bag if not already done. Hospital stays here in Spain seem to be a little longer than in the UK (and I know that Ivan is counting on this to tidy the flat). If everything goes to plan with no complications then a two night stay is normal, and the time can be a little longer if things don't go quite as smoothly as one would hope.
I was given a list of "things to take to the hospital" at home but I asked the midwife here if she had one as I had a suspicion it would be different. And it is. First on the Spanish list for me is.....a hairdryer. I suppose that they must be thinking about the first few photos here and giving you the opportunity to ensure you look your best, but I was a little surprised to see it on the list. Other than that, the list for me is surprisingly short. Slippers, dressing gown, wash bag, 3 night dresses, 6 pairs of knickers and a couple of bras. So nothing to go home in then.
The list for the baby is quite extensive and includes among other items a fairly long list of baby toileteries (including perfume). Perfume?! I had to read it twice and then ask if I'd read it correctly. I'm not quite sure that I dare mention to anyone here that the advice I received during the NCT classes was that soap is really not necessary for the first few months - water and cotton wool is quite sufficient. And simple olive oil is about the best moisturiser you can use. Just as well as a standard bottle of baby lotion retails in the pharmacies here for a whopping 18 Euros. Things for babies are pretty much only available in pharmacies in Spain. The inevitability of this is a hefty price tag on just about everything. Apparently there were riots a couple of years ago when supermarkets won the right to sell formula and baby food.
Other items to bring include:
4 vests (tick)
4 babygrows (tick)
4 cardigans (we don't have any)
4 pairs of socks (tick)
2 hats (tick)
2 - of something that neither of us know what it is - arrullos. Perhaps they mean blankets.
We've also been told that we have to make up daily bags for the baby to hand to the nurse who will dress the baby every day. Each bag must contain a vest, a babygrow, a cardigan, a pair of socks, and a hat (which can be used twice...). I was regarded with horror when I suggested using supermarket plastic bags. No, not surprisingly you can buy special bags fit for purpose. From the pharmacy, of course.
37 weeks is the official time to pack the bag if not already done. Hospital stays here in Spain seem to be a little longer than in the UK (and I know that Ivan is counting on this to tidy the flat). If everything goes to plan with no complications then a two night stay is normal, and the time can be a little longer if things don't go quite as smoothly as one would hope.
I was given a list of "things to take to the hospital" at home but I asked the midwife here if she had one as I had a suspicion it would be different. And it is. First on the Spanish list for me is.....a hairdryer. I suppose that they must be thinking about the first few photos here and giving you the opportunity to ensure you look your best, but I was a little surprised to see it on the list. Other than that, the list for me is surprisingly short. Slippers, dressing gown, wash bag, 3 night dresses, 6 pairs of knickers and a couple of bras. So nothing to go home in then.
The list for the baby is quite extensive and includes among other items a fairly long list of baby toileteries (including perfume). Perfume?! I had to read it twice and then ask if I'd read it correctly. I'm not quite sure that I dare mention to anyone here that the advice I received during the NCT classes was that soap is really not necessary for the first few months - water and cotton wool is quite sufficient. And simple olive oil is about the best moisturiser you can use. Just as well as a standard bottle of baby lotion retails in the pharmacies here for a whopping 18 Euros. Things for babies are pretty much only available in pharmacies in Spain. The inevitability of this is a hefty price tag on just about everything. Apparently there were riots a couple of years ago when supermarkets won the right to sell formula and baby food.
Other items to bring include:
4 vests (tick)
4 babygrows (tick)
4 cardigans (we don't have any)
4 pairs of socks (tick)
2 hats (tick)
2 - of something that neither of us know what it is - arrullos. Perhaps they mean blankets.
We've also been told that we have to make up daily bags for the baby to hand to the nurse who will dress the baby every day. Each bag must contain a vest, a babygrow, a cardigan, a pair of socks, and a hat (which can be used twice...). I was regarded with horror when I suggested using supermarket plastic bags. No, not surprisingly you can buy special bags fit for purpose. From the pharmacy, of course.
Where exactly does the milk come from?
Boob holes
I've found myself looking at my boobs and wondering where the holes are. They've certainly done what was expected of them so far...outgrown every bra I've ever owned and made a grand effort to keep up with my expanding belly. But I can't help wondering just quite where the milk will come from. It's not as obvious as one might have thought. Yet another discovery on the path of enlightenment. Speaking of which, no lightening as of yet. Officially full term tomorrow (37 weeks) but no sign of dropping so I think it could be a while yet.
I've found myself looking at my boobs and wondering where the holes are. They've certainly done what was expected of them so far...outgrown every bra I've ever owned and made a grand effort to keep up with my expanding belly. But I can't help wondering just quite where the milk will come from. It's not as obvious as one might have thought. Yet another discovery on the path of enlightenment. Speaking of which, no lightening as of yet. Officially full term tomorrow (37 weeks) but no sign of dropping so I think it could be a while yet.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Domestic Goddess...not
Barcelona - Day 26
Trying to integrate into life here has seen a change in my cooking. It's partly to reflect what's available, and partly to learn some new skills in my remaining few weeks where I have little time.
So last night's attempt...deep fried calamari. Yummy.
I didn't bring any recipe books with me so I'm relying on my memory and online recipes. Having bought a whole squid at Saturday's market and knowing that I had eggs and flour I thought I was set. Not so. As I looked online, I read with dismay that eggs are the enemy of a good batter. All I needed was flour, baking soda and sparkling water (or beer). So I duly followed the recipe, prepared my batter (no eggs), heated the oil (and I'm always worried it will catch fire, so damp tea towel at the ready), dipped my squid in the batter and threw it into the oil for 3-4 minutes. All remarkably simple. Except the batter didn't stick, so we had succulent tender naked squid and a lovely crunchy empty batter.
Perhaps I needed a little egg after all.
Trying to integrate into life here has seen a change in my cooking. It's partly to reflect what's available, and partly to learn some new skills in my remaining few weeks where I have little time.
So last night's attempt...deep fried calamari. Yummy.
I didn't bring any recipe books with me so I'm relying on my memory and online recipes. Having bought a whole squid at Saturday's market and knowing that I had eggs and flour I thought I was set. Not so. As I looked online, I read with dismay that eggs are the enemy of a good batter. All I needed was flour, baking soda and sparkling water (or beer). So I duly followed the recipe, prepared my batter (no eggs), heated the oil (and I'm always worried it will catch fire, so damp tea towel at the ready), dipped my squid in the batter and threw it into the oil for 3-4 minutes. All remarkably simple. Except the batter didn't stick, so we had succulent tender naked squid and a lovely crunchy empty batter.
Perhaps I needed a little egg after all.
Monday, 2 November 2009
What's in a christian name?
We had a large family lunch yesterday to celebrate la Ya-Ya's (grandma's) 64th birthday. By large, it was no larger than usual since it seems to be normal here that the entire family meets for lunch weekly. But this time there was cake and cava. Lovely.
My brother-in-law and his wife are expecting their third baby in April and announced yesterday what the name will be. Heavens above, they don't even know the sex yet. After we came home Ivan chatted to a friend of his who is expecting in March, and they have also named theirs. It seems once again I am in disgrace for not naming ours. Other than managing to conceive at all, it seems I am failing this crucial test.
