New Year's Eve

Having had a sudden attack of New Year's Evieness, I thought I'd treat you to the Switzerlady Bests and Worsts of 2005. Feel free to affirm or dispute my choices (that's code for "I'd love comments, I am a comment whore.")

Best film: Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
Worst film: Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (yes, this is because I have only seen one film this year. In fact, I am beginning to wonder whether I actually watched it last year.)
Best single: I'mathinkinaboutmydoorbell (is that the title?) by The White Stripes. You should see me playing my air drums!
Worst single: Madonna's latest, which she has basically nicked from Abba. It's lazy music-making from the Queen of Pop, and I won't have it.
Best DVD watched: Tough choice. I think it's a tie between Alias and 24 (both series 1.)
Worst DVD watched: Without a doubt, Lethal Weapon 4. It made me want to run amok with a lethal weapon myself.
Best Golden-Haired Snow Elf moment: Too many to mention, they happen daily...but her first steps were pretty spesh.
Best Panda moment: finding out s/he was on the way (this would be trumped by his/her actual arrival, but unless it happens in 4 and a half hours, it will not make the list for 2005)
Best husband moment: every morning when he brings me a cup of tea despite being snappy and horrible in return.
Best moment of practicality: completing my tax return
Worst moment in life (almost): realising I owe the tax man £1,900

Happy New Year, everyone. I will be celebrating by eating my own body weight in mince pies in front of the telly, then crashing out at about 10pm. Rock 'n' roll!

..a muffin a day

..thanks very much 

..and earlier, moments after we have woken up

Please, Sir, may I have some more? 

Turkeysaurus

Christmas dinner chez Swiss family Scho. Spot the Snow Elf. (PS Just as well I was taking the photo, otherwise everyone else would have been obscured by Belly.)

It's late, but Happy Christmas, ya'll and thanks for reading x 

Still feeling a bit raw

Just to clear things up, I am not upset about the fact I know for definite I am having a panda, let's say, instead of a chipmunk. That is still a joy and very exciting, and there are plus sides, for example being able to buy little panda clothes. What has got my goat has been the manner of finding out. (Did you notice how I managed to get an animal into every sentence?)

I think it's a totally personal matter, to find out or not to find out. Personally we were really savouring the mystery, the speculation and the build-up to the big day when all would be revealed. (I had to tell R; I couldn't keep it to myself, as I was in a bit of a state. Perhaps I shouldn't have done.) So when I stumbled across the big news, a roughly-scribbled symbol next to Organes Geniteaux Exterieur - and even the most linguistically-retarded cretin can make an educated guess what that means - it felt a bit like we had been robbed of a uniquely happy moment that we had been looking forward to.

As I said earlier, there are worse things in the world. But I have drafted a stern letter to Happy Frankfurter, and if she doesn't answer I will have not choice but to cover her with mustard and eat her alive.

Something has come up

It was my last appointment with Dr Happy Frankfurter today. After the usual pokes and prods, she wished me well, offered me her usual bone-crushing handshake (her last, I presume) and gave me my notes to take with me when I go into labour.

I stuffed them in the back of the pram and forgot about them. On the way to nursery, I had a look. And there it was. The sex of our baby. The very thing we had told her at each appointment that we didn't want to know.

OK, some perspective now. It is a total gift to have one child, let alone be pregnant with a second. I can't imagine what it must be like to not be able to conceive or have a child with disabilities or cancer - life has been very good to me, and I know in the scheme of things, this is absolutely not a disaster. And HF is a good doctor, I have had excellent treatment, and she is a nice woman. But that was unprofessional and I am a bit upset.

So upset, I finished my last siroopwaffle. Now that is a catastrophe.

PS Please don't ask what s/he is. At least the rest of the world can still be surprised.

The Midwife at Morges

Went to see the head midwife at Morges hospital yesterday to discuss birth stuff. It was a good visit. She reminded me of something I picked up in my nursing career - that being generous with your time, really listening to people and actually being nice to them covers over a multitude of sins.

Her name was Sophie, and she was very patient as I brought up every little niggling worry. We talked about gas and air. She looked a bit sorry and sheepish.
"No, we don't have it in Switzerland. You can get it in France, though" she said, trying to be bright. I did a quick mental calculation on how long it might take to get to France. An hour and a half. Too long.
I talked about the TENS machine.
"I've heard of them but I don't think I've ever seen one." She looked very concerned at my crestfallen expression. "Maybe someone can send one from England?" she said softly.
We talked about monitoring and cannulas. She made a note that I wanted as little monitoring as possible, but the cannula was non-negotiable. I really trusted her at this point, so that made it OK.
Then, unprompted, she just looked at me with such a kind look on her face and said "It must be really hard to be far from home." At which point I had to bite my lip to stop bursting into tears.

Then she took us round a birthing suite. It looked a bit like a medieval torture chamber made from high-grade polymers and wipe clean surfaces. There was a detachable bed, funny straps hanging off the ceiling and a huge bath with strange looking inflatables in it, but all very clean and efficient-looking. I remember the tour of the delivery rooms at St George's while the builders were in: the bare wires and pipework didn't inspire me with confidence (not that I noticed one iota when it came to it.)

We shook hands and she gave me the number to call when it all kicks off, and a list of things to bring. In typical Swiss fashion, it starts with:
- residency permit
- 2 passports
- blood type card
- proof of health insurance for Mother and Baby
then it gets to the toiletries, going-home clothes etc. It doesn't mention anything about industrial-sized sanitary towels, but I think I should probably take them anyway.

