Meet Finn

Foot

Dad gets to grips with his son

I am proud to introduce you to the newest member of our family.

Finn made his debut in the world on 5 January via my stomach, successfully evading a scalpel, suction hose and over-enthusiastic anesthesiologist.

Finn at roughly three hours old

Despite watching the ‘Mutant Babies’ DVD, I wasn’t prepared for the dubious first impression. Fin looked a bit like E.T. mated with a frog. In my defense, it didn’t help that he was blue and covered in goo. Judging by his outraged roars, Finn was equally unimpressed with us.

During the months he spent camped out in my uterus, I had formed an impression of what my child would be like. Finn was completely different; yet within 24 hours I couldn’t imagine any alternative to his reality.

Bugaboo

Finn at two days old, dressed in driving gears for his first car-trip

I always thought Andrew’s genes would spank mine into submission and I was right. Finn has huge, dark blue eyes which I’m pretty sure will eventually be brown; fat little cheeks; and a wide mouth. I’m also grateful he inherited Andrew’s nose, rather than my prominent proboscis. However, since he wees and/or poops on me during every change, all indications suggest he has his mother’s sense of humour.

He also takes after his father in temperament. So far, Finn has been a total joy – placid and laid-back. Some people have been kind enough to suggest this is due to my parenting skills, but since said skills are largely limited to not getting his head stuck in drains, I’m pretty sure it’s mostly his personality.

He also smells delicious.

The last few weeks have been a blur, time blending into itself. I couldn’t tell you whether it’s morning or evening, and I have – at best – a one in seven chance of identifying what day of the week it is.

I’m not sure how someone who weighs less than 3kg and sleeps so much has had such a profound effect on our lives, yet everything has changed utterly. The other day I was straightening my hair and thought, “What is the point of this? I mean . . . just . . . WHAT is the POINT?” (The self-doubt may have been due to doing my hair while loading the washing machine between spoonfuls of muesli.)

Also, I can’t believe how much laundry Finn generates. I normally run a load during the red-eye feed at 03:00hrs.

But mainly, I love my son with a ferocity and compulsion to hold him safe, for which I was completely unprepared. I would totally kill for my child if serving double-life for manslaughter weren’t ultimately detrimental to his upbringing. My feelings are so intense I am often required to under-compensate with lame jokes like how I previously thought it impossible to love somebody with a hairline that started at his eyebrows.

I’m delighted motherhood has added new depths to my shallowness.

Although the first couple of weeks have been fairly brutal, I can honestly say I’ve cherished every moment.

Well.

Most moments.

Not so much the time, early in the morning, when Finn cried and in my sleep-deprived state I thought Andrew had picked him up and handed him to me but I couldn’t find him. Andrew woke me as I plucked desperately at the bedclothes, wailing “MY BABY! MY BABY! WHERE’S MY BAAABYYY?”

There are also plenty of occasions I’m in tears, usually after I’ve been mean to my mum (who’s doing a first-class job keeping house) or because I’m exhausted. But mainly when I look down at my son and cry because I am so incredibly, unbelievably fortunate and lucky enough to know it.

Little frog

How to take money from a single mother on the dole

The day before the parents arrived, Her Goatiness came around to polish our windows. The day before THAT, she and Florrie weeded our garden.

Just before we set off for Christchurch to collect the parents, Husband broke the vacuum cleaner when he threw it down the stairs (he said he didn’t mean to, but I’m not sure what outcome he expected from balancing it on a top step and then tugging vigorously on the power cord. Alternatively, he has yet to master the concept of gravity). I put in an emergency call and Her Goatiness hoovered the place while we were gone. I suspect she might also have mopped the bathroom floor.

We borrowed The Outlaws’ Audi Q8 for the trip to Christchurch (Her Goatiness cleaned and washed the car before we picked it up).

(My mother in law makes it REALLY difficult to bitch about her.)

The previous week, I’d bought two foam mattresses on Trademe for collection in Christchurch.

“Niamhie, how are we going to fit your parents’ luggage in the car along with two foam mattresses?” asked Andrew.

“They’re FOAM!” I explained. “Bendy. We can FOLD them. Wedge the bags on top.”

However, when Andrew maneuvered the mattresses into the boot of the car, I couldn’t see out the rear view mirror.

Unfortunately – shortly after the mattress purchase – I’d also bought a baby change table.

“It’s a big car!” I said. “Huge! You’re telling me we can’t fit two single extremely bendy foam mattresses, a change table, my parents’ bags, their golf clubs, a box of baby stuff and my parents in the boot?”

“Pretty much.”

“We could bring the trailer-”

“No.”

“Well, on your head be it.”

I can’t believe he let me win the argument with such a cliché. I don’t even know what it MEANS – or, for that matter, what Andrew’s head has to do with arranging foam.

I’d been looking for a Childcare brand change table on Trademe for some time. The starting bid was only $10; however, the auction closed two days after our trip to Christchurch so I opted to buy now at $40 after checking we could pick it up on the Monday.

There was a box of crap on the doorstep of the given address and a decapitated garden gnome in the entranceway corner. When the trader opened the door, I had to fight an overwhelming urge to bolt back to the car screaming, “CONTAMINATED ZONE!” and seal all the doors.

Really, I should learn to trust my intuition.

The house was littered with junk: overturned chairs, broken speakers, shredded boxes of Special K, dead animals. Well, I didn’t see any carcasses, but I wouldn’t have been AT ALL SURPRISED.

The trader was a young woman who was perfectly pleasant and indeed, I thought, rather lovely – apart from exhibiting a gigantic gaping gulch of committed bum crack. She was also wearing a sinister woolen beanie that failed to conceal the fact that her hair needed an urgent appointment with a bottle of shampoo – or a sodium hydroxide based cleaning agent.

Then she brought out the change table.

She excavated it from under an unidentifiable swatch of crusty material and other assorted landfill.

It was absolutely, unbelievably, skin-clawingly filthy. I mean, it couldn’t have been any dirtier had it been stored in a bat cave and Philip Roth wrote a novel about it.

This was probably when I should have made some socially acceptable excuse e.g. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was made of, er, plastic”, instead of the truth i.e. “I can’t- it’s just- I mean- ew- words- not coming,” then returned the $40 to my back pocket instead of handing it over.

“Oh, I suppose I should maybe have wiped it with a cloth,” she said as Andrew dismantled the table in the drive.

More appropriately, she should MAYBE have water-blasted it.

Back in the car, “I want to wash my hands,” said Andrew, holding the steering wheel as if afraid his fingers might stick to it. “I don’t think this was one of your better Trademe purchases, Niamhie.”

“I know,” I winced. “But I’ll scrub it down and it’ll probably clean up fine-”

“Did you see her teeth?” he asked with a delicate shudder.

“No- what about her teeth?”

“Gak!”

“Oh no! If I’d noticed her teeth, I’d NEVER have gone through with it!”

It was just as well the airline left a portion of the parents’ luggage in Sydney – a box containing two pictures and a little wooden chair my father made for me when I was a child. As it was, Mum and I sat in the back of the car with suitcases stacked between us.

Back at home, when Andrew brought the change table up from the car, I noticed one of the wheels was broken and the lower tray inexpertly glued in one corner – neither of which were mentioned in the Trademe description. Perhaps I could have got over that with some aromatherapy and deep relaxation techniques, but my feelings only intensified after an hour spent scouring the change table in the bath, then disinfecting it, then disinfecting the bath, then burning my clothes and disinfecting myself.

Had the trader lived nearby, I wouldn’t even have attempted to clean the table. I would have towed it back down the road, dumped it in her front garden, and asked for my money back from within the confines of a sealed hazmat suit.

“You didn’t!” breathed Andrew in horror, his social sense of etiquette completely violated, when I told him I’d rung her and negotiated a refund of $20.

“I bloody did,” I said, grimly. “That table was a disgrace- I would be pure MORTIFIED to sell something in that sort of condition (mainly in case someone like me blogged about it, but)- her Trademe listing stated, ‘in good condition, and clean’- which was a total misrepresentation- she must have been fucking HALLUCINATING at the time- hey- anyway- YOU’RE the one storming around griping about how we got ripped off-”

“Yes, but, the time to do something about it would have been when we picked it up-”

“Well, I didn’t notice you thumping the roof of the Audi complaining about the state of it-”

“You realize this poor woman is probably on the dole-”

“That’s no excuse for living in a tip! If she cleared out all the crap in her front room and put in some grass and kept a fucking SHEEP, it would be about a hundred times cleaner not to mention more hygienic-”

“She’s probably a single mother on the dole, and you roll up in your Audi Q8-”

“It’s not my- whose bloody side are you on anyway-”

“With your little high-heels and your hair-”

“What the-”

“And quibble about $20! She probably won’t be able to feed her son for a week-”

“THAT’S NO EXCUSE! SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN PAYING ME TO DISPOSE OF THE THING! IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF IT!”

Niamh Meister-Leifburger

Before we married, Andrew and I agreed he would wear his wedding ring for a minimum of 6 months.

In return, I would take his surname.

Well, it wasn’t written into the marriage vows – and anyway, Andrew only wore his wedding ring for 3 months. ALSO, my ulterior motive for the request was the expectation that the band would become an extension of his finger. In the event he was involved in a terrible accident resulting in severe arm trauma and his left hand swelling alarmingly, he’d fight off the doctor advancing with motorised cutters, deliriously screaming, “Get away from my ring! You’re not having it!”

Since that situation never came to pass, it seems pretty clear to me it constitutes a breach of said agreement rendering it null and void.

However, over eight years after the happy day when we yoked ourselves to each other till death or a misunderstanding involving a transsexual called Clarabelle and secret offshore bank account do us part, I applied for a new passport.

In fairness, I always intended to change my name. One reason I didn’t was because Andrew and I thought we might be able to engage in dodgy tax fraud that somehow turns out to be legal if I were still Shaw (in retrospect, I’m not sure how we envisioned that working). Another is I never got around to it. And finally, I wasn’t gestating a crotchfruit. If The Asset weren’t imminent early in the New Year, I would have waited until my passport expired in August 2012 before I became Niamh Meister-Leifburger or whatever Andrew’s surname is. I suppose I should really look that up.

Last time I renewed my passport, all that was required was a call to the Irish Consulate asking them to make out a passport in the name of Niamh Shaw, thanks a million.

THINGS HAVE INDEED CHANGED.

Three months ago, upon my request, the Consulate General of Ireland sent me a passport application form. I knew it was for an Irish passport because, hilariously, it included an information pamphlet on how NOT to take a passport photo, with pictures of random people wearing clown noses and sticking their faces up against windows etc.

To issue a passport in my married name, I had to submit our original marriage certificate (The Consulate General of Ireland evidently doesn’t trust Notary Publics) – and my original birth certificate to verify my maiden name. If I wanted my original documents returned – along with the new passport – I had to include a self-addressed sign-on-delivery courier bag. Rather makes you wonder what the $160 fee was for – for which the only accepted payment was a bankers’ cheque.

The passport photos – four according to the application form, although the supplementary documentation stated two – had to be confirmed as a true likeness of the applicant by an authority figure, e.g. a policeman or, you know, librarian.

I have no idea what the big deal is about getting a passport. I mean, they’re not exactly rare. Pretty much everybody has one.

Anyhoo. It took a while to put the application together. Andrew took some photos and I selected the image which looked least like I was contemplating assassinating John Key. After spending an hour on MS Paint arranging it in a collage, I took it to the pharmacy to get it printed.

Then I went to the police station.

“I’m looking for someone with the appropriate authority,” I announced at reception, spreading the forms across the counter.

“Well,” said the personable Jason, “you’ve come to the right place, ma’am.”

He was required to write the application form’s unique reference number on the back of two of the passport photos, and sign them.

“Do you have a black pen?” I asked. “Because it says on the form you need to use a black pen. Oh, and if you can find a pair of scissors- no, wait. I have some here in my bag.”

“What else do you have in the bag?” he asked, suspiciously eyeing me snipping up photos.

“Nothing I wish to disclose, thanks.”

Jason got so carried away by the power vested in him that he signed all nine of my passport photos.

“Don’t want you coming back,” he said.

“Oh, come on. Are you trying to tell me I’m the dodgiest character you’ve seen all week?”