I’m not especially superstitious but perhaps a little fearful of counting my chickens before they hatch and of bringing bad luck to the birth of my child. There's almost a need to avoid personifying the baby too much or creating an image of my child in my head before it's born. I have no idea what he'll look like let alone what sort of temperment he'll display. And a name is so important and so final. So what's the rush?
What I find really quite unnerving is people who use their baby's name in public before birth. We're using a nickname during pregnancy..."Popcorn"...which refers to my description of how it felt when I sensed those precious first movements all those months ago. At 37 weeks, the movements may not feel like popping corn anymore, but the name has stuck. Relax, I'm fairly sure that it will be discarded the moment he has a real name.
As for the real name, we'll keep that to ourselves until we feel it's a good fit (which we'll have to do pretty quickly given the time constraints for registering the birth). It seems that I am not alone in this, although I may be the only woman in Spain to think this way. To quote Seinfeld talking about people who refer to their baby using his or her name in the run up to when it's born, who cover the nursery with embroidered bed linen and pictures using the name, "Not that there is anything wrong with that…it’s just creepy to me." My sentiments entirely.
There are also practical reasons why I don’t want to share the name until he's born. During pregnancy, relatives and friends often feel free to criticise the chosen name or worse, become insulted if the child isn’t named after a certain loved one, or a certain tradition. My experience of throwing just a few names onto the table is exactly that. But it’s harder to be critical of the name if it’s announced with the arrival of a precious newborn. After all, it takes real nerve to confront brand new parents over a name. Or perhaps not in Spain.
My brother-in-law and his wife are expecting their third baby in April and announced yesterday what the name will be. Heavens above, they don't even know the sex yet. After we came home Ivan chatted to a friend of his who is expecting in March, and they have also named theirs. It seems once again I am in disgrace for not naming ours. Other than managing to conceive at all, it seems I am failing this crucial test.
I’m not especially superstitious but perhaps a little fearful of counting my chickens before they hatch and of bringing bad luck to the birth of my child. There's almost a need to avoid personifying the baby too much or creating an image of my child in my head before it's born. I have no idea what he'll look like let alone what sort of temperment he'll display. And a name is so important and so final. So what's the rush?
What I find really quite unnerving is people who use their baby's name in public before birth. We're using a nickname during pregnancy..."Popcorn"...which refers to my description of how it felt when I sensed those precious first movements all those months ago. At 37 weeks, the movements may not feel like popping corn anymore, but the name has stuck. Relax, I'm fairly sure that it will be discarded the moment he has a real name.
As for the real name, we'll keep that to ourselves until we feel it's a good fit (which we'll have to do pretty quickly given the time constraints for registering the birth). It seems that I am not alone in this, although I may be the only woman in Spain to think this way. To quote Seinfeld talking about people who refer to their baby using his or her name in the run up to when it's born, who cover the nursery with embroidered bed linen and pictures using the name, "Not that there is anything wrong with that…it’s just creepy to me." My sentiments entirely.
There are also practical reasons why I don’t want to share the name until he's born. During pregnancy, relatives and friends often feel free to criticise the chosen name or worse, become insulted if the child isn’t named after a certain loved one, or a certain tradition. My experience of throwing just a few names onto the table is exactly that. But it’s harder to be critical of the name if it’s announced with the arrival of a precious newborn. After all, it takes real nerve to confront brand new parents over a name. Or perhaps not in Spain.
Saturday, 31 October 2009
What's in a surname?
It's just as well I haven't yet changed my name on my passport otherwise our son would have the surname: Pedrazas-Pedrazas. As if Pedrazas-Ball wasn't bad enough. There's no way around this. Children born here are automatically given the first surname of each parent.
Having such a mouthful for a surname may explain why it is uncommon here for people to have middle names, but we haven't ruled it out.
As for names - watch this space. We've been asked by a Spanish aunt what the name will be so that she can embroider the name on a blanket. Once again I am met with incredulous looks as I say that it's impossible to decide on the name until he's born. Viva las diferencias.
Having such a mouthful for a surname may explain why it is uncommon here for people to have middle names, but we haven't ruled it out.
As for names - watch this space. We've been asked by a Spanish aunt what the name will be so that she can embroider the name on a blanket. Once again I am met with incredulous looks as I say that it's impossible to decide on the name until he's born. Viva las diferencias.
Paperwork
Let's see, what do I have.
A Spanish husband.
My marriage certificate issued in the UK - which I've been told is invalid in Spain as it does not have a stamp. Madre mia.
My passport, which I have to carry everywhere with me as I don't have a national identity card. I even have to show it to get into the local swimming baths.
My European health card issued in the UK in my married name which may cause issues as my passport is in my maiden name.
An E112 from the UK confirming that I can have health cover, including maternity services, until March 2010 (stamped, thankfully).
A certificate from the local police confirming that I am a foreigner in Spain and an NIE (Numero de Identidad de Extranjero) - a foreigner's identity number. Obtaining these two pieces of documentation took three visits to the police station (with a mandatory ten days break between visits 1 and 2), two visits to the bank (?) and a large helping of patience. The bank said we couldn't pay the fee as we didn't have the number and the police said that we couldn't have the number until we'd paid the fee. Catch 22. The policeman shut up shop at 10am to go for breakfast. The security guard shrugged and said, "well he has to eat."
A certificat d'empadronament - I'm really not quite sure what this is, but the local council issued it and it means I can join the local library.
The paperwork is mounting, and yet trying to get a clear answer from anyone in a position of authority as to exactly what it is that I need to just receive health care here is almost impossible. I've been told I need a social security number, but I can't have my own as I've never paid tax here. Fine. I understand that. So I can be registered on Ivan's number. But he's been out of the country for five years, so until he starts work (on Monday) neither of us our covered. Let's hope we have an illness free weekend.
A Spanish husband.
My marriage certificate issued in the UK - which I've been told is invalid in Spain as it does not have a stamp. Madre mia.
My passport, which I have to carry everywhere with me as I don't have a national identity card. I even have to show it to get into the local swimming baths.
My European health card issued in the UK in my married name which may cause issues as my passport is in my maiden name.
An E112 from the UK confirming that I can have health cover, including maternity services, until March 2010 (stamped, thankfully).
A certificate from the local police confirming that I am a foreigner in Spain and an NIE (Numero de Identidad de Extranjero) - a foreigner's identity number. Obtaining these two pieces of documentation took three visits to the police station (with a mandatory ten days break between visits 1 and 2), two visits to the bank (?) and a large helping of patience. The bank said we couldn't pay the fee as we didn't have the number and the police said that we couldn't have the number until we'd paid the fee. Catch 22. The policeman shut up shop at 10am to go for breakfast. The security guard shrugged and said, "well he has to eat."
A certificat d'empadronament - I'm really not quite sure what this is, but the local council issued it and it means I can join the local library.
The paperwork is mounting, and yet trying to get a clear answer from anyone in a position of authority as to exactly what it is that I need to just receive health care here is almost impossible. I've been told I need a social security number, but I can't have my own as I've never paid tax here. Fine. I understand that. So I can be registered on Ivan's number. But he's been out of the country for five years, so until he starts work (on Monday) neither of us our covered. Let's hope we have an illness free weekend.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
A prescribed way of life?
Barcelona - Day 21
To layer or not to layer?
I took the plunge a couple of Saturdays ago to have my haircut here. It was woefully overdue (5 months since the last cut) and shame on me for having left it so long.
