Boob Wars

This post is NOT about the ongoing battle debate over breastfeeding in public.  Nor is it about pornography or topless bathing or whether or not nipples are the line between tasteful and ZOMG BOOBS!

This is about a war I have with the Spawn.  Over my breasts.

***NOTE: This post may cause some to clutch their chest or squirm in pain/embarrassment/discomfort.  It involves nipples, blood, and an imaginary gospel choir.  You have been warned.***

*I* happen to view my glorious mammaries (oh, yes, the engorgement has served me well) as miracles of modern milk production (does anyone else feel like bursting into a Gilbert and Sullivan sing-a-long?  Oh, that’s just me?  Right, carry on then…).

The Spawn sees them as her bestest playthings eveh!  What great drums, they are!  Hear the change in tone as she slaps them when they are full and when they are empty!  Need to wear down those baby nails?  Here, just scratch at my breasts, sooner or later that pesky nail will catch on my skin - better that than the soft baby cheeks!    And don’t get me started on the fun you can have with NIPPLES!!

To paraphrase my husband: Babies are really sneaky.

The Spawn lulled us into a false sense of security.  Those first 24 hours were so EASY!  She nursed straight away!  She nursed quietly and calmly, with great dignity.  She slept easily and gave all the right cues so that we knew when to change her diaper and when to cuddle her close.

Lies.  All lies.

Soon we learned that I’d birthed a piranha.  No, worse, I’d birthed a vampire.

My child bites. 

And worse than that, she has a little vacuum of a mouth that can Hoover mammary tissue out though the teat.

I began to bleed when I nursed.  Not just a little bit, but full on dark red blood.  Once, in a desperate act to keep my child from drinking my blood, I rushed to grab some paper tissues from the bedside table.  During that 5-second dash, I bled down my chest, into my pants, dripped a trail across the floor (from the directionality of the drops, we conclude the victim was alive and hobbling at the time of the blood loss) and soaked the paper I grabbed.  My child looked up at me with blood all over her face and down the front of her onsie and squawked,

“Feed me Seymour!”

Or something.

Now before leaving the hospital, everyone and their supervisor had a look at my feeding techniques.  This is because Evolution Failed.  Apparently.  See, the story goes, we aren’t born knowing how to nurse and it must be taught.  How we survived as a species for 4 million years before the arrival of the Lactation Consultant, I’ll never know, but there it is folks - Babies R Stoopid.

I’m getting the place where I may pop the next person in the kisser who says the word “latch” to me.

“You just need to have the right latch.”

“Wait until the baby opens her mouth wide, then bring her to the breast, and you will have the perfect latch!”

“You will notice with the perfect latch, there will be no pain.”

BULLSHIT!

First of all, most of those women, looking at my darling succubus, cooed “oh, she has a great latch!” and then when I said, “Oh, but it hurts” they replied, “yes, it does hurt, but that will pass.  You just need to toughen up.  And make sure you have a good latch.  It won’t hurt if you have a good latch.”

M’kay.

So a week later the midwife comes by and checks me out.  We do the nursing before the judge and the midwife proclaims, “what a nice latch!” And I bring up the pain.  And the bleeding.  The copious copious bleeding.  My husband points out the biting.  The midwife watches the nursing a bit more.  I think she sees the way I bite my lip and hum loudly that this is not the uterus-shrinking pain that I was supposed to feel (did I?  Who knows, my nipples were being sawed off by Gummy McSpawnsen!) nor the let-down tingly pain (which brings me to point 2 - God is NOT a Woman because WHO ON EARTH THINKS BREAST PAIN IS A GOOD DESIGN COMPONENT?).  She suggested a nipple shield and then went and fetched one for me.

If I may bring in my imaginary gospel choir for a moment…

PRAISE JESUS WE HAVE BEEN DELIVERED FROM THE DARKNESS AND THE END TIMES!

Hey, did *YOU* know that breastfeeding wasn’t supposed to cause that much pain and suffering after the first week?  I cried for HOURS afterwards.  Tears of joy.  Of sweet, sweet relief!  Feeding my child would no longer be a trial and I would no longer dread that small gaping mouth.*

*Except at 3 in the morning when momma has to pee REAL BAD.  That shit still sucks balls.

So now we had the pain wrapped up.  There was just that pesky bleeding.

Did you know that if you feed your child bloody milk, they don’t poop the right color of poop?  True story.  And not pooping the right color is A Big Worry to midwife-y sorts.

Now we’re at a week and a half old and I’m sitting in front of another midwife (because I’ve got a new goal of showing my nipples to every health care practitioner in Denmark) for the baby’s hearing test and yet we are again discussing latch and nipples.  It was a fair enough question; I had just bled all over her office.  “But,” I proudly pointed out, “it doesn’t hurt any more.”  

She looked slightly ill.  What?  Do not all women bleed profusely from the nipples at this stage?  THEY DON’T??  Please lord, don’t tell me it’s the latch…

She sends me to another nurse who also looks at my mangled nipples in horror.  “Didn’t they give you something to put on your nipples?” she asked.  “They told me to use breast milk and air dry,” I say, thinking about the $10 salve I’d bought in the chemists that was languishing on my shelf (I hadn’t had time to google the ingredients so I didn’t know if it would be harmful if ingested or not).  The nurse hurried off and brought back a little jar of what we think is lanolin.

LORD WE THANK YOU FOR SAVING US NO GOOD SINNERS!  HALLELUJAH! 

Oops, please pardon the imaginary gospel choir; they get a bit over excited.

OVER EXCITED FOR JESUS!

Zip it!

Ahem, anyway, that lanolin was AMAZING!  I healed right up.  And this was very good because I’d been trying to wear woolen nursing pads and the damn things kept sticking to my wounds.  The nurse suggested I flip the pads over and use the silk side instead.

Bloody nursing pads need to come with a damn instruction manual.  “In case of copious bleeding, try using the flip side, the silky side, instead.  Oh, and get yourself some lanolin, girl, cause DAMN!”

And within another week, I was healed.

HEALED! 

I’m now working on weaning the Spawn (and my nipples) off the nipple shield.  So far there has been pain, but no blood.

Of course this would be easier if she hadn’t decided that the correct latch was for sissies.  What are you supposed to do with a child who decides that nursing is best accomplished by opening the mouth wide and going “haaaaaaaaaaa” while waving her head back and forth over the nipple WITHOUT SUCKING??  “I’m sorry,” I holler over her screams of hunger, “but that’s not how the milk will get in your belly!”  And then, just as I ‘bring the baby to the breast’ she shoves BOTH HANDS into her mouth.  Forget the part about babies not being born knowing how to nurse, this child is actively participating in Darwinism, only she’s trying to win the Darwin Awards.

But when she’s got both hands in the mouth and is beet red from screaming and has this look of complete and utter ANGER on her face - “why won’t these DAMN HANDS give me MILK!?” I find myself laughing.  Sometimes ‘Angry Baby’ is just FUNNY.

This is not the Spawn.  This baby is not nearly angry enough.

A Birth Story

How did it get to be April Fool's Day?  Thankfully, I'm so out of it I haven't noticed it and so far have missed all the great pranks that people keep talking about.  

Since I have a few minutes while my child sleeps on my belly (slowly deflating, but still quite "bowl full of jello-licious" - that whole "you won't be able to get back into your pre-pregnancy clothes right away" is BULLSHIT, they should write "you'll be wearing your maternity clothes for WEEKS afterwards, lard butt, so don't even pretend you'll be wearing even 'comfy' clothes on the way home from the hospital, you'll be wearing whatever you wore IN"), I'm going to write up the birth story.  Apologies in advance for any dangling modifiers or odd word usage and/or order - I have a baby on my lap so I can't see the keyboard and my boobs are slowly becoming engorged... and that shit hurts, okay?

Friday, March 11th, 9:15 pm.  Week 38 + 6 days.  My water broke, right after we sat down for dinner.  That was a bit of a surprise.  I expected contractions FIRST.  But there were no contractions, other than the Braxton-Hicks that are completely normal, but not very helpful.  The midwife suggested that we try to get some sleep and talk again in the morning.  It was a pretty long night.  I kept waking up with more water gushing out and one or two big contractions that made me think that things were underway… but morning came and the Spawn was still snug in my belly.

We’ve called everyone on my side of the family - or at least tried, since my poor mother kept not being near a phone when something happened.  We called the DBs mom, who decided to come down and help out.

Looking back on this, the DB and I decided that next time, we are SO not calling anyone until things are much further along.  This is because...

Saturday, March 12th, week 39 - nothing happened.  We went to the midwife who suggested we go to the big hospital in Svendborg.  My dreams of a natural birth were slipping away.  I had to start active labor before the last ferry boat left or I was going to go to the hospital to get induced.  

So we waited all Saturday for contractions and they started at 7:30 or so in the evening and we figured she was on her way so we didn’t go to Svendborg, instead we went to the local hospital.  Ooooh, those were some good contractions.  They gave me some morphine to take the edge off the pain and it was so good I fell asleep and the contractions stopped.  Boy was the DB not impressed.