“Don’t know. You might have a bomb strapped to your waist.”

“No, no; it’s a foetus I swear.”

Policemen are MUCH more fun than Customs Officials. Except, I suppose, when they’re trying to get you to breathe into the nozzle.

Off I went to NZ Post to mail the application – which was where/when I found I’d forgotten my original passport.

Back at home, Andrew pointed out another problem.

I’m not even sure how to coherently relate this. Ok, so. Look. *sigh!* You see. On the form was a box for my signature. And I kind of panicked and put the wrong one. Well obviously it was my signature – I mean, I wrote it – only it didn’t look like it usually does. It’s like I had a fleeting personality change halfway through signing, resulting in a squirmy bit in the middle. I think I was intimidated by the stringent instruction to keep within the lines of the box, which was WAY too small to adequately express my personality.

In any case, after I had written my signature – outside the box, with a wobble in the middle – I realized it was supposed to have been witnessed by an authority figure.

So before going to the police station, I Tippexed it out.

It almost looked like I hadn’t touched it at all.

Jason hadn’t noticed anyway.

But THEN I got home and made the mistake of saying to Andrew, “Do you think it matters my signature’s blue?”

And he said, “No, but the TIPPEX MIGHT BE A PROBLEM.”

Seriously, I don’t know why I bother talking to him. It always ends in tears.

Since you can’t download the application form off the Internet, I sent off to the Consulate General of Ireland for another. Then I printed more passport photos and returned to the police.

I wasn’t looking forward to explaining The Tippex Affair to Jason – or persuading him I wasn’t stalking him. Apart from exceptional circumstances I’m not really into that and anyway, to be honest, I prefer firemen.

Thankfully Jason was off giving out speeding tickets, so I got Angela. She was evidently more clued in than Jason since she actually asked to see my ID. Although I’m glad I didn’t get her the first time around, because no doubt Angela would have detected Tippex.

However, when she went to stamp the back of my passport photo it rolled up into the stamp and, when she finally prised it out, my face was covered in blue ink.

The information pamphlet on how not to take a passport photo hadn’t mentioned anything about not having a blue face, so I licked it a bit and scrubbed it with a tissue from up Angela’s sleeve. I sent it off, even though I still looked like one of my recent ancestors was a full-blooded Smurf.

Two days later, the Consulate General of Ireland called to say our marriage certificate isn’t valid.

Top of Trotters Gorge

Finally got around to uploading the pics from Trotter’s Gorge last Saturday. We only got two because the camera sprang a leak.

 

This is me, after climbing to the top of Trotters Gorge. In many ways, the photo is deceptive. As I recall, my face was throbbing red; also, that shirt evidently covers a multitude of sins. One of them being an eight month old foetus. Which is really more a misdemeanor

 

Places of interest.

Killjoy Funsucker III

In the face of overwhelming and largely irrefutable evidence, I’m reluctantly resigned to increasing exhaustion and immobility.

I’m not sure why this comes as a shock. Perhaps because I subscribe to the ‘I’m-pregnant-not-suffering-from-some-chronic-debilitating-disease-symptoms-of-which-include-acute-belching’ school of thought.

Inspired by my mum – who, when pregnant with me, played squash up to her eighth month (which, if you consider the number of times I must have violently head-butted her cervix, may serve to explain much) – and my obstetrician in Blenheim – who ran a triathlon at 36 weeks pregnant at the age of 42 (which, because she was my doctor, I prefer to think of as admirable rather than CERTIFIABLY NUTCRACKERS INSANE) – I imagined I’d still be rock-climbing and shark-wrestling well into my third trimester and practicing extreme karate-kicks with my midwife between contractions.

Therefore, I’m fairly sullen about squaring up to reality. This unhappy station includes having to adopt the recovery position for several hours after a round trip to Dunedin, and being incapable of trundling the dog around the Oamaru Public Gardens without collapsing onto every single park bench for the purpose of puffing.

The situation has been aggravated by my recent erratic sleep patterns. In our antenatal class, while the other prospective mothers complained about sleep deprivation, I merely smiled mysteriously (or more likely unbearably smugly). Because until recently, I slept like a hibernating bear with the chromosomes of Rip Van Winkle. (Did you know a tompion is a pellet of mud and saliva that a bear inserts up his anus before hibernating for the winter so that ants won’t crawl in? The word originates from the French ‘tampon’ and can also be used to describe a plug placed in a gun’s muzzle while not in use to keep out dust and moisture. In case you were wondering, neither application has anything whatsoever to do with my REM quality.)

I’m not sure when it started, but I find it just about impossible getting comfortable in bed. Lying on The Asset’s head used to work, but when I try that trick now he kicks my lungs into my oesophagus. It’s been hella hot in the last couple of weeks, which hasn’t helped. Also, my bladder’s holding capacity appears to have shrunk to that of a beetle, resulting in at least two nocturnal bathroom forays. Previously, I’d return from a bathroom run thinking, ‘Beh I’ll NEVER get back to sleep *huff*!’ and three seconds later I’d wake up in the morning. Now – perhaps in preparation for parenthood – I like to prove myself right.

I’ve also adopted a startling grunt. I emit this grim, guttural expectoration when I sit, stand, ascend stairs, pull weeds, throw Jed’s frisbee, open doors . . . in fact, any action other than lying in a perfectly still, prone position. I would grunt rolling over in bed, except that the action is beyond my current skill-range.

Anyhoo.

Yesterday Andrew and I had planned A Great Adventure.

To be accurate, I planned it and Killjoy Funsucker III failed to talk me out of it.

We drove south and turned west into Trotter’s Gorge where we stopped for a bush-walk. The sign in the carpark estimated the Loop Track at 1.5 hours. It didn’t mention most of it was uphill, which added a striking new depth of flavour to my grunt echoing joyfully around the woody hills.

Back at the carpark, we enjoyed our first swim of the summer in the nearby stream i.e. we crouched in three inches of water seeing who could shriek louder.

We carried on, stopping for a picnic just over Dansey’s Pass: soda bread with great slabs of cheddar cheese, date scones, apples and mince pies.

Last night, I slept like a dead squirrel.

Kitchen update

Some more photos of the house and remodelled kitchen:-

This is another pic of the front of Wild Rose House. It's quite difficult to get a shot of the entire house because most of it is hidden by foliage

 At the moment, we use the side door to enter and exit the house. This is the view of the front of the house, from near the garages. Ultimately, we would like to make a clear accessway from the bottom of the garden and make this the main entrance.

The kitchen entrance after the pantry/fridge swap. Please note Andrew's light switch beside the kitchen entrance. It still works, which is a bonus.

 

Since the kitchen opens directly onto the living room, I wanted to paint it bright white to reflect as much light as possible. Even Andrew admits it's a vast improvement - although I'm still convinced it emits a green glow when my defences are low. Andrew says I'm paranoid

Quinary consideration

Shortly after we settled into Wild Rose House – i.e. as soon as we had the coffee machine unpacked – we compiled a list of things to fix or alter. We categorized items as short, medium and long-term projects, further subdivided into price of raw materials. Although generally anything costing more than – ooh, $100 – was deep-filed.

Wild Rose House

Before the weekend, in what’s becoming a family ritual, Husband and I sat in our bay-window for a ten minute infusion of Vitamin D and caffeine and decided to review our short-term list.

Miraculously, it seemed to have tripled despite copious reallocation of items to the medium and long-term lists.

“Ok look,” I said, “could we maybe focus on one thing and just . . . finish it? Because I know we’ve been busy doing stuff, but it feels like we’re churning.”

So I suppose it’s my fault we agreed to swap the kitchen pantry and fridge over the weekend.

Now, you might think- but no. Before you prepare for that mental leap, you’re probably wondering why swapping the fridge with a cupboard even makes The List, never mind its top priority assignment.

The main reason was that the only available space for the fridge was in the kitchen entranceway. Not only did this block much of our precious sunlight into the living room, but you had to walk around the fridge to get into the kitchen. Although ideal for hiding behind in the event a masked terrorist crashed through the door spraying automatic machine-gun fire, we figured the likelihood of that occurring in Oamaru was negligible.

From the living room: the fridge in the kitchen entrance. The microwave normally sits on top of the fridge

A secondary – even quinary – barely-even-qualifying-as-a-consideration, was Andrew’s irrational hostility towards my eclectic collection of fridge magnets on proud display. These include plaques printed with Hallmark sentiments, furry picture frames, various animals, and my magnetic poetry arranged in crude rather than creative expression.

I hope that addresses your question.

NOW you might think this operation – the swapping of pantry and fridge – sounds straightforward. And I grant you: on the surface, it does.

However, there were complications. The pantry was as deep as the fridge so Andrew had to saw it in half lengthways to justify the swap. It was also fitted – which suggested the wall behind the pantry was unpainted. As it turned out, the alcove housing the pantry was not even lined with plasterboard.

Naturally, the fridge was about 1cm wider than the pantry and wouldn’t quite fit into the vacated slot. Andrew suggested making room by ripping out the thin cupboard next to the oven, but I jealously covet all storage space. In any case, where else am I going to put my sandwich tray in the shape of a pig? However, Andrew reckoned he could saw a centimeter off the bench/cupboard on the far side of the oven and shove the entire arrangement across.

Yet another issue was an inconvenient absence of power point(s) adjacent to the pantry alcove into which we could plug the fridge. Andrew proposed putting in a power point, and – since he was feeling all electrical – he’d add another couple of sockets to the main bench area. And sure, while he was at it, he’d move the light switch.

I’d like to point out here that the location of the light switch – in the middle of the wall beneath the overhead cupboards – didn’t bother me. I’ve always considered myself quite fussy – secretly prided myself on it, to be honest – but in certain areas I’m pedestrianly low-maintenance. Granted, it took me a while to actually FIND the light switch but when I did, I just thought, “Oh right, THAT’S where it is”. Then I accepted it. Adjusted. I mean to say: it’s a LIGHT SWITCH. As long as it a) works; and b) remains pleasingly simple to operate, I’m happy as.

But when he saw it Andrew said, “Who’d put a light switch there? Stupid. That’s going to annoy me.”

He became borderline obsessive. Whenever he was required to operate it, he’d announce: “This light switch really annoys me”.

It got to the stage where he’d go, “This light switch-”

And I’d say, “Wait! Let me guess. It annoys you?”

“It REALLY annoys me. I’m not sure you fully grasp quite how annoying it is-”

“OH I’M STARTING TO GAIN SOME APPRECIATION OF THAT.”

In summary, he decided to move the switch to where grand design intended light switches to be: beside the entrance.

Essentially rewiring the entire kitchen necessitated knocking a few holes in the wall – which had to be boarded up and/or plastered, sanded and painted.

Kitchen wall after Andrew attacked it and poked experimentally at electrical wires

“You know, there’s no point buying paint to touch up a few holes,” said Andrew. “We might as well do the whole kitchen while we’re at it.”

In fact, painting the kitchen was another task on our short-list, since it was a shade that would most aptly be titled ‘Green Goblin’s ghastly revenge’. If the photos don’t communicate the pure grisliness of it, you’ll have to take my word that it gave off a nuclear energy.

Study of dust and debris

That, in a nutshell, was our mission for the weekend.

Have I forgotten anything?

I don’t think so.

“Sounds like more than two days’ work,” I said dubiously.

“Nah. We’ll have it finished by Saturday night,” Andrew confidently predicted.

At our antenatal appointment Thursday morning, I told our midwife: “He’s making me paint the kitchen this weekend.”

“Well, take it easy,” said Jen. “And no climbing ladders.”

“We don’t have a ladder,” said Andrew. “She’ll have to stand on a box.”

“I didn’t think pregnant women were supposed to paint?” I said, hopefully.

“You’ll be fine,” said Jen. “Just make sure the area is well ventilated.”

I can’t understand how my midwife has no problem with my snorting toxic fumes, yet tells me off for wearing high-heels.

(I suspect it’s because she wears crushed velvet and Birkenstocks. Also, I think she’s a Wiccan.)

(And while I’m on the topic, I find it COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE that my midwife is the ONLY care provider who has given out to me for wearing heels during my pregnancy.)

It took most of the weekend to shift bench tops and rewire, patch, plaster and sand the kitchen. Between us we sugar-soaped the walls; then cut-in and rollered – twice. We also managed to paint the bay-window seat (three coats) and I sugar-soaped and painted the bathroom edges.

