threescore

Months of the year have names. This is a Good Thing. In some countries (especially in Eastern Europe) the months have sensible names referring to the weather and changes in nature.

I would like to see weeks of the year having their own names. This is a Personal Dream. The week of the first daffodil say, or the week oak leaves start falling. Global warming will prevent this dream coming true, I imagine. Or perhaps the education system. We may never welcome the unison chanting of year 1 and 2 pupils through 52 fauna and flora of the British year.

If I had my wish, I would name the week just gone ‘Creme Egg’ week. It is officially open season again and I have managed to fulfil a separate long-term dream to save a previous year’s creme egg until now, in order to find out whether they really do get smaller every year.

In order to do this I may have to secretly weigh an old and a new egg when I get the baby weighed next time. Or maybe design a measuring device to put each egg through, like the spaghetti holes we used to have on kitchen spoons. Or just eat both and see which I preferred.

I woke up this morning to discover two unusual things in my bed.

One was baby-shaped, smelt of milk and kept sucking her fingers.

The other was caked on to the sheets, smelt of Galaxy chocolate and explained the lack of caffeine in my system in overnight feeds. I have no idea how it got there.

Today is a two-load washing day and counting.

A fruitcake is a dense, interesting and arguably healthy cake. When life gets fruitcake-packed and interesting there is nothing more I can do but relay some of the nuggets of what has been happening. Enjoy with a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream!

Lily smiled for the health visitor today and we both agreed it was a social smile. She is having a bit of a growth spurt. On Saturday we went on a train for the first time, up to Norwich. It was a successful visit and involved cousin Asher grinning a lot and finding a place to eat where Liverpool were winning. On Sunday we went to the church where we were married and took Lily to meet old friends. We also met a new friend from Russia called Anastasia. She told us that her shortened name is Nastia. It is not true. She is Nicer as far as I am concerned. My dad’s shortened name is Androushka. When those present realised this rhymes with a certain Russian word for granny, Anastasia told us that grandads in Russia can be called Dedushka (дедушка), which may be less insulting. Lily is soon to visit a number of relatives, which means we are planning how much we really need to pack. As the car is having its MOT today the baby seat is in the front room. The on-line shopping order arrived early and I put Lily in the seat. Her nappy did not perform as well as hoped, and I have since learnt how to take the covers off the seat to wash them. It was not as quick a job as I might have hoped, but I feel it is better to learn now than in the dark on a motorway somewhere. The on-line order was largely delivered correctly, but they gave me £0.07 of carrot, for no logical reason. It looked like Rudolph had been at it, and it was drying out fast. I can’t believe Sainsbury’s thought I ordered so little carrot. Even if we are about to go away. In my post-pregnancy state I have yet to decide what to do with it. Yesterday I managed to get my hair cut, as mum took Lily round town for a few minutes. This was at the hairdressers who asked a month or two back whether I had had the baby yet. Unfortunately no one asked this time.

O Raspberry Leaf Tea,

you promise so much

and deliver a taste not unlike Ribena,

or perhaps the smell of raspberry bushes.

Was it only this week I asked dad to go to town for you?

If I wanted to start a religion

I might begin by promising that something natural

might deliver something inevitable.

I do not worship at the altars of herbs.

I sit and brew and consider the heresies of other hot drinks.

Why does coffee taste so different from how it smells?

(Or it does in my mind - I forget when I stopped drinking coffee).

Maybe I’m softening.

Maybe the high priests of Raspberry Leaf would have me believe that delivery follows ripening, as ripening follows brewing, as brewing follows putting on the kettle.

It’s all a little home-made for me.

What am I really thirsting for?

So much can change in twelve months. It was this weekend, one year ago, that dad had his heart attack and we worried that we might lose him.

Go to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect £200.

I was scared. We were all scared. The days dripped past. Dad got to Papworth and had stents inserted in an artery. He changed his diet: radically and religiously. He started walking daily and cycling often. His fitness improved week by week. He observed the world around him and learnt the details of the fields and changing seasons around his home. His cholesterol levels improved and his girth receded.

Advance to Mayfair.

There was the joy of becoming a grandad in May. There was the excitement of welcoming my sister back from New Zealand in August. There is the prospect of a second grandchild any day now. Some things ended and new things began.

