Storm in a G cup
I need scaffolding, badly. My boobs were starting to clap with every footstep, it’s not the sort of applause I’m used to. Plus, one morning while getting out of the shower I actually drop-kicked one. I knew it was time for professional help.
Puppychild held Sir Fartsalot for dear life while the boutique assistant rummaged through cabinets full of bra boxes. I shuffled cotton like an Amsterdam pro and called out letters of the alphabet while Puppychild watched in awe, I worried if she’d be asking her schoolteacher some time in the future what words begin with double D.
Anything above a cup size E must officially be classed as industrial when it comes to nursing bras. I watched with dismay as the pretty lacy black numbered drawer was shut and the plain white Fs were dragged out, but even they were no use. She tucked me into a G and sighed with relief. Her work here was done, bar a quick attempt to sell me two of them which was fruitless as I found out how much each bra cost.
€52?!? Is there a milking pump built in? Do I get a slave that’ll follow me around and prop them up for me? No! Oh well. At least I’ve somewhere to put my spare change now.
It could always be worse I suppose.
The one that got away
People get really disturbed when I curse in front of my n00b kid. I mean, it’s not like I’m corrupting his innocence… babies have a perpetual orb of purity around them until they’re old enough to understand their first episode of Tom and Jerry and besides! curse words are very beautiful phonetically speaking.
Fuck. It’s lovely the way the f slides so neatly into the k like that, like the sound a golf ball connecting with a perfect 9 Iron swing would make, or the noise made by the bonnet of a very expensive car when you try to slam it shut. I reckon I’m doing the kid a favour by including as many sounds and words as possible while his brain’s developing as it is. That’s why my standard reply to scorning parents is ‘Ask me bollix’. It’s in the name of education.
Here be photos of d’holliers. No animal was harmed in their making.
TAT got very excited when Barney arrived on the scene. He wanted a photograph of him decking the big purple freak right on the jaw, but Barney caught wind of this and ran like fuck. It’s impressive how fast that dinosaur can run what with all that stuffing and stuff.
Holy Shucking Fit
Where has time disappeared to?! Who stole last week?!?
This lapse in my time/space continuum might have something to do with Sir Fartsalot. He also drinksalot as it turns out. This means school homework, cuddle time with Laughingboy and basic sanity is on hold until the child sorts out his boob routine. It’s amazing how, from birth, men are obsessed with breasts.
As stressful as babies may seem however, mother nature has her gifts… I’d forgotten about that buzz, that amazing release of oxytocin breastfeeding gives both boober and boobee. A plane could crash right outside the window, but all I would muster would be a roll of my eyes and a “Meh… I’ll clean it up later.” Poor house. Poor family. Poor blog. I’ll get ’round to you all eventually.
In the meantime, we’re going on holidays next week just to throw some gratuitous action into the mix.
Cork is about to be very, very sorry it was ever born.
Awesome
I am in awe of so many things right now.
Midwives. Unsung heroes with an amazing ability to see you at your worst, your most base, with fluids erupting from every orifice to choruses of endless abuse and profanity. I can think of no other person who, with no formal introduction, you will so quickly drop your knickers for with no worry about intimacy or pride.
My own midwife last Sunday pushed the bed out of the way and brought me a physio ball, an oversized beanbag, and a tank of nitrous oxide. She pushed me into a hot shower and held my hand through my own personal hell, of which I can remember virtually nothing of. I begged her for drugs, I pleaded with her to stop being mean, I screamed at her for making me breathe and I told her that I wanted to die and that it was all her fault.
When my baby was born, she kissed me and I as I thanked her for the experience and moreso for not listening to me, it struck me that she’d have to do this all over again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Guiding women through horrific experiences with the same sweet ending… that reverend silence as a brand new baby is placed on its mothers breast and all pain is forgotten and tears of relief and gladness trickle onto sweat-stained pillows. What a truly awesome job.
Homoeopathy. They put me into that horrible ward when first admitted, and told me I was not yet in labour despite two days of contractions. I lay on the bed and listened to seven other women puffing and sighing and keening through their pain, sleep an impossibility. I listened as several poor souls attempted to drink water only to throw it right back up again as their helpless husbands mopped and sighed. Every now and then a lonesome howl would erupt from behind an anonymous curtain and sneakered feet would run towards it. I wanted out of there, sharpish.
I popped two Gelsemium 200c pills from my homoeopathic kit and two minutes later my waters broke. POP – off to the labour ward with me! I find it hard to consider that a coincidence. As soon as baby was born I popped a few Arnica 200c pills and within an hour of the birth I was washed, dried and eating a full plate of chicken and asparagus smothered with gravy. They offered me a painkiller but I honestly didn’t need it – my body had fixed itself thanks to those useless little placebos.
The Accidental Terrorist. I can’t imagine the helplessness a man must feel as a birthing partner. I didn’t consider the fact that he was on his feet for seven hours straight without a sniff of a smoke break with his bad back while I was huffing and puffing. He massaged me, played me music on his mp3 player, said beautiful and supportive things to me as I thrashed and mewled like a severed demon from the bowels of hell.
At home he stayed out of sight but left a trail of cleanliness behind him. I’d wander into the kitchen at 5am to find it all re-arranged and spotless. The garden suddenly became transformed into a haven of handsome wooden flower boxes and brackets intended for hanging baskets, even the statue of the three nude ladies which he’d pfaffed at before were hung lovingly by the back door. Beading suddenly appeared by the skirting boards and the laundry pile vanished. His nesting instinct drew an awe in me that I’d never seen before, a renewed love that won’t be forgotten in the arguments to come.
We named him Tom, because it was TAT’s Grandad’s name. Whenever he speaks of the man, he does it with such childlike adoration and always with a quirky smile hidden below the surface of his face. Though I know countless people will say ‘Ahh, a good normal name’, or ‘Play it safe with a standard name, you do right’, as they have done already… I don’t care. Tom is what feels right, every man I’ve known who the name belonged to has been the salt of the earth and you just can’t mess with that. Tom. Tom Thumb. Ground control to Minor Tom.
Henceforth known as Sir Fartsalot.