I've been lucky and nothing disastrous has happened to my hair during pregnancy - in fact it's looked rather good, and unsurprisingly quite long after such a period of neglect. Keen to keep it long and mindful of advice of never to consider a new hairstyle while expecting, I made sure I was equipped with the vocabulary to request a modest trim ("me cortas los puntos") and off I went to la peluqueria. There appear to be thousands of hairdressers in Spain - one on every corner - that and pharmacies (more on the nation of hypochondria and self-prescribers another time).
The conversation went something like this...
Hairdresser: "What can I do for you today?"
Me: "Just a trim please"
HD: "But it's all one length and I think you should have it layered"
Me: "I don't want layers, and I definitely don't want it done like the woman who was before me. Just trim the ends please"
HD: "But it would look much better with layers"
Me: "I don't want layers - it goes curly when it has layers and I've spent about 4 years growing them out"
HD: "Curly is nice - I think you should have layers"
Me: "No thank you - just a trim please"
Guess what? I now have more layers than a mille-feuille pastry. I almost screamed as she picked up her scissors and cut off a good 6 inches. "Que haces con mi pello?" - "What are you doing to my hair?", I demanded. She just smiled and said it will look much better. I'm not going there again. It will take me years to grow out.
Yet when I look at every other woman here in Spain with hair over a certain length, she also has layers. It's as if all of the hairdressers have received instructions from a central authority that long hair must be layered. Either that, or the hairdressers only know how to do one style.
Instructions to pee
When I was given my receptacle to deliver the first of my weekly urine samples here in Spain I was a little surprised that it came with instructions. My experience in the UK in this area has never been great...it doesn't seem to matter how many times you practice, peeing into a small pot to provide a urine sample is inevitably a bit messy. Coupled with using Wandsworth health centre's toilet to deliver the goods and all the etiquette that comes with using public loos...handbag must not touch the floor, bottom must not touch the seat...I don't think it could be described as pleasant. But in the UK it was simple. Show up for your appointment, take a pot, provide a sample, wrap it in tissue paper (I only started doing this when I saw someone else had done it and thought it was quite a considerate thing to do for the nurses), and take your sample in when called to see the midwife.
Here in Spain you are given at least a day in advance: 1 pot, 2 test tubes and 5 instruction points in 2 languages, roughly translated as follows:
1. The sample must be the first flow of the day
2. Use the large pot to catch the urine, being careful to avoid the start and finish of the flow
3. Using the large pot, fill the two test tubes with the urine
4. Firmly close the test tubes
5. Finally, invert the test tubes to check that there is no leakage and that they are well closed.
As for points 1 and 2, at home, any flow will do and as for not catching the start and finish, when your bladder has been crushed to a fraction of its normal size sometimes that's just all there is to catch.
So, I've come to a country where it feels as if some aspects of life are quite prescribed. My hair must be cut in a certain way and I must pee according to lengthy instructions. Lordy.
To layer or not to layer?
I took the plunge a couple of Saturdays ago to have my haircut here. It was woefully overdue (5 months since the last cut) and shame on me for having left it so long.
I've been lucky and nothing disastrous has happened to my hair during pregnancy - in fact it's looked rather good, and unsurprisingly quite long after such a period of neglect. Keen to keep it long and mindful of advice of never to consider a new hairstyle while expecting, I made sure I was equipped with the vocabulary to request a modest trim ("me cortas los puntos") and off I went to la peluqueria. There appear to be thousands of hairdressers in Spain - one on every corner - that and pharmacies (more on the nation of hypochondria and self-prescribers another time).
The conversation went something like this...
Hairdresser: "What can I do for you today?"
Me: "Just a trim please"
HD: "But it's all one length and I think you should have it layered"
Me: "I don't want layers, and I definitely don't want it done like the woman who was before me. Just trim the ends please"
HD: "But it would look much better with layers"
Me: "I don't want layers - it goes curly when it has layers and I've spent about 4 years growing them out"
HD: "Curly is nice - I think you should have layers"
Me: "No thank you - just a trim please"
Guess what? I now have more layers than a mille-feuille pastry. I almost screamed as she picked up her scissors and cut off a good 6 inches. "Que haces con mi pello?" - "What are you doing to my hair?", I demanded. She just smiled and said it will look much better. I'm not going there again. It will take me years to grow out.
Yet when I look at every other woman here in Spain with hair over a certain length, she also has layers. It's as if all of the hairdressers have received instructions from a central authority that long hair must be layered. Either that, or the hairdressers only know how to do one style.
Instructions to pee
When I was given my receptacle to deliver the first of my weekly urine samples here in Spain I was a little surprised that it came with instructions. My experience in the UK in this area has never been great...it doesn't seem to matter how many times you practice, peeing into a small pot to provide a urine sample is inevitably a bit messy. Coupled with using Wandsworth health centre's toilet to deliver the goods and all the etiquette that comes with using public loos...handbag must not touch the floor, bottom must not touch the seat...I don't think it could be described as pleasant. But in the UK it was simple. Show up for your appointment, take a pot, provide a sample, wrap it in tissue paper (I only started doing this when I saw someone else had done it and thought it was quite a considerate thing to do for the nurses), and take your sample in when called to see the midwife.
Here in Spain you are given at least a day in advance: 1 pot, 2 test tubes and 5 instruction points in 2 languages, roughly translated as follows:
1. The sample must be the first flow of the day
2. Use the large pot to catch the urine, being careful to avoid the start and finish of the flow
3. Using the large pot, fill the two test tubes with the urine
4. Firmly close the test tubes
5. Finally, invert the test tubes to check that there is no leakage and that they are well closed.
As for points 1 and 2, at home, any flow will do and as for not catching the start and finish, when your bladder has been crushed to a fraction of its normal size sometimes that's just all there is to catch.
So, I've come to a country where it feels as if some aspects of life are quite prescribed. My hair must be cut in a certain way and I must pee according to lengthy instructions. Lordy.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Real life and homesickness
Barcelona - Day 17
The dawning of realisation
So life here is really about to begin in earnest and I'm a little apprehensive to say the least. What with having tasks to do for the first couple of weeks to keep me fully occupied, the tasks are done for now and real life starts. But quite what real life will be for the next month remains to be seen as movement becomes more of challenge; and what real life will ensue is anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time that when someone asked me what I was doing tomorrow that I could give the response..."quite honestly, I don't know."
Housewife weekend - tales of frustration from a sh1t oven
I've christened this weekend as "housewife weekend" as cooking and cleaning have taken centre stage. This was not a weekend where I was thankful for the extra hour as the clocks went back - a few less would have suited me much better.
It doesn't seem to matter how many times I sweep the white floor tiles, a large pile of dirt and dust is guaranteed. I'm already fed up with the brush and missing my marvelous Dyson. I don't care if we don't have carpets, I still want a hoover.
Getting to grips with the oven has been this weekend's major challenge. Jamie's "perfect roast chicken" recipe left me with a partially raw bird at the time of serving (thank goodness the Spanish like to eat late) and yet Sunday's lasagne was almost burnt in under half an hour. At least the fish pie went down well - thank you Delia Smith.
Seven year-old jealousy
Ivan's son has been with us every weekend since we arrived when he would normally only see him every other weekend, so I'm not sure yet if that can be classed as normal life. He's also especially jealous at the moment, no surprise, and I thank God that the amniotic fluid is supposed to provide the best suspension and protection system known to man. Hopefully Popcorn is unaware of the slaps he receives to find out if he's awake. I need to think of it as preparation for what is yet to come. Little brothers inevitably have the sh1t kicked out of them by older brothers, so some early toughening up shouldn't do any harm.