We’ve ticked two items off the short-list.

Shock value: high

For months – years, even – the only thing we’ve been required to schedule are mealtimes. Although the thought of missing lunch fills me with a chill, clammy dread, in this instance my stomach is more reliable than a Swiss-precision timepiece.

However, I doubted I could rely on hunger to remind me of our first ante-natal class three weeks ago, so I made an entry in my diary along with a note the day before; and set two reminders on my phone supplemented with alarms.

OF COURSE I forgot. Early that afternoon, I brought the dog for a walk along Kakanui Beach and, after he swallowed most of the sea, some starfish and a piece of driftwood, Jed’s arse was a danger-zone. I didn’t want to drive back to Oamaru immediately in case he pebble-dashed the interior of the car, so I sat a while on the tailgate waiting for Jed to get it out of his system. I was reading an article on the importance of mulching and I’m not sure what nature of mental leap made me think, ‘THE ANTE-NATAL CLASS FUUUCK!’

I flung Jed and his volatile backside in the boot and stormed back into town. As I charged into the house, I roared up the stairs to Andrew, “The thingy! Class! The ante-natal class! It’s today! In fifteen minutes!” Whereupon we wasted a large portion of that time bumping into each other and swearing, until I leaped into the shower.

By 17:55, I was standing by the door waiting for Andrew, who was putting away some screwdrivers. Or whatever.

(In fact, we haven’t missed any of the classes so far – although not for want of trying.)

Naturally, we were the last couple to arrive, which meant we got the hard chairs. The other attendees were arrayed on an eclectic selection of furniture: a leaning lazy-boy, a sagging sofa, two pouffes with backs, and a number of hard chairs with no arms. The walls were decorated with some laminated posters depicting cross-sections of pregnant torsos and/or gimungous mammaries. While the prospective mothers sat around expectantly, the men sat and fidgeted and avoided eye-contact – or looking at the pictures.

I was immediately distracted by two plates of biscuits on the table – which basically meant I couldn’t concentrate on anything said during the first hour of the session.

I can only consider myself lucky, judging by the material presented in the remaining classes (six so far). Although I’m about twice as old as every other prospective mother there, I’m invariably the one slumped in her chair giggling helplessly whenever the instructor says ‘vagina’.

During a debrief the morning after the first class, still vaguely traumatised, I said to Andrew, “So we spend our entire lives trying to avoid saying the words ‘nipple’, ‘breast’, ‘penis’ or ‘perineum’ in polite company, and suddenly the conversation gets all pelvis-centric . . . and we’re expected not to laugh?

“Well, yes.”

“Oh my god, I am WAY too immature to have a baby.”

“Um-”

“So be honest: when the instructor lay on her back on the floor with her legs in the air like Invasion of the Giant Alien Beetles, did you not choke back a chortle?”

“Not especially. No!”

“I see. How about when she drew two dots on the whiteboard and said, ‘This is the vagina and this is the anus’. Seriously: are you trying to tell me you didn’t feel even remotely like sniggering?”

“Ok, maybe just a little bit.”

Here’s the thing: when I drop the word ‘vagina’ into a conversation I’m aiming to shock – which, you’ll no doubt agree, is understandable; even worthy in select circumstances – but when Sandra the instructor does it she’s in ABSOLUTE EARNEST.

Frankly, it’s freaky.

Also, just plain wrong.

Sometimes Sandra kicks off the class by asking, “Right! Who’s been practicing their perineal massage?” and, while I’m busy trying to hide under my chair, some of the girls actually RAISE THEIR HANDS.

I should be marginally more resolute after being subjected to a barrage of horrifying birthing videos featuring a plethora of fanny flaps. Particularly noteworthy was the very first video, with footage of a woman’s waters breaking. The slow-mo was a nice touch.

By far the most disgusting, appalling birthing video was that featuring the mother with hairy armpits. I mean: if you know you’re going to be on camera, surely you’d make an effort to shave your pits? At times it was hard to tell which was her head, the baby’s head or her armpits. There’s simply no excuse for that degree of hirsute.

As far as I’m concerned, whoever goes on about the beauty and miracle of birth has obviously not observed one: the mucous, the sweat, the blood, the throbbing neck-veins, the labouring women trying to rip their husbands’ heads off with their bare hands.

Actually, I don’t see why I have to be pre-informed in graphic detail about what’s going on down there. It’s not as if I’ll SEE it; and anyway, I’ll be preoccupied wondering how to rip Andrew’s head off with my bare hands. And I hardly need persuading via visual evidence that pushing a fully-formed human being out the vaj will likely sting a bit.

Just to mix it up, Sandra showed us a video that wasn’t called ‘Mutant Babies’, but could have been. Instead, it was titled ‘What Newborns Look Like’. Bless her, the new mother made every effort to look thrilled with her purple, mustachioed baby, but she was obviously dejected. There followed a gallery of newborns with giant gentalia, cone-heads, bruised foreheads, rampant zits, club feet, and one that looked like Mussolini.

And then there are the practicals. During the first class, Sandra lectured us on the importance of pelvic floor exercises, demonstrating the pressure a baby’s head exerts on the perineum with a sack of salt. Then she had us all practice pelvic floor exercises. Thankfully, she didn’t check to see we were doing it right. I was very proud of Andrew who really put his back passage into the exercise – I could actually see him clenching. Also, his gums turned white.

Thank goodness there are only two more classes to go – I just- I don’t think I can take much more

The Great Udder Cake

I’d been waiting for an excuse to make coffee cloud cake. The batter is made by alternately folding stringently sifted flour, espresso and walnuts into a light, fluffy meringue-like base. After baking, the whole is smothered in lush coffee icing.

Now, you might think: WHO NEEDS AN EXCUSE? If you’re not preoccupied thinking NOM NOM NOM.

Indeed, it’s a valid question. But it seemed clear to me that justifying decadence on this epic scale required an Occasion.

Finally Her Goatiness asked me to bake a cake.

Actually, she asked me to stop off at the supermarket and pick up one of the generic sponge cakes that taste like reconstituted carpet and look like an Easter Bunny threw up on it.

However, she asked early enough that I could tell she really wanted me to make one. Also, it was a special occasion: the day after Old Tom’s birthday.

Generally speaking, the anniversary of Old Tom’s debut appearance would constitute The Occasion, except that The Outlaws forgot. When Old Tom called around to have Happy Birthday sung tunelessly to him, Agent of Death was down the milking shed and Her Goatiness wouldn’t let Old Tom watch Worst Teenage Bodies on telly because she wanted to see Downton Abbey.

In the scheme of things, the Guilt Cake is more important than the Birthday Cake. As well as the message, ‘We’re pleased you’re still alive’, it must also convey an apology with some degree of sincerity. As far as I was concerned, the only way to salvage Old Tom’s relationship with The Outlaws was via home baking.

(Also I’m not about to eat supermarket cake.)

Until recently, I’ve been a fan of the one-bowl school of baking. In fact, I’ve never understood why you can’t just fling the ingredients directly into the tin and bung it straight in the oven. But lately, I’ve been foraying into frosting: cinnamon tea cakes with toasted coconut topping, sponge cakes with jam and cream, miracles with chocolate icing and a cherry on top.

I evicted the spiders from the cake pans and preheated the oven and beat eggs and sifted and folded. I think you can estimate how the final product will taste from how much you want to lick the batter. In the case of the coffee cloud cake, I nearly got my head stuck in the mixing bowl and was picking batter out of my hair for the next two days.

The cakes smelled glorious. They looked even better. After they cooled, I leveled the tops, stacked them and slathered the whole with icing.

Coffee cloud cake - optimal profile

I pressed toasted walnuts into the side and cherishingly transferred the cake to a plate. It was only then that I spotted the leftover cake on the cooker hob, and realized . . . I’d forgotten the third layer. It was supposed to be a three-layer cake.

It was just as well, because not only had I run out of icing, but . . . well . . . from certain angles . . . the cake . . . it featured something of an aggressive LEAN. No matter how much I prodded and swore at it, the top layer slumped drunkenly off to one side.

Stop that cake! It's getting away!

However, valuable lessons were learned from the experience.

And without the coffee cloud cake, there might never have been the udder cake.

Last week I was tasked with making a birthday cake for Her Goatiness. The spec was a cake descriptive of a goat’s udder.

Nobody said it had to be three-dimensional, but Her Goatiness is notoriously hard to please. There was high likelihood of her spurning a two-dimensional cake and refusing to blow out the candles.

Andrew obsessively tracked the progress of the cake assembly with a kind of morbid fascination. Given my mother-in-law’s partiality for pus, I was keen to garnish the teats with yellow icing but Andrew said, “Niamhie, you can’t make a cake with MASTITIS.”

No vision.

It took me most of the morning to make a plain 20cm square butter cake and two 20cm round chocolate sponge cakes. I took a break for lunch.

“How’s it going?” asked Andrew. “Have you looked at pictures of goat’s udders?”

“Pictures!” I snorted. “I don’t need PICTURES. Don’t you think I’ve seen enough fucking goat’s udders to know what they look like?”

“Hmm,” said Husband reflectively. “Ok. How many teats do they have?”

“FOUR OF COURSE!” I shouted. “What sort of fucking question is- I’m not some nuffnuff, you know!”

Although obviously an awkward and disagreeable conversation, I was ultimately pleased it occurred. A little disagreement adds spice to a relationship. It fostered greater understanding between us. Also, Her Goatiness’ udder cake would otherwise have sported four teats instead of.

Er.

Two.

As per the standard configuration.

Thereafter, I consulted pictures on Google images and drew an elevation of the udder before starting the sponge-carving.

I stuck the cakes together with jam to discourage independent roaming. Then, with input from Andrew’s gag-reflex, I made up a vat of revolting pink butter icing. From my experience with coffee cloud cake, I knew butter icing was tricky, collecting crumbs and preferring to stick to the spatula rather than the cake. Thankfully, I’d read an article which suggested dipping the spatula periodically in a jug of boiling water and thereby encouraging the icing to slide off.

It’s probably fair to say Her Goatiness had never seen a cake quite like it. Nor anybody else, for that matter.

Goat udder cake

Not forgetting National Velvet

So far, the biggest challenge about the new house – if you ignore, for the moment, the virulent foliage – has been learning to operate the woodburning stove.

Thus far, a woodburner has been an impossible, unattainable dream – much like owning a horse. I always wanted a horse so I could achieve that perfect accord between woman and beast. I mean, perfect accord with my dog basically equates to being permanently covered in slobber and earwax; whereas with a horse it’d be all gorgeous naturally highlighted hair and perfect, even, vaguely though not obscenely fluorescent teeth. And I haven’t even got onto the whips and leather boots and thighs that could crack a hazelnut with two decisive paces.

Anyway. I was naturally thrilled to finally have free access to a woodburner.

After a couple of days sitting around the living room admiring it, Husband and I decided to fire it up. Husband went to the shed and returned with a couple of logs and a stick.

“So . . . how do you do it?” I asked.

“Man. Make Fire!” said Husband confidently.

I had no reason to doubt him. After all, man’s ability to conflagrate is innate, like navigating by the stars or farting Bon Jovi melodies in the lower ranges. Humans have made fire since dinosaurs were the preferred mode of transport – and these days, we have matches.

Also, if Andrew were a superhero, his totally awesome superpowers (because I’m sure he’d have a selection rather than just the one) would DEFINITELY involve some combination of combustibles e.g. flame throwing, giant sparks, deadly fumes, and a backdraft that would make a random cross-section of spectators gasp in wonder. And the logo on his tight, shiny superhero costume would be fashioned of flames.

Duly, I waited to be impressed. Andrew stuffed some newspaper and the logs into the stove in a haphazard arrangement of what we subsequently learned is called ‘the teepee’ method.

Within seconds, an inferno blazed against the glass of the woodburner.

Minutes later, it was a heap of smouldering ash, rustling and collapsing on itself.

Undeterred – or perhaps more inspired by the cold snap – Husband adopted a new fire-starting technique. This involved lighting the kindling, then decisively flinging a gallon of diesel onto it.