***Note: at this point in telling the story, many listeners have gotten very upset about the morphine.  While morphine has been known to slow down labor, it is still listed as a drug that can be used in labor, provided that the midwife or doctor doesn't think that birth will occur in the next 3 or 4 hours.  Maybe the midwife gave me to strong of a dose or maybe the labor was not nearly as active as we thought.  Maybe the morphine had something to do with aborting the labor or maybe it had nothing to do with it. Either way, morphine is still AWESOME and I highly recommend it... for pain.  But maybe not labor.  But for pain, oh heck yes!***

So the next morning, March 13^th, week 39 + 1 day, we caught the ferry to Svendborg.  We got a ride in the ambulance, which was quite comfortable.  Once we arrived, things progressed pretty quickly.  Because the water had broken so long ago, I needed to have penicillin, so I was hooked up to a bag right away.  About half an hour later they asked if I had any allergies to medication... like, you know, penicillin.  We all had a good laugh about that one.

***Note: if you have an allergy to any medication, mention it up front when you go to a Danish doctor or hospital or maybe just have it tattooed on your arm, because in a slightly stressful situation, like where you go in to have a baby 48 hours after your water is broken on the same weekend that half of Denmark decides to have babies and every midwife is called in and there aren't enough assistants SHIT GETS CRAZY.***

Then they also needed to monitor the baby, so I had a big fat belly-band for her heart rate and one for the contractions.  Which weren’t happening.  I had visions of an upcoming C-section.  I really really wanted to get this baby out (SORRY MEN) vaginally.  But before they hooked me up to the “drip” - the drug that would induce contractions, the midwife asked if I’d like an enema.  

Now I'd read about the chances of me pooping during labor and it put me off.  Alas, I was already pregnant and you can't "tag back" pregnancy, so I was totally down for an enema anyway AND THEN I read a blog post just a few days before where women who had just given birth were discussing how awful that first poop was after labor and I thought, "if I can put that off as long as possible, I'll gladly shoot salt-water up my butt!"  Why, yes, kind midwife lady, I *will* take that enema!  Make mine a double!

That kick-started contractions.

Seriously.  I had a heck of a time getting off the toilet.  Mercy.

Over the next two hours I went from 1 to 3 centimeters dilated and it hurt so bad that I could only cry BETWEEN contractions.  I was trying to roll with the pain, but my god, that was just awful.  I moaned like Tarzan and sobbed like a baby.  I could barely breathe, so when the midwife looked at me, face full of concern, and asked if I wanted something stronger than the laughing gas (which was SO NOT WORKING) I said, YES!!

So I opted for the epidural.  I hadn’t wanted to do an epidural, I’d wanted to be all natural and glorious, but MY GOD THE PAIN!  They kept me on a low dose, so I could still get on my feet (this is because the baby was “sunny side up” instead of “over easy” and they wanted me on my hands and knees to encourage her to flip - but she didn’t, my stubborn girl) but it took the edge off.  I was able to stand on my own, I could feel my legs and my belly wasn't numb, so it wasn't that crazy.  Also, despite all the wires and tubes now running down into me, I was surprisingly mobile.  Even if it required two people to help me roll over by holding all the wires and tubes out of my way.

They also put me on the “drip” because this child needed to be OUT, I was still gushing water, so there was a desire to move things along before it got REALLY COMPLICATED.  Two hours later and I was at 7 centimeters and just a little while after that I got to 10 and entered Transition.

The midwife really wanted the Spawn to roll over, but she wasn't listening and the second time I was on my hands and knees I was screaming into the pillow with every fiber of my being and that was IT.  I rolled back over and between gasps told the midwife I was NOT going to do THAT AGAIN.  They could go on and cut the baby out of me, but I was NOT going to get in that position again.

Around about this time I have a hard time remembering what happened next.  I’m afraid the reason why was the pain.  It was terrifically awful.  The DB was a champ, he pitched in and helped in a way that I don’t think either of us really intended.  I had wanted him to hold my hand and say encouraging things while labor continued.  I really did not want him down there at the business end of things.  Something like that could be a bit traumatic and *I* didn't want to watch it happening, so why force him to watch it?

Oh well, I'm sure he's blocked it from his mind.  At least the really gruesome bits.

Anyway, as the pain progressed, DB held my right leg (you may hear me complain about this leg later in life, I think he wrenched it… it’s certainly not been the same since) and ran about getting me drinks of apple juice and water, and drying me off with a towel.  I think he grew two extra sets of arms to do all of this at once.  But it means he had a front row seat in the birth of our child.  

During the final stages, the midwife, the assistant midwife, and a doctor were all in the room with us.  As the DB pointed out later, it was a bit worrisome that a doctor was there.  The doc said "well, I don't really have anything better to do" but now that we know how many other women were giving birth that day, it suggests that there was some worry that I'd have to be rushed off for surgery.  

So there we were.  The assistant held my left leg, DB held my right, the midwife encouraged me, and the doctor was on stand-by.  And I pushed and pushed and screamed and screamed and then pushed some more.

I’m proud to say that I pushed her head out all on my own.  Then the doctor had to reach in and pull her the rest of the way out.  I think her shoulders had gotten stuck.  And although they say there is no such thing as a dry birth, because even if the water breaks in advance, the mother’s body continues to create amniotic fluid, I cry BULLSHIT!  It felt like she was covered in sandpaper.  The DB said the Spawn was pretty dry upon removal.  I barely remember a thing.  I think I glanced down once when they said the head was out, because I didn't believe it and I was determined to finish pushing out this child.  I saw her just after she was pulled out, before they hurried her over to the warming table to check her out.  The DB followed her, just as I'd asked him to do, but probably because he was so worried, and not because of any request of mine.  Despite being warned that babies are blue and often limp directly after birth, he did have a bit of a panic.  But then she grabbed on to his finger and let out a terrific yell.  And the DB cried.  I was mostly relieved.  I’d finally gotten her out, she was fine and the pain was finally OVER! 

She nursed almost immediately.  And pooped.  I had to get stitches because I did have some considerable tearing of my perineum.  I even tore my sphincter muscle slightly.  And why yes, that first poop after labor SUCKS, even with (SORRY EVERYONE) stool softeners.  

If we do this again, I'm opting for NOT having my water break two days in advance and for a doctor with smaller hands.  Sweet Jesus.

But as I look down at her, not quite three weeks old, sleeping on my chest, it was worth it.  She is just perfect.

And now for the news you've all been waiting for...

On the 13th of March, weighing 3270 grams (7 lbs, 3.35 oz) and at 51 centimeters (20 inches) long...

The Archaeospawn Arrived!

Momma and baby are fine - and we're starting to get into the swing of things.  Most of the family visits have finished, so I'll either have more time to post because I'm not cooking large meals and presenting my child to all and sundry or less time because My God, she never stops eating!  On the plus side, it means she may grow into her newborn clothes.  I birthed me a tiny child.  Believe me, though, she didn't FEEL tiny on the way out.  However, that's another story.

Alas, I didn't go into labor yesterday...

So I had to take my Danish test.

This test was not the Last Danish Test, as in the one that I will have to take before I am free (FREE!) to be as lousy at Danish as I want to be.  This was the test that comes right before That One.  This one is the test that I took only 5 weeks after passing the previous Danish test, which was passed in a very Hail Mary Pass kind of way.

Which means I am fairly confident that I bombed it.

The tests are usually broken up into timed sections on writing, listening, reading comprehension and speaking.  One of my listening sections was about a dentist.  I needed to listen to what was said and answer some of the questions.  One of the questions was something about what was great about his school.  I think.  (Oh yeah, you always know you're going to do well on a test when you realize you don't actually understand the questions being asked.)

Anyway, I heard "comrade-ship" and "girls" - only now that I'm thinking about it... the word for "girls" is "piger" and there may be a Danish word for "peer" that is, well, pronounced "peer" which sounds to me like "piger" (the word for girls, remember) and that what he SAID was "I liked my classmates and peers" not "I liked my classmates and the girls."

Alas, the interpretation of that answer then colored ALL of my other answers. 'Cause this dentist sounded like a JERK.  I mean, WHO THE HELL SAYS THEY LIKED THE CHICKS AT THEIR SCHOOL??  (Apart from every self-proclaimed red-blooded male. [Public Service Announcement: if they actually call themselves a "red-blooded male" just save yourself some time and trouble, pour your drink over their head, hit them with your purse and GO HOME].)  Swear to god, after that I heard that answer, I heard that he liked owning his own clinic because he got to be the boss and he made lots of money.  The Ass!  Nevermind that the first answer I had given for that section ("Why does he like being a dentist?") was "he likes being able to help people who are in pain."

Poor dentist.  One misheard word and he goes from being a sympathetic character to my new nemesis.