Welcome to Catalunya
My frustration is compounded as they have what feels like their own secret Catalan language and almost resolutely refuse to speak Spanish which I've spent the last 18 months desperately trying to improve. Officially the region has two languages, but don't believe a word of it. The official languages are Catalan and Catalan. My Spanish efforts are met with vacant looks (and I'm really not that bad) and are translated immediately into Catalan so I might as well speak English. If I'd come here 50 years ago when all but the Castillian languages were surpressed (a la Franco) I may have had an easier time.
So, my inability to master the local language, and not knowing people here are already making me look forward to coming home, but I suspect it's just the homesickness talking.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Our plans were simple enough. Take advantage of the additional maternity leave offered in the UK and come to Barcelona to have the baby and try out life. Ivan would be with me when the baby was born and then look for a job to start in the new year. In the antenatal classes that we attended in the UK he would lean over and say "it will be different for us as I'll be with you for the first few months and I've done it all before..." Smug.
Not so...he starts his new job a week on Monday. The six month contract will take us to May of next year which is at least a good time for us to start planning the move back to the UK. The hours are pretty flexible (8-3 three days a week, 9-6 the other two) with some possibility of working from home, so the opportunity is too good to let pass. The upside is that Ivan can have the summer off and we can make the most of our flat by the beach and have lots of friends to visit. The downside is that I'll be stuck with a new baby and without friends in a town where speaking the traditional Spanish language is frowned upon. People say that the first three months are absolute hell anyway, so chances are I may not even notice. Time to invest in a car.
First visitors...
....arrive this week. I've just received news that they've broken down in Lyon in France so may not be staying quite as long as initially planned. Just as well as I can't quite face getting intimate with the oven again so soon.
The dawning of realisation
So life here is really about to begin in earnest and I'm a little apprehensive to say the least. What with having tasks to do for the first couple of weeks to keep me fully occupied, the tasks are done for now and real life starts. But quite what real life will be for the next month remains to be seen as movement becomes more of challenge; and what real life will ensue is anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time that when someone asked me what I was doing tomorrow that I could give the response..."quite honestly, I don't know."
Housewife weekend - tales of frustration from a sh1t oven
I've christened this weekend as "housewife weekend" as cooking and cleaning have taken centre stage. This was not a weekend where I was thankful for the extra hour as the clocks went back - a few less would have suited me much better.
It doesn't seem to matter how many times I sweep the white floor tiles, a large pile of dirt and dust is guaranteed. I'm already fed up with the brush and missing my marvelous Dyson. I don't care if we don't have carpets, I still want a hoover.
Getting to grips with the oven has been this weekend's major challenge. Jamie's "perfect roast chicken" recipe left me with a partially raw bird at the time of serving (thank goodness the Spanish like to eat late) and yet Sunday's lasagne was almost burnt in under half an hour. At least the fish pie went down well - thank you Delia Smith.
Seven year-old jealousy
Ivan's son has been with us every weekend since we arrived when he would normally only see him every other weekend, so I'm not sure yet if that can be classed as normal life. He's also especially jealous at the moment, no surprise, and I thank God that the amniotic fluid is supposed to provide the best suspension and protection system known to man. Hopefully Popcorn is unaware of the slaps he receives to find out if he's awake. I need to think of it as preparation for what is yet to come. Little brothers inevitably have the sh1t kicked out of them by older brothers, so some early toughening up shouldn't do any harm.
Welcome to Catalunya
My frustration is compounded as they have what feels like their own secret Catalan language and almost resolutely refuse to speak Spanish which I've spent the last 18 months desperately trying to improve. Officially the region has two languages, but don't believe a word of it. The official languages are Catalan and Catalan. My Spanish efforts are met with vacant looks (and I'm really not that bad) and are translated immediately into Catalan so I might as well speak English. If I'd come here 50 years ago when all but the Castillian languages were surpressed (a la Franco) I may have had an easier time.
So, my inability to master the local language, and not knowing people here are already making me look forward to coming home, but I suspect it's just the homesickness talking.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Our plans were simple enough. Take advantage of the additional maternity leave offered in the UK and come to Barcelona to have the baby and try out life. Ivan would be with me when the baby was born and then look for a job to start in the new year. In the antenatal classes that we attended in the UK he would lean over and say "it will be different for us as I'll be with you for the first few months and I've done it all before..." Smug.
Not so...he starts his new job a week on Monday. The six month contract will take us to May of next year which is at least a good time for us to start planning the move back to the UK. The hours are pretty flexible (8-3 three days a week, 9-6 the other two) with some possibility of working from home, so the opportunity is too good to let pass. The upside is that Ivan can have the summer off and we can make the most of our flat by the beach and have lots of friends to visit. The downside is that I'll be stuck with a new baby and without friends in a town where speaking the traditional Spanish language is frowned upon. People say that the first three months are absolute hell anyway, so chances are I may not even notice. Time to invest in a car.
First visitors...
....arrive this week. I've just received news that they've broken down in Lyon in France so may not be staying quite as long as initially planned. Just as well as I can't quite face getting intimate with the oven again so soon.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Who's the last?
Barcelona - Day 15
Al mercado - to market
Every day in Canet is market day, except for Sunday when most of Spain closes down. Mondays are no good for fish as the fishermen don't go out on Sundays and Wednesdays are the best as there's an extended market. So now I know.
Unsurprisingly I was accompanied by my in-laws on my first trip. Ivan was out of town so it doubled as today's Spanish lesson. "We want to introduce you as our daughter-in-law so that the traders don't try to rip you off for being a foreigner." Thank you indeed. So now I know the best places to buy fish, poultry, rabbit (my cooking skills are going to be tested...), jamon (it has a food group all of its own), vegetables and fruit, and the traders will have the wrath of my mother-in-law if they try anything on. I also now know how to recognise a good custard apple from a bad one and understand that with every purchase something comes for free - usually a big bunch of parsley. I can only conclude that parsley is given to neutralise the vast amounts of garlic consumed at every meal. Spain consumes more garlic per capita than any other nation - and we Brits thought it was the French who topped the garlic charts. Everything is so fresh and so LARGE and I was advised that people will eye me with suspicion if I only ask for small amounts ("you only want 3 onions??"). Personally half a kilo of tomatoes sounded like quite a haul to me, along with a kilo a fish (free parsley), a whole chicken (free garlic and the head and feet) and a lettuce almost as big as me. Besides, I can't carry much at the moment. Ivan's father suggested I buy myself one of those trolleys that most people's grandmothers pull about. I politely told him that once the pushchair is operational that I wouldn't have any spare hands.
Wot no queuing?
Queuing doesn't get a look in. Everyone pushes their way to the front and it is customary to approach the stall and shout "quien es el ultimo?" - "who's the last?". So manners may not be necessary, but memory is.
Supermarket sweep
I was accosted in the supermarket by a lady who probably told me her life story, but I didn't understand much. Being pregnant gives the world, and old ladies in particular, an opening to talk to you. Fortunately it also offers an escape. After 15 minutes of chatting, or rather me listening and nodding in what appeared to be the right places, I was able to excuse myself on the basis of needing to pee.
