7 QT: A Very English Holiday

1. This year we're staying in the UK for Christmas. It was a tough decision for all, and by all I of course mean only me because I'm kind of a selfish brat and viewed it as an affront to justice that I wouldn't get to see my family over the holidays. Even though we spent Christmas with my family for the past two years. See? Major Bratitude.  However, I was an emotional terrorist played major hardball and bargained that I would stay and mostly not pout about it if I could go home at Thanksgiving. For a whole month.

2. I do have to say that I'm actually kinda looking forward to having a big family Christmas here where no one is trying to kill each other. You see, my husband's family are basically kindly Hobbits from the Shire with not a single contentious bone in their bodies, whereas my extended family are the Hatfields and McCoys. Ah finally, Christmas without a flak jacket…

3. There is one thing standing in our way though….SPACE. Since this is Europe, we basically all live in dollhouses so nobody has room to host a Christmas dinner for 20+ people. Or even 10 people. Except for the priest in the family, who lives in a giant Victorian mansion-presbytery from the days when priests got to live in mansions with 10 bedrooms and 4 floors and servants quarters and a special room for a pool table. It's funny because I'm not even kidding. But he's not playing ball, so we're kind of in a jam. So if you could, please pray that Fr. In-Law changes his mind, otherwise my Christmas will look like this:

Drunk, alone, in PJs all day, watching infomercials with a tissue paper cracker crown on on my head a la Bridget Jones. Can we please avoid this? Kthanks!

4. That aside, I'm having wild fantasies about what I can cook for our potential-big-family-Christmas dinner, constantly mulling over what fantastic American culinary specialities I can force them all to try. Because sweet baby Jesus knows that I am not going to eat bread sauce (blech) and mushy boiled brussel sprouts (double blech). What's your favorite thing to cook for Christmas? Do I feel a link-up coming on….??? I hear they're all the rage these days.

5. Can we just talk about how cold it is y'all? I'm dying here. Until this afternoon I hadn't actually left the house all week. Too cold. And dark. Like the sun sets at 2pm dark. I was wondering why I was starting to feel cranky, sad, and short fused. Luckily my sweet husband sensed the impending stir-crazy meltdown and took me out for coffee and scones at our favorite fancy country hotel. Yum. 

`

6. Speaking of the cold, my skin never does very well in winter. Does yours? If so, don't tell me because I'll be terribly jealous of your freak-of-nature-super-model-good-skin fortune. If not, let me let you in on a little secret! Kiehl's Ultra Facial Cream. Don't be afraid because it's called "Cream". It's   light and lovely and silky and super hydrating. I'm talking make your face feel dewy and perfect kind of hydrating. So hydrating that the Agent touched my cheek and said "Your face feels kind of like our baby's butt…. I mean that as a compliment".  And (almost) best of all, you only need a tiny bit of it for your whole face- the small jar does me just fine through all the cold months, which are many since I live about 15 miles south of the Arctic Circle.  It might be my favorite skin product ever, which is saying something since I've tried approximately all of them (except for the reeeeaaaallly expensive bee venom and other crazy ingredient ones). So ask for some for Christmas. Or just buy it yourself. Whatever. You won't be sad.

7. I was feeling extra bold today so I decided to try on my two biggest pairs of pre-baby pants. And guess what? THEY ACTUALLY ZIPPED UP.  I'm not saying they looked good (they didn't), but they went on and zipped up and I didn't have to lay down on the bed and inhale or do the pants-dance to get them on. Which then inspired me to try on my real wedding ring, which I haven't worn in many many moons. And you know what? IT FIT TOO! I had been wearing some rings which were an anniversary gift (originally sized to fit my right hand…) as a wedding ring, but now I can wear the real deal. I am so happy. Looks like my mediocre attempts at weight loss have been a semi-success. Only 23 enormous pounds to go. Wish me luck.

Bored yet? If not, go see the Quick Take Queen for more.

A Royal Mess

I'm pretty sure that everyone knows that the Duke and Duchess are expecting their first child. How exciting, a royal baby!

But then I realized that I'm going to be subjected to an absolute societal obsession with the bump, the maternity clothes, the expensive prenatal pilates and holistic treatments, the OMG doesn't her hair look fabulous (as if we don't get enough of that already), the speculation on names, the OMG doesn't she look flawless she hasn't gained any weight! , the sex of the baby, the birth, the Christening, the royal nursery, the education….on and on and on until oh, approximately forever.

It makes me feel kinda sick and I'm just not quite sure I can deal with it.

Apparently it's all making Katherine quite sick as well, as we learned that she's been hospitalized with hyperemesis gravidarum, which as you all probably know, is a terrible terrible variety of morning sickness in which you hurl your guts out all the time, can become dehydrated and lose weight. Even your own saliva can send you running for the toilet. If you're lucky, the symptoms should ease by week 20. If not, you could be sick until the baby comes out, and maybe even a bit after.

It's really horrible. I know, I had it. I'm so glad the Duchess is getting the treatment she needs. She fortunately has resources available to her that allow her to be treated by the finest physicians in the land in only the best of hospitals (private, of course). Other new mothers, like myself, aren't so lucky. The subject seems to keep popping up in Twitter conversations I've been having lately, but 140 characters just hasn't been enough to even begin talking about our dealings with the NHS.