Of course, I'm also biased having been subjected to a rather brutal dental cleaning recently.  It wouldn't have been so bad had I been to the dentist some time in the previous 5 years and had I not been 9 months pregnant (swollen gums - because EVERYTHING swells when you are pregnant - leads to copious bleeding).  Note: the dentist had to grudgingly admit that considering I was pregnant and hadn't had my teeth cleaned in 5 years... they looked fine and there were no cavities.  HA!

But the "piger" vs. "peer" error just highlights yet again the problem I have with Danish.  I just don't hear the difference between some words.  All those extra letters... and yet you don't pronounce half of the alphabet anyway and the other half ALL SOUND THE SAME!

On Wednesday in driver's ed I made a rather humorous mistake during the practice test.  I heard "should you turn on your headlights when there is a train?" And I answered "no" because, uh, duh.  But it didn't stick out as a completely stupid question because some of the questions on the practice test ARE incredibly stupid - "you see a girl on a bike in your lane, what should you do?  Should you speed up?  Should you pass her when it is safe to do so?  Should you slow down and follow her?"  Dude, you should TOTALLY slow down and follow her home and then honk and shout "hey baby, what's your star sign!!"  Wait, that wasn't an option?  Damn.

Anyway, the question was ACTUALLY "should you turn on your headlights when there is fog?" The answer, in case you were wondering, is YES!

Word for "train" = tog (pronounced toe)
Word for "fog" = tåge (pronounced toeh)

So the conversation during the answer part of the test went like this:
Drivers Ed Teacher: (in danish) Don't you turn on your lights when there's fog?
AG: (in danglish) No, of course not, that would be dumb.
DET: ???
DB: pssst...(in english)  Fog... we're talking about FOG!
AG: (in english) FOG?!? Oh, I thought the test said "Train"!
Class laughs, DB face/palms, I feel slightly vindicated because you do NOT turn on your headlights when you see a train, so really I was correct.  I WIN Y'ALL!
AG: (in english, under her breath to the DB) Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that - I haven't learned the word for fog yet!

At least this error made some form of sense.  A few weeks ago I missed a question (thank GOD this one occurred at home) because I heard "bamse" which means "teddy bear" instead of "bramser" which means "brakes."  Honestly, had I thought about it for a minute I'm sure I could have figured that out, because in a residential area "should you be prepared to use your teddy bear" really doesn't have ANY place in a driving test.  A test for pedophiles yes, but not for drivers.

Then again, this is DENMARK, it's all foreign and stuff.  Maybe that's just how they roll.  I mean, they think applesauce is a dessert, for crying out loud.  Eight YEARS and suddenly that stupid applesauce dessert people have been forcing on me makes sense now.  You put applesauce in a bowl, sprinkle toasted oatmeal on top and then squirt some whipped cream on top of that and then serve it to the American and call it "apple cake" and then wonder why she looks confused and then confusedly ask her "don't you eat apples in America?"  Seriously, maybe this is a country where you need to be prepared to use your teddy bear when you drive through a residential area.  Danish children tend to be suicidal maniacs running about in the street, perhaps rolling down your window and throwing a teddy bear in their general direction would distract them and you could drive away at faster than 5 mph.  And, by the way, OF COURSE WE EAT APPLES YOU IDIOTS!  WE DON'T SAY "AS AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE" FOR NOTHING!!!  But we eat applesauce with lunch or dinner.  As a side dish.  Yeah, crazy.  Like a fox.

Slowly I've learned that all the good food in Denmark is considered a dessert and you can only eat it after dinner.  Pancakes, æbleskiver, applesauce, pastries (like the ones Americans call "danishes"), and anything with fruit in it (other than yogurt, but only if the yogurt comes with the fruit already in it, if you add fruit, you may be making a dessert).  I often see Danes eating oranges as a dessert and to me, that's just balmy.  But then I've seen Danes eat potato chips (crisps to the Brits) as a side dish at dinner, along side a fine piece of roasted pork loin.  Yes, potato chips/crisps counted as the "vegetable" - not that all Danes see the point of having a vegetable with a meal.  Sometimes it's like the bloody Atkins diet around here.

So I've learned not to question the ways of the natives (the answer is always "but that's how we do it in Denmark" so really, why bother asking any more) which makes figuring out the driving laws sometimes a bit more complicated.  Especially when you hear either "garble garble garble garble" or you know, the wrong damn word that just happens to sound EXACTLY the same as another word.

At any rate, I'm going to make sure that I have my headlights on at all times, just in case of trains or fog (and the numbers two and twelve which ALSO happen to sound the same as "train") AND I'm going to start carrying spare teddy bears because YOU CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL in residential areas.

Food hits and misses

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant, but I have been taking it really personally when a recipe just does not work out.

Tears and temper tantrums, people.

Tears because I've ruined, RUINED, a meal.  Temper tantrums because, dammit, the DB is going to eat what I've served and STOP COMPLAINING because I'M PREGNANT you ASS, MAKE YOUR OWN FOOD IF THIS IS NOT UP TO PAR!!

Last night I made pancakes (part of living in another country that totally obsesses about traditions means that you tend to suddenly develop a passion for your own and Shrove Tuesday is Pancake Tuesday, Episcopalians and Anglicans will totally back me up here).  The pancakes were FINE.  It's just... well, it's not MY fault that maple syrup comes in such little jars here.  And can only be purchased at certain stores.  When they happen to have it in stock.  And that we also ran out of jam.  But you know what?  HONEY works pretty damn good.  And it's also not my fault if you are not completely stuffed after eating four plate sized pancakes because that's a damn lot of pancakes y'all.  And that we ran out of orange juice because I've developed a NEED for more vitamin C.  But, HEY ISN'T IT GREAT THAT YOU CAN TOTALLY MICROWAVE RISOTTO!!??  And 11 year old Late Harvest Chardonnay isn't THAT crazy of a pairing.  Sorry that we were out of Champagne.

Okay, it wasn't my best meal ever.  It was also NOT the worst.

Previously, in the Archaeogoddess kitchen, were several weeks of When-will-I-find-a-good-chicken-masala-recipe-and-stop-trying-to-killing-us-all.

First there was All Recipes' Chicken Tikka Masala with over 1,200 reviews and 4 1/2 stars - almost 26,000 people have saved this recipe!!  So of course I'm going to make it and slavishly stick to the recipe - it's obviously Just That Good.  Note to self (and everyone else) - READ THE REVIEWS FIRST!  Because they will tell you, right off the bat, to leave out ALL THE SALT.  This recipe calls for 4 teaspoons of salt in the marinade and 3 teaspoons of salt in the sauce itself.  Even if you reduce the salt by a bit IT STILL COMES OUT WICKED SALTY.  In fact, it's diarrhea-inducing salty.  So no more than 1/4 tsp in the marinade and 1/4 tsp in the sauce!!  When we're braver we'll try this one again.  Without the salt.

Then there was a Chicken Masala recipe that I'm not going to link to.  But know this: if a masala recipe has ONLY curry and turmeric as spices then it is NOT A MASALA.  It's a CURRY and a damn bland one at that.  Perfect for Danish palates (the DB insisted it wasn't bad) but simply horrible if you've, you know, ever actually eaten Indian food at an Indian restaurant and expect your food to taste of something other than yellow.  I flat out refused to eat the leftovers of this one.

So it was with great relief when I made a FANTASTIC meal the other night.  Sauteed mushrooms, bacon and lentils - OH MY!  This recipe was still good even though I brilliantly forgot to buy lemons and had to use the fake lemon juice I keep in the fridge for emergencies and instant-buttermilk-making.  I also made a few adjustments of my own.

• I fry up bacon bits by cutting the bacon into chuncks and THEN frying it, this sometimes results in bacon clumps rather than bits, but you know what, I'm okay with that
• I dumped the bacon clumps and the rendered fat and everything into the lentils before serving
• I mixed the parsley into the lentils before serving (oh and it wasn't flat leaf parsley... I can't get FLAT leaf parsley right now, so EXCUSE ME recipe tyrants!)
• I minced the garlic and then left it in because who the hell removes GARLIC from a dish??  Hell, next time I may add MORE garlic
• I served the mix over a bed of mixed greens and then drizzled olive oil and a few drops of lemon juice over the whole shebang and it was AWESOME
• I served this with a side of cornbread as one reviewer suggested and that was a FANTASTIC pairing for some strange reason

Reheating the left overs was a snap - just dump it in a pan and re-fry it for a bit.  Or turn the heat down low and put a lid on it.  You should probably not do what I did which was to put a lid on it and turn the heat to HIGH because "oh, that'll make it heat up faster" but even slightly, uh, burnt, it STILL tasted really good.

I had gobs of mushrooms left over, because, well, I did, okay?  And so I whipped up a Jamie Oliver mushroom risotto.  I have a real love-hate relationship with Mr. Oliver.  On one hand, he turns out a great dish and is all about getting people to eat better.  On the other hand, I do NOT live somewhere with a weekly farmers market with veggies from around the world, nor do I live near a fish mongers, nor does my local butcher know anything about the weird cuts of meat you, Essex boy, are constantly suggesting.  So it is NOT in fact, much cheaper to eat the Hipster Oliver Way because I don't live in LONDON, nor am I Upper Middle Class, so I's po' and in order to make your fine food, J.O., I have become the Queen of Substitutions.

