One lifetime ago...

One week ago I started the saddest day of my life.  It seems such a short time, yet it is a whole lifetime ago.  One week ago we received the news that our baby son had died in the womb.  The exact date of his death isn't known; most likely he died sometime on Wednesday, as this was the last time that Rachel is sure she felt him move.  We know he was alive on Tuesday; we heard and saw his heart beating at both the midwife appointment and the ultrasound scan we were sent to.  He hadn't been moving much and his growth rate had slowed enough for the midwife to be concerned.  But we were re-assured by the doctors diagnosis following the scan - baby was growing within normal parameters.  That arrived on Wednesday, the same day he died.  How much life can change in so little a space of time.

So on Friday morning last week we went back to the midwife.  Rachel couldn't feel him moving.  The duty midwife tried to find his heart rate but could not.  We went straight to the hospital and were admitted to a room for another ultrasound scan.  The doctor who scanned told us that sadly, there was no heart beat and we had lost our baby.  He was 39 weeks and 4 days gestational age when we were given the news.

We were told that the safest way to proceed was for Rachel to be induced to give birth naturally.  A cesarian operation would lengthen the time needed for physical healing and the size of the baby complicated matters as well.  We were transferred to the labour and delivery ward and Rachel was hooked up to various drips for the procedure.  After about 10 hours of labour she gave birth.  The time was 1:36am on Saturday morning, the 15th of February.

I was awake at the time, standing by Rachel at the head of her bed.  The little form lay on the sheets at the bottom, perfectly tucked up in a baby curl we know so well.  But silent and still.  No joy of life for us at that time, no reward for the labour, no fulfilment for the 9 months of pregnancy.  The sadness of that quiet moment reaches out to me even now - the perfect stillness of a tiny form with all the potential of life, but none of the true vitality of breath.

The nurse took him and placed him in the baby bed, and covered him with a sheet.  He didn't need any medical attention.  As the doctor and nurse looked over Rachel, taking care of her following the birth, I crossed the room and uncovered the body.  He was as warm and soft as a baby should be.  But his body was still, heavy, lifeless.  The skin on his eyelids had torn off during his birth, giving his face an angry red stare.  I lifted his eyelids to see his eyes - they were perfect, but he was gone.

It was the saddest day of my life, one week ago, one lifetime ago.

My kids are Smarter than Me!

The other day I came to the conclusion that my kids are smarter than me.  I suppose that this is the semi-sweet desire of every father; to know that the children you are raising are not dumb; to rest assured that your methods of parenting are increasing rather than decreasing the potential of those little people in your care, but! but at the same time to be left behind, discarded, blown off the road by the passing winds of vigorous youth.

How did I come to this conclusion?  How did I realize that I was reaching the borders of my dotage, preparing for the rocking chair and slippers?  It came to me the other day when Rachel was talking about a job she gave to the kids.  She had shown them how to load the dishwasher.  This may seem like an innocent chore, simple enough to complete.  Apparently not. 

Each time I have tried to help out in the kitchen by loading the dishwasher my best efforts are met with a disapproving eye, and a quick re-arrangement.  It's been so bad that I have totally given up even trying to help workout the exact jigsaw puzzle of cups, glasses, plates and bowls that will allow me to close the door and turn the machine on with her seal of approval.

So the day after Rachel showed the kids for the very first time , I came home to the happy announcement that Emma and Elisha had loaded the dishwasher.  By themselves.  And they had met the rigorous standards of organization which have baffled me time after time.  When I mentioned this to Rachel she tried to comfort me. "It's not that they are smarter, they just listen to me better".

So I was right first time.  My kids are smarter than me.

A tale of two Pizzas

This evening, my lovely wife was feeling a little down.  We had a busy evening, going to a birthing center and our minds were occupied by thoughts of the coming baby, health insurance and many other kinds of troubles and woes.  And Rachel's mind was occupied by pizza.

"I want to have some pizza" she told me.  Of course I would!  I'm always ready to play the hero for her, especially when she's slightly grumpy and in need of cheering up.  Our local superstore is Target.  The car was still warm from driving the kids home so in I hopped and off I went.

Now, I should say this.  Picking groceries for Rachel is an interesting task at the best of times.  I clearly remember one occasion when I stood in front of a whole fridge full of different kinds of hot dogs.  5 or 10 different brands stacked in ranks before me, each with 5 or 10 different kinds of sausage.  Franks, Brats, pork and turkey all stared dumbly at me.

Although I am not a man who easily panics, I will admit that a feeling of despondency fell over me.  I knew three things.  First, I knew that I would pick a package of hot dogs.  Secondly, I knew it would be the wrong choice.  Finally, I knew, I just knew that Rachel would tell me I picked the wrong one.  And each one of those predictions came true.

However, this evening I was feeling more hopeful.  Rachel had mentioned one of her favorite frozen pizzas was Bellatoria Supreme.  Not only that, I was fortified by her instruction to "get what is on sale!"  An easy task, even for me.  Driving to the store I felt quite confident that this would be a "home run" as we Americans say.

On arrival at Target I marched right to the frozen pizza section and searched for the Supreme.  I couldn't see it.  "Never mind, old chap", I said to myself (as Englishmen do).   I searched for the weirdest sounding pizza that seemed normal enough to eat.  This has been a good rule of thumb I have employed when buying food I am going to share with Rachel.  If I am buying for her alone, I just get the "Chicken Freshetta Paravolia on Nam bread with jigo berry sauce.  So I chose sweet Italian Sausage.

I took it home.  We cooked it.  Rachel took two bites and sadly said "This isn't hitting the spot".   Our  "Sweet Italian Sausage" Pizza had been cooked with Alfredo Sauce!  The horror!  Back into the car I dove, back to the store I drove, and back home I came with a meaty, cheese stuffed crust, Digioirno frozen pizza.  This is the kind of pizza made for those times when mother steps out of the house for a tea-party and dad is left with 2 or 3 kids between the ages of 5 and 12.  It's the kind of pizza you cook for watching movies when mommy does not want to watch because it's too stupid or violent or dumb.  Its a guy pizza, but it does have a red sauce!

Rachel loved it.  I guess that my little boy growing on the inside may have had something to do with that.  But I ended up being my sweethearts hero once again.  Yay Pizza!



 

The Short Walk, or, My sucessful fight against The American Way

Here in America, everyone drives everywhere. Every shop, or group of shops that is more than a road width apart has an enormous parking lot. You are not meant to walk from place to place, you are meant to walk from your car to the shop, then back to your car, then drive along to the next shop. Pavements are kept amazingly clean, but see very little use.

So when I walked from the store to the bank, (which was over two roads and along about half a mile of pedestrian 'sidewalk') I felt a sense of pride and achievement.  Other Americans may have looked down on me as they drove past in their air conditioned, leather interior, 12 mpg vehicles.  They may have wondered "Is his car broken, or is he just looking for the bus stop?"  They may have considered reporting me to the police for vagrancy, to the lunatic asylum for mental deficiencies.   Some of the kinder ones may have even thought of offering me a ride to my destination.

No matter what they thought, I carried on walking.  Hopefully they won't revoke my American citizenship for this.

Disconnected from Reality.

There is something strange that has happened to the human experience.  I noticed it the other day when a couple of my co-workers were discussing a TV show.  We had been working long hours due to the snow fall and consequentially some of the staff had missed an episode which contained some revelation about some character who did something... blahdeblah.  Who cares what happens to no-existent people?

Well, truth be told, everyone who watches the show did.  They were emotionally touched by what ever happened to whoever.  Their ire was raised.  Their thoughts were provoked.  Their anger was expressed.  And they wanted to share it with those who watched the same show.  The starting question was always the same though "Oh my goodness, did you see the episode last night?"  To say 'yes' was to be invited to join in the emotional conversation.  To say 'no' was to be asked to join in the emotional conversation without spoilers.

Now, this amount of emotional engagement is exactly what the makers of the show hope for.  It keeps the show in peoples hearts and minds, keeps the ratings high and the money flowing.  To achieve this level of engagement shows are scripted to appeal to viewers.  The producers set up their show to resonate with something that is naturally within humans; the ability to empathize with those around us.

This ability to empathize is something that has been put in us to improve humankind in general.  You will only help someone if you both know about their need and care enough to provide aid.  You can imagine yourself in a similar situation, waiting for some hero to rescue you.  And you become that hero!  In this way the world becomes full of heroes helping and being helped in their turn.  It seems to me to be one of the most powerful motivating factors in human relationships.

So the makers of these shows are taking that powerful motivating factor and using it to make money.  In doing so, I wonder how much damage they are doing to society.  We all have a certain emotional 'power bank'.  You have a certain amount of resources to draw on and when the limits are reached, there is no more empathy.  You don't care what happens to the other person because you are already drained by your emotional engagement with another person.  So you will not do anything to help.

So I have some questions about all of the emotional vitality that my co-workers were expressing on their TV show and its carefully designed characters and plots.  How much of an emotional withdrawal did that make from their bank?  How would that empathy have expressed itself otherwise?  And could all of that emotional energy have made a positive difference in the lives of people around them?

Those that write...

Those that can write, do.  Those that can't write critique. Or they would if they could actually think of that particular word.  Writing something that is easy to read is difficult.  I read the fanzine "the ugly inside", and while it is a totally worthwhile read, it isn't written brilliantly.  Those that can write brilliantly get jobs as journalists or novelists.

I like to write.  I like to make sentences flow together and I think (I think!) I am reasonably good at it.  Writing is about presentation, rhythm and choosing words that give an emotional content to your meaning.  Do you get what I mean?  Because some people don't.

Some people think that the phrase "icy snow" isn't a correct description of snow that has melted slightly and re-frozen.  They thing that it will confuse people that read an email sent out to customers - which email, I may add they would may never write.

Now, I'll be honest, I don't always write the perfect email.  I may disclose details about work that the bosses do not want the customer to know.  I may be honest about reasons for delay while the bosses would prefer to hid it.  Such things may be detrimental to the image of the company and I can accept guidance on these matters.  But "icy snow"?  Which brings me back to my original point.  Those that write do.

So I thought I should start writing again.

A zoo project

Today the kids and I went to the zoo.  We took three cameras and I gave them a project - to take three pictures, one of a water animal, one of a land animal and one of a flying animal.  Although we had to leave the zoo before we got photos of the flying animal, we had a good time and got the other two pictures.

At the Zoo Entrance - By Emma...

...and by Daddy

We started out on the Northern trail.  First stop was the otter pond.  Emma and Elisha both had otters as

their water animal.

Kids with Cameras

Emma's otter photo

Emma wrote a report which says:  "I'd love to tell you about the last time me, daddy and Elisha went to the zoo.  I took very good pictures.  I love them.  You would love them too.  P.S. The pictures I chose are soooo cute."

Elisha's otter photo

Elisha was using my large Olympus, as you can see.  He had a little trouble with the focus to start off with, and then the battery died (which was part of the reason we headed home without completing the project).  But even so, we agree this is a pretty cool underwater picture, even if it is a little out of focus.

The next stop on the northern trail was the brown bears.  Here is Emma taking some photos

Emma and the bear

The photo she took.

When we had finished there we carried on walking and taking photos.  Here is my land animal, a prairie dog in the snow:

Derek's land animal.

Elisha carried on taking pictures and enjoying himself.  He found the asian horses:

'Look, dad!"

And on reviewing all his pictures, this is the one he likes best for a land animal.

Elisha's land animal

His report reads:  My trip to the zoo.  Today I have just returned from the zoo.  There was lots to see there. We saw bear, pigs, fish, horses and much much more.  Me, dad and Emma took some photographs of the animals we saw there.  After this, we did some other things before coming home.  I chose these two pictures because I like them.

So that just leaves my water animal, which is a baby cuttlefish.  Oh, and my report - which you have just finished reading!

Dad's water beastie.