Hurray for packet food!

Hallelujah, ah have seeeeen uh thu LIGHT! After ages poo-pooing food additives and carefully making up meals from scratch, repeating things like 5-a-day, fresh, wholefoods to myself while martyrishly scrubbing mud off the organic vegetables, I know now that NONE OF THIS IS NECESSARY.

There is this great stuff, the Swiss call it 'Stocki': basically, it's Smash. You boil up a bit of milk and water, stir in a packet of Stocki, and ta-daaa! You have mashed potatoes. And it tastes really nice. There is a bit of E this and that, but we didn't get hives and Emma didn't suddenly develop ADHD.

Tomorrow we will have banana custard. With Bird's custard powder! I can hardly wait.

Next week: the Scho's discover microwave meals!

Some worrying developments (though trivial really. Small 'w'.)

Firstly, I have outgirthed my last pair of pregnancy trousers, which happened also to be the perfect jeans. This is a sad day. I have nowhere to go short of Elizabeth Taylor style kaftans, and I'm jiggered if I'm going to spend any money on more threads with 8 weeks to go. (After all, I'll be back in my size 10 Gap bootcuts within a few hours of the birth *closes eyes and believes very hard*) I might get the sewing machine out later and convert the sofa cover into something appropriate.

Secondly, we had about a foot of snow last night. Cool! That's to say cool if you have a) appropriate footwear b) a centre of gravity and c) a 3 wheeler pram and d) gritted pavements. This last one really makes me rant: let's grit the roads at 4 in the morning for the poor wittle motowists, but pavements, who cares, even on a 70 degree slope? Die, pedestrians, die!

I may have been too hasty about Birdsong.

Me, My Elf and I

Rob is in Pakistan, so my Elf and I are fending for ourselves this week. This is not strictly true as the fabulous Oliver and Martina are staying here to keep me company and whisk me to hospital just in case Tarquin or Perdita suddenly gets fed up with womb life. They are a great pair for seeing off the blues; not only do they seem to like what I cook (their standards are very low), but they have promised me a German cultural evening tomorrow, with dumplings and maultaschen (large, meat-filled ravioli thingys) and Haribo sweeties, yum yum!

Literary matters now. I have just started reading Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks: I know, it was really big news about 10 years ago and I have only just got round to seeing what the fuss is about. But really, what is the fuss about? I have got to chapter 4 and feel most unmoved; the main man is brooding and silent, and has already managed to have it off with the uptight (married) heroine without barely asking her what time it is, so silent is he. The sex scenes are graphic and a bit gross, and they say things to each other like "It's right. You know it's right. It's right as anything can ever be" (cheese!) and then SF writes things like "The force that drove through him could not be stopped" (corn!) and "the smell of roses came from her scented neck" (corny cheese!).

I will stick with it for now, because I've read everything else in the house.

The black dog

Yesterday was a bad day. It was bad because

a) It was cold and rainy.
b) Between the hours of 8.15 and 6pm I had a very repetitive, very one-sided conversation along these lines: "Emma, don't hit me", "Emma don't throw that (insert name of heavy, dangerous missile here)"
c) There was no laundry, no shopping, no post office errands to run and I felt suddenly very lonely and very homesick, with an intensity I haven't felt for ages.
d) I really wanted a TV.
e) I had a moment of panic about who will look after E when I go into labour and who might be close enough and friendly enough to do so in the middle of the night
f) then I thought about the whole, painful labour business and that made me panic even more, especially as the Swiss don't believe in gas and air
g) and that made me suddenly realise in less than 10 weeks we will actually have another baby and we haven't even made lists or prepared anything, apart from borrow a cot that is still lying around in pieces because of a lack of screws and buy a 2nd hand chest-of-drawers from a shop called Gloryland.

Anyway: today was a bit better. The sun was out. And Emma had a good day at nursery! When I came to pick her up, she had blue paint on her nose and was wearing a royal-blue princess costume, chirping away in a language all her own.

Emma's teeth

..zzzzzz....oh, excuse me I must have dropped off. As if 4 hours of Luton airport and going to Geneva every day weren't enough, Emma has had the worst week's sleep of her life.