Now, YOU KNOW I like to be supportive of my husband, but regrettably I couldn’t in good conscience endorse this methodology. I love the flirtatious, playful smell of diesel as much as the next person, but I’m pretty sure it’s not environmentally friendly and splashing flammable fluid around is hardly the sort of example we want to set our child.

Faced with the prospect of my dream fizzling out, I attempted to rekindle the dormant embers of information left over from Brownies. When that yielded no sparks, I read the Masport wood stove’s user manual cover to cover, and pretty much a degree course’s worth of Internet articles.

Look, if you can get a BA in Golf Course Management and Meteorology – which I’m convinced is only a short step up from predicting horoscopes – I’m sure there must be a degree in making fire. Here, if you have a spare week to kill and think you know everything about woodstoves, check out this site for instant disillusionment.

The most important thing I learned from my extensive research is the importance of using dry wood – which means we’re pretty much buggered, since I assume flash-drying wood with an oil heater rather defeats the purpose. Then I latched onto the theory that our grate was blocked with ash, so I cleaned it. ALL RIGHT I admit it: I made Andrew do it. This appeared to have little positive or even noticeable effect. In desperation, I became convinced that our flue (that’s modern terminology for a chimney) needed cleaning, but a call to the local chimney-sweep confirmed it had been serviced in April. So it may be blocked by a dead starling – but unlikely.

AND THEN I came across an ingenious, confounding proposal: the upside-down or ‘top-down’ method of fire-building. According to The Internet, the top-down fire lights every time; produces less smoke; and uses less wood than the traditional method in the same period. Furthermore, whereas the conventional fire requires constant maintenance, the top-down fire allegedly burns for 4-8 hours without attention.

Instead of starting with newspaper at the bottom and layering up with kindling, sticks and logs, the top-down fire involves packing the heaviest material on the bottom and piling lighter material on top, ending with newspaper. Then you stuff any gaps with conventional wisdom, and light it.

This is our version of a top-down fire. It didn't work but I had to give it a go because the newspaper knots at the top are called 'anna cracks' and how could any normal person possibly resist that?

After our first attempts at building a top-down fire failed I gave up because I have no resilience. But Andrew persevered with a modified version, which I call the ‘top-down-bottom-up-tee-hee-pee’ method. This is basically a small teepee arrangement atop two rows of closely stacked logs. Which appears to work a treat.

He’s really quite clever.

Or he might still be tossing a bucket of diesel on the kindling when I’m not looking.

The dog ate my blog post

I missed a post last week.

(Shh! I don’t think anyone noticed!)

Still, I feel the only polite thing to do under the circumstances is to offer up an excuse. Since I’ve used ‘the dog ate my blog post’ at least once, I’m kind of stuck. All my creativity appears to be channeled into gestating. At this rate, The Asset will be a work of art. Or a real piece of work. Maybe a bit of both? Whatever.

Also, we’re still full-on just over two weeks into our new home. I have been engaged in an orgy of scrubbing. I assure you, the word ‘orgy’ (please see previous sentence) was wittingly applied. My affair with cloth is obsessive, dirty, frenzied, exhausting and slightly lustful; all appropriately packaged in complex emotions like shame and guilt.

So far I’ve cleaned the kitchen.

Really quite thoroughly, you know.

Also, I could do with a shower.

I would have liked to have the entire house scoured by now, but there have been so many other critical items demanding our attention, including but not limited to: extensive rugby analysis; thinking up imaginative insults for Irish and South African referees; distracting our midwife from discussing ‘bonking’ and the more literal aspects of digestion; and spending hours attempting to train Fisher & Paykel’s customer relations representatives. I am also required to provide critical backup and support for Andrew’s stealth ops to Mitre 10.

And then there’s the garden. If you sit and stare at it, you can actually see the vegetation advancing on the house. It is – literally – a jungle out there. We may not be at risk of being attacked by tigers in our back yard, but currently the most efficient way of getting to the garage is swinging Tarzan-style on a vine from the front door.

Which has proved challenging at seven months pregnant.

Yesterday, armed with a trowel and sunhat, it took me five hours to clear an area roughly the size of a manhole cover. At the current rate of progress, the garden might be free of weeds by 2030. Alternatively, I could send Andrew out with a vat of Roundup; or we could just spend the money and tastefully concrete the entire section – which is the option I’m currently favouring.

Aerodynamically optimal

Three days into our new home and we’re still chaotic. Basically our life can be described in terms of boxes and litres of Jif cleaning fluid.

After the movers relocated the bulk of our possessions last Thursday week, we made one more trip to the container in Spring Creek with a last trailer-load. The container smelled like the gorilla pit at the zoo. Please note it featured this delicate bouquet long before we ever stuffed it with our belongings. I’m not sure whether it seemed more potent due to my enhanced sense of smell or it had actually once contained gorillas.

As Andrew unloaded, “I thought you were going to put your motorbike in the container,” I said. Although phrased as a statement, Andrew recognised it for the pointed question it was.

“Decided not to,” he said. “We’ll have PLENTY of room for it on the trailer.”

I may never learn to decode my husband’s unique blend of brooding pessimism and misplaced idealism.

Container on its way, we set to cleaning the house. I was anxious to leave it spick, since not only are the landlords our friends, but they handed over the house in such pristine condition. Unfortunately, I underestimated the time it would take, allied with how pregnant I am, not to mention pedantic. You might call it a trifecta of miscalculation.

I was still cleaning on Saturday morning, the day we were to drive to Oamaru. While Andrew loudly expressed his astonishment how much stuff was left to fit on the trailer, I desperately wiped down door handles. The end result was three rooms and two bathrooms that gleamed, with skirting boards that could have been declared contamination-free zones. Unfortunately, the living room windows were still smudged with dog snot . . . but at least I got the blood stains off the walls and scraped most of the viscera off the ceiling.

I drove the MR2 the first leg of the trip, while Andrew drove the Hilux Surf towing a trailer that looked precariously volatile but, he assured me, was both stable and aerodynamically optimal.

We swapped vehicles just south of Blenheim and I drove the Surf the rest of the way. Again, I’m not sure whether it was pregnancy or the fact that we haven’t defurred it in a while but sitting into the Surf’s driver seat was a nauseating experience.

We hit Christchurch at around 5pm, where we collected a cot, which posed a challenging logistical problem for Andrew.

In Rolleston, we stopped for a late lunch from BP. I had a gourmet vegetarian pie which, given how hungry I was, should have been a taste sensation. Instead it was rather horrid, tasting of burnt-curry with a strangely chewy texture. It was only after I’d finished it that I realised I’d also eaten most of the wrapping paper.

Poor Andrew had to work on Sunday but I took a day off. On Monday morning, the Spring Creek Container Yard notified me that our possessions had arrived. In a quality effort, Andrew and The Welsh Giant relocated everything to the new house by early afternoon, while I . . . cleaned.

God I hate the smell of Jif.

Pelvis-centric

Two days before the movers were due to arrive, we decided to call into the container yard at Spring Creek to check the security measures.

Alan, the manager of the container yard, who had taken my booking, was not available.

“I’ll show you the container, if you like,” said John, a man who operated in a strictly humour-free zone. Unless you counted his glasses, a pair of big, yellow-tinted square eyesores. I hope they were for visibility purposes rather than a fashion statement. Because that statement would be loud and pelvis-centric without any discernible excuse for it.“Let me get you a couple of high-viz vests. You need to wear them on the yard.”

“Oh no, no, that’s ok,” said Andrew. “We don’t need to-”

“No- I want a high-viz vest!” I said. “Hey! Do we have to wear hard hats too?”

Apparently we didn’t.

“When’s your container hired?” asked John as we fluorescently trooped over to the holding area.

“Thursday morning,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said John. “I handle container bookings and we have nothing for Thursday.”

“Oh, Alan ASSURED me the container would be available on Thursday,” I said.

John’s face twitched with the effort of internalising an extreme eye-roll.

“How long did you book it for?”

“Alan said you guys were EXTREMELY flexible,” I said happily. “He said we could have it as long as we needed and just to let you know on an as-required basis. Alan- he was lovely- wasn’t he, honey? SO accommodating.”

“How much did he quote you?” asked John, increasingly dour.

“$1200.”

“And for transport?”

“Oh, that includes transport. And GST. Very reasonable, we thought.”

Evidently John thought so too. Perhaps the spectacles were corrective, to address eye-rolling.

Anyway, I don’t know what he was fussing about. Either there was a stash of containers around the corner, or John was extremely good at his job (although I can’t think there’s much to arranging containers; surely it’s just an adult version of building blocks?); in any case there was a container waiting for us at the yard on Thursday morning.

Back at home, “I still think I could have shifted our things in a couple of trailer loads,” muttered Andrew.

I might have to ask John about his spectacle prescription.

I could savage a slice of broccoli quiche

Judgement Day is inevitable.
– Terminator 3

Two days left before the move and I’m sitting in the living room surrounded by boxes, bubble wrap, sheets of cardboard and shreds of packing material. I can’t find anything except dust bunnies. Although thank goodness Husband still manages to locate a screwdriver or glue gun when he needs one. It’s a relief.

The only reason the sofa isn’t packed is that, in my current condition, getting out of a bean bag involves some applied input from Husband to achieve output and frankly he has enough to be getting along with.

Bless him: I have no idea where he finds the energy. In addition to working a full-time job, Andrew has wrapped, stacked and labelled anything not nailed to the floor; transferred it to the upper garage; finalized the house purchase; sold his boat; and yet has still faithfully watched all the All Black’s matches except the one against Canada and even I couldn’t see the point in that unless you were so bored the only alternative was clipping your own toenails.

I’m trying to keep pace with the boxing, but have slowed down a lot in the last couple of weeks – Andrew might say CONVENIENTLY. But really, at the moment, I can wrap about three plates and a coaster before I have to take a nap. Exhaustion seems to accompany spurts of activity from The Asset and for the last while he has been making really quite admirable efforts to kick me in the shins.

However, I did make a major contribution to proceedings by calling every packing company, moving business, freight specialists and guys with vans, trailers and/or wheelbarrows in New Zealand. The cheapest quote for a door-to-door move was $3000 + GST, but we could hire a container in Spring Creek and have it relocated by rail to Oamaru for around $1200 inclusive.

Originally, Andrew planned to ferry our stuff into Spring Creek on a trailer. I was concerned he had underestimated the volume of our possessions, while overestimating the capacity of Sherriff’s trailer (assuming Sherriff allowed us borrow it in the first place). But despite Andrew being more concerned about dust from the gravel road getting into his stereo system, he was undeterred.

This changed after he experienced some twangs out of his back – trying to extricate me from the nether regions of bean bags – and we decided to hire a local moving company to transfer our things from Port Underwood to Spring Creek.

Evidently this plan is imminently sensible as befitting our status-in-transition to responsible parents who file early tax returns; but I’m also optimistic the movers will be beefcake eye-candy with winning smiles and rippling muscles.

Past experience suggests they will more likely be exceedingly sweaty with rippling paunches.

Chances are they’ll also probably grunt inappropriately.

Terrifying wainscoting

Hindsight has imbued The Great House-Hunt with heroic and epic proportions. When realism catches up, I can acknowledge how quickly and relatively painlessly we acquired a house.

One of the most distressing things about the frequent trips to Oamaru (all two of them) – apart from the WWII documentaries over breakfast, the prolonged psychological exposure to RE Agents, the terrifying wainscoting, and the ever-present fear that it was all futile and we were going to end up homeless and I’d have to give birth under a bridge – was that The Rise of the Asset was completely overlooked.

Being fully gestational is so exciting that I resent any time not productively spent feeling incredibly blessed, excited and/or clever (honestly: being knocked up makes me feel like a GENIUS, despite all evidence to the contrary involving numerous teenagers demonstrating conclusively that it has more to do with stupidity and/or stunning quantities of alcohol). Although I feel satisfied in living a full complete life, pregnancy is undoubtedly the closest I’ve ever been to a genuine miracle.

During those trips to Oamaru, there were whole MINUTES where I completely forgot I was pregnant. Until I tried to leap over fences, or caught myself stealing food off other peoples’ plates, or assessing railway bridges for exposure to draughts. Which are generally not the aspects of pregnancy upon which I prefer to focus.

Now that we’re home – when we’re not dealing with lawyers, booking containers, performing extreme weeding, sourcing boxes, packing, and selling fishing boats – it’s all about The Asset again.

