a halfway pouch

Trying to deal with the list of things for Moomin, I feel like a bear lost in a department store; or a bear in the wood, if you will. No, that doesn’t really work. Anyway, I don’t know what half this stuff is. Whoever knew there was such a thing as a muslin square? As for the cot business – some cots only have 3 sides. Even I find that peculiar. Surely the sprogly might fall out? But no, those cots are supposed to sort of stick onto the parent’s(s’) bed. I guess that way the baby can be kind of encouraged back into the cot once it’s been in the bed. But won’t it just roll out into the bed again? And how do the parents get up to anything? Or don’t they?  The cot is a big nightmare because of course you want your wee person to be cosy and happy and comfy. But so many of them are garish and furbelowed and terrifying, as if designed by Cinderella’s ugly sisters’ for their poor babies, for example. I wish I could get a Cat From Outer Space cot. That would be ideal, and extremely appropriate for a creature who has just arrived out of infinity. The cot we’re getting is alright but its name is ‘Infantastic’ – it sounds more like infanticide than fantastic but oh well. It has a stupid baldaquin (canopy thing) but we can take that off. At least it’s green, not a gender prison bed. That’s good. Asked about reusable nappies, my sister says : “If you want to fanny about with a shitey bucket in your tiny pad then go for it. Otherwise reserve the tears for more important moments like when it shits all up its back when you are just about to go out. Also, disposables are good for balling up and throwing at men” Nice and succinct. And when I asked :  “What about shoe-things?! and things for Moomin to wear when we go out in November? Are you making a wee hat?! Does Moo need a coat or will Moo just be in a bag or something?” she answered : “Moo won’t be in need of shoes until s/he starts walking. Babygros cover feet, as do tights and socks. In cold weather if Moo is not in the pram all cosy then s/he will be strapped to you wearing a big padded boiler suit with feet” The boiler suit sounds great. With feet. Though it would be simpler if i were a kangaroo. That would give Moomin and I some time to adjust being outside each other, in a halfway house, or pouch. If Moomin were a baby kangaroo, at about 33 days of being, hshe would be climb from my abdomen into the pouch in about 5 minutes.  There would be four teats there ready for use. Moo would stay there for another 180 days or so, until feeling big and bold enough to stick his/her head out for a few weeks. So then I’d be hopping around with Moo looking about and perhaps making commentary in squeaky joey language. Finally Moomin would feel big enough to spend time out of the pouch, though hshe could jump back in if worried. And then one day Moo would leave the pouch for the last time, and I’d have empty pouch syndrome. Although maybe I could expand to other creatures in need of succour : injured pigeons, for example. Those poor pigeons who get their feet all mangled in traffic could come rest in my pouch. Probably a whole family would fit. We’d have to be careful in parks, though. What if every pigeon tried to get in, there might be a stampede. There would have to be a waiting list. And probably a social worker. Who would come and inspect the pouch while hundreds of pigeons looked on imploringly. And then there would be mounds of paperwork. At least I’d have somewhere to put it.      

By freakyparisandbeyond

A bear in the wood, or a halfway pouch for the sore of feet

Trying to deal with the list of things for Moomin, I feel like a bear lost in a department store; or a bear in the wood, if you will. No, that doesn’t really work. Anyway, I don’t know what half this stuff is. Whoever knew there was such a thing as a muslin square? As for the cot business – some cots only have 3 sides. Even I find that peculiar. Surely the sprogly might fall out? But no, those cots are supposed to sort of stick onto the parent’s(s’) bed. I guess that way the baby can be kind of encouraged back into the cot once it’s been in the bed. But won’t it just roll out into the bed again? And how do the parents get up to anything? Or don’t they? 