She has 4 molars all coming through at once. After months and months of no teeth at all and our imaginations of a gummy adulthood, this is good news. The bad news is they are taking ages to actually break the surface, lying tantalisingly underneath like fleshy icebergs. As a result she constantly has her fingers in her mouth, is very grouchy and wakes up every night screaming and crying inconsolably.

And what have we done to get her back to sleep? Answer: everything. Teething gel - check (though why is it impossible to apply? Why do I get it smeared all over my fingers and not over the affected area?) Drugs - check (Calpol) Water, monkey, cuddles...and worst of all, but most effective, one of us eventually gets into the spare bed and sleeps with her.

Let everything that has breath call me 'hypocrite'! I pretended that I could take-or-leave-it, but I lapped up The Contented Little Baby Book, especially the bits about babies sleeping in their own beds and at regular bedtimes and I have been smug as anything about Emma's previous 7-7 habit plus two hour daytime naps. "Whatever you do, don't take the baby to bed with you," I have said sagely to pregnant friends. And now look.

I want to file down those gums with an electric sander.*

*does this make me a bad mother?

I've just got back from Geneva where I've been working for three days. Yes, you heard; I said been working. Like a professional person, with a briefcase and severe hair. I may even have actually worn a skirt.

But boy oh boy am I glad to get back to my Elf and my louche housewifely lifestyle! People With Jobs out there, how do you do it? Three days of it nearly finished me off, let me tell you.

First, there's the getting up in the morning. My usual small, blonde alarm clock goes off at 7am which is very reasonable if you think about it. And she doesn't mind if I don't get dressed until 11, whereby I only swap pyjamas for my comfortable house slacks. Until Monday I don't think I'd brushed my hair in a year, either. But getting up at 5.30! And making myself presentable to an office environment! (I was only doing admin, but for 30 CHF an hour, I'd've packed frozen chickens in fancy dress.) Thankfully I only had one smart skirt capable of negotiating my enormous girth, so I was spared the agony of choice. I think I scrubbed up OK, though the taming of the 5.30am hair was a challenge.

Secondly, the hateful, hateful commute. It was a surprise to see so many people about on the station platform, all looking much better turned out than I, but all with the same Shoot Me expression. There was fighting for seats: my Little Orphan look doesn't have the same effect in my office drag, but at least I had my belly as backup. Deathly quiet on the journey itself as people reflect on the monotony of their lives/try and get some more kip. Then a bus, with the stupidest, most confusing, change-refusing ticket machines. Then a walk, next to a big motorway.

All day long: copy, stuff, staple, fiddle on computer, dream about Elf. High point: fancy canteen in UN office (I was not working for the UN, but these other folks are allowed to use their canteen.)

Then another hateful journey all the way back home. Elf asleep at both ends of the day, which was hard thing to bear. Though when we finally were reunited, I got the strong impression she barely noticed my absence. And now it's over, phew! It wasn't all bad; it made a change, I've made enough money for a child-free romantic weekend away in a medium-range hotel, I got to speak to adults all day. Would I do it again?

Too much like hard work.