• Grød ris instead of that fancy Aborio stuff, they are both short grained rices with a hefty price difference
• used button mushrooms - sorry dude, but that's what I had, judge me and I'll give you a hair cut with my vegetable peeler
• dried thyme and fresh curly leaf parsley CAUSE THAT'S HOW I ROLL
• still forgetting to buy lemons... used bottled lemon juice... now out of lemon juice AND HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE BISCUITS NOW??

And you know what?  It still tasted good.  And when the DB microwaved it last night to fluff out his pancake-for-dinner meal, he enjoyed it!  HA!  *fist pump*

Party like it's... wait, what year is it again??

The theme song for this post is brought to you by Jimi Hendrix.



So I'm taking driver's ed (because 16 years of exceptional driving experience in a variety of weather, countries, and vehicles and a spotless record means NOTHING to Denmark) and trying to memorize foreign vocabulary and listening to Nirvana Unplugged.

Suddenly it's like 1994 around here.

Except I do not remember being nine months pregnant in high school.  In fact, I think I weighed about half of what I currently weigh.  And rocked green corduroy pants, orange flannel and t-shirts with such witty sayings as "Cat Wants In/Cat Wants Out" with associated cartoon.  I suppose I could still wear such things and claim I was being "ironic" and then get shot for being a hipster.  Worse things could happen.  I could be trying to wear leggings and over-sized sweaters with large belts...

Only I'm struggling with the NemID nonsense (hey, got the DB at home for a few hours, best try to make use of his expansive Danish vocabulary while I can) and the circle of ridiculousness is right out of 1984.

I feel like I should be dancing the Time Warp... but that takes me back to 1975 and I wasn't actually BORN then. (If you are confused about this "Time Warp" thing, click on the link.  Not that you'll understand better afterwards, because The Rocky Horror Picture Show never did make any sense, but hey Susan Sarandon, Barry Bostwick [you may remember him as the Mayor in "Spin City" - oh yeah, THAT GUY] and Tim Curry in women's underwear!)

And I swear I keep letting the cat IN but not OUT, leading me to ponder the existence of some spacial-temporal anomaly which is magically letting the cat out and sucking digital signatures out of my computer (or wherever digital signatures are kept - I suspect in Pia Kjærsgaard's underwear drawer) faster than the Borgerservice can type them in.

Oh for the good old days, when you immigrated by showing up in some port, being checked for lice and TB and then released to the hounds.  Or even better, when you showed up in some port and stuck swords and axes into the natives until they paid you to stick swords and axes into someone else, usually their neighbor.  Remind me to change my ring tone to "Flight of the Valkyries" and to pick up a horned helmet from the museum gift shop before I take my driver's test.

Hvad skal du særlig opmærksom til, bitches?

(What should you pay particular attention to, oh driver's education student?)

What Not To Say To a Pregnant Woman

These are the ones I personally hate hearing…

1. Enjoy eating everything you want!

Ha. Ha ha.  Hahahahahahaha!  Obviously you’ve never been pregnant.  The list of food that you MUST NOT EAT or you will KILL YOUR BABY is long and pretty much includes something you absolutely love.

• Raw or undercooked meat (kiss Carpaccio and sushi good-bye and expect to order all your steaks and hamburgers “well done” *spit*)
• Deli meat - including hot dogs (kiss lunch goodbye)
• Fish with mercury or exposed to environmental pollutants (i.e. any fish that once swam in an ocean, lake, or river)
• Smoked fish (like there was any fish left for you to eat anyway)
• Raw or undercooked shellfish (cooking shellfish doesn’t prevent algae-based bacteria from proliferating, so most of the time they ask you to just avoid shellfish entirely… just in case)
• Raw or undercooked eggs (this includes fried eggs, over-easy eggs, soft-boiled eggs, poached eggs, and scrambled eggs that aren’t completely dry and horrid)
• Soft cheeses (except American cheese, which isn’t actually cheese)
• Pate (actually anything with liver in it, including, surprisingly enough, liver)
• Anything with caffeine
• Alcohol
• Vitamin A - you need it every other day but too much will KILL YOUR BABY
• Cut your fat by 30%
• Cut your cholesterol
• Make sure you get enough fat and cholesterol because you need them to absorb the vitamins
• You must still get lots of folic acid, calcium, and iron and you can’t get enough of it by eating because we’ve cut all the main sources of vitamins and minerals out of your diet - so take big fat vitamins!

So exactly how am I supposed to enjoy eating when everything I like to eat has been taken off the “acceptable” food list?  I have to read the packaging, obsess over food choices, and try to work a balanced diet around restrictions and availability…

Or you know, throw my hands up in the air and ask: what the hell are French, Italian and Japanese women eating, then? And then eat whatever I want.

The corollary to #1 is: don’t tell me what I shouldn’t eat, because I will fucking cut you, bitch.

2. Enjoy sleeping while you can, because you’ll miss it after the baby’s born.

WHO IS SLEEPING NOW??  FIND ME THE COMFORTABLY SLEEPING PREGNANT WOMAN!!  Multiple trips to the bathroom (and getting out of bed is NO walk in the park), acid reflux, restless legs, cramps, Braxton-Hicks, kicking baby, rhinitis, numb hands, HUGE BELLY keeping me from rolling into any other position, yeah, I’m sleeping like a goddamned princess here. 

3. You’re not fat; you’re pregnant.

You did NOT just contradict a pregnant woman, did you?  DID YOU??  I’ve put on 50 lbs (25 kgs) in the last 9 months.   I can’t reach my feet.  I can’t even SEE my feet.  I’ve out grown all my normal clothes and half of my maternity wear.  If I wanted to wear a skirt, I’d need to rub talcum powder between my thighs.  They stick and won’t rub past each other, thus limiting my ability to actually move myself without the obviously pregnant waddle.  I get winded walking up the gentlest incline; so don’t even talk to me about stairs.  My hips POP OUT OF ALIGNMENT and my knees have a nasty tendency to give when I squat.  I’m SO SORRY if I’m offending the sensibilities of the fat people (“oh, *sob* poor us, we’re fat, you have no right to be calling yourself fat, you don’t understand what it’s like to be fat”) but I bet you put on those extra pounds SLOWLY, over time, giving your muscles, bones, and closet time to adjust for inflation and I bet your fat doesn’t kick you in the middle of the night either.

The proper response to a pregnant woman who bemoans her fatness is to say “thankfully it’s mostly baby and water, so this too shall pass.”  Because what a fat pregnant woman needs to hear is validation of her feelings and a reminder that it’s temporary.  Telling us we look great is also nice, even if we know you're lying.

4. In English “Was it planned?” or in Danish “Er du glæde for det?” (are you happy about it)

No, the motherfucking Archangel Gabriel came to me and told me God raped me in the night and implanted the Savior of all Mankind, that he’ll take on the sins of the world and be sacrificed by being nailed to a goddamned tree all because he told people to get along with one another and pay their damn taxes because the Romans gave us roads, peace, and hygiene.  And I for one am Quite Pissed Off About It.

Seriously people - dumbest questions EVER.  Everyone is going to say “yes” no matter what and now the pregnant chick is wondering what kind of cheap whore do you take her for.  THANKS A LOT!

5. Are you still pregnant?

No, I had the baby and now I’m just wearing a pillow around my middle for shits and grins. 

6. Are you getting exercise? You should be exercising.  [Insert discussion of the benefits of exercise and what will happen to me if I don’t.]

So remember the part where my hips pop out of alignment?  And my knees have gone… well, they’ve gone somewhere and they left no forwarding address, although I think it was Fiji.  For all I know they took my feet, I haven’t seen them in a while either.  Point being, exercise is limited to standing up, getting up from lying down (both are gargantuan achievements, y’all), and going up the stairs.  Spend all day on my feet, walking and moving about and I’ll be flat on my back in tears by 8 pm.  I was fine until about 10 lbs ago.  At that point my weight got ahead of my ability to build new muscles and the muscles I have are pretty taxed.  How about this, then, I’m still moving.  How’s that for ya?  Would you like to tell me how many poops I should be doing a day too?

7. You can’t do X with a baby!!

Oh, damn, now you’ve done it.  Like waving a red flag in front of a bull.  You’ve done told me I can’t do something.  Now I have to do it to prove you wrong.  Trying to appeal to my husband to “make me see sense” is not going to help.  He’s probably going to start plotting how we can accomplish X as soon as humanly possible. 

8. How are you feeling?

I know I’m being slightly bitchy here.  I can’t say that I particularly “hate” this question; it’s just that I get asked it so many times a day.  And the answer is: I feel like crap.  “But you look great!” or “[Insert unsolicited advice]” follows and then I’m stuck standing or sitting while the person with the great intentions tries to make me feel better.  You wanna make me feel better?  Carry this damn thing for me while I go take a nap, some asshole has been telling me I should be getting my rest now before the baby comes.