Al mercado - to market
Every day in Canet is market day, except for Sunday when most of Spain closes down. Mondays are no good for fish as the fishermen don't go out on Sundays and Wednesdays are the best as there's an extended market. So now I know.
Unsurprisingly I was accompanied by my in-laws on my first trip. Ivan was out of town so it doubled as today's Spanish lesson. "We want to introduce you as our daughter-in-law so that the traders don't try to rip you off for being a foreigner." Thank you indeed. So now I know the best places to buy fish, poultry, rabbit (my cooking skills are going to be tested...), jamon (it has a food group all of its own), vegetables and fruit, and the traders will have the wrath of my mother-in-law if they try anything on. I also now know how to recognise a good custard apple from a bad one and understand that with every purchase something comes for free - usually a big bunch of parsley. I can only conclude that parsley is given to neutralise the vast amounts of garlic consumed at every meal. Spain consumes more garlic per capita than any other nation - and we Brits thought it was the French who topped the garlic charts. Everything is so fresh and so LARGE and I was advised that people will eye me with suspicion if I only ask for small amounts ("you only want 3 onions??"). Personally half a kilo of tomatoes sounded like quite a haul to me, along with a kilo a fish (free parsley), a whole chicken (free garlic and the head and feet) and a lettuce almost as big as me. Besides, I can't carry much at the moment. Ivan's father suggested I buy myself one of those trolleys that most people's grandmothers pull about. I politely told him that once the pushchair is operational that I wouldn't have any spare hands.
Wot no queuing?
Queuing doesn't get a look in. Everyone pushes their way to the front and it is customary to approach the stall and shout "quien es el ultimo?" - "who's the last?". So manners may not be necessary, but memory is.
Supermarket sweep
I was accosted in the supermarket by a lady who probably told me her life story, but I didn't understand much. Being pregnant gives the world, and old ladies in particular, an opening to talk to you. Fortunately it also offers an escape. After 15 minutes of chatting, or rather me listening and nodding in what appeared to be the right places, I was able to excuse myself on the basis of needing to pee.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
BBC iPlayer - a swizz
The BBC iPlayer and the itv.com website links don't work here (I feel very cheated) so for anyone reading please do update me on the progress of Strictly and X-Factor. I miss them.
Welcome to Spain...
...the weather is lovely as you can see from the photo taken from our balcony yesterday morning. I won't be making anyone jealous with this.
To be fair, the average weather for the time of year is about right with temperatures of between 15 and 21 degrees Celsius, (so naturally all the natives are wearing winter coats and scarves as it's soooo cold) and October is the wettest month with an expected nine days of rain. So it's no surprise I was soaked on my trip into the city yesterday morning. With the streets looking more like rivers I began to understand why so many people were wearing wellies....if only I'd had a camera.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/world/city_guides/results.shtml?tt=TT004270
Barcelona Women's Network
http://www.bcnwomensnetwork.com/
Yesterday's venture into the city was to go and meet some people while I'm still mobile enough to get around. I was the first to arrive at 10.30 and quickly realised that it's time to adopt the timing mentality of the locals...nothing starts on time. I did however meet a lovely group of ladies and for the first time in a fortnight could speak in my own language without really having to think or worry about being understood. Suddenly the gap between English and Americans seems very small. I came away laden with gifts of baby clothes and some recent issues of "Heat" magazine. Heat is normally only a treat at the dentist (I wouldn't dream of buying it) but it felt strangely comforting to read up on Jordan's misfortunes, Cheryl's solo career and Posh's skinniness last night.
Castellano or Catalan?
Another major accomplishment yesterday. We managed to bypass some of the administration requirements and had an appointment with the midwife. She looked at me and said "this is your first appointment with us and yet I can see that you are quite pregnant." Indeed, thank you for noticing. Comforting observations from a midwife. In fact she was lovely and by stroke of luck had spent some time working in London at St Mary's hospital so knew about the different expectations and methods in England and Spain. We've been referred to the hospital in Mataro, one of the seven hospitals in Catalonia listed as promoting natural birth and to execute with informed consent. We'll see.
New word for yesterday - "llevadora", only to discover that this is the word for midwife in Catalan, and if I want to be understood by most of the Spanish world then I should be using "comadrona". By the time I leave Spain I expect to have a vocabulary of mixed dialect only to be understood by a small group of people. At least I'll know what I mean.
To be fair, the average weather for the time of year is about right with temperatures of between 15 and 21 degrees Celsius, (so naturally all the natives are wearing winter coats and scarves as it's soooo cold) and October is the wettest month with an expected nine days of rain. So it's no surprise I was soaked on my trip into the city yesterday morning. With the streets looking more like rivers I began to understand why so many people were wearing wellies....if only I'd had a camera.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/world/city_guides/results.shtml?tt=TT004270
Barcelona Women's Network
http://www.bcnwomensnetwork.com/
Yesterday's venture into the city was to go and meet some people while I'm still mobile enough to get around. I was the first to arrive at 10.30 and quickly realised that it's time to adopt the timing mentality of the locals...nothing starts on time. I did however meet a lovely group of ladies and for the first time in a fortnight could speak in my own language without really having to think or worry about being understood. Suddenly the gap between English and Americans seems very small. I came away laden with gifts of baby clothes and some recent issues of "Heat" magazine. Heat is normally only a treat at the dentist (I wouldn't dream of buying it) but it felt strangely comforting to read up on Jordan's misfortunes, Cheryl's solo career and Posh's skinniness last night.
Castellano or Catalan?
Another major accomplishment yesterday. We managed to bypass some of the administration requirements and had an appointment with the midwife. She looked at me and said "this is your first appointment with us and yet I can see that you are quite pregnant." Indeed, thank you for noticing. Comforting observations from a midwife. In fact she was lovely and by stroke of luck had spent some time working in London at St Mary's hospital so knew about the different expectations and methods in England and Spain. We've been referred to the hospital in Mataro, one of the seven hospitals in Catalonia listed as promoting natural birth and to execute with informed consent. We'll see.
New word for yesterday - "llevadora", only to discover that this is the word for midwife in Catalan, and if I want to be understood by most of the Spanish world then I should be using "comadrona". By the time I leave Spain I expect to have a vocabulary of mixed dialect only to be understood by a small group of people. At least I'll know what I mean.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Sea Road...
Barcelona - Day 12
Finally - we're in! Last night we spent our first night on "Sea Road" - Calle de Mar. It sounds much better in Spanish.
Of course we couldn't move in properly before the routine trip to Ikea, accompanied by the entire family - claro....so we still have some work to do. Relying on other people here is expected and it's something that will take some getting used to. Extended family excursions are also the norm for routine activities. I'm used to having something to do and getting on with it myself before consulting whichever members of the family happen to be around. Everyone will have their own opinion and these need to be examined, discussed and analysed before the final action is taken. I'm beginning to understand why things take time.
Our shipped boxes are due to arrive today so once we've unpacked, it really will feel like home. We've shipped a kettle (why on earth would you want to boil water...?) and a toaster - good news as I woke up this morning to my husband trying to cook the bread in the frying pan. I'm surprised we didn't activate the local bomberos (fire brigade), and we'll be waiting until the arrival of our pillar box red Dualit before attempting anymore.