The cot is a big nightmare because of course you want your wee person to be cosy and happy and comfy. But so many of them are garish and furbelowed and terrifying, as if designed by Cinderella’s ugly sisters’ for their poor babies, for example. I wish I could get a Cat From Outer Space cot. That would be ideal, and extremely appropriate for a creature who has just arrived out of infinity. The cot we’re getting is alright but its name is ‘Infantastic’ – it sounds more like infanticide than fantastic but oh well. It has a stupid baldaquin (canopy thing) but we can take that off. At least it’s green, not a gender prison bed. That’s good.

Asked about reusable nappies, my sister says :

“If you want to fanny about with a shitey bucket in your tiny pad then go for it. Otherwise reserve the tears for more important moments like when it shits all up its back when you are just about to go out. Also, disposables are good for balling up and throwing at men”

Nice and succinct. And when I asked : 

“What about shoe-things?! and things for Moomin to wear when we go out in November? Are you making a wee hat?! Does Moo need a coat or will Moo just be in a bag or something?”

she answered :

“Moo won’t be in need of shoes until s/he starts walking. Babygros cover feet, as do tights and socks. In cold weather if Moo is not in the pram all cosy then s/he will be strapped to you wearing a big padded boiler suit with feet”

The boiler suit sounds great. With feet. Though it would be simpler if i were a kangaroo. That would give Moomin and I some time to adjust being outside each other, in a halfway house, or pouch. If Moomin were a baby kangaroo, at about 33 days of being, hshe would be climb from my abdomen into the pouch in about 5 minutes.  There would be four teats there ready for use. Moo would stay there for another 180 days or so, until feeling big and bold enough to stick his/her head out for a few weeks. So then I’d be hopping around with Moo looking about and perhaps making commentary in squeaky joey language. Finally Moomin would feel big enough to spend time out of the pouch, though hshe could jump back in if worried. And then one day Moo would leave the pouch for the last time, and I’d have empty pouch syndrome. Although maybe I could expand to other creatures in need of succour : injured pigeons, for example. Those poor pigeons who get their feet all mangled in traffic could come rest in my pouch. Probably a whole family would fit. We’d have to be careful in parks, though. What if every pigeon tried to get in, there might be a stampede. There would have to be a waiting list. And probably a social worker. Who would come and inspect the pouch while hundreds of pigeons looked on imploringly. And then there would be mounds of paperwork. At least I’d have somewhere to put it. 

  

 

By freakyparisandbeyond

Mood swings : hormonal versus manic-depressive (the latter wins)

Here is a pregnant mood swing : ‘Oh I can’t have it, it will be the end of life as I know it, and nothing could be worse than that’…..then 10 minutes later : (imagining myself telling other people, after the birth, when they ask anxiously if I’m ok) ‘I am perfectly fine. It’s a baby, not a giraffe’.

Here is a bipolar mood swing : ‘The whole of the outside of the house is covered in a viscous substance and I can’t get out and nobody can get in’…..then 20 minutes later : ‘Isn’t it interesting that technetium is only found in stellar matter and not in terrestrial material?’

(I just tried to publish this post and wordpress asked me : ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’. That’s a bit strange.

By freakyparisandbeyond

strobos

Now I feel as if I am drowning in my own head. I can’t really move and I can’t eat and I can’t think properly. There is just me and Bubble the cat in this house and it feels like we are sealed off from everything and everyone else in Paris and everywhere. Normally it helps but today when I talk to even nearest and most dearest I can feel the strings that bind me to them and to reality becoming thinner and thinner as if they’ll break. I can hear the traffic in the street but it’s like strange noises from another star. We are all alone. Like as if we were whirling through space. Strobos is the Greek word for the ‘act of whirling’. That’s where the name for strobe lights comes from. It feels as if we are whirling in sick seizurish shooting lights in space. Quite exotic, really. Bubble is completely unaware of it, she is snoring in her red chair. She is unaware of it because it is all in my head. But that is the only place I can be. Surely the wee thing that is inside another part of me will decide to leave of its own accord. Surely I am not a desirable residence. I wonder what it would be like inside my head if that happened. I would know it was my fault because why would a wee thing want to stay whirling through space. It has probably had enough of that, even from before it was here in me, who knows. Maybe everybody who is, once sought sanctuary from the dip and spin of infinity. Cos we don’t know it’s oblivion, and equally well as something good it could be a dangerous, fraught place to escape from and maybe this is the escape route. Except mine has escaped into an unquiet place. There are lots of other unquiet places to gestate but they are not my concern. Surely it will leave. I would feel terrible that I hadn’t provided a safe quiet place for it to be. But it would be more like manslaughter than murder, I think.