Pay School fees of £150. 

Some things surprised us. Dad was not sure about travelling at first, but took journeys around the country, including a refreshing holiday we all took to Herefordshire in May. Emotionally he was a different person. Reflective in a new way. Grateful for new details. For a time we thought that the encouraging, positive dad we had always relied on had gone for good. He came back.

You have won a crossword competition. Collect £100.

Relationships have strengthened. I am still learning more about my dad. This week I learnt how to cook pot roasts and Hungarian goulash from him. I always assumed he cooked in the same way I do: look at the ingredients you’ve got and throw in extra things if they might go out of date. No. My dad is remarkably similar to my husband (the theories must be right, or maybe it is a Cambridge thing). Dad makes sure he puts the right ingredients into his cooking. And he knows what works and what doesn’t: why you would put two onions into goulash rather than an onion and a leek; why you wouldn’t put mushrooms in. Less is more. The right ingredients matter. How to get the right amount of liquid, or when to add things. I learn to cook by trial and error. I am amazed at how much my dad (like my husband) will refer to reliable cookbooks for advice and to work out the principles behind cooking. Of course, dad is now much more aware of the implications of what he eats.

You have won second prize in a Beauty Contest. Collect £10. 

This weekend marks another event - his younger brother turns 60 and all four brothers and wives are meeting to celebrate. Two lots of threescore. It will do dad good and will be a positive time. 

It is your birthday. Collect £10 from each player.  

I don’t believe any of this is down to chance. I believe God has graciously given us this year, and I for one am incredibly grateful for it. We’ve been around the board a few times, but we know that each day is precious.

If a week is a long time in rich creamy politics, consider how long 24 days is to a semi-skimmed mother-to-be.

Well Gordon, you may have suffered from some kind of election dysfunction this week, but spare a thought for us poor mothers-to-be. Take my friend Clare, who last Monday was expecting to give birth to her son. It was a long week that followed, and we are awaiting the news of his birth still. The little boy will be born with a condition known as achondroplasia, a type of dwarfism. Clare and Andy have a blog which chronicles their journey so far. The couple are a remarkable testament to their faith and I cannot imagine people better suited to help this little boy and nurture him well.

Another friend, from ante-natal class, went into premature labour a week ago. Two months early. With more miracle science the hospital were able to slow things down, but it has been a tense week for them too.

I have hardly had a rough time in comparison, although a trip to the maternity physio department this week taught me that one of my legs is too short (only in relation to the other, understand). And doubts that I can sleep on my left side, as advised by my midwife, has led to me sleeping on my husband’s side of the bed. Left is the new right. Great - as long as he remembers to get in the new right side. Mostly he has been successful in this regard.

This weekend has involved some considerable progress in the building work at home, which has been encouraging and exhausting all at once. I constantly lose track of which appliances or services I have available, and how much milk there ought to be in the house.

On Friday my husband took the day off and we went and bought our new kitchen from Ikea.

Such a simple statement. The reality was more involved. Building progress determined that Friday was the day to go and collect the kitchen we had designed, redesigned and taken several previous visits to Ikea to prepare for.

We woke minutes before the plasterer arrived, and then had to order a kitchen sink before setting off, so that it would be ready for the joiner next week. It couldn’t have been ordered before as the plumber had a say in the size of the sink unit. As a washing machine and (potentially also) a dishwasher were due to be delivered in the morning, dad was called in to house-sit, as the builder has been erratically present recently, owing to a bad tooth. We showed dad things where important things like milk and recycling bins live in our make-shift kitchen and explained waht to do should various appliances arrive (or not). He had a large book to read about Churchill and a chance of picking up a computer later in the day.

As I am not allowed to carry things heavier than a baby, my mum was also called in to share the Ikea experience. We had booked to hire a big white van from the wrong end of town (via the tiling shop we decided not to go with, who wanted their brochures back) and drive to Ikea and back as early as we reasonably could. In the process she discovered that the slightly incorrect address on her driving licence might cost her £1500 if the DVLA ever realise. Mum is a good driver and took us all the way there, while I pretended not to be hungry.