So with one major task completed, another one awaits. Medical registration. Sounds simple. I've moved intercontinentally not internationally, but remember this is Spain - which I'm fast finding out is Europe's captial of bureacracy (and coming from someone who's lived in France that's saying something). I may as well have moved intergalactically. We've been to the local council twice, the GP twice, the police office once, some other department once (possibly the department of social security), and now we have an envelope full of papers, but still no access to a doctor or a hospital. It doesn't help that every official department is feeding us sometimes conflicting and always different information.
If I'd been in England I'd have been seen by a midwife last week, have an appointment booked in for next and be looking forward to what should have been my final scan next week. I'm told that once we finally manage to get the paperwork together and be accepted here then I will pretty much be prodded and poked from now until Popcorn arrives, so small mercies and all that, but the emotional hormonal rollercoaster that is being pregnant means that rationality and reasoning can be sometimes woefully absent. Only this morning I was banging on about booking myself on the first plane home. Poor husband.
Finally - we're in! Last night we spent our first night on "Sea Road" - Calle de Mar. It sounds much better in Spanish.
Of course we couldn't move in properly before the routine trip to Ikea, accompanied by the entire family - claro....so we still have some work to do. Relying on other people here is expected and it's something that will take some getting used to. Extended family excursions are also the norm for routine activities. I'm used to having something to do and getting on with it myself before consulting whichever members of the family happen to be around. Everyone will have their own opinion and these need to be examined, discussed and analysed before the final action is taken. I'm beginning to understand why things take time.
Our shipped boxes are due to arrive today so once we've unpacked, it really will feel like home. We've shipped a kettle (why on earth would you want to boil water...?) and a toaster - good news as I woke up this morning to my husband trying to cook the bread in the frying pan. I'm surprised we didn't activate the local bomberos (fire brigade), and we'll be waiting until the arrival of our pillar box red Dualit before attempting anymore.
So with one major task completed, another one awaits. Medical registration. Sounds simple. I've moved intercontinentally not internationally, but remember this is Spain - which I'm fast finding out is Europe's captial of bureacracy (and coming from someone who's lived in France that's saying something). I may as well have moved intergalactically. We've been to the local council twice, the GP twice, the police office once, some other department once (possibly the department of social security), and now we have an envelope full of papers, but still no access to a doctor or a hospital. It doesn't help that every official department is feeding us sometimes conflicting and always different information.
If I'd been in England I'd have been seen by a midwife last week, have an appointment booked in for next and be looking forward to what should have been my final scan next week. I'm told that once we finally manage to get the paperwork together and be accepted here then I will pretty much be prodded and poked from now until Popcorn arrives, so small mercies and all that, but the emotional hormonal rollercoaster that is being pregnant means that rationality and reasoning can be sometimes woefully absent. Only this morning I was banging on about booking myself on the first plane home. Poor husband.
Friday, 16 October 2009
"Ella no come...."
34 weeks, 2 days
Barcelona Day 8
Translation of "ella no come"....she doesn't eat. It's how I'm talked about at every meal time. And for the record, como....I do eat. Mucho!
Anyway, food is important here and if you don't eat a mountain at every meal time, then it's considered to be a waste of a sitting. Mountains are for climbing, not eating, but I'll do my best.
Newsflash...no longer homeless!
At least our major problem of being homeless has been resolved. We have keys to a gorgeous apartment right by the beach and about a 40 minute train ride from the centre of Barcelona. It wasn't our original plan. We were planning to be city dwellers for our time here, but plans never seem to quite work out. We've traded the convenience of being in the city for a much bigger flat, a sea view, a local community, and a 30 second hop to the beach. I just hope people will still come ad see us :-).
Impromptu purchase...
What with no longer being homeless I decided I could at least go and look at pushchairs. We knew what we wanted and were told by the helpful ladies in El Corte Ingles that the order time is two months. Two months??! So we made our way home on the train with the shop display model (yellow)
and another item ticked off the list. It's been an expensive week.
English lessons
Living in a small town rather than a big city means that we may just have found ourselves in demand to teach the local children English. Three years into his English lessons, and ten year old Marc is still on numbers 1-20. I think we can do better than that. Apparently word is spreading and we may just find ourselves in business without really trying.
Barcelona Day 8
Translation of "ella no come"....she doesn't eat. It's how I'm talked about at every meal time. And for the record, como....I do eat. Mucho!
Anyway, food is important here and if you don't eat a mountain at every meal time, then it's considered to be a waste of a sitting. Mountains are for climbing, not eating, but I'll do my best.
Newsflash...no longer homeless!
At least our major problem of being homeless has been resolved. We have keys to a gorgeous apartment right by the beach and about a 40 minute train ride from the centre of Barcelona. It wasn't our original plan. We were planning to be city dwellers for our time here, but plans never seem to quite work out. We've traded the convenience of being in the city for a much bigger flat, a sea view, a local community, and a 30 second hop to the beach. I just hope people will still come ad see us :-).
Impromptu purchase...
What with no longer being homeless I decided I could at least go and look at pushchairs. We knew what we wanted and were told by the helpful ladies in El Corte Ingles that the order time is two months. Two months??! So we made our way home on the train with the shop display model (yellow)
and another item ticked off the list. It's been an expensive week.
English lessons
Living in a small town rather than a big city means that we may just have found ourselves in demand to teach the local children English. Three years into his English lessons, and ten year old Marc is still on numbers 1-20. I think we can do better than that. Apparently word is spreading and we may just find ourselves in business without really trying.
Monday, 12 October 2009
The end of the Age of Independence
Barcelona - Day 4
A big year for me...I'll have moved two tickboxes.
Disturbingly and with the inevitability of increasing age I have moved up to the next age tick box. The positive - I'll be here for the next nine years. The negative - that I'm already here :-(
Somewhat frighteningly I'll soon need to tick the dependents box. At once the most frightening and most exciting.
Still no flat, still no hospital. Tick, tock, tick, tock...
A big year for me...I'll have moved two tickboxes.
Disturbingly and with the inevitability of increasing age I have moved up to the next age tick box. The positive - I'll be here for the next nine years. The negative - that I'm already here :-(
Somewhat frighteningly I'll soon need to tick the dependents box. At once the most frightening and most exciting.
Still no flat, still no hospital. Tick, tock, tick, tock...
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Made it...
33 weeks 3 days...
After a week of admin followed by four days of packing, we made it to Barcelona on Thursday. With six suitcases (one of them brand new - bought at the airport to free up some kilos so that our bags were allowed on the plane), two rucksacks and a handbag. I swear most of the stuff was Ivan´s - he says it´s mine. We won´t settle that one for a while as who knows when we´ll get to unpack.
Packing up the flat in London and our worldly belongings was harder and more emotional than I thought. As always, the task filled to the time, and what started as careful rationalised thought over what to throw, pack, donate to charity, store etc. by Wednesday evening had turned into just about everything in the bin. Seven years in one place makes for a lot of stuff. The process - oddly tear-jerking - has at least forced us to cleanse and rationalise before our impending arrival. But hopefully not for a few weeks yet as we have a flat to find and a hospital to register with. The UK postal strike meant that none of my health documentation arrived, so fingers crossed that I´ll be looked after.
It´s roasting here. I was settling into the English autumn (my favourite season), and here I am propelled back to 25 degrees and swollen hands. The rings will need to come off soon.
As for finding a flat, we started yesterday. The first we saw was big with questionable decor, but we think could live with that. It´s up a great big hill which could be good for the inevitable post natal quest to try to at least regain a bit of shape. The second we saw can only be described as grim. The bathroom window opened out into the kitchen. Anyone for simultaneous crapping and cooking...?