For a long time I hadn’t been sure whether what I felt was The Asset exploring the boundaries, or pickles negotiating the dangerous bends of my digestive system. But recently there’s been no doubt. I’ve sometimes wondered whether The Asset has a bouncy castle in there, or a squash racquet and ball. In fact, the little guy has been extremely active since the start of the Rugby World Cup. Coincidence? I think not. This is, after all, a Kiwi baby.

The other evening, I was sitting on the couch when the prodding got so extreme I wondered whether the effects might be visible to the naked eye. Although I felt a bit foolish – I’m just into the 24th week, which was surely way too early to visibly detect movement – I pulled up my sweater and stared intently at the Homewrecker.

Next thing, my whole belly did a Mexican wave.

“It was AMAZING!” I gabbled to Husband later. “Possibly the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! It was like . . . like . . . like it’s ALIVE in there!”

“Er, Sweetie,” said Andrew gently, so as not to startle or alarm the pregnant lady. “It IS.”

Unfortunately, Husband has yet to witness the phenomenon. He’s too impatient to sit staring at the Homewrecker for longer than it takes to demand a cup of coffee; and The Asset refuses to perform on demand. Yet.

In any case, Andrew’s presence appears to have an incredibly soothing effect on his child.

Wild Rose House

So by now I hope we’re all agreed that there’s a special annex in Hell reserved for Real Estate Agents. Any place featuring a conglomeration of RE Agents can only be living torture; but I like to imagine this wildlife reserve also features rancid food, lashings of foul-smelling slime, oxygen that causes choking and taps that drip eternally.

It actually distresses me that Claudette is destined for this place. If she is, I fervently and sincerely hope she gets a room with a nice view.

Claudette is a RE Agent with LJ Hooker, and we love her. In a face-off between Claudette and Haemorrhoid, I just KNOW Claudette would so completely bitch-slap Haemorrhoid right back up her own arse.

I met Claudette while Andrew was still in Dubai, after a friend of The Outlaws’ referred me. Naturally I expected someone in a barely legal mini-skirt reeking of expensive French perfume, but in fact Claudette looks like she would take really good care of you if you had a head-cold. She wears a natty red leather jacket and has wonderful, twinkly eyes and round cheeks that you just want to rub because you instinctively know it would be a life-altering tactile experience. (Obviously you don’t, because being arrested would probably be a similarly life-altering experience.)

I was taken aback when Claudette actually appeared to listen to my description of what we wanted; and frankly startled when she processed that data and presented me with a short-list of property from her books that met all my criteria of being private and secluded with a generous garden.

One of Claudette’s recommendations was Wild Rose House. Since access to the house was tricky, Claudette said I was welcome to do a driveby. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the place. I was immediately predisposed towards it. I like things that are confounding.

On our first joint reconnaissance to Oamaru, Claudette took Andrew and me to see Wild Rose House. It wasn’t where I’d thought it was at all – which was why I couldn’t find it, if that makes sense.

The day we viewed the house it had snowed overnight. The garden looked lank and miserable, but Wild Rose House itself embraced us in a snuggly fug of cosiness. Cunningly, the vendor had just baked bread, so instead of stale cigarettes or mouldy carpet or a build-up of dead skin cells mainly comprising feet, it smelled deliciously yeasty.

Despite the fact that we loved the house, there were a number of factors that put us off. For me, it was the vendor not offering me a slice of bread. In retrospect, if she’d given me the whole loaf, I would have put down a deposit right there and then.

For both of us, the main issue was location – not from our perspective, but for its resale potential. Although you can’t see them from the house, warehouses line the main road below. But we were more concerned that the area is renowned for being the chilliest spot in Oamaru. When I describe the house’s location being “in the cold, damp gully”, everyone goes, “Ah, THERE”.

However, we were charmed enough by the house itself that it sidled unassumingly into the number four slot on our short-list.

After this first house-hunt, we were rather surprised to find that neither Orchard House nor Wild Rose House hit the top slot. In fact our first choice was a house on Tay Street, which the RE Agent advised we could probably get lower than the asking price.

The initial viewing of Tay Street was unfavourable, due to the place smelling of armpits and my fear of catching herpes from the carpet. The back of the house was was a bolt-on extension, with a ‘conservatory’ that was effectively a glasshouse chopped in half. However, it was a beautiful old period house with high ceilings and original fittings, in a wonderful location about five minutes from the centre of town overlooking the harbour. It also included a fully contained sleep-out at the bottom of the front garden.

Demonstrating a guilefulness I’d previously unsuspected of him, Andrew suggested we could sell the sleepout to pay for renovating the house. Cosmetic alterations, he hastily reassured me. Coat of paint, rip out the smelly carpets, polyeurethane the floor – that should cover it. Have it done in a weekend.

Her Goatiness and Agent of Death shattered our dreams when, upon our request, they went to check out the house. “Dry rot,” was Her Goatiness’ verdict. “Everywhere. Window sashes like butter. SOFT butter,” she elaborated. “Also the extension at the back needs to be ripped out. Doesn’t have a building permit.”

So. After we didn’t get our way with Orchard House, we moved onto #3 – Andrew’s preferred house on Bushy Bush Road. After his kindly agreeing to bid on Orchard House, the least I could do was pretend to reconsider Bushy Bush.

In the end, even Andrew agreed Bushy Bush was a long shot. It required extensive interior decorating and, since the asking price was significantly higher than our budget, it was clear that in the unlikely event we actually got it we would have to decorate the interior with artistic interpretation of wattle and mud.

Throughout all this, we kept coming back to Wild Rose House. We drove by it on several occasions to gauge the concentration of cold and relative saturation. High on the side of the gully, it enjoys sunlight morning, mid-day and afternoon. Despite our concerns about resale, we both acknowledged that it was precisely the type of house and location we personally wanted to live in.

Our offer was accepted and possession is in early October.

I just know we’ll be so happy living there.

Extravaganza bonanza

Well folks, it’s been a spectacular show at Deadlyjelly’s Travelling Circus.

We have now officially viewed every house/shack/shed for sale in Oamaru; got to grips with dry rot; negotiated until our eyes bled; counter-offered until the vendors’ eyes bled; and fought off ravening real estate agents with targeted nudity. We set the dog on one and currently have a hit-man contracted to take out another.

As if that weren’t enough, there was also a fortieth birthday party with possum; explosive goats; t-shirts with nipple holes; a caesarian resulting in two squeaking puppies; and five bags of baby clothes. In the meantime, I tested the structural integrity of a lamp-post with the rear bumper of the Outlaws’ Audi v8.

But in the midst of this extravaganza bonanza, by far the most exciting event was SANDWICHES!

No, wait. Not that.

I meant: the auction.

The auction with SANDWICHES!

Because the latest trip to Oamaru was scheduled around the sale of Orchard House.

Three weeks ago, after viewing Orchard House at the open home, we called in to see the real estate agent – not affectionately called Haemorrhoid. When we told her we were interested in the property, she practically gnawed our arms off.

Haemorrhoid agreed to show us the place again two days later and, while there, I reiterated our interest and suggested we might put in an offer before it went to auction. With a practiced pout of devastated regret – which she might have pulled off were it not for the smug smirk and misplaced air of self-importance – she said, “Weeell, we’ve had a lot of interest, you know. Lot. Of interest. Especially from out-of-towners. You’d really need to put your best foot forward.”

As it turned out, I should have followed my instincts to put my best foot forward then and there and rearranged her face.

That would be called a Benefit of Hindsight.

We came away with the distinct impression that we were too shabby to afford Orchard House – and that we should wash our car.

However, we had an undercover agent operating on our behalf in Waitaki. Concealed in a shrub with a pair of binoculars, Her Goatiness staked out the open homes every Saturday and Sunday in the lead-up to the auction. Her report stated: ‘Nil zero sum total zilch visitors. Quote lot of interest unquote appears alleged and spurious. Slash Haemorrhoid’s tyres? Please advise.’

A week before the auction, Haemorrhoid sent us a text message asking if we were attending. After analysing the slightly desperate tone of the text, Andrew and I deduced we were possibly the sole and exceptionally rare party interested in Orchard House.

Now, you may have picked up that Andrew was immoderately unenthused about Orchard House upon first viewing. And yes, of course I considered emotionally blackmailing him with the additional leverage of being 5 months pregnant with his child.

However, after many extensive discussions on the issue of property, we came to understand what is important to him and me and to us as a couple, and an awful lot of that is wanting the other to be happy. Which is just one of the reasons I love being half of this partnership. So I applied no further persuasion (apart from occasionally reminding him of the ORCHARD! just to be absolutely sure he was aware of the presence of peach trees.) Eventually he announced he ‘could live there if he had to’ – which, as far as I was concerned, was a seal of approval.

His change of attitude was more a gradually encroaching yet entirely grudging acknowledgement that Orchard House was perhaps the best of all the properties we’d viewed within our budget.

And so we geared up for auction. We notified Haemorrhoid we would attend; Andrew boned up on auction terminology; we confirmed our finance was set to go; we scoured the auction pack; we wondered whether there would be snacks.

Ok, I wondered whether there’d be snacks.

(I mean: they were going to a lot of trouble; you’d think they’d lay on snacks, right?)

We agreed Husband should do the bidding, since I was rather over-excited. My job – which Andrew made up on the morning to keep me amused and make me feel involved – was to note the progression of the auction: the order of bidding and amounts. I had a pen.

We were barely in the door when I was distracted by three huge platters of SANDWICHES! They looked WONDERFUL: cut on the diagonal with no crusts and an imaginative and challenging range of fillings involving mayonnaise. I asked Andrew to taste a couple for meat and/or poison but pushed him out of the way because he took too long.

I’d just about finished the first platter when the Old Girl – one of the vendors, who we’d met at the second viewing of the house – came over to chat. She asked after The Asset, then disappeared and returned seconds later with a gift: a knitted doll. Her husband’s hobby is knitting dolls. He’s Dutch. Really, I can’t make further comment, because it was an incredibly sweet gesture and I was – look, I was touched. It’s our first baby present.

Befjes Muff Diver

However, I do blame her for my neglecting to spot the plate of miniature Lamingtons until just before the auction started. The presentation was a thing of beauty: a mass of chocolate and delicate pink coconut-covered confections topped with puffs of cream. Unfortunately I only had time to cram one into my mouth before the auction kicked off.

There were about twelve bystanders: a couple of families with kids, some squinty-eyed mouth-breathers and a coven of real estate agents who all looked like they styled their hair with a deep fat fryer. I stood there eyeballing potential opponents to intimidate them – a difficult stunt to pull with a knitted dolly tucked under one arm and my chin pebbledashed with dessicated coconut.

Now, my Bucket List isn’t that ambitious. Well, it’s virtually indistinguishable from my New Year’s Resolutions for the last decade, except that it includes singing karaoke. I’ve never been much interested in seeing the Northern Lights because, you know, I’m pretty sure you can achieve much the same effect with certain drugs. And I’ve never had any interest in swimming with dolphins. They’re slimy, nasty, vicious creatures with a reputation for kidnapping, bullying, extortion and even murder. They probably don’t put the toilet seat down and also, DOLPHINS RAPE WOMEN. That last link is well worth reading for Pearl Caligula’s description of Ireland’s national treasure alone which, if it doesn’t make you laugh like a drain, either your sense of humour or mine is defective. No no, I wouldn’t like to say which. I’m sure you’ll giggle.

Bidding at auction was never originally on my Bucket List, but that, my friends, was an oversight. The tense battle of nerves between auctioneer and bidder was such a RUSH. And when Andrew bid – I swear I have NEVER experienced anything so SEXY. It was just as well he was the only person bidding. It could have got positively indecent except that, thankfully, Husband had a SANDWICH! concealed in his pocket. (Curried egg mayo with grated carrot – surprisingly delicious.)

Our bid didn’t reach the reserve despite the auctioneer’s increasingly desperate attempts to persuade us to bid against ourselves; or anyone else to join in. The auction passed in.

After all the excitement, the aftermath was a bit of an anticlimax. We went into the house and sat on hard chairs. Haemorrhoid seemed at a loss as to how to facilitate negotiating an agreement midway between the vendor’s reserve and our bid. We attempted to kick-start the process by upping our offer. She ignored that and instead, attempted to intimidate us by informing us there was another couple present who were prevented from bidding at auction but planned to put in an offer. Unfortunately for her, we’ve never been much intimidated by imaginary people.

At this stage, Haemorrhoid had a face on her like she’d been licking a cat’s arse, which was putting me off the remainder of the SANDWICHES! I realized it was all over when I discovered the fucking kids had cleaned out the Lamingtons. We made our excuses and left after the Old Boy attempted to confiscate his knitted doll.

As it turned out, we should have known better than to take on a Dutch couple with nearly 160 years of combined cunning, guile and inbred tightness between them. The last thing we heard from Haemorrhoid was that the Old Boy had asked her to relist the house at precisely the mid-point between his reserve and our offer.

So just to spite her, we bought another house.

Talent for casting shadow figures

There is indeed a blog post simmering, but it was parked for an impromptu trip to the hospital yesterday.

You’ll be glad to hear The Asset is in cracking form and appears to have a startling talent for throwing shadow figures.

Unfortunately, his mother wasn’t performing so well. Nothing major: just some inspecific pains around the midriff that felt like a cross between gas, the onset of nausea, cramps and/or a critical build-up of Hyperactive Imagination. 

An ultrasound showed The Asset is fine; my blood pressure and heartrate is normal; so far there is no explanation as to what’s going on with the belly. Most likely, the discomfort is a result of my uterus trying to perform martial arts after a lifetime hanging around doing nothing more energetic than playing tiddlywinks with my spleen.  However, it came on so fast we decided to check it out.

Wairau Hospital kept me in overnight for observation - not because I had critical organ failure and frothed at the mouth – but more because we live so far out of town.

We have been so impressed with the level of publicly-funded service and care we’ve received at various clinics and hospitals around New Zealand. With the exception of one fertility doctor who spent half an hour persuading me she had no idea how to use a speculum, it has been absolutely outstanding.

Bear with me: there will be a post tomorrow at the latest.

Invincible canine spirit

Mm, pikelets with jam.

Sorry, got distracted there for a moment.

So recently it’s been all about The Rise of the Asset: gestation, eating, food, mealtimes, and how about some cream with that? WHY, DON’T MIND IF I DO.

I’m sure many of you have wondered what’s happened to The Jedster, that invincible canine spirit who once dominated this blog, striding across the posts like a colossus.

I’ve been literarily neglecting my dog, and I feel bad. After all, Jed has been a part of this family for nearly three years – and we have no idea whether we’ll even LIKE The Asset. After all, how do we know The Asset will be able to lick his own arse or retrieve tennis balls from dense undergrowth? And I can’t imagine The Asset lying under my desk contentedly nibbling my toes.

We’ll see.

This post is an attempt to redress the oversight.

One of our preferred walks used to be a forest track circling Jeep and Meep’s property. It’s a short walk, but afforded something of a workout if we negotiated The Hen’s Beak: a savage one-way 2:1 incline descending almost completely to the Hauraki Valley.

We haven’t walked the track for some time mainly because, at five months pregnant, there’s no way I could negotiate The Hen’s Beak. At least, I could probably make my way down it in the same happy manner as a beach ball; but Andrew would need a system of ropes and pulleys – or a rescue helicopter – to get me back up. The track has also suffered some erosion over the winter.

“How agile are you feeling?” asked Husband eyeing a tree fallen across the path.

The correct response would be: demonstrating all the lithe grace and elegance of a constipated rhino charging across wet sand, but,

“Like a gazelle. Watch!” I said, stepping ponderously over a knee-high twig with some dangerous-looking leaves. “Huh? Huh?”

“Impressive.”

I’d forgotten the track features little in the way of water for Jed. Charging after his tennis ball he covers at least ten times more ground than us, at about twenty times the speed, so he falls into any available creek for a big slurp and wallow. During the winter months, there’s a large puddle at the end of Jeep and Meep’s forest track, but we’ve had over a week of sunshine and presumed it would be dry.

It wasn’t:-

Jed after executing a triple-roll pike turn.

If you’re wondering whether that mud smelled much, OH MY POOR SWOLLEN THROBBING NOSTRILS IT STANK.

Where did you think that sentence was going?

Shame on you.

Bonding stratagems

I’m still amazed by what people feel inclined to – let’s call it ‘share’ – when they discover I’m pregnant.

I’ve had the stranger who, after asking how far gone I was, told me she had a miscarriage at that stage. The efficacy of this bonding strategem is limited by one of the parties battling the near-uncontrollable urge to reach into the adjacent deep-freeze, seize a family-size pack of frozen cauliflower and apply it forcefully to her face.

Then there are those who elevate the horror to a whole new level upon finding out you also have a dog, when they remember their sister’s neighbour’s plumber who read an article in an old Woman’s Weekly about a family corgi who gnawed a baby’s face off. The denoument of this variation of story – because I’ve heard at least two versions of it - is dramatic, along the lines of: “No warning- this dog was just the gentlest, most placid- used to bath the kid- but now the baby, IT HAS NO FACE!” 

I’m not sure what appals me more: the poor, faceless baby; the faithful family pet being euthanised; or the gross irresponsibility of parents who a) leave their dog unsupervised with their child and b) haven’t trained their baby not to eat out of the dog’s bowl.

Last week there was the real estate agent who, upon showing us an old-fashioned water burner, felt compelled to inform us how many babies used to fall into them and DIE. Tiny, unformed lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Happened all the time, apparently. She knew of at least one soft-boiled baby.

Then there was the time in Farmers I was searching for some saucy lingerie to spice up Husband’s and my sex life now that I’m pregnant. As it turns out, the maternity section is the last place to go for this – although it’s ideal if you’re looking for some seriously durable upholstery in the style of which your great-great-aunt would endorse deep in the chilly folds of her spinster heart.

I got chatting to another woman riffling through the bras – as you do. We introduced ourselves by chest size – as you do. She was quite obviously pregnant. Probably about 6-7 months, I gauged with my newly critical eye. However, I made the mistake of engaging my new lingo and asking how ‘far along’ she was.

It turned out she had had her baby four days previously – but I MEAN REALLY, if you’re going to wear a top that tight . . . anyway, she got her own back by telling me in spine-curdling detail about labour: “Nothing prepares you for the PAIN. Never felt anything like it. Agony. AGONY. Like you’re being torn in two. AGONYYY.”

I’m not sure what the appropriate response to these social gambits are. How about, “Thanks for sharing. Sometimes I go into my bathroom and lock the door and cut myself with a sawn-off shampoo bottle. Then I curl up on the floor and cry uncontrollably. Anyway, nice meeting you”? Or, “Oh my, you’re right: that IS an impressive cluster of hemorrhoids. Indeed no, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. GOODBYE”?

In a devastating and frankly brilliant parting shot, she advised me to look up ‘perineal massage’ on Google. I resisted as long as I could but in the end I was macabrely compelled, like being unable to look away from a car crash or videos of tsunamis on YouTube. Here, for the stout of heart and stomach, is a description of perineal massage; there’s a picture; oh my sweet baby cheeses there’s even a video (thankfully featuring no free radical fanny flaps).

Some sites recommend you get your partner to massage your perineum, suggesting it reinforces love and closeness. Well, I don’t need Husband THAT close to feel The Love. In fact, in our relationship the intensity of love is directly proportional to physical distance within an optimal limit (in the region of 100m). Although it might be worth asking Andrew for a perineal massage just for the look on his face – or, more likely, the confusion that would ensue. I might get a nice head rub.

My favourite one came from the man who told me, shortly after my pregnancy was confirmed, about someone he knew whose wife delivered a still-born baby, strangled by the umbilical cord. It’s difficult to imagine anything more personally heartrending; I just about wept when I heard it.

After WTF, you might ask who – I mean to say – WHO – or even WHAT TYPE OF PERSON would tell such a story to a pregnant woman?

Yes, well, that would be MY HUSBAND.

ORCHARD!

We thought the house-hunting trip to Oamaru might afford an opportunity to shift some of our possessions.

We asked Sheriff if we could borrow his trailer – the official reason being that ours wasn’t big enough for the sort of Extreme Relocation Husband had in mind.

Unofficially, only two days before our extremely unpremeditated and totally disorganised trip, we realized our trailer’s warrant of fitness had expired. We considered renewing it on the way through Blenheim, except Andrew feared it would fail due to the condition of the wheels.

I suspect this officially qualifies us as Bogans.

Andrew wasn’t sure whether Sheriff had a trailer, because ‘he has a tractor’.

I really had no idea why possession of one precludes the other; so, “What the fuck are you talking about?” I snorted. “Of COURSE Sheriff has a fucking trailer. He has EVERYTHING. I’d stake my life and that of my unborn child and this delicious caramel slice on it. Oops. Too late.”

Admittedly an aggressively anti-dainty response, but I’m basically trying to spend my surplus swearing credit for the next 13+ years before the baby arrives. That’s a LOT of execration to jam into four months. My language is absolutely filthy. I’ll go back and attempt to edit it out of this post. (Note: this translates to a roughly 75% depreciation on wordcount.)

Of COURSE Sheriff has a state-of the art trailer that features its own braking system probably with anti-lock and hydraulics; it has four wheels, a jockey wheel, twice as much bed area as ours and a built-in spa pool.

Instead of merely touring our possessions around the country, we relocated my purple fridge, Andrew’s dirtbike, coolbox, a crate of Andrew’s junk oily man things, and two boxes of my crap beloved literature for storage at The Outlaws’.

Then we started into the property search, with a grand tour of all the open houses in and around Oamaru. This was equally uplifting and depressing. Uplifting from the perspective that there are some entirely habitable houses in Oamaru if you have a spare $200k and don’t mind strange, unidentifiable smells. Depressing due to the accumulative psychological effect of our standards imperceptibly rising with each property visited.

We visited pretty much every house for sale in Oamaru. Amongst the quite respectable family homes, we viewed places that would have been perfect had the garden extended further than the bush in a pot; houses with stunning views of the local landfill; houses with stunning aromas of the local meatworks; houses with State Highway One two paces from the front door; houses with patches of wall boarded up with plywood; places featuring grubby tenants in the front room preoccupied with snorting spliffs and erectile dysfunction.

Now, I’m not sure about Andrew, but I was expecting – perhaps it was naïve – or idealistically romantic for Oamaru – but I thought. Well.

I imagined Andrew and I walking into a house and our eyes meeting in an instant of perfect, piquant accord, our excitement swelling as we trail after the real estate agent until she leaves us to “talk it over”; barely containing myself until she closes the door softly behind her, then giving a shriek that somehow manages to be sexy and charmingly girlish rather than making the nerves spasm in cramp and leaping into Andrew’s arms and him twirling me around, laughing joyously. Then we’d both start talking at once and there’d be more joyous laughter and possibly more twirling.

So that didn’t happen. Didn’t come close. Possibly because I’m not sure Andrew’s given to anything more excessive than an enigmatic smirk. Also, of course, the social twiggle he issues to acknowledge someone has gone to the effort to make a joke although they’ll have to try MUCH harder to evince anything in the vicinity of joyous laughter.

He’s also not the twirling type – although I live in hope. Once – admittedly a LONG time ago – at least 10 years – also Andrew was really quite lopsided – we were at a nightclub and he treated me to a Dirty Dancing moment. You know after “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” Patrick Swayze throws Jennifer Whatsherchops over his head and then everyone starts dancing and he lifts her up in the air. That bit. Frankly, it was quite uncomfortable about the pits and after – ooh, I don’t know – four seconds, I felt a bit of a pratt poked up there. I know I was supposed to be carried away by the moment and Andrew’s strong, manly arms, and oblivious to anyone but him, but I ended up looking around thinking, “I hope he puts me down soon and nobody steals my vodka and ginger ale in the meantime”. But all said and done, it’s a nice experience to have shared together and I remember it fondly.

ANYHOO. It soon became apparent that Andrew’s and my preferences are – astonishingly – completely contradictory. Basically, the problem is that I prefer tasteful houses, while Husband doesn’t.