9. Once you are holding that precious baby in your arms you will totally forget how miserable you were.

That may be.  HOWEVER, I’m pregnant NOW.  I’m not holding a baby, I’m holding my breath because I think I may belch, fart, and possibly dribble a bit of GOD KNOWS WHAT NOW into my panties in the next 30 seconds.  Yes, some day we may all look back on this and laugh… but “some day” is not happening fast enough for me.

10. [In response to seeing someone trying to manage a screaming child] And that’s what you have to look forward to!

OH YAY!  THAT’S WHY WE GOT OURSELVES INTO THIS!!  You know what, just go away.

Thoughts from the left field...

So taking a quick break from pregnancy madness...

Yes, I'm still pregnant.  Please stop asking me that!

I'm at 37 weeks.

Why, thank you, I also think I'm huge.

No, it's not twins.

Yes, I'm aware I could go 2 weeks over.

Thanks for pointing out that I look amazing.  Though your shock that I'm still pregnant kinda takes the joy out of your observation.  Can we talk about something else now?  'K thanks.

One of my favorite "movies" is actually the mini-series "Band of Brothers."  I have a mild to medium sized obsession with the European theatre of war in WWII and I don't know if you remember me talking about it a bit WAAAAAY back in 2009 in this post, which I just re-read and found very funny, if I do say so m'self, so if you want to wander off and give it a good read, just go on ahead and then come back.    Or not.  No pressure.

Anywaaaaay, DR1 is showing "The Pacific" right now.  It's not as good as "Band of Brothers" which is more documentary feeling and includes interviews with the guys who really had been there and done that, but it's good for showing how freaking awful the Pacific theatre of war really was.  And seriously, it was AWFUL.  Why we decided to go back to fight in the tropics two more times in the twentieth century is beyond me...  'Course now it's the "in" thing to be fighting in the desert.  Can we swap to arctic battles, a la Hoth for a while, just to mix it up some?  It would give our submarine captains something to do, at any rate.

Both of my grandfathers served in the Pacific.  As far as I know, neither were in Guadalcanal or Midway or Iwo Jima.  But neither really talked about their experiences very much and we kids were not encouraged to ask either.  Now it's too late because they've both passed away... but I also don't think I'd feel comfortable asking them about something that might have been repressed for a reason.  Towards the end, one of my grandfathers did randomly start telling stories about the war, about arresting Japanese soldiers hidden in caves, but it was all a bit garbled, Gramps being a bit off by that stage.

But the point being, I had relatives that served.  (My dad, for the record, was drafted but got a medical discharge, for which we are all eternally grateful.  My dad and Vietnam would just not have got on well, I'm sure of it.)  And so I asked my DB what his grandparents were doing, you know, while living under the Nazi thumb and all.

The answer: nothing.  Just doing their thing.  Making shoes and whatever the other one did (totally blanked on that one, my bad).  And I had a bit of a mind-boggle.  For the record: there were Danes who sabotaged the train tracks and kept goods from supplying the German army, who made their way to England to volunteer for the war, who smuggled Jews to Sweden, who resisted in various ways - who were right and proper heroes.  But there were far more who didn't really do anything other than what they had been doing before the war.  Only now with more Nazis.

Back to the mind-boggle.

Part of my historical narrative or what-have-you growing up was that Europe totally sucked in WWII and we Americans had to come in and pull everyone's butts out of the fire.  But then you "get educated" and learn that really, America helped a great deal, but we should downplay that bit and spend some time pointing out the plucky Brits, daring French, and stalwart Belgians who were a huge part of the victory.   Oh, and we should sort of tip our hats to the Russians, but only after pointing out that Stalin was a big dick and we hate him lots, the commie bastard, but thanks for distracting Hitler even if it meant shooting your own people IN THE BACK, jerk.  And now it's a full pendulum swing back again - my grandparents were getting shot at so yours could MAKE SHOES??  *boggle*

The DB is mighty embarrassed, to tell the truth.  We had a good long discussion about the role of the military in DK and how it is perceived by the average Dane (an embarrassment and something only homicidal freaks do).  My husband was one of the "lucky" few to get drafted and he hated his boot camp and opted for the civil service as fast as he could.  Strangely enough, it's all the American war dramas he's watched that have given him a different view of the military in Denmark.  (Lord knows his boot camp was a PR disaster.  He was trained "in case someone invaded Denmark."  Who's going to invade Denmark, the DB asked.  "Never you mind!" shouted the drill sergeant, "now go crawl in the mud with your out-dated rifle!")  He's still pretty embarrassed by the Danish Military Might, it's small and managed to get involved in the wrong wars, but now he sees it more as a tool that can be used for good, if the higher ups weren't a bunch of asshats.  He wonders what he would have done if he'd lived in Denmark in WWII.  He also wonders what it would be like to live somewhere were the military is a source of nationalist (although my conservative friends would prefer me to say "patriotic") pride and what would it be like to have all of your friends signing up to go off to war.  (He'd like to think that he would have resist if he lived in DK, but isn't sure he'd have known what to do, but is fairly confident he would have signed up with his friends if he'd lived in the US.)

Me, I have a hard time imagining what it would be like to *not* have seen pictures of my grandfathers in uniform.  Just about everyone I know from the US had at least one relative who has served in one war (or "armed conflict") or another.  My hometown newspaper covers deployments, medals, and graduations of "local" troops.  Conversely, I imagine that it was a lot easier in Denmark to protest the war in Afghanistan and Iraq than it was in the US (to all those assholes who rolled down their windows to yell at us to get behind the Commander and Chief, I just wanna say I TOLD YOU SO! *pbth*).  Yeah, you should have tried to be a pacifist in New England after 9/11 - that was not exactly easy, y'all.  So glad that thousands of people had to die before I was proved right.  *Sigh*

Like many Americans, I'm torn between the support I have for the men and women who voluntarily sign up to put their lives on the line for a noble concept and the disgust I have for the men and women who send those brave souls into pointless conflicts.  I'm as proud of my grandfathers and their generation for going to war as I am of those who fought to bring our troops home from Vietnam.  I will carry placards and partake in sit-ins to promote peace, but I will totally blow your fucking head off if you lay a hand on my family.

It's not Veterans Day, or Memorial Day, or the 5th of May (Denmark's liberation day) - but go on, hug a veteran.  You know you want to.

Ready or Not...

“So,” asked a friend over dinner recently, “are you ready to be parents?”

The DB began, “well, we have the stroller…”

I added, “and the car seat.”

“We’ve got the crib.”  “Oh yes, certainly. And plenty of diapers.”  “Well, for the first week.  But we need to get wipes.” “We’ve got lots of clothes.” “Tons.” “And linens for the bed and duvet covers for both the little and the big duvet...”

“Yes,” said our friend.  “I see you are very prepared.  But I meant was, well, are you ready to be parents.”

“We knew what you meant,” the DB replied, as we looked at each other across the table and exchanged some nervous laughter.  “There’s just not any good answer for that.”

Durr, say those of you who aren’t parents, the answer is either yes or no, hello?  You are SO not ready to be parents!

Those of you with kids know; the answer really is way too complicated to be answered over a casual dinner.

I have not read every child-care book on the planet, nor have I an advanced degree in Child Development (thank god, parents who have degrees in Child Development seem to always be slightly more neurotic and anxious about their kids than the rest of us poor uneducated slobs) and even if I did, I still don’t think I’d be confident in saying “why OF COURSE I’m ready!  Silly bugger, now pass the whiskey, I need to get very drunk.”

That isn’t to say I haven’t paid attention during “Nanny 911” or “Supernanny” or other shows that put one right off of having kids (seriously, what is it with these people, not only are they horrible parents, but they managed to breed three or more times before the little monsters turned on them - what were you thinking, that you’d just keep popping them out until you got a nice one??).  Or haven’t discussed various parenting situations with the DB.  But I don’t think that there is such a thing as “ready” as if it’s a black or white, yes or no, kind of thing.  “Ready” is a three-dimensional cloud in which certain areas you may be prepared for and others you may not which total up to your “readiness” but may be in a completely different vector than someone else’s “readiness” and neither of these results is better or worse than the other.

Sorry for the random mathy imagery, I watch a lot of National Geographic Channel.

So I can say that I have the physical accoutrements of “readiness” - the crib, the baby bath, the iddle biddy stripy socky-wockies (dude, what is it about pregnancy that makes one completely nuts over baby FEET?  Seriously, it’s like I’ve developed a tiny foot fetish and my preference is for stripped socks that I can barely fit over my thumb.), I’ve read up on the basics of baby care, I know how to change a diaper, and I completely understand the mechanics of breastfeeding.

But actually doing it… well, that’s another story.

How will I function with the upcoming sleep deprivation?  What if breastfeeding turns out to be even more difficult than I can handle?  What if the Spawn is a particularly fussy baby?  How will I handle the overpowering emotions that are part hormones and part exhaustion and part iddle biddy stripy socky-wocky madness? Besides, how on earth are you supposed to be ready for having a whole new human being of your very own?  The big eyes looking up at you?  The little hand that grasps your finger with THAT GRIP?