By freakyparisandbeyond

powdered mummy and a baby

So I was ill in Scotland all of January with flu that turned into bronchitis. I lay on the sofa in my dad’s cosy book-lined study in a snowy village by the sea and read books about witches and Bram Stoker and even one about corpse medicine until it started making me feel too green. Powdered mummy (the bandaged kind) was all the rage in 18th century Britain, thought to cure all manner of ills. One of the king Charleses, I forget which, died four days after ingesting it, unfortunately, while the first Charles was allegedly made into corpse medicine. He must have been much in demand. Surely king trumped even mummy, what with being appointed by God and all that. I imagine king was wildly expensive, like Beluga caviar, and was perhaps consumed from the blushing bellies of virgins, to make it even more effective. Speaking of virgins, mummy was often a bit pricey for the common folk – like Beluga – so virgins made an ok second-best, and lots of young girls were kidnapped for the purpose. But the corpse medicine purveyors were too avid for their very filthy lucre to wait until the virgins had crumbled to dust, so they just sold their blood, bones, skin etc instead, to be supped, devoured, even applied to cuts and grazes. When even virgins weren’t available, dead soldiers would do. When I got to the bit about people drinking the blood straight from dead soldiers’ wounds as they lay festering on their battlefields, I had to put the book down, and watch a Julia Roberts movie to changer les idées, or think about something else. Unfortunately later that day I had a nice manic spell of hallucinating in which lots of furniture started shaking and leaping and even changing places, so where the rocking chair had been, there was the sofa, and vice versa, it was very startling. The kitchen table vibrated and glittered with menace and cupboards leaned forward alarmingly as if they were trying to fall on my head. Ding dong yelled the clock in glee and I would have been hyperventilating except I could barely breathe because my bronchii were all bunged up, and then my dad and step-mum came in. They were then treated to a terrified incoherent wail which they couldn’t make out because all I could do was wheeze and squeak, and it was all about harassment by furniture so wasn’t very comprehensible anyway. They were very understanding indeed, despite not understanding at all, and after a bit I calmed down and took some codeine and a tranquilliser and managed to snooze. Hallucinating is very tiring. Unbeknownst to me, throughout this whole month of choking and coughing and cold sweats and misbehaving furniture, I was pregnant. Which perhaps didn’t help.

The book is called ‘Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires : the History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians’. Best not read when sick with bacterial infections or prey to psychotic visions. Probably.

By freakyparisandbeyond

Gripped by the nose of the goat

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I am at my mum’s house in Edinburgh, Scotland for Christmas. She is in bed with flu, my sister is in bed with flu, and I am in bed trying to avoid the flu. My brother is hiding from the flu at the other end of the house, lest he be gripped by it. I’ve been using the word ‘grippe’ (flu) in French for 6 years but I never thought to wonder why it’s called that. ‘Gripper’ means to clasp or hook, or grip (argh that’s a bit obvious). So the French for flu is ‘thing-that-gets-its-hook-in-you’. Which is quite good. The English word influenza comes from the Italian ‘influentia’, because flu was thought to be such a grand and mysterious thing that it could only be powered by the universe, the moon and stars influencing who got it and who escaped. That’s quite good as well. But the best one is the phonetically similar Arabic ‘anf-al-anza’, which means ‘nose of the goat’, as goats were thought to be transporters of the disease. Oh dear, our household is gripped by the nose of the goat. What a mysterious place to be.

By freakyparisandbeyond