The headmistress in my mind

Voice in head: Have you got a grip? You put people off when you act deranged.
Me: Yeah I know. I'm fine now.
VIH: What happened about the Christmas shopping?
Me: Well, I went on Amazon in the end. I hate shopping at the best of times, and I hate Christmas shopping most of all. And Swiss shops are rubbish anyway, so it seemed like a satisfactory solution.
VIH: What about the turkey?
Me: Sorted! Picking it up Christmas eve, all 4.5 kilos of its sorry ass.
VIH: Less of the bad language. Let's talk about the tax return.
Me: (looks at shoes)
VIH: Thought not. What's that you're drinking?
Me: Green tea. There's no caffeine in it. Apparently it's good for you.
VIH: Does it taste of twigs?
Me: Yes.
VIH: That makes it just about OK then. B for the turkey, D minus for Christmas shopping as it lacks imagination. E for the tax, obviously. I don't want to see you back here for a while, got that?
Me: OK. 'Bye.

I am meant to be resting

...as the Elf is asleep, but I can't because I foolishly stopped at the kebab shop on my way back home this morning for a coffee and after 2 sips I felt like I had just shot amphetamines into my aortic arch frankly there are some things that a) shouldn't be legal b) should at least carry health warnings c) should not knowingly be served to pregnant ladies.

Also the bits of me that aren't pregnant are packing up. I have a head full of snot and a voice like 40 fags. I can't sleep at night either. Feel my pain if you think you're hard enough!

On top of this physical woe
- I have not bought a single Christmas present
- I still have not done my tax return and
- I have not ordered a turkey, despite having 8 confirmed attendees for lunch.

I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I CAN'T.

*drinks tea dregs** and storms off huffily from computer*
** altered mental state result of caffeine poisoning?

Yesterday I went from being quite laid back to throwing a proper all-singing-all-dancing star-spangled wobbly on the subject of how and where I am going to have the baby.

About the cantonal hospital I have heard things like "you have to stay on your back [during labour]", "everyone gets a cannula as a precaution", "the midwife didn't let me go to the loo" and "they keep you strapped to a CTG machine." Not champions of natural childbirth then, but like, du-uh, I should have guessed after 4 scans and countless blood tests and monthly bump measuring that they like to be thorough. There is no gas and air - which I am still getting over - but nor does anyone know what a TENS machine is. I admit my French may just be letting me down as I try and describe one ("you see you have pads that stick on the back yes and a button you press like a bomb and it goes whirrrrrr")

With Emma I had the best birth I could have wanted, with The World's Most Wonderful Midwife, who seemed totally confident that I could do it with the minimum of interference - and partly thanks to her, I sure that's why I did. When I tell people here I don't want to be interfered with, I get the strong impression I am expecting too much. Or they suggest a home birth - which I've thought about, but with a bath the size of a cardboard box and pale furnishings, I'm not keen. There is another hospital a bit further away that is smaller and friendlier apparently, which I might investigate. But this is hard for someone with very limited ability to plan and great powers of procrastination.

I thought about trying to do my tax return as distraction therapy, but just reading page one of "How to fill in your tax return" made me want to cry so I ate lots of chocolate instead.

PS I was wrong about Birdsong - it was really good, though I stand by my original claim that the sex scenes are rubbish.

A smacking offence?

When I got into bed last night, R said it was like "a meteorite hitting the earth."

Also, my best friend said I looked like "a silverback gorilla."

In a way, they are both right.

My ten favourite annoying habits!

1. Giving Mummy my diseases, like yesterday when she was sick five times and Daddy had to mercy-dash back from work to look after me!
2. Hiding Mummy's wedding and engagement rings in tiny crevices - hours of handwringing hysteria!
3. Ripping tissues into tiny shreds and then mashing them into a glass of water!
4. Breaking Mummy's lipsticks in two and then squidging the remnant into the freshly-changed bedclothes!
5. Taking an hour to get dressed in the morning, because anything is more interesting than that (and I hate the prison of clothes!)
6. Wanting to talk on the phone at the same time as Mummy or at least press the buttons, especially during a busines call!
7. Slapping Mummy on the belly; whoever's inside needs to know who's in charge around here! (hmm there may be trouble ahead - ed)
8. Taking little baby bites out of each piece of fruit in the fruit bowl, then hiding them!
9. Wanting to be carried up the stairs, along with the shopping and the laundry...
10. ..but I have just learnt to give kisses, and despite being a bit spitty and cold, they are very very very very sweet.

In which she whines about being 33 weeks up the duff

I feel rough as chips. My beautiful Elf child vomited three times in the night. Saint Robert of Scho got up first each time and cuddled her while I picked last-night's curry chunks off her duvet and the Afghan rug. But we all got very little sleep, and this morning while we are staring and dribbling like zombies, Mistress is marching round the house shouting, in a very merry state.

I am not sleeping well generally, either. My joints hurt. I wake up every time I need to turn over, a bit like a tank doing a 3 point turn. I need bolstering by strategically-placed pillows. And babes has got his/her head wedged firmly against my bladder, as if having an already-shot pelvic floor isn't bad enough.

But now, reasons to be cheerful!
- My friend Al coming to see us this weekend
- The awesome Ms Mac and her commenters have done all my research for me about preparing for a Swiss Christmas
and
- I quite like my new haircut! I was given a bit of a fringe, which we all know is only ever a rainy day away from a mullet, but that's something I've managed to avoid. So far.