If you say you can be prepared for all of that, and a million and ten things you haven’t thought of yet, I call you a dirty filthy liar and I’m a gonna cut you (sorry, hormones).

But you know what, you aren’t supposed to be.  I mean, in real life, not what you read on the internet or in a book.  Although, to be fair to the internet and the books, they pretty much lay out “you have no idea what’s about to hit you, you sad sack of cellulite” because there isn’t anyway to be ready and all you can do is hold on to your big girl pants and roll with the punches.

The DB and I are ready to roll.  And I am certainly wearing big girl pants.

Shampoo shenanigans and stuff

How is it that my husband can go through shampoo so fast?

A quick aside for more information - my husband has a skin allergy that renders him completely scaly and pimply and gross from regular soaps.  (I'm sure he's going to just LOVE that I told you all about his eczema.)  *I* (insert preening) figured it out and found him a soap that he could use as well as a shampoo and conditioner.  But that left us with all the other soaps and shampoos that we'd bought in our mad attempt to cure him and I've been steadily using them up, one after another, for the last two years.

You'd think I'd be done or that we must have had a MOUNTAIN of soaps and shampoos going at the time.  And I'm starting to think that your assumptions must be right, because DAMN I am *still* working on that last bottle of regular shampoo and I am no closer to getting rid of the two half bottles of Head & Shoulders (copyright trademarked blah blah blah) than I was a few years ago.

Part of the problem is that when I go off on excavation I can't take the HUGE bottles of shampoo and soap I have sitting in the shower and so buy smaller bottles to start me off and then I get stuck buying more while I'm abroad and then I bring it home and now I've got TWO bottles to finish instead of one.

You could suggest that I throw it away... but that goes against every fiber of my being.  Obviously, $20 worth of shampoo, soap, conditioner etc. is not going to bankrupt me... but a very large chunk of my soul wants to scream "it's not like we're rolling in cash, either, sweetheart" and I just can't do it.  I also keep left-over pasta (you can re-heat it by dropping it into boiling water for 30 seconds and you'd never notice that it was older than newly made pasta) and my husband will not throw away the tube of toothpaste until he's absolutely sure he's gotten the last bit of toothpaste out.  Usually this results in less and less toothpaste actually getting on his toothbrush, until I point out, "uh, honey, I don't think there actually *is* any toothpaste on your toothbrush" and he sheepishly admits that maybe, just maybe, he's gotten all the toothpaste out... at least all the toothpaste that can be gotten out without resorting to surgery.  If he didn't know that I'd kill him dead, I'm sure he'd use my nail scissors to gut the tube for that last little bit.

We joke about it.  We laugh over how he scrapes the last of the toothpaste out of the lid and I add water to the last of the soap dispenser to make sure we get EVERY LAST BUBBLE.  We laugh at my propensity to empty hotels of their soaps (hey, they're going to throw it away anyway, I'm just saving them the trouble) and his practically invisible socks (so thin that one of these days a load will go into the wash and NEVER RETURN!).  Sometimes we'll throw away the leftover pasta (but only if it's not enough to make a meal of the next day and NEVER if there is leftover sauce) because we aren't REALLY that poor.  I mean, there was The Month Of Cabbage a few years back.  *That* was poor.  We can afford organic eggs now.

But.  Still.

Why does my husband have to go through shampoo so fast??

It really boggles my mind.  He's got far less hair than I do.  And SOAP!  Okay, he's bigger than I am.  Or was.  Because at this point, we weigh about the same amount and I'm pretty sure I've caught up with him in overall surface area AND YET it has taken me four months to go through a little bottle of soap, during which time he's gone through THREE bottles that are THREE TIMES the size of my little bottle.  WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE??  I've been in the bathroom when he showers.  I know he turns off the water, like a good environmentally contentious young man, to soap up, so I know he's not rinsing it off faster than he can slap it on.

But I'm starting to have the suspicion that he's possibly forgetting that he's washed and he's repeating himself in the shower.  Like he enters some time-loop and keeps repeating the same motions again and again, only time is not repeating, it's continually moving forwards and the soap is simply getting used up.

Evidence:
1) He takes twice as long in the shower than I do.

I'm a woman.  We're designed by nature to take longer in the shower and yet I take 10 minutes (okay, it's inching up to 20 because I can't bend over or stand on one leg for very long, so reaching the soap on the lower shelf and getting my legs up high enough to be scrubbed takes some slow careful maneuvers, if it wasn't so utterly grotesque it might be considered performance art - but his showers have also gotten proportionally longer).  I'm in the bathroom when he's showering three days out of the week and I know that he spends the entire time in there lathering and scrubbing (I tend to spend the majority of my time rinsing) and seriously, it should not take that long UNLESS HE IS WASHING EVERY PART THREE TIMES WITH VAST QUANTITIES OF SOAP!!

2) He has no memory of what he's doing in the shower.

Conversation from a few weeks ago -
DB: (in the shower) Um, so, baby, can I ask you something?
AG: Yeah...
DB: Water seems to be getting into the soap and it makes it really watery and hard to use and so, um, if you could, you know, remember, to... uh, close the lid, you know, after, uh, you... uh, use it... that would be, um, really great...
AG: Honey, I don't *use* your soap, remember?
(Pause)
DB: Oh, so I guess it's me then.
AG: Gotta be.

And since then, 9 times out of 10 when I get into the shower, I end up closing his soap because HE STILL FORGETS TO DO IT.

So there, if he's washing himself and then forgetting that he's washed himself, this could in fact lead to the kind of shower loop that increases soap and shampoo usage to the point where I'm buying him a new bottle of soap from the organic shop every two weeks.  They must think I've got a particularly large family that all uses the same bottle of soap.  I've bought them out of their stock.  I've got to go in there and ask them to restock, please, because we're about to be out again and I wasn't able to get any more on the mainland (having, I think, possibly bought THEM all out of this soap too).  Really, at this point, I ought to call the manufacturer and ask to purchase a case because we go through it so bloody fast.

Or really, I should make the DB do it because he's the one using it all up.  The soapy beast.

A momentous week

No, I didn't give birth... *sigh*

But we bought a house!!

Correction: my husband bought a house, I am forbidden from owning property because I'm a dirty foreigner on a temporary residency visa.

There is some logic to this -  every time there's a war, Germany invades Denmark (usually right after Poland), today Germans *love* to holiday in Denmark (why, y'all have the ALPS fer fecks sake??!!) and there is a worry that the Germans would buy up Denmark given the chance - after all OBVIOUSLY the Danes have SOMETHING the Germans want because THEY KEEP COMING BACK!

There must be ways around this rule, I know a Polish couple that just bought a house on my island, so maybe the law is limited to dirty foreigners on temporary residency visas AND Germans.

So yeah, there will need to be some lawyering to get it all worked out so that if the DB dies (God Forbid) the house will pass to the Spawn and I'll be executor or something.

BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT OF THIS POST!  THE POINT OF THIS POST IS THAT WE'VE BOUGHT A MOTHERFREAKING HOUSE Y'ALL!!

Before you jump in and say "welcome to the wild world of home ownership" let me remind you that we (DB) own an apartment in Aarhus, which we rent out rooms in, making us not only homeowners, but landlords.  Believe me when I tell you I keep a close eye on interest rates and inflation.

Unless you are my accountant, you're probably getting bored with this discussion.  "So, this new house - what up?" you ask.

It's on the western side of the island, in a little village we came across a long while back that we fell in love with.  We've been trying to figure out how to move there since we settled on the island, but most of the houses for sale were WAY out of our price range.  We shopped around looking at places that were in our price range and they ran from "OH DEAR GOD I think I need another tetanus booster" to "JESUS H CHRIST we should just burn this down and start over!"  We looked around outside our "happy zone" - going as far as to look at a "parcelhus" (think 1970's ranch-style in the US... aka hideous) in Marstal.  That was a sad sad day.  Things overheard at the parcelhus:
"Hey, if you stand here, in the corner of the lot, you can almost see the ocean... there, just on the other side of the breeze-block mother-in-law cottage..."
"Well, we certainly wouldn't have to worry about lawn maintenance, I could trim this with your electric razor."
"I suppose we should be glad it comes with A tree."

But this is a small island.  Tell one person you're looking for a house and people begin to call YOU with homes for sale.  That's how my husband heard about this house.  We went out and saw it several times.  It was perfect, nothing has to be done before moving in.  We didn't say to each other "well, we can live with it for now" (although I did say that about the kitchen... but I say that about most kitchens) and after a bit of discussion we could get it for within our price range.

It has the most gorgeous view over the landscape.  There's a bit of ocean, but mostly it's fields and wooded areas.  We're surrounded by farmland, being just outside the village itself, so yes, we'll get that wonderful manure smell several times a year, but we'll also get an ever changing seasonal view.