We arrived in time to eat a packed lunch by the outdoor play area and headed in hoping to meet with the kind of nice person you might expect to be working in the Ikea kitchen department over a normal lunch hour. Which is what we got. Christina was courteous, thoughtful, competent, professional and even praised us up for our preparation and understanding. She uploaded our final kitchen design, ordered the parts which weren’t available in store (with free delivery) and came to check as we were looking for them whether we could find everything. It turned out she was the duty manager. The fridge, as well as 90% of the parts were in stock, and I counted them off as my husband and my mum loaded them on to four trolleys. Not all the bar codes could face the right way, but it didn’t matter.

We had fun queuing with four trolleys and a fridge, and didn’t get too many looks from people. At one point we had to detour up to the kitchen department again, but I forget why. After loading up and a stop for a 50p hot dog and chips, we set off.

Friday rush hour traffic is never great fun on the M25, but we hit a queue which was over 8 car games long, and stretched for an hour and a half to reach the A14. I spied some remarkable things on the way, some of which the others guessed. Most drivers were very good about queuing and did not push in at the end, but the driving part was not easy. My husband was very good about not losing his cool and did a long stint before admitting it was worth swapping over so mum could do the rest.

My mum had to be home early in order to have a quick meal and get out for a concert rehearsal - and be ready to pick up my sister from 30 miles away. The delays meant that we had to take her straight back home and call in a favour from a work colleague of my husband’s, so as to unload the van.

In the end mum did end up driving to collect my sister from a cold station late at night, but it meant that we were able to meet her the next day in town. She has hardly been around since she returned to the UK, as she got a three week job working on a Churchill production. I am still hoping she will get time to help us paint the baby room before it arrives!

Tonight my brother and sister-in-law are popping over to give us some home-cooked food. It is good timing, and may be their way of thanking us, as my husband and his dad installed our old dishwasher in their kitchen for them. I have to say, the microwave meals in Sainsburys can be good, but I am pining for real food again.

This is the fifth week of the builders, and we may not have use of the new kitchen for a week or two. But at the weekend the in-laws are over again to help install units, tile floors or walls and paint. In whichever order is most appropriate.

I don’t know what I’d do if all these people weren’t in my life, helping out and carrying us through. At times I wish I could do more lifting and DIY, but there seems to be a fair bit of that going on in my body at the moment. Which is why I think people are fantastic right now.

One benefit of having a squashed stomach in pregnancy is the need to eat smaller, more frequent meals. At sensible times. I feel much more in touch with my body. Even though I need a ridiculous number of pillows in bed and have to stop to breathe properly every once in a while. I do like eating.

I am also keeping an eye out for things that make me laugh little and often. These things are like Gaviscon for the soul. For example, my class wrote some lovely things in their coursework on data. I just marked the following sentences (sic):

• “People with brown hair have much more evenly spread eyes”
• “The limitations to my work is that there might be rouge data”
• And, by a blonde girl: “Hypothesis: Blonde haired people have a lower IQ. I think this because some people say that people with blonde hair are less intelligancet than brunettes”.

Blame my parents for what they taught me:

Dignity in difference, strength in service, faith in love, (humility)

Jam, jam tomorrow.

Last year my tutor group came 6th in the sports day. There are six groups in the year.

Never mind, I thought, optimistically. There is only one way to go when you start at the bottom. We will do better next year. And this with a group which includes a number of keen footballers in local teams, an eaerly-morning swimmer, a skier who competes for the county and a shotokan karate 2nd dan who has been picked for England already.

I forgot.

In year 8 all the girls refuse to run in front of Boys. They bargain. They plead. And they know a pregnant form teacher does not want to fight this one. And boys forget their PE kits. At least they do in my form. One lad turned up in non-uniform today by mistake as his friend had told him to.

And the swimmer was on holiday.

And as it happens, the other five forms in the year take sport a lot more seriously than we do. While my form ate ice-creams and ignored the school’s bid to become ‘healthy eating’ the rest warmed up and cheered each other on. 

Which is a shame, because at the end of the afternoon we learnt that we had not improved on our position in the tables.

I won’t be at next year’s sports day, so I am not inclined to ‘do better’ any more. I may buy sweets for those who gallantly took part, however. I am convinced sport is bad for one’s health.