Wrote this at five weeks

Log 1: Waiting
I thought I would publish this. I wrote it when it was thundering down with snow in January and I was just five weeks pregnant. I could tell no one, it was the best secret in the world. I'd known for barely over a week. Now here I am at nine months, a spring and a summer passed. 

I’m sitting here and I’ve nearly eaten the whole of my snack before writing a single word. Cucumber and humous. I’m trying, with a glint in the eye and a gently charging horse, to fill my body with goodness. As well as the copious chocolate, cravings for biscuits and cakes, there must be balance. This consciousness, has in turn led to some form of mild paranoia. I am concerned that I just bleached the bath and then had a bath. I can’t remember how thoroughly I rinsed the damn bath before I jumped in it. Who does that? I have also had to change the cat litter because he is on his home island, having sailed there in a 20 hour ordeal. I’m not supposed to do this. The only person I can ask is Dr *fear into your bones* Google, with his overzealous search engine of doom.

Do I sound annoyed? I’m not. In fact, I think I am probably happier than I have ever been.

I’ve had a weekend of thorough relaxation. I mean this in the way that I have done absolutely nothing. I am of course, blaming the snow dropping heavily and rendering the pavements unpassable. It’s like some kind of Western film out there. The way everyone is walking with caution, knees bent, legs apart. Apart from maybe friendlier, as unusual events make a person speak to their neighbour.

I chose to spend this weekend alone. I am possibly the biggest fan of alone time. I need the space to grasp my spirit again. I mean that quite literally too. Time alone, thinking of everything, then nothing, putting everything in its place, then thinking of the present and what I have and what utter thrills the future could bring. It’s like a magical feeling that spins around in my belly for a while, before releasing in a big joyful explosion. And even if I begin this time within melancholy’s grasp, the outcome after solitary time is always this life shuddering great big wink from my internal spirit, chugging away in there. And I thank it, because it’s what makes me who I am and I’ve learnt it’s probably a lot easier to like myself than not.

So, the reason why I am being a wannabe health freak and am ardently reading certain blogs, weeping into my iPad’s screen. Baby. That’s correct, a real life baby is sitting in my tummy and listening to the music I am playing, hearing me chat inanely to my cats and eating all that Cadbury’s with me. And cucumber of course. Here we both are, waiting patiently for the next seven weeks to pass by asquicklyasispossible.

I know, C knows, one of my friends accidentally guessed - girl can read my eyes, but no one else knows. Oh and two of the Drs know, because last week I had a scare. Awful. Another reason why I need the next seven weeks to go by fast. And I shouldn’t sit in bleach. I guess when the scare happened, I started to see this baby as a baby. My baby. Our baby.  Baby. Oops, meets overwhelming elation, meets fear, meets vomit.

In terms of being pregnant, symptoms include:-

-  Twinges in the baby area, guess my womb is rearranging the furniture for the long term, full time guest.

-  Sitting having a brooding chai tea latte today, I had the sudden feeling that I am going to vomit when an all in black faux glasses vixen next to me got delivered poached eggs. The horror.

-  Having to turn music down to be able to smell and see as whole heartedly as I believe I can, with my new sense superpowers.

-  Becoming thoroughly obsessed with TV shows I used to think were utter crap... and normally snivelling my way through the ‘acts of kindness’.

-  I literally want chocolate all the time, with no moments not desiring its ‘goodness’ (unless there are eggs around... even then, at a push I could).

-  FATTENING up. I am sure I am already.

-  Weird looking at all food (apart from chocolate) like it’s the most vile thing. Even at the silly little fancy looking Waitrose mini lunches I used to adore. I normally have to wait until 2pm and then I could devour an entire chocolate factory fruit and veg store.

-  Worry. I now worry more than I thought possible. I am worried and am trying to stop worrying. I am sending this baby... It's the 12 weeks thing.

-  Beautiful vibes.

When I found out:

He had just confirmed a new job and we’d booked a meal out a while ago, after receiving a voucher from a good friend for our birthdays. I’d taken a quick test before he had come home and saw nothing so (weirdly) popped it in a bag and forgot about it. Just about to get ready, mid gin, I looked at the stick again. Two lines. “Errr” - you can imagine the rest. Another test. Then another test, digital this time - expensive, but needed to see the actual word. It was confirmed. I was in shock, could barely eat a thing. Ecstatic little jumps from the spirit and me. So very excited.

Pic

shake 'n shack

Oh my goodness, when you go to America you get some seriously top rate bad/good foods. I like how there is no class divide when it comes to the stuff everyone sort of, definitely wants in the US. In NYC, you'll find all varieties of cafe rammed with everyone and your neighbour's cat. Pish to the over the top pretentiousness that can permeate every chopping serving board, sometimes it's all about getting down with the thick shakes and the burgers and fries. 