It´s a bank holiday weekend here this weekend so the mission starts again on Tuesday. The clock is ticking....two weeks to find something or I´m out of here. Tried and failed.
The only thing that anyone seems to care about is that we still haven´t come up with a name. I´ll just have to get used to the accusing and negligent looks. We´ve still got ages. And besides - he might not look like the one that we choose. Today´s chart topper is Luc Alexander Pedrazas (is LAP appropriate?).
In the last two days I´ve had a new fruit...chirimoya, and discovered that in Spain that sweet potatoes are eaten for dessert - just roast and add sugar.
After a week of admin followed by four days of packing, we made it to Barcelona on Thursday. With six suitcases (one of them brand new - bought at the airport to free up some kilos so that our bags were allowed on the plane), two rucksacks and a handbag. I swear most of the stuff was Ivan´s - he says it´s mine. We won´t settle that one for a while as who knows when we´ll get to unpack.
Packing up the flat in London and our worldly belongings was harder and more emotional than I thought. As always, the task filled to the time, and what started as careful rationalised thought over what to throw, pack, donate to charity, store etc. by Wednesday evening had turned into just about everything in the bin. Seven years in one place makes for a lot of stuff. The process - oddly tear-jerking - has at least forced us to cleanse and rationalise before our impending arrival. But hopefully not for a few weeks yet as we have a flat to find and a hospital to register with. The UK postal strike meant that none of my health documentation arrived, so fingers crossed that I´ll be looked after.
It´s roasting here. I was settling into the English autumn (my favourite season), and here I am propelled back to 25 degrees and swollen hands. The rings will need to come off soon.
As for finding a flat, we started yesterday. The first we saw was big with questionable decor, but we think could live with that. It´s up a great big hill which could be good for the inevitable post natal quest to try to at least regain a bit of shape. The second we saw can only be described as grim. The bathroom window opened out into the kitchen. Anyone for simultaneous crapping and cooking...?
It´s a bank holiday weekend here this weekend so the mission starts again on Tuesday. The clock is ticking....two weeks to find something or I´m out of here. Tried and failed.
The only thing that anyone seems to care about is that we still haven´t come up with a name. I´ll just have to get used to the accusing and negligent looks. We´ve still got ages. And besides - he might not look like the one that we choose. Today´s chart topper is Luc Alexander Pedrazas (is LAP appropriate?).
In the last two days I´ve had a new fruit...chirimoya, and discovered that in Spain that sweet potatoes are eaten for dessert - just roast and add sugar.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Poetry
Last 5 days in the UK
As I'm packing, organising, sorting and writing letters I remembered that I'd promised to send my cousin a copy of the poem that I wrote on the day I got married. She's 80, so I've hand-written it and sent it off first class, so it will probably arrive on her doorstep by Christmas.
I waited patiently until the end of the groom's speech before reading my poem aloud and have since been accused of stealing all of his thunder (not to mention material)...
Valuable lesson which I really should have learned much earlier - never upstage your man.
Read aloud by me on 30th May 2009 (it comes with a severe cheese warning)
When I first met Ivan just one year ago,
That we'd be here today I just couldn't know,
"What a whirlwind it's been" some people say,
"From the time that you met to tying the knot today."
Him being from Spain and me from England,
Makes it all the more remarkable that he asked for my hand.
I cannot deny that we've wasted any time,
But as most of you know I'm not exactly in my prime.
So it feels like at last that fate has smiled on me,
And the past year that I've had is the best in memory.
That life will be difficult in my mind there's no doubt,
But more interesting it will be with this man about.
As for our family, how blessed we are,
Our only sadness is that most live afar.
We've seen more of each other than we have for a while,
Some events with a tear, others with a smile.
We celebrated Christmas as we do every year,
And then said farewell to two held most dear.
We shall not forget you as life carries on,
And we know that forever we'll hold memories so fond.
So now we must thank you for being here today,
To celebrate with us and to help us on life's way.
Changes are happening, indeed that's for sure,
Before the year is out our three will be four.
For your amazing generosity each and everyone we thank,
As they say that having a baby is like opening a bank...
So before that volcano erupts in our lives,
We're heading off for two weeks to Thailand's paradise.
To relax and to sleep and to generally have fun,
And to soak up some wonderful South Asian sun.
So thank you again, what more can we say,
Than we're delighted you're here to share our special day.
As I'm packing, organising, sorting and writing letters I remembered that I'd promised to send my cousin a copy of the poem that I wrote on the day I got married. She's 80, so I've hand-written it and sent it off first class, so it will probably arrive on her doorstep by Christmas.
I waited patiently until the end of the groom's speech before reading my poem aloud and have since been accused of stealing all of his thunder (not to mention material)...
Valuable lesson which I really should have learned much earlier - never upstage your man.
Read aloud by me on 30th May 2009 (it comes with a severe cheese warning)
When I first met Ivan just one year ago,
That we'd be here today I just couldn't know,
"What a whirlwind it's been" some people say,
"From the time that you met to tying the knot today."
Him being from Spain and me from England,
Makes it all the more remarkable that he asked for my hand.
I cannot deny that we've wasted any time,
But as most of you know I'm not exactly in my prime.
So it feels like at last that fate has smiled on me,
And the past year that I've had is the best in memory.
That life will be difficult in my mind there's no doubt,
But more interesting it will be with this man about.
As for our family, how blessed we are,
Our only sadness is that most live afar.
We've seen more of each other than we have for a while,
Some events with a tear, others with a smile.
We celebrated Christmas as we do every year,
And then said farewell to two held most dear.
We shall not forget you as life carries on,
And we know that forever we'll hold memories so fond.
So now we must thank you for being here today,
To celebrate with us and to help us on life's way.
Changes are happening, indeed that's for sure,
Before the year is out our three will be four.
For your amazing generosity each and everyone we thank,
As they say that having a baby is like opening a bank...
So before that volcano erupts in our lives,
We're heading off for two weeks to Thailand's paradise.
To relax and to sleep and to generally have fun,
And to soak up some wonderful South Asian sun.
So thank you again, what more can we say,
Than we're delighted you're here to share our special day.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Right to opine
32 weeks and 2 days...
NCT classes in the UK - finished.
Final midwife appointment in the UK - done.
Bped - no further progress with the name. I've been reliably informed that in Spain I will be asked the name of my child while I am in labour. Really. How can I name him before I've seen him? But if I say that to the midwife I risk being admitted to the psychiatric ward shortly after giving birth. So here's the list as it stands.
Finn - although Fin means "end" in Spanish
Luca - a little Italian perhaps but it's short, easy to pronounce in both languages and ends in a vowel, which according to Bill Crosby is an absolute essential for shouting purposes....Lucaaaaaaaa!
Morgan - this is a new one in the mix
Rafferty - too many Rs (I can't roll my Rs, which is quite crucial in Spain, so I will forever more have a speech impediment)
Rafael - one too many Rs
Oscar - the name of my Mum's cat and the name of England's most famous poof, but Ivan's favourite
Dylan - we both really like this, but it's not very Spanish
Alex - the name of my Godson but we both really like it
Daniel - in Ivan's top 3 which was news to me earlier this week
John - stoic, solid and I really like it. I think at one time just about everyone was called John, but not so much these days.