It's a two bedroom house, with two floors, but only one bathroom and alas, I'm losing my bathtub.  We're going to get creative on the upper floor - it's a huge room and I cannot abide wasted space (why do Danes make a huge open space and then fill it with multiple sitting areas... how many hygge zones do you need?), so we're going to build a master bedroom up there using bookshelves for walls (this is what happens when you watch too many home improvement shows) and turn one of the bedrooms on the ground floor into a guest bedroom.  The back yard has several fruit trees and lavender and wisteria (hands down my favorite plants) and a lawn that is large enough but hopefully not too large.  There will be space to grow as well, if we decide to keep adding on to the family.

I'm awfully excited about this house!  I can't wait to be able to hang pictures on the walls again (without thinking... hmmmm, will this mean I have to paint the whole room when we move out or just this wall...) and decide randomly to paint a room cerulean blue JUST BECAUSE I CAN.  I'm also relieved because this means when the Spawn gets a hold of my markers and decorates the wall, I can say, "ah, well, I'm sure Dad will be VERY PROUD" instead of "OMG THE DEPOSIT!!"  Spawn will be able to run about in the backyard, whooping and hollering and not disturb the neighbors.  Nor will Spawn disturb anyone other than Mom and Dad with the indoor roller skating or "Puttin' on the Ritz" routine (which the baby is practicing RIGHT NOW in my uterus).

You probably won't get any more photos until we move in, sometime in mid-May.  I'm not going to post pictures of the previous owners things, that's her stuff and I think she should have some privacy.

It would be so much worse if I lived in Haiti... no, wait, it would be warm there!

We're having a horrific storm at the moment.  It's all wind.  Nothing but wind.  But it's pulling tiles off of roofs (not mine, thank you Mr. Whoever Laid the Tiles, but boy am I glad I don't live just down the street) so it's not your normal-every-day-gee-you-complain-about-the-weather-too-much kind of wind.  And it's cold.  It's probably trying to snow, but the snow is getting blown horizontally and is probably landing in Munich.  I've been watching people walk their dogs and have never been so grateful to have a cat instead as I do today.  However, having a cat isn't without it's drawbacks.

Alot: Meow!
AG: You do *not* want to go out in this cat.
Alot: MEOW!
AG: You're going to regret this.
Alot: Meow MEOW meow!
AG: *opens door* (both AG and Alot are smacked in the face by incredible winds at freezing temperature) Okay, there's outside! Go and do your thing!
Alot: Meow? *turns tail and runs under table*
AG: That's what I thought.

Ten minutes later.

Alot: Meeeeooooowwwwrrrr!
AG: You know, we have a litter box.
Alot: Ooooowwwwr!
AG: You're going to be so pissed when you want back in and I've gone off to the pharmacy and there's no one home!
Alot: Mrrrrrrr!
AG: Okay *opens door* (repeat of the wind-in-the-face, both are practically blown back into the house, doors slam five rooms away)
Alot: *full body shiver* *darts out and down the stairs and under the deck*
AG: I'll give you 10 minutes and then I'm going to the pharmacy.

Time's up.

No cat.

Well, gotta run, these antacids won't buy themselves.

It's not the distance

Okay, it *totally is* the distance.

I know it's not that far.  Because in a pre-pregnant state I can walk there in under 20 minutes, so it's probably only a kilometer - which is less than a mile.  In fact, it's probably only a quarter mile 'cause it's like three New York blocks or something.  That's like once around the track (this refers to my high school which has a track that is a quarter mile round - I'm telling you this because it occurred to me y'all might not have gone to my high school).  It's not that far.

Except I've already walked it once today.

And I'm carrying a small angry beast inside of me, one that is head-butting my cervix and clawing at my uterus with its little hands and kicking my diaphragm with its little feet.

The "it" I must walk to is the citizen service at the county/city hall.

Because of this NemID thing that I've talked about.

The borgerservice (citizen service) is only open when a virgin slaughters a unicorn during the second full moon of the month (or you know,  M, Tu, Th, F from 9-12 [possibly] and Th afternoons from 2:30 to some unknown time).  I thought it opened on Thursday at 1:30, so I walked up there after Danish class.  But NO, *I* was thinking of the pharmacy, which also closes for a lengthy lunch break at the same time that everyone else takes a lunch break and runs out to buy things in the pharmacy.  I was an hour early.  So I went home, totally forgetting to write down when the blasted place is open.  That's okay, I has the intertoobs!  I tried to see when the opening hours are by going to the website.  But the page that gives you times and phone numbers is ERROR 404, which means it's been eaten by a bear, so I'm just going to have to take my butt up there again to see if it's open now.

Frak that!  I figure... it's cold.  It's going to snow.  I am going to drive.

Only I can't get the car unlocked.

*hangs head and sobs quietly in the car port*

Back inside.  Ring to husband to complain about the inequity of life.

Get hung up on because DB is in an interview.

Try to blame the cat.  Fail miserably.

I tried to psyche myself up "come on girl, it's not far, just walk slowly and steadily and you'll get there and you'll deal with this crap and it'll be out of your hair and you'll be so proud of yourself and then you can go back to the pharmacy, which will be open and you can buy cotton swabs and more of that genius antacid and then waddle home and you can even take a bath or something equally awesome."

But my hips are done for the day.  And the Spawn hasn't stopped moving for about an hour (sleep DAMN YOU).  And I am not walking up there if there is the slightest chance it will be closed because I just don't think I could take that kind of rejection.

Just about everyone on the planet has bigger problems than me today... however, I think I'm just going to curl up here on the couch, cover my head with a blanket and throw myself a little pity party for one.

... and with that, the Danish Boy began to panic

Sometimes I wonder if the Spawn is aware that the ultrasound tech said my due date is March 19th.

I ask, because I think the Spawn dropped today.  About half way through Danish class.

Last night Spawn was all up in my business, kicking my stomach, shoving my uterus into my lungs and causing me to wake gasping for air.  I had a completely random dream in which I went into labor and gave birth.  On March 23rd.

God I don't want to wait until March 23rd.  Even February 23rd sounds far away!

So anyway, there I am in Danish class and the Spawn is kicking and wriggling and suddenly I cannot sit comfortably.  I had this total flashback to when I wore short sexy little skirts (don't worry Mom, it didn't last very long and I was over 18) and it was so very important to keep your knees together when sitting down.  Because at that moment, "knees together" was not going to happen my friends.  I was trying my best to keep each leg as far away from my belly as possible.  And it was getting harder and harder to do.  Having my legs at the 90 degrees angle needed to sit in a chair was practically impossible.  I leaned back as far as I could but it just seemed that my belly had dropped down between my legs.  Forget worrying about the baby falling out (as some women describe it), I was worried my belly was going to end up falling out of my pelvis and hanging down by my knees.  HOW CAN YOU BIRTH A BABY THAT ISN'T IN YOUR PELVIS???

Now, having the Spawn drop, I was kinda hoping that I'd be able to breathe again.  This hasn't really been the case so far.  What has happened is that I seem to be getting kicked in new places, which is kinda nice, because maybe the bruises will heal.  (I swear I have uterine bruises, y'all.  You can't see them, but DAMN I have little spots that HURT!)  But I still have the problem - how am I going to sit
- at the dining table?
- at my desk?
- on the toilet?

And how much longer does this mean I have to go?  pleasedon'tsaysixweekspleasedon'tsaysixweeks Because supposedly I have six weeks to go.  Unless... we go by my original reckoning... which would make my due date March 10th... and that would be only a little over four weeks and that has GOT to be better than SIX.  And then if Spawn decides to come early, it's not too shockingly early... I mean, if Spawn came next week, then I'd only be three weeks early!

I think I might just start working on some of the methods suggested to bring about labor.  I'm already eating spicy food.  Perhaps I'll bring up the other method with the DB tonight over dinner...

The Good News is, You're Normal. The Bad News is, *This* is Normal

I got caught up in other things and never got around to telling you about my midwife visit.

I'm fine.  I'm normal.  I'm so normal, it's practically abnormal.

I got a bit of a patronizing smile over the weight thing, but once I explained that I was concerned because I'm also bloated and my hands are hurting, she realized that I was listing some of the symptoms of pre-eclampsia and took me very seriously.  My blood pressure is normal for a woman at my stage of pregnancy, I lack protein in my urine (sorry about that, that was possibly too much information?), and the weight gain is not really that severe, nor was it really sudden.  However, she told me to call her if the swelling got worse, because that could indicate something's going on and she's rather have me checked out again than wait until I start having convulsions.

So this weight thing - all over the internet and in all the baby books it says "a woman should gain between 25 and 35 pounds in the course of a healthy pregnancy."  They should all be shot.  I now know gobs of women who are gaining/have gained far more than that and it hasn't resulted in any problems whatsoever.

Despite the evilness of the internet, I had to return there for information because this pain in my fingers... sometimes numbness... had me a bit concerned and I wondered, WTF.  It wasn't really mentioned in my books, apart from one of the signs of pre-eclampsia, but I had noticed some women talking about pain like this in late pregnancy, so I was wondering if it was normal.  (This procedure of checking first, calling midwife in a panic second has so far worked very well.  A shocking number of rather disgusting bodily behaviors are completely normal during pregnancy.)