It started when when I got pregnant, well, I guess after my first awkward conversation with the GP about whether it was "planned" and how I "felt about it" and whether I wanted to "keep the pregnancy" and how "we really must sort out your contraception next time".  After all that, when I first mentioned to the midwives that I was feeling inordinately sick, they actually laughed at me and said, "Love, if we had the cure for morning sickness we wouldn't be working here. Try eating some crackers". As if I hadn't thought of that before. Unfortunately they made me puke. But so did everything and nothing, and I continued to throw up blood and bile all over everything until about halfway through my pregnancy. 

At one point I called the doctor, who told me that I should see the midwife, but I insisted on being seen. He then told me he couldn't diagnose HG because he couldn't confirm if I had lost 5% of my body weight since the midwives neglected to weigh me (and they didn't, ever, for my whole pregnancy). He also said he couldn't recommend any medication, which I thought was odd since as a non-health professional I can think of at least three anti emetics off the top of my head.

Then I had to fight for my ultrasound. You see, when you are granted a non-GP appointment, they notify you by letter, telling you when and where to show up. My letter came when I was in the US for Christmas, and the appointment came and went without my knowledge.  The hospital was reluctant to reschedule me.

Then I got kicked off of the midwives' service altogether because we moved and no longer lived in the correct post code. We had to re-apply to be admitted to a new doctor's office in the correct zip code; in the mean time I missed 3 appointments with the midwife. Of course, once we were admitted to the doctor's service and I finally turned up for my way overdue midwifery appointment, I was scolded for neglecting my prenatal healthcare. Go figure.

I had a normal delivery in July. However, the midwife who did the post-labor "clean up" (ahem stitches) forgot a few bits. When I complained of soreness at my 12 week post labor check,  the GP confirmed that I had an unresolved birth injury and referred me to the hospital OB/GYN team. I'm still waiting to see them.

I was also been waiting for treatment for postpartum depression, but again missed my appointment letter because I was out of town and was summarily discharged from their service. They offered to re-list me for treatment at the end of the list without having to see my GP for another referral (another 18 week wait), but then the lady on the phone said "oh, but I see you were referred for self help. Would you like me to mail you the pamphlets?" I'm sorry, but why do I need a referral and to suffer a four month + wait for DIY worksheets? Couldn't I just order a book from Amazon or something?

And then there was the tongue tie. Oh, the tongue tie. To keep a long story short, every health care professional we saw for our baby girl's first 3 weeks of life kicked the can down the road on who was supposed to help us. We finally got a referral to have our little girl's tongue tie fixed, only to be told that there was a SIX WEEK WAIT. Friends, a six week wait is completely unacceptable when your child is STARVING. The poor little thing lost so much weight that she was hospitalized, and you're telling me I need to wait SIX WEEKS to have a cheap and simple procedure completed so she can EAT?! That is shameful. I was so enraged that I spent the afternoon on the phone hunting down a private physician who would see us. I finally found one. Two days, £100 and a 100 mile road trip later, our baby could nurse.

I really wish that this sort of thing was the exception and not the rule, but I'm afraid it doesn't seem to be. A friend of mine was diagnosed with PPD; she waited 5 months for treatment and still suffers because she was only allotted six appointments and was then discharged. One of my in-laws waited six months to have his skin cancer treated. Another family member is desperately mentally ill. He is practically debilitated. He has never seen the same doctor twice. None of his physicians can agree on a diagnosis or medication. He has been bounced back and forth for over two years with no improvement and no steady course of treatment.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but there has to be something better than this right royal mess.

7 QT: How Not to Fly with your Toddler

We made it back to the village on Tuesday after a pretty intense 20 hour transatlantic slog.  It was much easier this time since I had the Agent with me to help, but  I am just here to say it is never easy with a baby, or when you miss your connecting flights, or when everyone assumes that the incessant screaming coming from the adjacent toddler is coming from your precious non-screaming angel. 

See? Not screaming.

So what upset our fellow mini passenger so? It could've been that….

1. He was already exhausted from a full day of flying. They connected from somewhere in South America.

2. His parents didn't even try to put him to bed for the entire duration of the flight.

3. When he started rubbing his eyes and crying or exhibiting other signs of tiredness, his parents would actively try to keep him up- they would put headphones on him and put a movie on, offered him a snack, etc. No sleep for you, Junior!

4. He didn't have anything to eat except for chocolate and cookies.

5. His mom kept giving him baby bottles…full of Sprite. 6 whole cans of Sprite (that I counted), until the flight attendant cut her off.

6. He started puking from the massive sugar overload.

7. And his mom didn't change his vom-soaked clothes. Come to think of it, I didn't see a diaper change either. 

All on a 9 hour flight.

I hope you weren't feeling like a bad mom today. If you were, cut it out and give yourself a gold star. Or a mother of the year award.

Go see Jen for more of this week's highlights.

Better Late than Never: What I Wore {T-Giving}

Breaking the blog silence from the great state of Texas. Hallelujah, right?

Thanks to Grace & Anne for shaming me (in the nicest way, of course) out of blog hibernation- so now that you know that I am completely susceptible to peer pressure, don't go suggesting I try anything crazy like hi-lo hemlines, ombre hairstyles, or paleo diets. Promise? I knew you would.

What I Wore to Thanksgiving Dinner:

Chambray-esque top and coral (ahem) skinnies both from Target, keeping me semi-trendy in my slightly larger post baby shape. Tory Burch sandals from Nordstrom.

Do you like my new "low lights"? Or, as I like to say, practically brunette locks with copper accents? Yeah, me neither.

This Texas adventure is sadly almost over. We're back to the UK on Monday. Sniff sniff. And just in case you were wondering, I wholeheartedly do not recommend taking 3 month old or 4 month old babies on long haul flights.

...wait...did I just say my baby was four months old?! Gahh...

Go see Grace for more fabulous fashion. 

A Very Important Detail

Which is: we are no longer homeless.

It's been a few weeks since we moved into our new home, but much of that was spent cleaning, waiting for an internet connection, unpacking, waiting on an internet connection, trying to order new appliances and waiting on an internet connection.

Strange priorities? I think not.

The last house thoroughly traumatized me and I will definitely never ever ever understand the British cultural aspiration to own a very very old house. Please give me something new and shiny and watertight and not full of damp and mold, thanks.

...which is exactly what we got. We moved into a remodeled 1970's bungalow (very undesirable by most locals' standards), but I don't care because it's new and shiny and watertight.

With a UTILITY ROOM! and a bathroom....DOWNSTAIRS! Each a holy grail in terms of home features here, to be sure.

We're in (yet another) new village. Smallest yet, but I  keep seeing ladies walking with strollers so perhaps I won't be too isolated. However, this will require me to go outside and stop creepily peeking out the window. What can I say, I'm a little bit of an introvert.


In other news, there was this thing last weekend/this week called "the Jubilee" where everyone got a four day weekend and pretended to be very patriotic. Now that it's over, we'll all go back to watching nightly specials detailing which boring village the Olympic Torch went through today.

You want me to WHAT?

One of the things that people back home are most curious about is the health system here.

...I will tell you that it is not as bad as the gulag infirmary that lots of Americans fear it to be (even though my local GP office does look like a POW camp. But that's a story for a different day.)

...But I will also say that it is not the magical fairy system of endless virtue with unicorns and peacocks, where all doctors are brilliant saints who look like Patrick Dempsey- which is what you  might think talking to many Brits.

I like knowing that I can get a next day or same day appointment if I'm sick. I like the minimal paperwork.

I dislike the constant obsession with my drinking habits (I have been asked on more than one occasion when was the last time I got so drunk I blacked out. Um, never?!). I dislike having no choice of provider. I'm a little bit afraid that I'll get to the hospital to deliver the baby and they will tell me that they're closed and not taking any more patients. Sorry, drive to the next nearest hospital (an hour away). I'm also a little bit afraid of delivering the baby by myself, since if you are in the hospital they technically don't have to provide a midwife to attend to you during labor.

But most of all, I dislike that they want me to pee in this:

That thing is TINY.

It's just not fair. Or realistic. But it's a little bit funny.

Oh yeah, and I'm supposed to recycle it. As in, bring it in full, take it home empty. Repeat for next appointment. Kind of gross. And kind of a cheap and unnecessary cost cutting measure. Surely something a little bigger wouldn't be too much more expensive?

Home & Away

I think my mom could feel how tired of being cold I was, so she bought me a plane ticket to go back to Texas. For a month. Please accept "I was too busy gorging myself on enchiladas and sunshine" as a valid reason for not posting.

I came back to the UK all happy and refreshed only to walk into the garden of our new-found cottage to find the big apple tree, split in half and laying across the sidewalk going up to the front door.

We went inside.

Funky smell.

We walked into the living room. Even more funky smell.

And sagging ceiling.

...and standing water.

And.... jeez. louise. Please dear soft tiny baby infant Jesus don't tell me this place has a roof leak.

But oh, it does.

We called the landlord who informed us it might be kind of hard for him to deal with it since he has to see a doctor about his knee (or something). I'm not sure how that would prevent you from calling a roofer or repairman or SOMEONE please ANYONE, but you know, this is England, it's the country and what do you expect?

The roofer made his way out a few days later and pointed out all of the places in the house which had a damp problem (i.e. almost everywhere). I asked him how long water had been coming in. He said at least a year. So the insides of this house are rotting and moldy and somehow, someway the landlord and any previous tenants didn't seem to notice water coming into the house every time it rained.

At least it makes sense now why the Secret Agent and I both had trouble breathing in the house. A mold and damp infestation.

And then the midwife told me that it was a bad idea for me to be there, being super pregnant and all. Then she said that the baby couldn't live there because it's way worse for a tiny small person to be exposed because then they'll develop asthma and every other horrible disease known to man. As if standing water wasn't enough to get me to leave.

So now we're kind of homeless. No word from the landlord, but we have to tell him we're moving out.

Hopefully he'll be reasonable.

And hopefully we'll find a new home, preferably before I go into labor.