The words "finished" and "final" make me feel nervous. On my own now with a mountain of paperwork, and more things to remember than an aged elephant.
Final task from the NCT class. Write a birth plan. I'm not quite sure what good it will do in Spain as they appear to do most of the planning for you and the concept of informed consent is not widely understood, but maybe I'll have a crack if I have the time. It will just become another list in my growing google docs of lists. To do...give birth. On or around 25th November.
Latest pregnancy fact: 20% of women would still be naturally pregnant at 42 weeks. Sounds like a heck of a long time to me. Nine months really is just a myth - everyone who's been there knows that ten is nearer the mark.
Top of today's frustration list: It seems that being pregnant entitles everyone to have an opinion on you. People feel that they have the right to comment on your overall size, the shape of your behind, and of course the size of your bump. I cried when I told the midwife that I was fed up of being told I was "small" with an accusing undertone that I was already not feeding my growing baby enough. She told me it was nonsense and that I'm already plenty big enough with 9 more kilos than I had to start with, and that the next 8 weeks should see me grow to the extent that will quiet the chattering masses. In the meantime, she said, go out with earplugs.
NCT classes in the UK - finished.
Final midwife appointment in the UK - done.
Bped - no further progress with the name. I've been reliably informed that in Spain I will be asked the name of my child while I am in labour. Really. How can I name him before I've seen him? But if I say that to the midwife I risk being admitted to the psychiatric ward shortly after giving birth. So here's the list as it stands.
Finn - although Fin means "end" in Spanish
Luca - a little Italian perhaps but it's short, easy to pronounce in both languages and ends in a vowel, which according to Bill Crosby is an absolute essential for shouting purposes....Lucaaaaaaaa!
Morgan - this is a new one in the mix
Rafferty - too many Rs (I can't roll my Rs, which is quite crucial in Spain, so I will forever more have a speech impediment)
Rafael - one too many Rs
Oscar - the name of my Mum's cat and the name of England's most famous poof, but Ivan's favourite
Dylan - we both really like this, but it's not very Spanish
Alex - the name of my Godson but we both really like it
Daniel - in Ivan's top 3 which was news to me earlier this week
John - stoic, solid and I really like it. I think at one time just about everyone was called John, but not so much these days.
The words "finished" and "final" make me feel nervous. On my own now with a mountain of paperwork, and more things to remember than an aged elephant.
Final task from the NCT class. Write a birth plan. I'm not quite sure what good it will do in Spain as they appear to do most of the planning for you and the concept of informed consent is not widely understood, but maybe I'll have a crack if I have the time. It will just become another list in my growing google docs of lists. To do...give birth. On or around 25th November.
Latest pregnancy fact: 20% of women would still be naturally pregnant at 42 weeks. Sounds like a heck of a long time to me. Nine months really is just a myth - everyone who's been there knows that ten is nearer the mark.
Top of today's frustration list: It seems that being pregnant entitles everyone to have an opinion on you. People feel that they have the right to comment on your overall size, the shape of your behind, and of course the size of your bump. I cried when I told the midwife that I was fed up of being told I was "small" with an accusing undertone that I was already not feeding my growing baby enough. She told me it was nonsense and that I'm already plenty big enough with 9 more kilos than I had to start with, and that the next 8 weeks should see me grow to the extent that will quiet the chattering masses. In the meantime, she said, go out with earplugs.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Jped, Iped, Bped?
31 weeks 6 days
If J-Lo can do it, then so can I. So Jped it is. I've removed the hyphen - it's neater.
I run the risk of revealing who I am right at the start, but that can wait.
Me: Jped, Husband: Iped. Little boy due to arrive soon....we don't know his name yet. In the absence of anything else, simply "Baby" to start with...so Bped, but that sounds like a type of shoe. Jped: English (my mother would be horrified, but it's untidy to write "part English, half Scottish with some Irish in there for good measure"), Iped: Spanish (well Catalan - I gather there's a BIG difference).
Choosing a name for a mixed nationality baby (person?) is proving tricky so if anyone knows the time you're given in Spain to register a name, please do be kind and let me know. In England you have 42 days to make it to the council and I know many people who've let it go to the wire. I'm secretly hoping he'll whoosh out of me shouting his name saving us the trouble. Iped tells me the Spanish nurses will ask for the name as soon as he arrives. So time to get real and choose a name.
It sounds as if I can't be bothered to invest the time choosing a name. Not true. We have a book of 7,000 names that lives on the toilet. However, my hormones have sucked away my imagination and I seem to change my mind every day anyway. If I can't make up my mind on a name does that make me destined to be a bad mother? Speaking of which, I've just spent my entire "health in pregnancy" grant on nursing underwear. I'm sure Bped will be thrilled. It's ok, I've been eating an apple a day the whole way through and taking my vitamins so my guilt is neutralised for now at least. Get used to it...if I'm to believe the literature, guilt will be a major life feature for a next 20 years.
So, Bambino Barcelona? Not terribly imaginative name for a blog of an English woman whose in her third trimester and about to move to Barcelona. Like I said, my skin may be glowing but my imagination has gone for a walk.
At a time when I should be practicing my breathing, keggling religiously, touring the hospital, packing my hospital bag and generally making house, we've decided to combine one major upheaval with another. Having a baby and moving country (and probably moving back again in about nine months to resume work). And this is where I'll chart the progress (assuming I've time). Hopefully you'll come with me.
If J-Lo can do it, then so can I. So Jped it is. I've removed the hyphen - it's neater.
I run the risk of revealing who I am right at the start, but that can wait.
Me: Jped, Husband: Iped. Little boy due to arrive soon....we don't know his name yet. In the absence of anything else, simply "Baby" to start with...so Bped, but that sounds like a type of shoe. Jped: English (my mother would be horrified, but it's untidy to write "part English, half Scottish with some Irish in there for good measure"), Iped: Spanish (well Catalan - I gather there's a BIG difference).
Choosing a name for a mixed nationality baby (person?) is proving tricky so if anyone knows the time you're given in Spain to register a name, please do be kind and let me know. In England you have 42 days to make it to the council and I know many people who've let it go to the wire. I'm secretly hoping he'll whoosh out of me shouting his name saving us the trouble. Iped tells me the Spanish nurses will ask for the name as soon as he arrives. So time to get real and choose a name.
It sounds as if I can't be bothered to invest the time choosing a name. Not true. We have a book of 7,000 names that lives on the toilet. However, my hormones have sucked away my imagination and I seem to change my mind every day anyway. If I can't make up my mind on a name does that make me destined to be a bad mother? Speaking of which, I've just spent my entire "health in pregnancy" grant on nursing underwear. I'm sure Bped will be thrilled. It's ok, I've been eating an apple a day the whole way through and taking my vitamins so my guilt is neutralised for now at least. Get used to it...if I'm to believe the literature, guilt will be a major life feature for a next 20 years.
So, Bambino Barcelona? Not terribly imaginative name for a blog of an English woman whose in her third trimester and about to move to Barcelona. Like I said, my skin may be glowing but my imagination has gone for a walk.
At a time when I should be practicing my breathing, keggling religiously, touring the hospital, packing my hospital bag and generally making house, we've decided to combine one major upheaval with another. Having a baby and moving country (and probably moving back again in about nine months to resume work). And this is where I'll chart the progress (assuming I've time). Hopefully you'll come with me.
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