When you type "pain numbness pregnancy" into Google, you totally expect to find:
OMG - You are Dying and So Is Your Baby
Here's A List of Terrible Diseases You Have and So Does Your Baby
Call 911
Check Out This MILF Action!!!

Instead I got:
Boring, We All Get This
So Normal, Your Child Should Be Called Norm Al or Norma Al
Did You Seriously Think Pregnancy Was Easy and Pain Free?
Check Out This MILF Action!!!

Advice on handling the pain ranged from taking Tylenol PM to not sleeping on my side, because that can compress nerves and things.

Which leads me to a bit of a rant... I can't sleep on my back because I'll compress some major nerve and artery and kill myself and/or my baby and I can't sleep on my side because I'll lose all use of one or both arms and I can't sleep on my stomach because, DUH, I'm pregnant... exactly how am I supposed to sleep, oh wise Internet People???  I can't sleep flat because of acid reflux, I need to keep my feet elevated and now possibly my arms elevated, so basically I need to elevate everything but the baby above my heart.  Can I get myself shot into space for the last 6 weeks of pregnancy?  'Cause it sounds like the only way to solve these problems is to be in zero G.

I mentioned the acid reflux to the midwife, who immediately wrote the name of an antacid on a slip of paper.  BEST FREAKING DRUG EVER!  Right there in the information packet included in the medication (what, don't you read those?  You totally should, you learn some of the darnedest things about half lives and chemical reactions) it said SAFE FOR PREGNANT AND NURSING WOMEN.  I'm really sick of "like all medications, contact your physician before taking this medication if you are pregnant or nursing."  And they work!  Oh, how they work!  I still can't lay completely flat, because whatever is in my stomach will come up, but I can lay mostly flat and I'm not getting heart burn or acid reflux.  Genius!  They don't taste half bad either.  And I can keep eating chili, barbeque, Indian, and anything deriving from the cuisine from south of the Mason-Dixon line, because recommended meal plans for pregnant women are so bloody dull.

Look, I'm fat, I waddle, I'm retaining water and I'm leaking strange fluids from strange places, I can't go for long walks without needing a (rather large) bush to pee behind, I can't go on amusement park rides (although I think I'm going to ask my husband to let me stand on the front of the shopping cart like a hood ornament next time we go shopping), I can't get drunk and dance with abandon - do not tell me that I have to eat the most boring food on the planet at the same time!

Though this does beg the question: are jalapeños a fruit or a vegetable?

I'm tired, so don't expect this post to be linear, let alone grammatically correct

The brain has been churning out some doozies lately.  Mostly the "oh my god there's a ghost standing next to your bed NO DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES IT'LL TOTALLY KILL YOU IF YOU OPEN YOUR EYES!" variety.  'Night terrors,' my mom calls them.  Last night I was trying to help a talking lab mouse come up with a plan to defeat the evil wizard who had transmogrified him (I guess you had to be there) when something grabbed my shoulders and dragged me, backwards, through the wall and down a dark well.  I could smell the dank air, I could feel the wind rushing past my face, and all the blood was rushing from my head towards my feet because I was moving That Fast.  I think it was a well.  I was a little preoccupied to ask what manner of architecture I was falling through at the time.

As I was plunging towards god-knows what, all I could think of was "if you hit the ground in your dream you will DIE and if your peacefully sleeping husband doesn't wake in time, SO WILL THE BABY!" and I flipped myself around in that dream and began clawing at the air trying to either stop falling or wake up.  I don't think I've ever struggled so hard in a dream before.  I was crying, I could feel the tears on my face - complete and utter gibbering panic.

I'm shocked that I didn't wake with a kick or a scream.  I hadn't actually been crying in my sleep either, because my eyes were dry.  And I hadn't flailed about.  Apparently I was completely silent and still because my husband continued to sleep peacefully next to me, and since he wakes up if I so much as roll over, the exertions in my dream had to be completely in my head.

Trying to get to sleep after that was pretty near impossible.  I kindly let the DB continue sleeping.  But then he was a bit of an ass (in my humble opinion) this morning, so we'll see if I'm so freaking nice TONIGHT!

And today hasn't really been my day.  Danish went really well, so that's something to hold on to.  But yet again I'm having trouble with my Nem-ID, the brilliant idea somebody came up with that ties all of your accounts, both government (like your tax info) and private (like your bank account), to one 9 digit number and a randomly generated four digit code that needs a special card to find the random 6 digit response.

Previously on Life in The-Land-Where-We-Fix-Things-That-Aren't-Broken: I was sent a Nem-ID by my bank.  It arrived when I wasn't here.  It got mislaid.  I got another Nem-ID.  The bank had on record that I had one Nem-ID, let's call it #A, the government that I had another, we'll call that #B.  Got bank to transfer my account from #A to #B.  Used #B to do important things like check taxes and paystubs.  Happiness and joy all around.

Got mail today from the Nem-ID-issuing-peoples that they've blocked my Nem-ID because it isn't being used.  Called them up.  They tell me that they've blocked #A oh, and that bank is using #B, so I need to call the bank and get them to transfer account to #A.  Which they've blocked.  Did I mention they blocked #A, the number they *want* me to transfer accounts to?  I say, I don't use #A, I use #B, I don't want to use #A, I want to keep using #B, that's the number I had signed up to use to check taxes and paystubs.  Ah, says the man, but we changed your account to #A.  Well, I say, change it back.  We can't, says the man, unless you have a Danish passport or Danish driver's license.  You gotta be fucking kidding me, I say, I haven't either of those things.  I'm 100% foreign.  Ah, well, the man says, then you probably don't need to use the civic/government services that require you to use Nem-ID.  Ah, no, I say, I do in fact need to be able to check my taxes and my paystubs, both of which are civic/government services WHICH IS WHY I GOT #B IN THE FIRST PLACE.  Oh dear, says the man, this is awkward, you'll have to go to the citizen services in your local city hall and ask them to change #A to #B.  Brilliant, I say, because I got #B from them in the first place and made sure they had set my civic/government accounts to that number and I certainly never asked them to change it to #A so why is it now changed, I ask you, because *I* didn't do it.  I'm afraid I don't know, said the man, and all I can say is that I'm really really sorry that you are getting bounced around like this.  You're telling me, I say, this is the least NEM (nem means "easy") thing I've ever had to do in Denmark! [Insert pleasantries] End Call.

Nem-ID is NOT EASY.  Taking the bus is easier.  And I have serious issues trying to take the right bus in the right direction in this country.  THAT'S HOW NOT EASY THIS NEM-ID IS!   And I'm pretty sick and tired of telling you all about it, cause it's boring.

Most of the time I can solve my problems with one phone call.  Or an email.  It's a pretty small country.  But it is also highly dependent on it's overburdened bureaucracy and it seems that for every time it tries to make things more streamlined or simple, it actually doubles the amount of work and the number of complications that can arise.  But hey, at least now my tax information is SAFE.  'Cause you know that thieves love nothing better than to see what exemptions you've signed up for and how much is in your retirement account.  And thank god my bank account is safe.  It's a continual problem, all my American accounts are constantly being hacked and... wait... no they haven't.  Heck, my bank calls me if they think I've been hacked, meaning I've gotten some middle of the night calls because they think I'm in the US and that some whack job is running around some weird land called "Denmark" using my cards.

The only improvement is that it got rid of the digital signature that was wedded to your personal computer, meaning you couldn't check your bank account from just any computer without 20 extra passwords and account numbers.  Except of course, if you used a Mac because the digital signature wasn't always compatible with the OS or internet program you used (say, if you refused to put Internet Explorer on your computer because IE is the DEVIL) so it didn't matter if you had signed up for a digital signature because it didn't freaking work.

Meanwhile I called up this pathology clinic in Odense because they are pestering me about having a pap-smear because YOU DON'T WANT TO DIE from irregular cells, often caused by HPV, even though they aren't CANCER, but can lead to CANCER.  AND YOU CAN DIE FROM CANCER YOU KNOW.  I gave them a ring because, dude, I'm pregnant, pap-smears are not really the best plan for me at this time.  The nurse lady agreed and then said, how about three months from now?  Three months?  Seriously?  I won't be done [TMI] oozing bloody bits by then [/TMI].  I may have started my first post-spawn [TMI] menstruation [/TMI] but really, I DO NOT WANT YOU GOING UP IN THERE RIGHT AFTER I PUSHED SOMETHING THAT LARGE OUT.  So she'll send me a letter again at a later date.  How lovely.  God knows that when I wanted a damn exam I had to stomp my feet to get one, now they're all HAVE A SMEAR!  GO ON!  HAVEAFEAKINGSMEARTODAY!

Sigh.

On the plus side, the DB has found a driving school that I can go to, so I can get the damn Danish drivers license and play with the Nem-ID people drive a car legally in this country.