Saturday, 28 July 2012

The naming continues...

It has been well documented that we have been struggling with names. This is something I did not expect. I mean, I am obsessed with names and have been my whole life. I am super cool like that. Since I was a little girl, I would pour over name books and pick out the names of my future children. I had lists and lists of them.
When we found out that I was knocked up, I was super excited about the naming potential, I imagined us having cosy evenings surrounded by my name books (I have 11 don't you know) and making brand new lists of names that we both loved.

Tis not to be.

This is an example of our general naming conversations:

Me: Gilbert?

Steve: Grape. Next. What about Gabriel?

Me: Slept with one.

Steve: Oh yes, the vertically challenged boyfriend before me.

Me: OK, I have got it... Cassius.

Steve: I think that a Cassius has to be black.

Me: Put on the list for the next baby then.

Steve: Very funny. Ooooh... Roman?

Me: Like it. But it makes me think of Roman Polanski which makes me think of raping drug induced 14 year olds and I really don't want to think of raping drug induced 14 year olds when I hear my son's name.

Steve: Duly noted. Right, according to Mike who has googled 'Coolest boys name ever', the best name is Bounty.

Me: I am not naming my son after the chocolate that is left in the bottom of the Celebrations tub every Christmas.

Steve: So we are back to Baby Boy.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012

In which I feel like a hippo

I am ready for this baby.

Well, actually, that is a lie.

I am totally unprepared. Unprepared in every sense of the word. The cot is yet to be built, the teeny tiny baby clothes yet to be washed. And I am completely sure that Steve and I have no idea what is about to hit us.

But still I am ready for this baby.

I decided this two evenings ago when I was attempted to haul my huge self from the sofa,

'I feel like a huge, fat hippo', I wailed.

Steve looked at me, with a face that was full of admiration and pity (don't ask me how he combined these two emotions in one expression but I found it v v impressive), he sighed,

'Oh my baby, you look gorgeous, glowing and not at all like a hippo. A baby hippo maybe but definitely not an adult one.'

A shot of my baby hippo self from my recent maternity shoot with the wonderful Slice of Pie Designs (have you visited their website? They are awesome!)

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

What's in a name?

We are now five weeks from D Day.

Yep, that is soon.

Checklists have been made, rooms have been painted, birthplans have nearly been written (I think, 'No idea, never done it before but would like everyone to be happy and safe' covers it generally). We are so close to being ready.

The one thing we have no clue on? The kid's name.

It started with the ex issue - do we rule out all names of people we used to go out with. I thought yes, knowing full well that Steve's past girlfriends all had vanilla names anyway. Steve said no, reasoning that with my dating history there would be no male names left.

It was a good start I am sure you will agree.

Then we discovered that we liked girls names. We have a girls name. In fact we have 10 girls names. They are easy peasy. But, as you know, this one is boy flavoured and, despite my suggestions, Steve thinks it would be cruel to call a boy a totally female name. Me, I think he would like to be called Primrose.

The problem is that we just don't agree.

I like good names.

Steve likes rubbish ones.

Our evenings are spent firing suggestions at each other:









The poor boy is destined to be called Baby Boy. Which at this point is starting to sound pretty good.

Saturday, 7 July 2012

28 going on 5

On Wednesday night, very late, I watched the end of the Sound of Music.

I stumbled across it (although I am super cool and of course own it on DVD...) while waiting for Steve to finish in the bathroom and, like a old shoe, it fitted perfectly so I had to dedicate myself to the rest.

When my sister and I were little, The Sound of Music was one of the films our Nana practically forced us to watch. She was very much of the opinion that the My Little Pony videos that we were obsessed with were just a load of whooey and gave us awful fake American accents. She was right. She therefore bought us all the musical classics on video to show us what 'proper society' was like and teach us how nice it was to speak correctly with a cut glass accent; unfortunately this backfired when we saw My Fair Lady and my baby sissy shouted at me to 'move my blooming arse' in the middle of Debenhams. My Mama = not so happy.

Anyway, it would be an understatement to say that The Sound of Music formed a large part of our childhood. We sang the songs, danced the dances, drew pictures of the characters and decided who we would play if we did a show of it (for some reason I always wanted to be Marta, the totally wet one... FYI, now I would so go for kick ass Brigitta). Even now, occasionally I will receive a text from my wishstar which is just a quote:

"They're gone!"
"Mother, would now be a good time to sing about our favourite things?"
"I'm Marta and I'm going to be seven on Tuesday and I'd like a pink parasol."

You get the picture. So when I came in just as the Baroness was being ceremoniously dumped by the Captain, I felt I was settling into a precious, happy moment from my childhood.

Except, it turns out, as an adult, the film is really gut wrenching. They are escaping from the Nazis. They have to climb a flipping mountain into Switzerland. They have to abandon their home (including Fritz, their trusty and silent butler!), their homeland.

I found myself sobbing when Georg chokes up singing Edelweiss, I was overcome with this horrible realisation that these people were standing up for what they believe in by refusing to join the army and that they must have been terrified hiding in the Abbey.

I came to the realisation that I was obviously growing up and how serious life was.

Fast forward to today when I came to write what has become a totally over the top analysis of a film, I relooked at my feelings and was feeling all deep and insightful.

Wow, I thought, I really am a hugely reflective person, I analyse and identify with the innermost meanings of....

I stopped.

I had just remembered that I had some Love Hearts in my bag. Five minutes later, I was happy munching away and thinking about who I would give my love hearts to if I had to pick.

The world felt normal again.

Friday, 6 July 2012

Baby remember my name...

I love Fame The Musical. Not Fame the film or Fame the TV show. Fame the Musical - the one that plays in the West End and tours the country.

I have loved it since the first time I saw it in London aged 10. I mean, what is not to love, they dance, they sing, they jump off cars, they swear. Tis the complete musical package I tells ya.

So, in The Great Move, I was thrilled to find a tape of all the songs from Fame, my car only plays tape so it was PERFECT.

And it has been.

Every morning I get to sing along in the car to I wanna make magic, Pray and In LA. And I properly sing.

I am that cool.

And the baby kicks along. It seems he loves inappropriate musicals as well.

I like that we are bonded on this.

Although it worries me that he especially loves 'I just can't keep it down'....

Thursday, 5 July 2012

The most basic things

'And then it was really funny', I said, 'I mean, him saying that! He's Scottish for God's sake!'

'Um no', replied the PA at work, 'He's Irish.'

'No he's not', I responded, so confident in my statement, 'I have heard him speak a million times, he is soooooo Scottish.'

'He really isn't', the PA was equally sure, 'In fact, here is his passport from the Dubai trip. See, Irish.'

'Irish?', I blinked in disbelief, 'But he has a Scottish accent!'

'No, he has an Irish accent', the PA was talking slowly now, 'What was your degree in again?'

My voice whispered: