2013-05-25T09:45:44-04:00 Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=lana-citron Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Lana Citron Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3128862 2013-04-23T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-23T13:28:51-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The continuing diary of an Accidental Mother - week 40.

So there we were at the end of a journey and the beginning of a lifetime. These past nine months have been the longest, shortest, most confounding emotional roller coaster since... well, probably since the first time round.

Nine months back I was a single mum hoping to re-root and relive my youth in Paris. A short summer romance with the Glam Rocker had ended abruptly though as time would testify, prematurely. Fast forward to the present and he was stood behind me dressed in surgery garb, his wild dark curls flattened beneath a green cap. He looked ridiculous. There was nothing rock and roll about this situation.

Stretched out on the operating table my body was awash with drugs though I remained conscious of what was happening.

"Oi Milk Lady."

"Milk Lady?"

"Yes, you, my soon-to-be 24/7 Milk Lady."

The Interloper was talking to me, (So many drugs!).

"What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm not ready yet."

"Ready?"

"I was looking forward to pushing through."

"What?"

"You know the Rip Tide Water Canal Ride; I've heard it's heady stuff. Good for flushing out the system."

Christ, I wondered if the NCT had infiltrated my very being.

"Look here's the situation, Interloper. I was induced because your father is about to jet off touring with Lady Gaga for eight months. It's more for his sake. He needs to bond with you, it's important. Plus she's said to be a right hussy and it would make me feel a lot more secure."

"I wouldn't worry Milk Lady, she wont have your breasts."

"True but she'll be surrounded by loads of beautiful people, lithe dancers..."

"Who won't have your breasts."

"True but it will be one temptation after another. It's such a non-family friendly environment - you know the saying, 'What goes on tour stays on tour - except for genital warts..."

"Milk Lady! Milk Lady! Have you not seen your breasts, they're magnificent!"

I could feel rummaging down below.

"What time is it?"

Midnight had yet to strike. We were still forty minutes from turning to another day. Bets had been taken on the prospective time of arrival. A tenner a go, most of the family had gone for it - even Boy Wonder's dad was in on it.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel sick. I feel kinda sick. I think I'm going to vomit."

An application of gel had been administered early in the morning to set things in motion. We had sat in a Hampstead café enjoying the weak summer rays, wondering how best to fill the time before our lives would irrevocably change.

"Are you ready for this?" I asked the Glam Rocker.




A slow walk round the Heath ensued. The nurses had warned us to stay close. Anything could happen but nothing much did. At four p.m. we returned to the ward and another administration of gel; double the quantity this time.

Still no change. We were thinking of catching a movie at the Everyman in Belsize Park, but opted for fish and chips in the pub across the road, and a large G&T. By this stage the initial waves of pain had begun and lapped at my sides; easy come, easy go.




We quit the pub and walked for a bit. The pains increasing in rapidity and intensity were white horses crashing on an inner shore. We made our way back to the hospital ward. I was four centimetres dilated, strapped to some sort of contraption, swaying with the rough seas, my pain not yet audible till twenty minutes later. By then I'd doubled in dilation and was being tossed willy nilly on an internal tempest.

There were no pink ribbons issuing from my mouth. This was a pain I could not control, the midwife wanted me to bear it: "Come on," she willed me, "You can do it."

Reader I am weak. A yellow-bellied, cowardly custard; a severe paper cut can stall me for days. I demanded an epidural.

The storm broke and water gushed out of me. Swift relief came with a needle in my back and a halt to the process. The dilation stopped short of ten centimetres. The Interloper was going nowhere.

To counter the epidural and hasten dilation more drugs were administered, a Ventuse birth was unsuccessfully attempted. Half an hour later I was strapped to a bed and in theatre.

"What time is it?"

"11.20pm."

"Congratulations."

A mess of limbs dangled before us.

"What is it?"

Surprised we didn't already know the surgeon announced: "It's a boy."

The Interloper revealed himself in his full glory and a second son was born. He was whisked away, cleaned and checked. The Glam Rocker followed suit and I was left.

"How do you feel?" They were stitching me up.

"Is he ok?"
"All good, ten fingers, ten toes."
"A healthy baby of 7lbs and 2 ounces."

Boy Wonder's dad won the bet, two hundred and fifty quid. An hour later I was moved to another ward and the Glam Rocker sent home to get some rest. I could barely move and every so often was topped up on pain relief. To my side was an unknown entity. I managed to cradle him in the crook of my arm. A bundle of perfection, I bent forward to plant kisses on his head.




Many thanks to all whom have followed this blog diary. For further info on my books/films and various projects feel free to visit my website www.lanacitron.com or www.oneoffkisses.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3077444 2013-04-15T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-15T12:51:00-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/
Saturday morning at our local synagogue, my son stands tall on the bimah and sings aloud his bar mitzvah piece. Friends and family have travelled from as far as Australia, the States, the Caribbean, Ireland, Sweden and France to be here, at this place, at this time, to witness and celebrate this rite of passage.

We have been preparing for this occasion since his birth. Since I called my father from London's Royal Free Hospital and told him he was a grandfather to a grandson. My father's voice was strained and he sighed, "A boy, a son."

My parents were heart broken by the news of my first pregnancy. This was not in the script they had prepared for me. I should have been married, to a nice Jewish boy, from a good yiddisher family. I failed on all levels. There was no nice Jewish boy, no ring on my finger, no in-laws - I wasn't even in a conventional relationship. Such disregard for tradition. This was wrong, all wrong. How could a daughter be so selfish? So contrary? Why hadn't I listened?

A couple of days later my father flew from Dublin to see this grandson of his. He plummeted in love upon first sight of the child.

Over the past 13 months under guidance of the synagogue's opera loving Chazan, my son learnt first Hebrew and then his Torah portion, (a section from the holy scrolls). Come 5.30 every Thursday afternoon the doorbell would ring and I would drag a reluctant boy away from his X-box. As his lesson began I would prepare to teach my own creative writing class at Morley College. Pondering tenses, points of view, theme and plot, snippets of conversation would waft up the hallway from the kitchen. There was talk of god, religion, life and faith. Big questions were chewed upon, mighty answers mulled over, why this is so, why that is not. My kitchen became a hub of ideas, music, stories and learning.

Thirteen weeks before the event invitations were sent out. Lists of names were drawn of those we had to invite and those we wanted to invite, of relatives we never saw, rarely saw and the ones we'd rather not. Plans were plotted, venues sought, themes contemplated and caterers considered. There was much to kvetch and platz about. Kosher or not kosher, to be or not to be.

Notes on hand holding. From the initial instinctive grasp - a baby's tiny five digits are clamped about an adult's index. On the daily tread, my son slips his hand into mine; first there is an upward reach - over time this shifts at a 9--degree angle in step with his growth. His habit of yanking a winter glove from off my hand and exposing my fingers to the fierce cold has continued unchanged for thirteen winters. It irritates me no end.

Thirteen days ago my son stood before me in a suit bought by his devoted grandfather. Here was the boy whose nappy I changed, whose cries I soothed, knees I bandaged, whom I tickled, cuddled, chased, chastised. Parenting is not a perfect art; I have failed a million times, fallen short a million more. Mum you're not listening to me, a daily refrain and in truth many times I ....

Best part of the day - bedtime: Every evening I would read aloud to him, sometimes till he fell asleep. Along the way I discovered Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer; E.H. Gombrich's A Little History of the World, and other gems such as Horrid Henry and Thomas the Tank Engine.

Thirteen Hours Ago
My mother called lamenting the passing of time.
"Where has it gone?"
For so long so far away and now the moment was upon us.
"Are you ready?"
"I can't fit into my dress,' she wails, 'What'll I do?'

Breathe in, breath out. We are a flush with excitement and nerves. All the overseas visitors have been invited to celebrate Friday night at my parents. Boy Wonder and I drove to their apartment.

We have been on a journey for 13 summers. Just the two of us travelling to infinity and beyond, adventure after adventure, hiding out in makeshift dens, hopping on island cushions, gladiators on sheepskin carpets, scaling furniture, bouncing on beds, sofa snuggling, conquering long rainy days.

We were parked outside my parent's apartment. The date was Friday the 13th of July.

On the Sabbath morning I arrived at the synagogue with my son's father. This was his second time inside a shul, the first being when he attended the rehearsal a couple of days back. My son came on foot accompanied by his friend and grandfather. The Shabbos service is long, the pews fill slowly, men to one side, women the other, the choir sings from above and then the time is upon us. My son is invited to recite his portion. He wears a tallis (prayer shawl) draped over his suit, and pats his head making sure his yarmulke has stayed in place. And so he begins.

My son sings with confidence and holds the attention of the congregation. He takes his time and enjoys the moments. He makes it look easy.

The rabbi gave a short speech of about 13 minutes. An analogy drawn between a hair grip used to fix a yarmulke to young man's head so that it doesn't fall off and the tenuous nature of one's relationship with religion.

Thirteen seconds since I looked across to Boy Wonder's Dad and acknowledged the love we created. This is our boy, our blessing, this young man before us.

Towards the end of the service the torah was carried high around the shul. A small procession formed headed by a family of sorts, a mother with a swollen pregnant belly, an ever present absent father and a man in the making, the newly bar mitzvah-ed boy.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3023662 2013-04-07T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-07T18:15:21-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 38

The last and latest NCT meet-up we were talking about breastfeeding. 'Apparently' breast-feeding doesn't hurt, just like how labour doesn't hurt. Ladies, I beg to differ.

"It does hurt."

"Accidental Mum?"

"It does hurt."

"Not if you got the latch right."

"If being the operative word."

Beam me up Scotty!

Breast-feeding really does hurt for the majority of women, at least for the first few hours/days and if unlucky enough to suffer with mastitis (think fever, piercing red hot shooting pains, cracked, bleeding septic nipples) - it is agonizing.

"Okay, so if you are having trouble... does anyone know anything about tongue-tie?"

I'm speechless or rather hold my own. Tongue-tie is a condition I didn't hear mention of, nay even a whisper, when pregnant with my first son. These days it seems to be all the rage. It's absolutely de rigeur to have your new-born's skin beneath the tongue cut. Apparently it will help with the painless breast-feeding. It's bullshit (except in severe cases), basically another angst/worry/con/product/service to sell to gullible middle class women who seem to lap it up. I say middle class as this is the prism through which I view the world, and from this vantage, it's crystal clear the baby business is booming.

I don't get it. What is it with women? As a gender we seem to be our own nemesis. The rubbish we tell/sell ourselves is far more detrimental to the modern female psyche than the shit men mete out.

Thus ensconced in twee Mummydom nibbling biccies and sipping mint tea I got to thinking about how crap I am at being a woman. My grooming efforts are risible, I am fashion unconscious, never diet, don't do handbags, heels, manicures, pedicures, or lunch (unless you are paying.) I guess I am a lesser sort of woman. Jesus Christ, the more I think about it I might even be a man.

If men endured labour they would no doubt boast of their bravery in conquering the physical ordeal. Their stretch marks would take on the importance of tribal scars tattooed in various colours. They would glorify the pain and gore of birth: "I tell you the wee blighter was a 10 pounder, imagine the state of my nunny - here let me show you."

Down the pub and there's a twang of labia as Male A recounts his birth experience to Males B & C.

C takes a sip of his pint before declaring,

"You had it easy mate, at one stage the doctor had his entire forearm up me."

Male B looks at C with pity. "Pah that's bleeding foreplay that is."

Women tend not to express themselves so vividly, doing our utmost to retain our feminine mystique. We don't dwell on the flood of human effluvia and all that happens when the pushing season starts. Men, techy by nature, would revel in the drug taking, gobbling every thing available.

"Man, I was so high I mistook a shit for the baby,' or worse, - the reverse. In contrast we feel guilt and failure for not being woman enough to have had a vaginal birth.

In the aftermath where we settle for paper pants and pink boxes of discreet pads our brothers would play 'one-man-up ship' on the incontinence stakes.

"Six months incontinent mate."

"Hah, try life."

Women whisper the word episiotomy; our brave boys would pound their fists against their chests rejoicing in the number of stitches received.

C declares, "A cool 10".

"That's a nip,' B derides C at every chance, 'Twenty five mate, top that.'

"Twenty five!' A is amused, 'Don't annoy me. Ripped all the way to my anus."

High fives and shots all round...

"Accidental Mum.... Are you alright?"

"What?" The NCT lady was peering kindly at me.

"Sorry, I dozed off."

"We were talking about birthing plans. Have you written your plan yet?"

Readers... If you are a first timer who falls in the following category: an educated, career woman, who has read all the books, done the anti natal yoga, NCT classes, booked doulas, maybe even rented a birthing pool, I suspect your plan will be something along these lines.

Aim: To have a natural birth with as little medical intervention as possible. Gas and air as a last resort but definitely no epidural.

There will be further specifications; music, candles, cord cutting, what to do with the placenta, skin on skin action etc. but guess what? When those waves of pain hit.... Let's just say things often have a habit of not going to plan - and certainly not the one scrawled on your perfumed notelet.

Hey, I'm not here to rain on all your parades. You may be lucky. There are those for whom birth is a phenomenal and empowering experience. For the others i.e. a disproportionate amount of my friends/peers, the experience of birth has turned out to be a) vastly at odds with their expectations, or worst-case scenario b) traumatic.

Why this huge discrepancy?

Could it be women seem to conveniently forget they have walked into a hospital? There is nothing natural about a hospital. How any woman could 'get into the birthing zone' in such an environment is beyond me. Once you step over that threshold the chances are there will be medical intervention.

"So... your birthing plan?" The only plan I have is to get out of here as fast as possible.

"I'm forgoing the plan this time round." There were gasps murmurs. But... but ... you're middle class how can you do this?

"Don't tell me you've opted for..." the next word was hard for the NCT lady to utter, "an elective Caesarean."

Due to my advanced age the obstetrician offered me an early induction i.e. on my exact due date rather than the two weeks later, which is more normal. This coincided with a stretch of four consecutive free days in the Glam Rocker's diary, after which he would be touring the world with Gaga for the subsequent eight months.

Choosing to be induced I have prioritised granting GR a window of opportunity in which he can bond with his baby rather than let nature take it's course.

"I am being induced so I guess it will end in a caesarean."

"Not necessarily," she says. Not necessarily!

Here we go again with this rose-tinted cack. Okay, there is a chance the baby might be delivered naturally but it is a very slim one and I would rather prepare myself for the more likely option.

"Well best of luck, however it turns out."

Class over there is a mass shuffle to exist as eight heavily pregnant women dash for the loo... in the queue we exchange emails and promise we'll meet up again - after our respective Interlopers have arrived, safe and sound, in pristine perfect condition - as nature intended - via the stork.

P.S. Note to self - Just think in a couple of weeks you'll be back in your size zero jeans and the latest Louboutins! Can't wait ; )]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2981237 2013-03-29T16:45:44-04:00 2013-03-31T09:27:18-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ Week 37


They say a picture paints a thousand words....










Need I add more?]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2921801 2013-03-21T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-21T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 36

It was to be our last meeting, the final check-up with my midwife. The chosen pronoun belies the reality. It was a polygamous liaison. Over the past nine months of appointments, I hadn't seen the same midwife once. Pushed into the position of pregnancy slut - hopes for an actual relationship scuppered early on. It was never anything more than a one 'meet' stand.

A date would be set, I'd turn up on time, a urine sample in one hand and bulging folder of notes in the other - only to wait and wait until fearing I had been stood up - finally my name would be called. Eureka... and I would be ushered down a corridor into a room where she or indeed he would be - ready to give me a complete service.

I hate hospitals, they are full sick people. Pregnancy should not qualify as an illness. So there I was on the last lap only four weeks to go, sample bottle warm in hand, "Well hello and who do we have here?"

I was bored of these meetings, bored of being patronised, of the rigmarole - the midwife began with the following question, "How are your movements?"

"Regular," I replied.

She looked puzzled then said "Your baby's movements? Is the baby still moving?" The baby was in fine foetal fettle and stirred beneath my skin, tickled my bladder and sometimes gave me a big kick. The last scan confirmed all was good, the baby had a big head. There I'd been hoping to sneeze it out.

My pulse was taken, blood pressure normal, belly examined and measured.

"Everything else ok?" asked the midwife.

"Fine," I replied, "Though there was a little show."

"A show?"

When I say show, I wasn't talking musical, tragedy or romantic comedy. There was evidence of the cervix softening - for those not in the know, look it up. This is where pregnancy begins to get messy and a little bit eughh.

I knew I shouldn't have said anything. She wanted me to go up to triage to have a quick examination.

"Agh but I'm sure it's fine," I say, "Isn't it normal at this stage of the game?"

"Let us doctors and midwifes be the judge of that." She wrote out a form and commanded me to go. The thought of an internal on the fifth floor was gag inducing. Now had it been on the second or first floor... I didn't bother and rebelled against the system. I knew my own body better than some stranger midwife who had met me for five minutes. I knew there was nothing to worry about; this pregnancy bar its unusual beginnings has gone swimmingly - quite literally.

Every day began with a half hour splash. At this stage all the elastic had snapped in my swimsuit. A member of a hotel club pool, what it lacked in size it made up for in privacy. It was not unusual to be the sole occupant swimmer. I loved the luxury and the weightless wonder of it all, the bob, bob, bump buoyancy.

Beyond the bump lay life but not as I knew it. My interests were fast narrowing, my focus family centric. Boy Wonder was sitting his 13plus and the Glam Rocker, round and about during the week, was away every weekend.

Bar some aches and minor swelling, I had nothing to complain about. I say nothing... of course there was my elder son's imminent bar mitzvah weekend with near on 150 guests expected. According to my records the Interloper was due two days after the event - as long as the baby was punctual all would be fine. This was an occasion I could not miss. Come hell or high labour - the show must go on.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2863476 2013-03-13T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-13T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 35

My hand reached high above my head. "Pick me, pick me," I cried, provoking an instant recall of school days. Personally, the best part of class was waving an upward pointed arm and then the satisfaction of getting an answer right. It pissed the peers off on two counts; firstly I was Ms. Smug Know It All and secondly, I had yet to discover deodorant. But hey that was then. The here and now was in a North West London front room with a group of middle age, middle class mums much like myself at a refresher NCT course.

Pregnant with BoyWonder I didn't bother with the NCT, besides organised socialising creeps me out. Back then I has a career to attend to and a second novel to write 'Spilt Milk'. However thirteen years on I realised it would be beneficial to have a support system of sorts, especially as the teen would be in boarding school and the Glam Rocker in absentia - (while he was off partying with Gaga, I'd be tripping the light fantastic with Goo-Goo). Thus I decided to do a refresher course along with a handful of other 'been there, done that,' ladies.

Class began by sharing our first time birthing experiences. Out of the eight of us gathered one had had the perfect birth, inclusive of a super supportive mother, hands on partner plus no doubt the elastic snap back vagina. She was also gorgeous. Moi jealouse? Yeah right, like totalement. Still, it didn't stop us drowning out her good vibes with tales of vaginal trauma, 40 hour labour, episiotomies, emergency caesareans, 3rd degree natural tears, inductions, Ventuse etc. etc... oh the joys of child birth.

First time around one thing I did attend was ante natal yoga classes. We were told to imagine breathing out pink ribbons when the labour pains struck.

AS IF!

Personally, I abhor this unadulterated airbrushed birthing SHITE. Sure a natural birth can be empowering but to dismiss the intense pain of it just makes me want to poke my fingers into random people's eyes. Most irritating of all is this female conspiracy of silence about the reality of labour, which for many does not turn out as envisaged.

So in the front room, a NCT teacher posed the following question, "What does one do when contractions begin?"

My arm shot up. I knew this one.

"Scream," I answered.

This response was met with disdain: "Wrong... You need to be in control. Screaming evokes the idea of someone who has lost control."

"Wrong!" I suddenly came over all John McEnroe. Was she serious? She could not be serious? How could she possibly say that?

"Accidental Mum... did you want to add something?"

"Well... yes I do. Perhaps scream is not the exact word required but how about a deep primal roar of agony, like you're in control but still acknowledging the trauma of one's body being slowly ripped open."

"Hmmm... maybe... not." The teacher has me down as a trouble maker.

After discussing the opening of one's cervix, we were invited to try positions to help with bearing the pain of the contraction. I knelt, head resting on a chair. We were told to envisage... wait for it... melting an ice cube in one slow exhalation. This reminded me of the billowing pink ribbons, I was not buying it. This time I was definitely not buying it.

"Give me an alternative," I said pointing my fingers at the teacher's eyes.

"O.K. L.E.T. M.E. S.E.E." Each word overly pronounced issued through pursed lips. Boy but she really didn't like me, "How about you imagine encouraging your baby down the birth canal with supportive words."

So there I was bent over giving it all, my best Oscar performance to date, pretending I was in a vice of pain whilst yelling at the Interloper to... "Hurry the fuck up".

Class ended, there was talk of coffee but by the time I got my coat and organised myself, the hallway was empty, even the teacher had disappeared.

Jeez, I sniffed my underarms and guessed some things never change.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2814385 2013-03-06T19:00:00-05:00 2013-05-06T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 34

This week the bump took command of the mothership. All things ego-related receded into the background as I prepared for metamorphosis, from woman to 'mother' or 24 hour service station. Branded with a thick black line, a primal print of 'Keep Off' ran the length of my curvature. I no longer belonged to myself - preparations were pressing, a list drawn up of all things a baby would require in the first six months. I was a woman on a mission and in search of a bargain.

"From here on in," I barked at the Glam Rocker. "The key words are quality, practicality and affordability. Sexiness has left the building. I repeat sexiness has left the building."

This was so not rock and roll. The Glam Rocker and I had reached a relationship juncture or should I say junction - this was as middle of the road as it would get.

We were in John Lewis ascending into another realm; that of the fourth floor dedicated to selling everything relating to babies and children. The Glam Rocker was bewildered. He has never been in such an environment. Who'd have reckoned babies needed so much kit? In contrast I took on the Stepford wife persona a zombified shopper willingly dictated to by those clever marketing men who had placed certain, 'must have, must have,' objects within my eye range.

"OMG that is so cute!"

"Don't you think that's cute?"

"How cute! Yes it is. Yches it is..."

The Glam Rocker was mortified, "You're drooling..."

"Muslins, don't let me forget the muslins."

The cast iron list (which I swore I would not veer from) did not see the light of day. I thought I was purchasing just the essentials but on our return discovered we had spent a couple of hundred quid on nothing. Nothing of any use really except for the most grotesque of maternity bras. I'd disrobed in the changing room and wept, such was the sight that befell my eyes, the saddest view of all. Ooh for certain the glory days were long over, the pleasure domes were flagging.

Post-John Lewis I continued on the hunt of reduced priced baby paraphernalia. Word had spread there was a nearly new 'baby' sale in the affluent area of Holland Park. The yummy mummies were having a spring clean. All the savvy lady-bumps with restricted budgets were out in full force. I was there in the scrum and managed to nab a bargain, a Bill Amberg baby carrier. A perfect present for the Glam Rocker, it was so Dalston, so cool, understated, leather and cotton, with a saddle bag vibe. Now that was Rock and Roll.

I also picked up a Baby Bjorn chair and later that evening an entire baby travel system for £25 quid. Yes I repeat an entire travel system. Okay, so status wise the Interloper and I wouldn't be winning any prizes. It was a bashed up baby buggy stroller - but for the first six months it would do.

Austerity measures were called for. I was going retro - anti aspirational - you can keep your grand plus Silver Crosses, Fendi, Stokke, Bugaboos. This ancient Graco had it all, notwithstanding a very generous under carriage basket plus two cup holders; one for coffee, the other for cocktails and wait for it; a secret middle compartment. This I reckoned was for one's non liquid narcotics, wink wink, of the sugar rush variety, otherwise known as cake.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2755973 2013-02-25T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-27T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ The continuing diary of an accidental mother - week 33

In a grey stone church in Dublin, I watched myself from a time since past; as a seven year old, Jewish girl wanting to belong. The place was full of people, though none were praying and nothing was quite what it seemed to be. There was a flurry of activity. A line of little 'brides' knelt before a priest and then belatedly my young self appeared in a hotch-potch of strange clothes and was chivvied up the flagstone floor by an old crone.

I had stepped into a twilight zone. My present reality was of a heavily pregnant woman and not this young girl. This strange state of being was a fallacy, a dream dreamt originating in a West London apartment.

Eight months ago I stretched and teased an emotional memory to its extreme. It began as a feeling, scribbled out as prose, 300 words capturing an instant of childhood consciousness; a mere moment when a bubble of innocence burst and a step toward adulthood was reluctantly taken.

It is early summer and the shy Irish sun shines. Hannah Cohen sits on a front garden wall. Bored, she flicks rose petals on the pavement when she suddenly sees her best friend Roisin on the way to church. Dressed in Holy Communion finery Rosin looks gorgeous, like a real princess.

If only Hannah could have her own holy communion. If only that were possible but of course it is, because when one is six and three quarters everything is possible and so begins our film.

I wonder if one ever actually leaves one's country of birth? Almost 20 years on and still I keep a constant backward glance, a toe wedged in the door. Months back, I sent the Irish film director, Shimmy Marcus a script in progress. He promptly emailed it back pointing out the gaping holes within. Undeterred, I set to rethinking, fixing and cementing.

At the time, I was single. My ex, the Glam Rocker was on tour... having put our brief summer romance behind him. Yet it happened he left prematurely. It happened most accidentally. Despite all manner of man-made obstacles as I worked on this foetal script, inside there was a renegade cluster of cells dividing and subdividing.

Over the next three months, two stories developed in tandem. Scripts sent to Shimmy returned to my inbox with notes, questions and red crosses until finally the story began to breathe. There was an upcoming funding competition. We took a chance, rolled the dice and we hit the jackpot, winning the Pears Foundation Award.

As for the other production, it too survived and we, the Glam Rocker and I recognized an opportunity in this twist of fate handed to us.

Eight months later, I was the mother of two green-lit productions.

On the home front, my belly was huge. The film was shooting in Dublin and I, on the way to Heathrow. The Glam Rocker had been touring in the States and Australia for the past month, finally we were to be reunited.

The Glam Rocker was waiting for me by the Air Lingus check-in desk. Swiftly we moved toward one another. With each step time dissolved so that once his arms encircled me (no small feat), it was only moments since we last touched. And time continued to reverse all the way across the Irish Chanel to the mid 1970s to where we found ourselves, in my realised imagination.

It was a pretty church. We entered round the back having spotted some film types. We passed through a make shift wardrobe department and then into the nave. On the technical side, there were crew, cast, extra's, a vast amount of equipment, tracks, monitors, booms, mikes, lights, camera...

And - action.

Hannah approaches the alter to join her friends who look at her wide-eyed. 'What are you doing here?' one mouths as she kneels down alongside them.

This scene was played out in short bursts of controlled takes. I looked at the star of the film, transfixed. In truth I was never this girl. By the time the script ripened there was scarce any personal residue left. Our star was the radiant six year old, Lucy Sky Dunne. She had taken the story from me and lived it, whilst I, the writer loitered in the background.




Then the priest approached her. Mind, this was not just any priest... as the ad goes, this was the M&S of all priests. Jim Sheridan, Irish director of films such as My Left Foot, In the name of the Father and The Field was playing the priest in our film. Yes that Jim Sheridan. If Ireland were a monarchy; he would be Irish royalty, he would be king.

Confession of awe.

Dear Lord,

I am not sure why this has happened but for some reason this project seems to have struck a universal chord and the support for it has been phenomenal. Despite the funding award, we are operating on a shoe string. Despite the shoe string, the production levels are incredibly high.
We have been blessed by a stellar cast and crew - (I give thanks) there is magic in the air.
Amen
Slainte and Lechaim
To the good health of one and all.





Of course Dublin is small and I recognized the wonderful Marion O'Dwyer who acted in one of my BBC Radio 4 plays and then Gareth Keogh with whom I acted a zillion years ago.... and then I noticed my blue 70s nylon housecoat - a present from my teenage son. I had sent it to the director as an example of what the Mother could wear and indeed, she was wearing it.

She was Elaine Cassidy award-winning actress in such films as Felicia's Journey, Disco Pigs. You'd recognize her from the recent BBC Drama, The Paradise.




Dublin had changed so much since I left. Then again, since I left, Dublin had hardly changed. Our next location was the home I grew up in. A 70s dreamscape, it was now the home of others but lucky for us remained untouched. The cast and crew loved it. The kitchen in particular was in its original wood paneled, marble counter topped glory.

This was a glimpse of a rarely seen middle class Dublin. The road is lined with blossom trees, the Dublin mountains loom in the background, the houses, large hacienda styled, lie anchored between generous front and rear gardens.

Hanging out in the now neglected and overgrown back garden, I noticed the bird song, loud and varied was more lyrical than the London tweeters. Time marches at a different pace here, the air is fresher, the light translucent, the sky surrounding immense. I floated as a ghost around the house, now full of unknown people revealing traces of my childhood to the Glam Rocker, especially the secret attics behind the wardrobes. Hidden alcoves installed by my father, God forbid there was ever an Irish anti-Semitic uprising.

A few days later a 'wrap' was called. On our last night I sat with Shimmy in a hotel bar, sipping a whiskey and coke. Due to my condition I could not manage very much and it occurred to me that these days my glass was half full. It was then Shimmy mentioned the Golden Globe nominated composer, Brian Byrne, had agreed to score the film. I nearly choked on the news. Yes that Brian Byrne who has since been awarded two World Soundtrack Awards. Correction my glass wasn't half full at all - it was over flowing.

One production down... one pending.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2707828 2013-02-18T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-20T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ The continuing diary of an accidental mother - week 32

"It was the beetroot wot done it, guv."
Lip-licking, lasciviously mine smacked together, as spittle fired with desirous thoughts of consumption. Gloriously immodest, the bunch was as nature intended, ripe for the picking. I would have that beet. The beet would be mine - and I did.

The doctor stood by the window, a urine sample raised in her hand, even the dirty light from grimed windows could not diffuse the strange matter of discolouration.

"This 'ere root... Why this 'ere root... " contested the farmer with a blade of wheat hanging from his lower lip, "It be packed with nitrate which according to those in the apothecary professions, is good for lowering the old pressure of the bloods." He paused to scratch his chin then continued, "There be folic acid, antioxidants and a host of other goodness's within." Old MacDonald even claimed the vegetable was a bone fide cure against dementia but qualified this assertion when he couldn't rightly remember his source.

Some women swear by charcoal. I was smote by a bunch of beets steamed and tossed in a most unctuous extra virgin olive oil and sprinkled with salt. The entire bunch of six roots gobbled in a single setting; sweet, earthy and tender on the tongue.

I thought it best to mention this sudden crush on beetroot. The doctor was relieved, "That will explain it".

My presence at the surgery was due to letters of transit required, allowing me to travel to Dublin. The airline would not otherwise take the risk. My script, Hannah Cohen's Holy Communion was being shot. By hook or by crook I would be there.

When not stuffing my gob with ruddy orbs of deliciousness, I was packing my diary with meetings.

I was all out front, and can confess; competitively so. Engineering social bumps offs with other pregnant friends. A marathon runner on the last lap of a race I wanted to be the winner, my bump be the biggest. I was loving this pregnancy, digging the changes. Sure my breasts had changed irrevocably, and hey what's a stretch mark or two between friends? I wore mine as medals, as an African tribal scar. I reckoned if reflux was the worst of my symptoms, I was doing good. Okay, so I would prefer it if my arse didn't completely sag and my ankles didn't swell to the size of my thighs and....

There was a women waddling toward me, a woman with a mighty bump. I was looking at her and she was looking at me. And I could see she too had beetroot stains on her t-shirt and .... Jesus Christ what had I turned into?

I caught my own reflection and wondered how I had come to this?]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2658670 2013-02-11T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-13T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ -The continuing diary of an accidental mother - week 31

It happens - someone contacts you from a time way back - when half your present size, you shook your tail feather and tickled your fancy.

We hadn't seen each other in over 20 years. On a recent holiday I meet a couple that X, an Irish woman like myself, turned out to be a best friend of. Contact was made and...
'Well isn't it a small world.'
And...
'Do you remember the gig?'
'That gig!'
'Dancing behind the screen.'
'That screen!'

There was a band performing out front whilst I, danced behind a screen. Recall if you can the intro to Roald Dahl's, Tales of the Unexpected. This was our visual intention but the reality was rather different especially when the lights fused.

Why is it we are condemned to remember only the most embarrassing moments of life?

X is a mother of three children. She, like most of her friends, having survived the trenches of baby-dom, has reached the point when her days are beginning to open up. She can raise her head above the parapet of 'dumb-esticity', years of sleep deprivation and see once more this thing called Life - or independent life. Careers can be resurrected, interests resumed and fun had. In short she brings stories from the suburbs of impending mid life crises' of 'so & so' and 'yer one', 'wait till I tell you' and 'oh my god...'

The words of Victor Mildrew echoed in my ear, 'I don't believe it!'

As a single mother I long held the privileged position of confidante, privy to the misdemeanours of married friends. Men may think they have the upper hand in straying but what's good for the goose is good for the gander and sometimes even better. I'm talking personal trainers, specialist gardeners, handy men, jack-of-all-trades - you get the gist. It is not the doing that surprises me, after years of marriage 'not doing' surprises me. What surprises me is the lack of imagination entailed; the prescribed colour by numbers manner in which so many men and women seem to stray.

So it happens another man buys a fast car and into it he puts the nanny and takes her for a ride... The only part of this story that had my jaw gaping was the husband's fury when his wife sacked the nanny - whom they were suing for unfair dismissal. I made a mental note to employ only 'mannys'. Then again who's to say that would quell the temptation (for either of us!).

The Glam Rocker and I were keeping in touch, doing the long distance Skype thang.
The band was currently deciding upon which semi naked ladies to adorn their album cover. My opinion was sought with a caveat to show the teen, as his would ultimately be of greater value. So there I was on the other side of the world blown up to twice my normal size, i.e. heavy with baby, hormonal, and my darling was emailing pictures of scantily clad drop dead gorgeous, YOUNG, AVAILABLE models a quarter of my current size.

'What do you think?' he asked...

He wanted me, a feminist, to talk about how best to objectify these women. My mind was a mash up of hyper reality. In cartoon terms all I could think about was his eyes bouncing back and forth from their sockets and his tongue uncurling from his mouth, whereas I was literally fuming, steam shooting from my ears, eyes and nostrils.
'Aren't you being a little insensitive?' I seethed. The last time I elicited a wolf whistle was... before the lights fused at a certain gig.
'Sex sells... ' says the Glam Rocker, 'Go figure! So, what do you think of the red head...?'

I told the Glam Rocker I had far more important things to think about, like our baby, like this new life nurturing inside. There were things to be done... things to be purchased...
He told me not to be so insecure which brought a swift end to our Skype conversation.

It occurred his rock and roll life was as Hanks would have it, a huge box of chocolates crammed with real life temptations whereas mine was more a Terry of York chocolate orange shaped bump.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2611981 2013-02-04T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-06T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ The continuing diary of an accidental mother - week 30

The thing about Mr Greene is he takes me places I have never been. I refer to Graham. I was on a Graham Greene roll. The Quiet American lay across my lap, the tip of page 89 gently folded over, stifling the Saigon heat and opium haze. My gaze lifted and fell upon evidence of the Glam Rocker's existence. It hung in the shape of two suits from the lower rail of my wardrobe. His bathrobe hung off the back of my door. There was a rubber chicken (don't ask) in the kitchen which delighted the tween-ager but that was about it. Nothing else of the Glam Rocker is apparent.

The last I saw of him was a rushed farewell at Paddington Station. There had been road works, diversions forcing several illegal turns and a drive down a one street, the wrong way. Still despite all the hurdles thrown, I ensured his safe delivery to the Heathrow Express and hastily waved him off. For the next month I would be single, though in reality double; what with two beating hearts, two brains, etc. and of course Boy Wonder, who was in studious mode, his 13 plus exams fast approaching.

Anyway, all was blissfully quiet. The upheaval of the previous week passed, the dust resettled (I made a note to have words with my very expensive cleaner). In esoteric terms, I was at one with the universe. Okay, at two with universe.

Life continued at a hum drum pace. The alarm screamed at seven am, and Boy Wonder chivvied to rise up, up and not ignore his breakfast, remember his school lunch, sports kit, home work, where I wondered where my keys... our daily routine.

On this morning the clouds above parted, the rain ceased and we weren't late for the eight am school start. From there it was down to Regents Park, my constant London muse.

Hardly a week goes by without a visit. I circled it as I have done on many occasions over many years, solo, at my own pace, without anyone pulling on me without an 'other' to consider. Conscious it would not be long before laden down with a baby, every step tread was relished. I have always enjoyed a solitary state without distractions, so I can 'away with the fairies' or lose myself in the lull of a soft breeze, carrying smatterings of conversations, bird song, the distant flow of traffic, barks, bells, road works and that which is named silence in a city such as this.
Already the bump weighs me down and with a mere ten weeks to go, I wonder how long before I run out of puff.

My route begins at Charlbert Bridge and takes me round the inner perimeter, along the lake side, south toward Baker St then left toward Portland St, left again, up along the Avenue Gardens, all the way north to St Marks Gate toward Primrose Hill.

There is time to reflect on these morning revolutions. A year ago, I had only met the Glam Rocker. Total opposites, he is rock 'n' roll whereas I, am out of tune. I walk in circles and he zigzags. It was pure chance our paths overlapped. It is still too early in this relationship to say if we are both on track, though it seems so. At least we are traveling in the same direction despite different modes of motion.

Lazy So & So's
Before their journey to the outer world your baby is spending 80% of its time, asleep, (if only they remembered that particular skill on the outside...!) They are about 40cm long and weigh about 2lbs 8oz.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2557792 2013-01-28T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-30T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The Continuing Diary of an Accidental Mother - Week 29

Last week began preparing for the arrival of a certain someone and this week ended with the ding-dong of the door bell.

Yes after 42 years, my long cherished independence was under imminent threat. My single days cooked. I was 'caving in', going to live with - you guessed it, the Glam Rocker. This was a completely unnatural scenario for me. For years I avoided ever having to live with a significant other. It put the fear of God in me. It spelled compromise, not a good thing for someone as selfish as myself.

"Why?" I pleaded with the Glam Rocker, "Why ruin a good thing?"

He hauled a huge suitcase through the door and began to unpack.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've seen what co-habitation can do. It wrecks relationships. You know most marriages end in divorce."

"I forgot to tell you, my d-papers arrived", and he kissed the tip of my nose.

"See... You, even you are one such victim. I mean, maybe if you guys hadn't lived together you wouldn't have divorced, met me and now be expecting a baby."

"Where are you going with this?"

"Look it's been proven, statistics show women get the short end of the stick cohabiting."

"The short end of the stick?" He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Okay, wrong metaphor. You know what I mean. Men benefit but women end up worse off; shackled by children, doomed by domestic drudgery, careers cauterized (all of which hasten the aging process and heighten neurosis'), not forgetting slow strangulation by social conventions..."

"Like what?"

"Like having to... to... Oh god I can so see it. I bet by late next year I'll probably end up buying something from Cath Kidson or join a book club and every month sit sipping a couple of glasses of shitty white wine discussing some turgid... "

The Glam Rockers brows furrowed, "You're not making sense."

"Does the word 'purdah' mean anything to you?"

"I'm not locking you away."

"But see it happens. Haven't you noticed how even, even now when we are out, say at dinner party all the women end up talking to the women and all the men to the men - the sexes divide and there is no more... "

"What, flirting?"

"Well, collaborating."

"Collaborating!"

Oh god my party days are over. Things will never be the same again.

The Glam Rocker was in philosophical mode, "There are ways of looking at things." He pointed to a metaphorical glass on the kitchen table.

"What do you see?"

I opened my eyes, I closed eyes. I peeped, peered and stared at this half full half empty scenario. Still, the glass of independence was an intricately cut crystal vessel filled with liquid adventures and the glass before me now was more like a mug, a chipped mug or a plastic sippy cup with dried bits of baby food stuck to it.

The Glam Rocker unfinished packing and I swooned from the shock of it all. I completely folded in on myself. Inertia struck I went into hiding beneath the duvet.

"You okay?" asked the Glam Rocker.
"I haven't quite processed it."

He sidled up to me on the bed and whispered, "The upside my darling is that I'm on my way down under... "

Finally!

For the past few weeks all he'd been talking about was the promise of going down under. He expected me to jump for joy, writhe in ecstasy. I reminded him I was 29 weeks pregnant and movement was restrictive. Still he was going down and it did bring a smile to my lips.

I began to relax. There were benefits to cohabitation... moreover it was perhaps premature of me to even claim cohabitation, knowing within 24 hours he would be off touring, due back March 2013.

My Glam Rocker was indeed going down under, Oz bound the following morning.

The Bump Says
Don't worry about me, I'm doing fine and if born will most probably survive. But you... lady watch out, cause here come the stretch marks. Get the oil and let the slathering commence. Oh and did I forget to mention the leg cramps and getting up to pee all night.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2506529 2013-01-21T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-23T05:12:01-04:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ -The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 28

The nesting season began. A certain someone was expected in the near future. I set about cleaning or rather thinking about cleaning. 'Must clean, must clean' was the daily mantra. There was no way out. I was going to have rise from the sofa and take action. I was going to have book in a cleaner.

Domesticity does not do it for me on any level. Here's to outsourcing and no, I do not suffer any middle class guilt for paying someone to clean my home. What is up with that? Thus the dust mountains shifted and preparations were put in place for that certain someone.

A cradle was purchased, as was a baby carrier. The Glam Rocker's eyes alighted on the latter. He claimed he would rather just hold the baby. Oh how I laughed at his naiveté. He really didn't have a clue. Explanations were made but still he clung to the idea that he would be able to travel with a baby, the changing bag, his bags, shopping bags and could not understand the practicality of wearing ones progeny and having free hands.

Upon sighting the cradle there was a veritable flash of reality, a lightening shiver down his spine. I'd told him I had something to show him in the bedroom, a little surprise for him. I beckoned him with a slow curling finger.
He followed me in....
"Ta Dah!"
"What is that?"
"A cradle my darling, to rock a bye baby."

The Glam Rocker approached with caution as if to check there was nothing yet there. We then decided to engage in some role-play. Nothing tawdry, I would be Mummy and he would be Daddy.

"Let's pretend we have just had the baby. Positions please and... Action."

Cue the Glam Rocker who ran to the kitchen to 'work' at his computer i.e. go on Facebook. I waited a couple of minutes then entered stage right. Exhausted and in a huff, I accused him of not pulling his weight, came over all weepy and blamed crazy post pregnancy hormones. He wasn't buying it.

"What's really going on here Accidental Mother?"
"Well it's just... "

The fact was he failed to notice I managed to brush my hair that day and put on mascara, no small feat for any new mother. Blowing my nose and wiping my tear-stained face (we were still role playing) I asked if he thought I was attractive, despite the baby belly.

"Of course I do", he said reading the paper.
"Attractive enough to sleep with?"
"Go on then give us a twirl." His aim was to check if my rear status had been infected by pregnancy sagginess.
Then he said the wrong thing.
"I don't want to put you under any pressure.... We should wait."

What? What? Rebuffed, rejected... and incensed; not that sex was even on the menu for the next year but still heavy with (post-pretend) baby belly, (post-pretend) milk maid breasts and legs unshaven, there was a need to feel attractive.

It was then our imaginary baby, a pillow, began howling. "It needs changing", I bellowed, and thrust the pillow into the arms of the Glam Rocker continuing to criticize him for doing everything wrong.

And cut.

The pair of us looked at each.
"High Five!"
"Oh my god!"
We aced it. We were going to breeze through this parenting business.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Last Lap
Your lap is expanding exponentially. This trimester the pounds will pile on as the baby grows - (usually about 11 pounds). Cue the heartburn and reflux, the water retention and swollen ankles, hands and face. By now the baby is perfectly formed though small. If lucky you may be able to hear it's heart beat through a stethoscope. About the size of a chinese cabbage the baby weighs around two and half pounds, can blink and has eye lashes.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2423286 2013-01-07T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-09T05:12:01-05:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ -The continuing diary of an accidental mother - Week 27.

"I have a story for you," said the Irish solicitor swilling a large brandy. "You'll like this."

Drink had been taken and it was getting on. Midnight stood in the corner with a raised fist - ready to strike. The establishment was a small Montmartre bistro, a short stroll up from the cemetery. The season was spring. Paris lay draped in unremitting showers and a chill wind rattled against the panes, as if the cemetery spirits had roused themselves and come a knocking.

"A plate," he continued. "This is a story about a Chinese plate bequeathed to me by my mother."

Our new acquaintance had sailed to Paris from Dublin to celebrate the latest exhibition opening of his flame haired aunt, the artist Patricia Poullain. She, a wonderfully talented lady heads a loyal and extraordinary family, one of whom is the Glam Rocker, hence my presence.

By this stage, the meal had long since ended. Most of the entourage had dispersed to their various hotels, but the solicitor, a confident raconteur piqued my interest. He told us he had kept the plate in his office safe, beneath a stack of legal documents for years.

"Years I forgot about it and then... "

A year or so back the crippled Irish economy had sent him in search of such things locked away for rainy days; i.e. old forgotten bank accounts with accrued interest, long lost share certificates, ripened policies and the Chinese plate.

'"Blue and white porcelain it was with three dragons on it. Not to my particular taste." The solicitor dusted it down, took a couple of snaps, "Inclusive of the hairline cracks," which he then sent to Sothebys in London for a professional valuation. Their response was positive and estimated it was worth circa 3,000 sterling.

"Three thousand sterling," noted the Solicitor and he nodded to the waitress to bring another round of brandies, "Not a sum to be sniffed at. I decided to submit it to one of Ireland's top auctioneers."

On the day of the auction, the solicitor stood at the back of the hall watching the proceedings. The bids, he recalled, came in steadily, easily reaching 1,000, 2,000, 3,000, five, 10 and 15,000.

At about the £20,000 mark, our friend noticed a couple of Chinese gentlemen sitting near the front of the room. There was he realised much interest in this plate. He crossed his fingers, praying it might increase its value tenfold and reach a price of £30,000. There was a lot of spending to be had in £30,000.

His fingers remained crossed until they ached for the bids continued, past £30,000, even £40,000. He loosened his tie at £50,000. At £60,000, he undid his top button and by £100,000, his shirt collar was damp.

He knew little or nothing about the provenance of the plate or how long it had been in his family. Still and all the bids continued, £150,000, £200,000, bids coming in from Hong Kong, London, Beijing.

As with everything, timing is crucial. The Chinese economy was mighty, compared with the devastated Irish one. If our dear friend the aolicitor had chosen to sell the plate 10 years previously perhaps it would have only gone for £3,000 but on that day, when the gavel struck the rostrum, it went for a grand total of £310,000.

The plate turned out to be dated from the Ming Dynasty, circa 1430 - one of two remaining pieces from that era. Its main use was in the serving of sweetmeats, desserts and fortune cookies.

"Quite a windfall," I said, "and quite a story."
"Yes," he agreed. "But that's not the end of it."

Less than a year later, flicking through a Sotheby catalogue, our dear old cousin (were we not all family now!) noticed his windfall plate. It had been put up for auction once again. This time the given valuation was more accurate and the plate sold for £2.5million.




Week 27: The Second Trimester Ends
This week marks the end of the second trimester. At 27 weeks your baby's lungs and nervous system are continuing to mature. Your baby's crown-to-rump length might have tripled since the 12 weeks mark. Not long now.

Vis a vis last week's post.
With a lot of emotional laundering, and ironing out of issues, the Glam Rocker and I made it through the week. We are if anything terribly honest, sometimes painfully so. There was much going on in both our lives and yet it was still less than a year we had known each other. Sometimes I think I understand this man and sometimes I think he understands me. Sometimes is hit and miss but better than never. Privately, we toasted to the year ahead, our unfolding adventure and to facing it, together.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2377708 2012-12-31T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-02T05:12:02-05:00

Lana Citron http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lana-citron/ - The continuing trials of an accidental mother, week 26 -

Perhaps I should brush over this week. It was not a happy one. I was not a happy person. I hated everyone and everything. This was compounded by the official and public confirmation that the Glam Rocker's band would be supporting Lady Gaga on her worldwide tour, which meant I would be mothering it, alone.

I drove past weary pram pushing mothers thinking "suckers!" Yet I too was bound for that treadmill, those black ringed eyes, the repetitious drudgery. I could find no shard of light to illuminate my situation. The initial six months of motherhood were going to be (by the very virtue of the baby being a baby), hardcore, intense, full on and exhausting.

I fell into a pot and got into a stew. Unsurprisingly, I then turned on my nearest and dearest, and forced several helpings upon the Glam Rocker. I stuffed him to the gills then showed him that, which comprises a door; hinges, locks, spyhole, letterbox and a polished knob. A knob to turn and twist, to enter and exit. All was in working order even the thud as it closed behind him.

Was I being rash? The truth is I'm more R&B, hip hop with a twist of garage. Glam Rock is a whole other world. Let the Glam Rocker tour with Gaga. Did I care? Not a jot. I'd revert to my original plan. Paris beckoned once again. Damn it, why should I change my plans to accommodate a Glam Rocker who would only be present by virtue of his absence? The Interloper and I would fall in love in Paris, the lure of the lights and je ne sais quoi. I concede it would be a tad ambitious to conquer this city with a tiny baby but I wasn't scared to go it alone. Truth was the reverse. To be dependent on someone else emotionally, physically or financially was far scarier.

I opened my front door and screamed, "I don't need you Glam Rocker." He didn't hear. He wasn't waiting on the doorstep. I continued down the road, round the corner, still no trace of him, which was fine. He was someone I really didn't need. I jumped on a bus, on the overground, crossed London repeating my mantra all the way to an east end door. A door similar to my own but with a bell as opposed to knocker. When it opened, I would be ready. Should the Glam Rocker pose the question, "What do you want?" I would answer emphatically, "Not you. I don't need you."

My finger pressed down hard on the buzzer. I heard the approach of footsteps. My heart was gearing up ready for the fight. Slowly the door opened and face to face with his flatmate, the words perched on the tip of my tongue fell silent.

"Are you looking for the Glam Rocker?" she asked.
I nodded.
"He's not here."
"Do you know where he is?" My voice sounded higher than usual and my lips began to quiver.
She shrugged her shoulders, "do you want to leave him a message?"

Yes, I most certainly did. How dare he. How dare he just disappear. Just cause I showed him the door and told him to get lost... did he have to take me so literally? It wasn't my practice to traipse the breadth of London for nothing, what with the Interloper now six months heavy in my belly. I had a very clear message I wanted to impart to the Glam Rocker and it was a real pain he wasn't in.

"Here", she said and she handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes.
"Thanks," I snuffled, "tell him... just tell him... I'm sorry."

TO BE CONTINUED

Itching to exit (just like Daddy?).
By now your baby has fingernails. Too cute! Your baby's lungs are beginning to produce surfactant, (what the...?) It's a substance that allows the air sacs in the lungs to inflate and keeps them from collapsing and sticking together when they deflate. Lengthwise we are talking in and around 230 millimeters long and weight wise 820 grams.]]>