the horror the horror

12pm Get in taxi after nice weekend. Emma in car seat. R in front seat. No mucking about with trying to get Thameslink. Ahhhh. Mood: Relaxed.
12:30pm Dozing off, traffic OK. Ahhh. Mood: Sleepy.
12:31pm Subconsciously wonder why we are in Walthamstow. Wake up a bit.
12:32pm Driver: "So are you taking a taxi because the Stanstead Express isn't running today?" Rob: "Um...we're not going to Stanstead, we're going to Luton"
Driver:"Oh. In that case I've been going completely in the wrong direction." Does U turn and heads back into town.
Rob: "Um, you could just take the North circular, it's just up here.."
Driver: "No it's ok, I know the route."
Mood: Very awake. Sweating. But could still be ok, the flight is at 2.20pm.
1pm After faffing around in Walthamstow some more, we hit bottleneck on North Circular. Mood: Stressed. Start harrumphing and fidgeting.
1.30pm Still not got to M1. Harrrumph and fidget audibly . (Emma mercifully asleep throughout proceedings.)
1:45pm Hit M1. Traffic clears up. Wonder why the driver isn't putting his foot down. R tells me later this is because he is about to run out of petrol. Mood: very agitated. Have already missed flight in head. Trying to remain calm.
2pm. Arrive at Luton airport. Driver stops cab in Green Line coach lane. Get beeped and sworn at from every side. I dash inside with passports, while R sorts out luggage and Elf. Mood: desperate.
2.01pm "Geneva?" I pant. "No: closed ten minutes ago. Sales desk is over there." Flinty expressions from EJ staff. R arrives, begs and pleads. Points to (cute in her new coat) toddler and huge pregnant belly. I do my 'little orphan' look. Nothing. I burst into tears. Mood: black.
2.05pm Find sales desk.
2.06pm Notice TV camera crew behind sales desk. Give them shark teeth and clenched fists. Mood: murderous.
2.15pm Worst case scenario, we have to take a flight tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Or we can try our luck at 6:15pm by nicking the seats of some other unfortunates who don't check in in time. We decide to come back in 4 hours.
2.20pm We evaluate the snacks situation. We have:
A broccoli and cheese quiche
Some yoghurt-covered nuts and raisins
3 cereal bars
2 apples
4 small bananas
I bar dark chocolate.
2.45pm We now have:
1 apple
1 cereal bar
1 bar dark chocolate. Mood: Large.
2.45-6.15pm Chase Emma round concourse. Stare morosely at newspaper. Sigh deeply. Make friends with theology lecturer on his way to Basel who knows Medair well. Repeatedly pick up free TruePrint envelopes that Elf likes to carpet concourse with. Have run in with official over this matter. Stare morosely at Heat magazine. Drink cappucino from popcorn bucket; apparently this is what you get when you ask for a Regular these days. Spend one hour twitching uncontrollably. Mood: Resigned.
6.15pm Yess! Yessss! We get two seats on the 6.40 flight. Dash through Departures, stopping briefly at Burger King to pick up a Whopper and fries. Mood: guilty.
6.40pm. We take off. E's sunny mood evaporates and the screaming starts. Dirty looks and aggressive newspaper rustling from returning weekend businessmen.
6.50pm Need to change nappy; block aisle getting to and from tiny toilet. Dirty looks and aggressive trolley rattling from cabin crew.
7pm Return to seat and burst into tears.
9.30pm (local time) Arrive in Geneva. All of us delirious with tiredness.
10pm No trains scheduled to Lausanne. Burst into tears (again) and start gibbering.
10.01pm Sudden brainwave - head to Geneva main station and see if any Lausanne trains going from there.
10:20pm Yess! Yess! Get on train to Lausanne - a slow one, that stops in every village, but the end at least, is nigh.
10.30-11.30pm Good humour unexpectedly returns. Elf falls asleep despite flurorescent strip lights. We take silly videos of each other with camera and crack open the chocolate. Mood: chipper.
Midnight Tip sleeping Elf into bed, fully clothed. Read 2 paragraphs I Capture The Castle. Zzzz.

OK, I may have been joking about the sex change. Let's move on.

We are going to the UK for the weekend to celebrate my cousin Helen's wedding. This will be the final time we go anywhere in fact as in 2 weeks I am officially too fat to fly. The embaressing thing is, I was questioned about my stage of pregnancy last time we went home - about 2 months ago. I can't say I blame them: I looked like Mr Greedy even back then. Now I look like I might fall frontwards at any moment.

Even though I am still just about legit for air travel, I still need a certificate to say I'm having a healthy pregnancy and there is very little chance I will actually y'know drop midflight and leave gunge and claret all over your orange Easyjet upholstery yadda yadda yadda. And because I am one of those highly-organised, control-freaky types, I left it til today (we fly in 3 hours) to try and sort one out. I admit my palms were sweating when I couldn't get hold of Happy Frankfurter for an hour or two this morning, and was even grateful to speak to her Frosty Receptionist (they sort of cancel each other out in personality terms.) After a short lecture about being very disorganised- it's a fair cop - I waddled all the way over to the surgery to get it while Emma ate biscuits and pointed out the dogs en route. What a disappointingly scruffy document! What appalling handwriting! No official will believe me when I give it to them to read. Maybe it says "this person has eaten too many cakes; laugh at her"?

OK I'd better get my girl fed and clothed before we go. We leave in half and hour.