I fell for a gorgeous 1890 house in pristine condition about 25 minutes out of town with an orchard. ORCHARD! Everything I loved about it, Andrew hated: the walk-in larder off the kitchen (“That would just annoy me, having to walk down two steps to the fridge”), three bedrooms (“Too small”), original wood paneling (“Feels dark”), woolshed (“Eyesore. We’d have to tear that down”), a log burner and a destructor (“SNIFF!”), brass fittings (no comment), fully self-contained and largely self-sufficient (“Lots of maintenance”).

Andrew’s flat refusal to be swayed by the ORCHARD! makes me seriously question the foundation of our marriage if not our entire relationship.

Thankfully, whenever I struggle with doubt, I have that Dirty Dancing moment to fall back on.

The property Andrew liked didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. It had a roof, walls, driveway, whatever. View of the sea – but really, EVERYWHERE in Oamaru has a view of the sea. It also, admittedly, had lambs – but in my opinion lambs are overrated. I’ve just never understood their popularity/appeal.

It is probably just as well both properties are likely beyond our means at this point in time.

We will have to compromise between my search for a home that might sate my violent nesting instinct, and Andrew’s interest in investment potential and sale value.

I’m looking for a haven where I can hang mobiles and paint the nursery while considering the benefits of terry-cloth nappies over disposables. Andrew’s looking for a shack he can do up and make a killing on – preferably a massacre – in five years time.

I have visions of me going, “Honey, we need to go; contractions are 10 seconds apart and also: FU-” and Andrew saying, “Yeah, look, can you just give me two minutes until I finish plastering the fireplace.”

The excuses

SORRY SORRY SORRY! We are currently in Oamaru on an undercover reconnaissance trip – guess this officially blows our cover – gathering intel on properties for sale. We’ve just spent the last two days doing the rounds of open homes, or stalking real estate agents depending how you look at it (and whether you’re the terrorised agent).

Unfortunately I’m too exhausted from walking around houses and practicing psychological intimidation to write a blog post. I’ll update later in the week if I can either a) wake up and/or b) stop eating long enough.

In the name of the recipe, and of the ingredients, and of the oven temperature preferably in Celsius. AMEN

I’ve been nesting.

(NB If nesting includes housework, I’ve been too generously interpretive with the artistic licence again. I’ve never been a keen fan of housework – apart from a fastidious approach to my kitchen. I am known to wipe down my kitchen cupboards on a daily to hourly basis. I also practice an aggressively contemporary approach to laundry.

However, a legion of dust-bunnies would have to be annexing the west wing and most of the south and east before I’d apply a duster. One of the main reasons I married Andrew was because he hoovers VOLUNTARILY ENTIRELY OF HIS OWN VOLITION WITHOUT BEING ASKED.

I know: he is A Treasure. Although Andrew thinks it was due to other attributes/charms, I’m pretty sure the hoovering was why I had to beat other women off with a broken Tequila bottle when I first met him.

It’s probably important to reiterate here that this is the sole expression of Andrew’s feminine side. I would like to remind you he also performs extreme car maintenance and once crumpled a beer can against his forehead.

Where was I? Oh, yes: basking in my own smugness.)

When I say ‘nesting’, I mean I’ve been spending a lot of time baking. Much to my shock, Bunqueen recently gave up her powers – without my even having to threaten her with a broken Tequila bottle – when she lent me her book Ladies, A Plate by Alexa Johnston.

The author is a historian whose hobby is cooking, and the book is a compilation of traditional recipes from community newsletters and old cookbooks. Although most of the recipes have a distinctly Kiwi flavour, many of them were staples of my own childhood (perhaps because my parents lived in Australia when they met): shortbread, pavlovas, pikelets, gingerbread biscuits, rock cakes, queen cakes, sponge sandwiches. The book also includes slaver-inducing recipes for Anzac biscuits, afghans, neemish tarts, cinnamon oysters, miracles and custard squares.

According to NZ Women’s Weekly, many people burst into tears upon opening the book. Which makes me seriously question the mental stability of many antipodean people, so let’s move on.

I embarked on a baking bonanza, making ginger crunch (Husband’s request), shortbread, almond macaroons, miracles, queen cakes and ginger kisses. In fact, I have limited interest in the end result. It’s the batter I snort by the dessert-spoonful; and I also love sitting around gazing adoringly at my ginger kisses.

While in Oamaru, I picked up a Sunbeam Snowy ice-cream machine to replace my old Krups, which was leaking freezer fluid into the bowl (lent a disturbing synthetic overtone to frozen desserts). So we’ve also been enjoying Irish coffee, almond praline, and white chocolate and toasted coconut ice-cream.

In case you think all we eat these days is biscuits and ice-cream, we do occasionally eat potatoes and – what are those things again? – oh yes, vegetables. My culinary crusade also embraces homemade pasta and breads; vegetable chili with sour cream and cheese; garlic bread; hot treacle griddle scones with butter and jam; spicy bean burgers with yoghurt and sweet chili; parsnip and potato mash with parsley sauce; spanakopita; Mediterranean rice with toasted almonds; potato bake; pancakes and/or waffles with chocolate sauce, fresh fruit and yoghurt; fettucini with pesto sauce; homemade baked beans; egg mayo sandwiches with watercress on herby Parmesan bread; and Cajun fries with sour cream.

Despite my being 17 weeks pregnant, Andrew and the dog appear to be the only members of the household putting on weight. Really, it is a mystery how I am even in the vicinity of 60kg, never mind remaining stationery.

Unfortunately, this fresh enthusiasm for all things boiled, baked, grilled, toasted, fried or waffled has suffered a couple of setbacks.

The first is that I’ve been having problems with vegetables. Gangs of turnips roaming around graffiting the garage . . . no, sorry, that’s just my imagination. Normally I’ve nothing against vegetables particularly parsnips and any pregnancy book I’ve read somberly stresses the importance of whangin into spinach. Yet there’s absolutely nothing that makes me crave a packet of salt and vinegar crisps like a broccoli floret.

I try to deflect any potential vegetable deficiencies with soups. Also, I had a carrot last week.

The second is that my brain appears to be broken. I used to be proficient at scaling up or down recipes on the fry, usually making 3/4 or 2/3 portions. These days, dividing by 3 yields at least four different answers. The problem is further exacerbated by somehow scaling all but one key ingredient, such that I end up with about four times too much salt or tabasco.

Conversely, I appear to have increased ability to multi-task – which would be useful if I were ever fully aware what I’m actually doing at any point in time. The other day, I flung two teaspoons of yeast and three tablespoons of flour into the bread machine before I realized I’d forgotten to insert the bowl.

I’ve also managed to refer to the opposite page for cooking instructions, resulting in hamburger buns which were – I’d like to go with ‘crusty’ but regrettably for the sake of accuracy it’ll have to be ‘charred to the consistency of calcified coal’.

Unfortunately I’m not an instinctive cook, investing a sort of religious faith in my cookbooks: ‘In the name of the recipe, and of the ingredients, and of the oven temperature preferably in Celsius. AMEN.’ The oven has to be belching fire and brimstone before I smell a- well, anything at all really.

We might be in danger of burning to the ground – but hey! At least we’re not about to starve.

Making pregnant women cry since 2011

Husband: What’s wrong?”

Me: You made your pregnant wife cry.

Husband: What? I- but- I didn’t even notice!

Me: Thirteen years together and you STILL can’t tell when I’m crying? It’s not that hard, you know. It’s quite distinctive: tears, snot, sniffles, bit of wailing.

Husband: But- when?

Me: Five minutes ago! I was on the sofa, you were- saying stuff.

Husband: What did I say?

Me: It doesn’t matter! I’m PREGNANT! I have HORMONES! I cry at the tremble of a leaf! What you said- that’s not the point! The POINT is that I was CRYING-

Husband: Aw, sweetie!

Me: And you didn’t come over and give me a cuddle. Personally, I think that’s pretty shabby behaviour-

Husband: Well, I suppose-

Me: And I really think you need to smarten up your act.

Husband: Fair enough. I’ll start on it right away.

Strictly scruple-free zone

If you’d asked me three months ago whether we’d leave Port Underwood, I would have said, “What? Eh? Sorry, I- I don’t understand the question. Why would we want to move? We love it here! There’s FISH!”

Of course we had discussed plans should we be fortunate enough to achieve extreme gestation. Husband and I were fully agreed that Port Underwood was an IDEAL location in which to nurture a baby with its abundance of natural beauty to nourish a child’s soul and herds of feral goats to keep them amused/alert.

Shortly after we got a positive pregnancy test, Andrew left me in the unsafe if not downright hazardous hands of his parents during his month-long business trip. While my defenses were low and coated in a thick slime of morning sickness and jittering anxiety, Her Goatiness worked her dark, bovidae magic.

By the time Andrew returned, I had practically purchased a property next-door to The Outlaws.

At least now, when he says, “I came back from Dubai and Niamhie told me we were moving,” I can respond, “Well, it’s your mother’s fault.”

Me? I operate in a strictly scruple-free zone.

The reality of extreme gestation resulted in a cosmic shift in priorities (along with my intestinal system – which is now more of an anarchic revolution).

Although conception involved WAY too many people, there’s no reason the rest of this pregnancy shouldn’t proceed normally (although I have to say that so far, my experience of pregnancy ridicules all previous definitions of ‘normal’). However, we don’t want to take chances given how far we’ve come to get here.

The idea of staring down labour with a 45 minute drive along a gravel road in a car that’s on its last wheels, as driven by Husband ‘Bite Me Schumacher’, is potentially a challenge too far. At least for me, if not Andrew.

Furthermore, we have little to no support here. We love our neighbours (well, I do; Andrew thinks they’re pretty nice and wouldn’t turn down a beer) – but there are only two of them. We see a lot of our landlords, The Mustachioed Muchacho and Hostess With The Mostest; also Sheriff and The Bunqueen down in the bay – but neither couple has children. While they’re thrilled for us, I can’t see myself swapping stories about episiotomies and mucous plugs with them.

What’s that? Why the <expletive deleted> would I want to?

Well, indeed. I’m not quite there yet myself. However, I have been reliably informed by Those Who Know - i.e. former people incubators – that there will come a time when you will beg me to shut up talking about lactation and just pass the parsley sauce, already.

I’m not sure Oamaru would have been our first choice of home, but it seems logical with The Rise of The Asset given the concentration of family, who originally settled there for the, er. Beets?

But even without the imminent arrival of The Asset, we would have had to consider moving on. Although we live in the most stunning location, we are on the bones of our arse at the end of each month. I recycle tinfoil and gladwrap; Andrew’s not allowed soap because HAVE YOU SEEN HOW MUCH THAT STUFF COSTS? RUB YOURSELF WITH A ROCK FFS.

I am admittedly privileged that my definition of abject poverty is being unable to afford maple syrup IT’S A TRAGEDY. Just as well, because we’re not close enough to rob anyone to fund my P addiction.

This situation has much to do with the exchange rate, since all our income is in US$. Every month for about two years, we’ve consoled ourselves: “At least the exchange rate can’t get any worse”. We’ve tried putting a positive spin on it – “The exchange rate HAS to get better”, but optimism hasn’t been effective either. Moving will significantly cut many of our costs.

Much to my surprise, after three years seeking privacy and seclusion, I’m actually looking forward to getting involved in a community again.

Amongst the last photographic evidence of us looking carefree and irresponsible

Our current pride and joy recognises a good photo opportunity

 

Christmas Day 2010, shortly before I fell into a ditch and giggled. This is also most likely the only and last photographic evidence of me wearing reindeer ears

The Asset

I suppose an account of what’s going on in The Deadly House of Jelly would be in order.

Well, the weather’s been happening. Lots of rain. Spots of sunshine. Wind, that’s fairly common.

So what else?

Right.

Yes.

Let me see.

Oh yes: hey!

Guess what?

I’m pregnant.

In fact, this is the culmination of a long journey. Over the years, it gradually became clear Andrew and I were unable to have children without medical assistance. We were aware that many couples undergo years of fruitless IVF treatment and were prepared for failure – in fact, expected it – yet completely ill-equipped for some degree of success. Although luckier than many, we have experienced some heartbreaking lows along the way.

But I am delighted to report that, at the 13 week scan last week, ‘The Asset’ (working title) appears to be cookin nicely. He’s also an unbelievably handsome foetus. The radiologist actually said, “WOW. That’s possibly the best-looking foetus I have ever seen”.