I do not care sometimes about my *ahem veg box principles and I have to embrace. And in NYC, you can still get happy meat in your burger and organic gherkins and things, just as per usual. Same as the UK, no? Basically, this is a round about way of stating that they have SHAKE SHAKE and everything in SHAKE SHACK is efficient and clean and frikkin delicious. Everyone pops along there, whether for a lunch stop, or strolling home through the bright lights and awe-inspiring vertical builds at night. 

I am desperate for a SHAKE SHACK right now. The kid clearly likes this food, it is very demanding of me and has put in a very precise request. I know there is one in Covent Garden now (JOY) and I would genuinely get on a train and go fetch one right now if I wasn't carrying a bowling ball and small knives in my back. 

I will console myself with cleaning. But I really want to dip chips in a concrete custard shake.

That's who I am right now!

Please use black ink to fill in the boxes

Photograph by Norman Parkinson - a creative photographing a creative

I've been thinking about creativity as a commodity. I think that everyone has creativity in them, but it can so easily be quashed with the pressures of conformity and the 'right' and 'wrong's setting us straight. But surely, straight is everything that we should be avoiding to be creative? Is something that has been churned out a million times before - I'm not talking about an inspiration, I'm talking about a structure, a thought process, a new way of seeing something - really enough the set the goosebumps on fire and the stomach churning with the elation of creating something new.

Children hold exactly that when they go about their creating. God, I used to absolutely love making things when I was a kid. When asked what I wanted to do day to day, my answer would always, always be 'make something'. I wanted to use my imagination to look and learn about something and then put my mark on it. My own little take. And boy did my heart and mind soar when I was creating. I had absolutely no fear at six years old, no fear of being wrong. Of people furrowing their brow or questioning my motives behind my creations. Either alone in my own little world or with friends or family, I'd make cakes, patterns, dens, go-carts, models, sheer off Barbie's hair and sew her culottes and a waistcoat, read books and eat peas in the field next door, ride my bike to Texas (because the fields looked like I thought Texas might), wrote to my pen pal, made up dances, sang and wrote and bound mini books and letters.

I am positive that allowing for and nurturing a style, being creative and enjoying creativity, allows for all round personal development. A confidence that makes the passing of exam papers seem more than inadequate for predicting, or at least aiding, our career choices. We are boxed from a young age and education seems to be heading for more boxing starting younger and younger. I remember my SATs when I was at Primary School. I could feel the pressure, but I wasn't interested in these tests, I wanted to write stories and understand the world. I had no idea how to revise. I remember that I didn't do as well as expected. I was bright, I should have done better. With the results, I had a feeling that I was not intelligent, not clever, not able. But yet I finished tasks ahead of time, enjoyed them and was a diligent student. So, why the disappointing test results? The D word. 'You're creative, darling'.

I feel like I've never shaken this sense overhanging me, that I don't fit the boxes correctly and I should do if I want to succeed. I'll never have success, a longed for house and a feeling that yes, I am clever. But this is total bull. What the hell? I make things everyday. I've achieved great things and I'm going to tell my kid that they are creative AND intelligent, as we take every day as an adventure. Not even necessarily out and about, but just hanging out - creating stories, designing things and having fun with science, geography, literature and maths.

But, as far as creativity as a commodity, this annoys me. While you can try and deliver your enthusiasm and understanding of something, you can't capture creativity or copy it and it's sad when your own style of creativity just isn't in vogue, so it's negated. Look how many people are 'suddenly creative' thanks to the make, do and mend revolution. Where did that come from? Was it hiding in the ready meals of the 90s? What about growing vegetables? That's pretty creative and teaches you about maths and science - why did the grannies and grandpas do this, but mum and dad didn't? Not to mention the entrepreneurs, incredibly creative. Where did this business come from? Eh?

Is it because everyone's massively fed up with the Government, the boom is over, bringing with it wild financial issues, dissatisfaction... lack? To simplify. With this change and new creativity out to be purchased on the shelves, there's a different need for individuality, not just owning something coveted, but maybe putting our mark on it too. Or finding something somewhere you'd never expect. Granny's attic has never looked so good. We were in danger of becoming homogenous before weren't we? Are we now? Or are we just looking for and pining for originality to fill our Instagram feed?

My argument is, all this creativity, pumping through us has always been there. We are humans, who can learn more than box ticking skills. The aforementioned creative boom should go way beyond a trend. These gardening, cooking, discovering and building skills are skills for life, skills to hold and cherish, with a value that surely rivals a 90% pass in another exam. Arguably, the exam results can set you up for life and get you 'where you want to be', but equally what if you don't know and you find yourself excelling at something you have only tried once? What about dance, theatre, carpentry and horticulture? Or even just knowing that there's something beyond law, medicine, English and engineering? More beyond the boxes. If you want to Make It, it's really not about competing with someone else's life. Or even your own.

My absolutely main point is that the tight and tested curriculum needs to be changed in schools. Kids need to know more about nutrition, understanding their neighbours, politics that's relevant to them NOW, law, businesses and trade (local and global) and there should be time set aside for own projects. Where a student can pursue an understanding of a path that they may want to try out, perhaps they could meet some interesting people, expand their horizons and do something that allows their hearts and minds to flourish. Outside of that home/school/social bubble, it's time for them. Surely through just having a meander outside of these oh so importnat boxes and being allowed to expel some energy and be guided in doing so, the kids will benefit. All 'types' of kid. There's so much more to life than fitting neatly into a money churning world.

so he did...

Last time I was on here, I was desperate for someone to cry, 'Halt! You may stop what you are doing, sit back, stop that whirring mind and rest. I'd just climbed an enormous hill after getting stuck in 30 degree heat right in the middle of town. Tiger man had called mid hill and I essentially just bawled down the phone to him. I was hungry, exhausted and emotional.

'Pack your bags,' he said. We're going away for the night. See you at 6pm. Be ready!'

Just a few hours after the hill of pain, I was sitting outside a quintessentially English pub, hills surrounding, light stone buildings solid with history, a tiny glass of (good) red wine, morris dancers dancing a jingly little fandango before me and lavender scenting the air.

The next morning I awoke at 7am and had the longest soak in the deepest bath before anyone had stirred. I breathed deeply. I did some thinking. And then I just stopped. Stopped all the worry, the anguish and teeny tiny flinches of stress building up and weighing me down.

One night felt like weeks.

Stop!...In the name of love

I really like this image and feel it's showing what I feel. By Sara K Byrne. She is very talented.

This week has been tough. Mainly because I have felt so incredibly emotional. It's ridiculous, I have never felt such a jumble of ups and downs, confusion and upset. Mixed with utter contentedness and happiness. I cling on to the latter. I know this is all probably normal, but I'm also trying to please a million people, tick off a million things and I'm just so tired. I want to know when someone can say, it's OK. You can stop now.

Slick

I think this oil is splendid. It's soft, not over the top, the scent is as calming as an enormous armchair for the mind and it helps to keep skin stretchy. Or as stretchy as it can be when there is a bowling ball inside of you. It's a treat, and a necessary one. I have used it throughout this pregnancy and am now a converted 'oil fan'.

Trimester one (in the moment)

So now I know that you are definitely real. I know this because of two reasons. The first is that because of my ‘scare’ at five weeks, I got to visit the early pregnancy clinic.

I think I will remember this forever. Charlie and I sat in the waiting room with the lights out. We stared at the non-identifiable blobs framed and mounted on the walls. It was before 9am, so the clinic wasn’t open. We had got there early as the doctor had told me it was a good idea to the day before. He was right. At 9.05am the waiting room was filled with a mixture of tightly wound faces, wringing hands, expressionless static behaviour and men popping off to the toilet. Not to mention those reading the enormous comments board, the aged toys wishing for Toy Story and the muttering midwives. I spent almost the entire time waiting thinking about my impending interview with a Springwatch presenter.

It didn’t take long to see the midwife and sonographer. A slather of gel, a quick shock and then there it was. Admittedly it was a blob. But it was also a vision of relief, elation and wonder. The blob was not unlike those paintings, but after pointing out the heartbeat, I realised it was my little blob. It had a heart, it was OK. It was real. Despite taking three pregnancy tests, I genuinely couldn’t believe what I saw. I resolved to try and not call it, ‘it’. It’s a baby. A baby. I interviewed the Springwatch presenter with my usual celeb-dazzle of butterflies, fluttering. Exaggerated, I am positive.

Good god, morning sickness. This is the other reason that has indicated in MASSIVE FLASHING LIGHTS, that I am pregnant. Though I love the kid, this is truly vile. Mixed with the exhaustion, you could push me with a feather and I’d fall down. The first week the sickness surfaced itself it hit me like a thousand rhinos. I was in Cornwall. Taking five of my 24 glorious holiday days. Suffice to say I spent a lot of it lying in bed catching up with Silent Witness, a programme I have never loved, but I’m fast learning that it’s all about The Series. I was recently given the boxset of The Killing series one and I could have wept at the feet of the gifter. During the week, I also walked along the beaches, meandered about and ate carbs. I told the kid it needs to like the sea, as its (might call it K-it aka Kit, for now I think – KIT’S) father is obsessed.

I’m touching wood as I type, but recently the morning sickness has been slightly less horrific. Perhaps it’s because I am back at work and busy. Plus I am never (TOUCH WOOD) actually sick, which helps. I just feel like gagging at the merest thought of eggs and jumping in an extraordinarily clean, white duvet is appealing at all times. Charlie has been frankly hilarious throughout Kit’s existence so far. I say hilarious, because otherwise I would batter him with cake. Par example: “Just think, every person that exists has had a mum that has probably been really sick, just like you. It’s life!”

Find out if the famous second trimester ‘glow’ is ignited next time. If not, I have iridescent creams and powders at the ready so I can look like Tinkerbell… at least.