Ok I admit it: he didn’t. Evidently an oversight or professional negligence.

When we first saw The Asset, he was stretched out full-length, completely laid back, legs crossed, arms behind the head, all “Man, this place is cool,” and wondering how to score some contraband. So there’s no doubt Andrew’s his dad. We’re not sure who the mother is yet – although since he’s so photogenic, there have to be some of my genes in the mix.

Even though The Asset is only about 8cm long, he has little feet! And hands! And fingers! It’s just so reassuring knowing he’ll be able to pick his own nose.

I’m thinking of getting a t-shirt with the slogan:

Crotchfruit gestating

or:

The Asset (with helpful arrow)

or my favourite, as suggested by MarkJ:

Just fucking fat, all right?

Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, I’m secretly convinced I’m the only person on the planet who ever got sprogged. By the way, if you ever catch me with my hand on my belly looking smug, you have my full permission – no, in fact, I ORDER you – to give me a sound kick up the cervix.

Anyway, that’s probably quite enough about spawning.

In other news: we’re moving house at the end of September.

Cranial topiary

Last week – coincidentally, still my birthday – we went for our daily walk. I’ve been a little monochrome recently and – after two months in Oamaru doing little more than taunt bulls – have only just started back into an exercise regime.

I felt TERRIFIC.

“I feel TERRIFIC,” I announced to Husband. “Where are we going? How about we go up the road and around Jeep and Meep’s track and – hey, I know! Let’s do The Hen’s Beak. In fact, let’s RUN it. No holding back: full frontal assault. Hoo-AH!” I threw in a navy seal style lunge for emphasis.

For some reason, Husband didn’t share my enthusiasm. We were engaged in a tense discussion about the exercise benefits of descending and ascending The Hen’s Beak/pointlessness and authenticity of my mental faculties (depending whose side you take), when I pulled a muscle – halfway up our driveway.

In my defence, our drive is steep to the point of sheer; you practically need crampons to get up it. Still, the situation left no doubt as to who won that argument. You could say I didn’t have a leg to stand on. At least, I had one – just not the other.

While Andrew carried on with the dog, I limped home nursing my pulled muscle and bruised ego.

In the end, I was extremely pleased I wasn’t up for the walk, because Jed kicked over a wasps’ nest (we should train him not to do that) and a swarm of irate insects chased Husband and Jed home. They were pretty sullen when they arrived back, having both been stung several times.

In addition to crème brulee, dinner was roast lamb for Andrew, with marinated tofu for me and rosemary roasted vegetables. About ten minutes before the roast was ready, with the unique logic impenetrable to anyone but him, Husband decided timing was optimal for buzz-cutting his head.

I would have suggested postponing the exercise except I’d been absolutely twitching to get stuck into Andrew’s hair; it was so bushy I wouldn’t have been surprised had a woodland creature or two wandered out of it.

Though honestly, I was surprised when he asked me to do it, after the one and only time I buzzed his head years ago. But look, that’s an entirely different story and has no place here. Nor, for that matter, anywhere else during the remainder of my lifetime.

Andrew installed himself on one of our dining chairs in the living room, with a mirror propped against the table. Unfortunately, the razor kept crapping out in the face of the challenge posed by Andrew’s thatched thicket.

Since he was covered with bristly hair – and still sported a ferocious furze with some indefinite landing-strips up the sides – Husband spent the next half an hour trying to fix the razor.

Although the repaired device was incapable of much more than de-furring the dog’s bollocks, the haircut was going quite well, I thought. However, Husband was obviously anxious about his quiff, the pelt-sculpture that proudly crowns his forehead. He issued several complex instructions on reducing it while still retaining its character.

Eventually I demanded scissors to address The Quiff. I’ve always been confident and adept with scissors. I’m terrific at cutting out paper circles. Also, I regularly barber the dog. Andrew went to fetch a pair.

Unfortunately, I lost concentration for just a split-second and, when I re-focussed, Andrew was stalking around the living room ATTACKING his head with the scissors. I attempted to wrestle the scissors off him, but nearly cut off his ear, so I retreated to a respectable distance to watch him basically Doing a Sweeney on himself. It was CARNAGE. He ended up with a menacing furry overhang, much like mange-ridden badger squatting on his head mooning passersby.

When he finally surrendered the scissors, I evened it up as best I could; but he still looks like Tintin. Hey, a craftswoman can only do so much with substandard raw material.

Then we had dinner garnished with hair.

Frustrated pyromaniac

Did I forget your birthday? I am SO SORRY. Belated birthday greetings. You look terrific; evidently age improves you. Well done!

It was my birthday yesterday – and, oh come on, let’s face it, if you REALLY CARED you would have already called me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ with a bonus verse of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and a few hip-hip hoorays. And you can hope I had a great day all you want – and thanks for the sentiment - but it was crap, now you mention it.

It started off well enough, with a card and presents in bed. The most exciting of which was a flame-thrower – more accurately, a gas torch – for caramelising crème brulees.

Now, you may not know this about my husband, but he is a frustrated pyromaniac. If you were to tell me Andrew had offended a little old lady by refusing to assist her and her incontinent cat across a busy road, I’d think, ‘NO WAY I SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE IT’; but if you informed me he set fire to Blenheim and burned the entire town to the ground? I’d be all, ‘Well, that’s tragic and I hope nobody was hurt and I truly hoped it would never come to this, but I’m sorry to say it’s not a complete surprise.’

I’ve given up going out for dinner with the man because it’s too embarrassing being asked to leave after Andrew sets fire to the tablecloth. This morning, MarkJ tried to make out that there are worse things to be kicked out of a restaurant for. What would that be, MarkJ? Setting fire to the waiter’s FACE?

However, against my better judgement, I unleashed Husband on the task of filling my torch with butane gas.

After ten minutes of fiddling, Andrew was the only thing even vaguely smouldering. Via some applied nagging, I persuaded him to read the instruction leaflet accompanying the torch. Despite its lack of direction as to how to transfer butane gas to torch, he conceded it was a worthwhile exercise when he came across the list of applications, which included ‘engine maintenance’.

He was so excited he scorched the dining room table. Bizarrely, he also – and I am reluctantly impressed by this – managed to melt my gas torch with a match. Don’t ask me what he was doing; he provided no satisfactory or even plausible response.

Eventually, I managed to dissuade him from testing the gas flame on the canister of butane. It would have totally served him right had the canister exploded and fired off through the living-room window; but in retrospect, better it didn’t.

Moving on. We had a romantic dinner for two at home planned (no naked flames). Evidently, the third course had to be crème brulee. Completely disregarding the fact that this was my first flirtation with making custard, and the recipe relatively complex, I picked out a slobber-inspiring coffee caramel crème brulee recipe from Epicurious.

I started early, mindful of the hours of chilling required during prep. The first step involved adding coffee beans to cream, bringing slowly to a simmer, and steeping for 20+ minutes.

Undaunted by the pointed paucity of coffee beans in our household, I decided to use ground espresso instead, and strain the cream through a coffee filter or piece of muslin. Indeed I AM the type of cook who keeps a piece of muslin in a kitchen drawer specifically for that purpose. Does this REALLY surprise you?

Now, it turns out – and let this be a lesson to you all – that cream is too thick to pass through a coffee filter or piece of muslin. Even when you try to push it with a spoon, or squeeze the muslin to coax it through (read: splatter it all over the tiles).

Then I attempted sieving the mixture. Four passes later – washing the sieve and receptacles each time - the cream still had a decidedly gritty texture.

I tried again with a fresh batch of cream, this time adding a shot of strong espresso (cooled) to it. This might have worked but for the oily scum which dispersed across the surface of the cream as it heated.

Didn’t look that appetising.

It followed the first mixture down the drain. On my third go, I decided to add a couple teaspoons of Nescafe to (even more) cream. This appeared to work, apart from imparting – unsurprisingly – an overwhelming taste of instant coffee; such that I couldn’t hold back a wave of nostalgia for the potential of Method II.

I couldn’t understand why adding a shot of espresso to the cream hadn’t worked. Why? Why? Perhaps – yes, that would explain it! – maybe I had heated the cream too fast, thereby causing it to separate and resulting in oily scum?

So I tried it again, heating the milk over a low flame – with exactly the same outcome.

It was just as well I had reserved the reslut of Method III, because I was running out of cream.

Making the caramel looked tricky, but posed no problem in reality. Late in the construction phase, I was regrettably assaulted by an attack of fuzz-brain and attempted to add egg yolks directly to the hot caramel cream mixture, rather than tempering them.

For a while, it looked like we would be having scrambled egg crème brulee.

In fact, our coffee caramel crème brulees were exorbitantly delicious, including the delicate crunchy caramel topping.

Yes my creme brulee looked EXACTLY like this.

Dose of trigger finger

It is wonderful being home again, despite the lavishly wet display the weather has put on since we arrived. It’s also terrific having Husband back after over a month. Eh, suppose I must like him.

Of course, after a weeks’ intense, touching reunion, we’re about due to have an absolute crockery-endangering rip-snorter of an argument. It’s a pattern; usually prompted by Andrew’s asking whether I have fed the dog, and my responding, “Well who the <expletive deleted> do you think fed the <expletive deleted> dog all last month? HMM?”

(In this particular instance the answer would in fact be Agent of Death, who fed Jed with the other farm dogs, but no matter. I’m feeling twitchy. Especially after a week of Andrew’s nocturnal duvet-rustling raids.)

The weather forecast for the weekend was uninspiring, but when Friday dawned beautiful and sunny we decided to go fishing. Ken Ring’s fishing calendar predicted ‘very good’ fishing for 1pm.

I’m somewhat ashamed of our reliance on Ken’s Ring, since it rather undermines my opinion that he’s a dodgy chancer. However, it is comforting to know that Andrew and I will always bond over a primary, borderline chartered-accountant level sense of humour – and, well, Ken’s Ring Hurhurhur hasn’t been wrong yet. The alternative is that we’re gifted anglers with a feeling for fish – and actually I have more faith in Ken.

We made our way to the Point, stuffed the dog in the prow of the boat, and while Andrew fiddled with his rod, I baited my hook and unspooled the hand-line. The weight had barely hit the bottom, when the line tugged.

At first I thought it was an aggressive piece of seaweed; but then it yanked violently.

“Bite!” I roared, trying to wind the line onto the hand-caster. “Ooh, it’s a big one. Oh no- has it got off? Yeow! No! Woah!”

My prey seemed to alternate between fighting like a kraken possessed, and swimming towards the light. My arms had the pulling power of spaghetti by the time the fish broke the surface – and he was HUGE.

“What the fuck IS it?” I gasped.

“Get it in the boat!”

“I CAN’T!”

So Andrew hauled it in. “I think it’s a groper,” he said. “But that’s not . . . they don’t . . . it’s impossible.”

Port Underwood is not renowned for its swarming shoals of groper.

“Why don’t you just call The Sheriff?” I said, as Andrew looked up pictures of groper on the phone, along with the Ministry of Fisheries website to determine the legal size for groper in this area. “I mean, as long as it’s not a kingfish, it’s well above the legal limit for anything else. Isn’t it?” It was 65cm.

Eventually, while Andrew was distracted admiring pictures of moki, I hijacked his phone and called The Sheriff myself. He issued a staccato burst of technical questions - ‘Does it have whiskers out its chin? / Does it have a big mouth? / What size are its gills?’ – it had a huge gob, protruding eyes and was kinda scaly. The Sheriff was of the opinion that, however unlikely, it sounded like a groper pup.

Ok so it looks smaller in the photo.

Andrew cut it into steaks; I rubbed one with Cajun seasoning, dribbled over some oil and lime juice, and baked it for 20 minutes the other night – I would highly recommend it.

The following day, flocks of seagulls wheeled just above the surface of the sea, so we went trolling for kahawai. We had to whack them away with a stick; Andrew resorted to casting off from the stationary boat. At one point, there were three kahawai after the lure as he reeled it in.

We donated three to The Hostess with the Mostest and The Mustachioed Muchacho, and two to The Sheriff and Bunqueen. In return, The Mustachioed Muchacho gave us his top-secret recipe for smoking kahawai, and we now have a stack of it in the fridge.

Dinner this evening was fish pie with smoked kahawai, groper, blue cod and mussels – mmm.