Breast is delicious

Paul, a sweet man, Irish I believe – which explains why he is sweet, of blackwatertown.wordpress.com has just given me most welcome way to let off steam. On breastfeeding in public. See him and my comment  there. Ignore the photo.

Paul, my anecdote as promised and to illustrate what I said over at yours:

Let’s call the Angel “Oscar” for purposes of protecting the innocent (he is 20 now):

It’s eight o’clock in the morning. My then three year old son walks into the bathroom whilst I was having a shower. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before; however, some Eureka moment was clearly hatching: ” What are those for, Mama?” Pointing at my breasts. Good question. What ARE they for? Number one parenting rule when it comes to questions: Never hesitate. Children need to feel secure in the knowledge that their parents are all knowing all powerfull gods they can rely on when falling on their face.

“Well, Oscar, they are for feeding babies.” Don’t laugh with derision: I was proud of my quick thinking.

“Yes, but Mama you don’t have any babies.” True. Brilliant. What’s he expecting: Now that he is done with that source of nourishment: For my breasts to drop off? First line of defence when asked any question: Be honest. “Quite true, Oscar. They are also for decoration.” Satisfied with that answer he happily stomped out of the bathroom. Be fair. You have to hand it to me: It was a bloody masterstroke. 10/10 for thinking at 8 in the morning.

U

Dead as a Dodo

Dearest sweetest Pies, there are times my heart goes out to the Consortium; not least today, the subject being: ANCHESTORY. Great. Yes, we all have one. THE END.

Since so far none of you have admitted to descending straight from the Borgias, direct line Lucrezia herself, may I congratulate all of you. May you yourself – one day – perch proudly and eminently on one of the branches of your family tree.

In the meantime – do feather your nests with sweet down.

Hugs and kisses,

U

Blooming stats

I am in agony. Whilst Saturday night’s world (my windows open) is partying away down the street spending the Gross Product of some god forsaken country in one night I have come to terrible conclusion: I do NOT spend enough attention to detail – other than when in editor mode when I will take everyone apart, even those who do not deserve it (say, gaelikaa).

Detail. Devil in. Awful. Just learnt that I am a boomer. Baby. Have no idea where that generation starts or ends (see above neglect of detail. Also too lazy to google). Most of you will be past it (other than gaelikaa who is probably trailing the tail end of being a baby boomer). The bad news is that, statistically, baby boomers only amount to bearing 1.2 children. A shocker if ever there was one. Author being American I can only assume he is talking home turf. Though in fairness to him a couple of decades ago Germany had the LOWEST birth rate in the WORLD, closely followed by Italy. If you make sense of the latter please do seek an audience with the Pope.

Do your own families’ statistics. If you need help I’ve got calculator at the ready. I do not know how to break this to my siblings. Since they are currently not on talking terms with me I won’t have to: My parents have four children who between them made them grandparents 11 times over. Eldest (that’s me) providing quality over quantity (Dearest nephews and nieces: Only joking): The ONE and only. Sister who from the age of twelve always wanted big family, neither did her imaginary birth control work – she justifies every single one of her children (even the ones conceived despite the pill, spiral inserted, anorexia, you name it – proof of mind over matter): FIVE.

Brother (David Beckham lookalike) and my dear sweet impish sister-in-law exercising some self control: TWO. Youngest sister, against all expectations: FOUR. She is supposed to be impractical, yet keeps massive household, husband, house, horse and her dayjob (teacher) under control. Hats off to her.

So that makes: No not eleven it’s 12. Unless I’ve lost count. Football team or something. For years I’ve always been under impression that we had a baker’s dozen (13) between us. That means that 12 divided by four (count me out, I don’t want to know) my parents’ children – on average – contributed 3 point zero kids per shot  to the world’s population. Will raise this at next family meeting.

U

The one and only

Just had a thought. Which is a pity. I wish thoughts had a little control over making themselves known. But, like the Catholic Church ca 1960, they [toughts that is] have no compunction about procreating like rabbits out of control. So you lose track of them. As I just have. Doesn’t matter.

If there is one thing I have to watch big time it’s writing intros to thoughts. By the time I’ve finished intro I haven’t got the faintest idea what the thought was I am introducing.

On a side note: What is sad about the Catholic Church, pro life, anti abortion and contraception is that few people consider that you can only give so many offspring all the love and attention any of us deserve. Which is why it pays to be a FIRST child or an only. I speak with expertise. Whilst the first fruit of your loins will bear brunt of undiluted attention (not for the faint hearted) she’ll also reap all the benefits none of your siblings ever will; neither will you ever know what people mean when they call you big headed. Even my mother once asked me where I take my ‘chutzpah’ from. Come again?

Naturally, since I manage to always have the best of all worlds, I am both (as defined by the imprecise science of psychology):  An only and a first. If you were an only for more than the first four or five years in your life (which I was) you will qualify as an only (in psychological make up); the only being compounded, grandised, by becoming an eldest. Shortly after your parents (mine that is) get married, in November, and years after being an only you find yourself an ’eldest’ . With all the hardship and heartache that entails at suddenly being lumbered with sisters and brother you grow to love to your detriment. (And I will admit to being overjoyed when my first sister was born; less so with my brother since he spoilt my nineth birthday. Will tell that story another time. Great guy. Have forgiven him.) Siblings: Talk about unpaid labour. My mother was shameless exploiting me that way. Grannymar will know what I am talking about. And not only peeling sacks of potatoes.

For years and years and years people kept wondering why I didn’t have children after point of marriage. Well. As far as I was concerned I had had my family (all three of them, didn’t I?) or so my reasoning went. To this day my mother and I, when talking about my siblings, will refer to them as “the kids”.  Which is all there is to know. So I had had “my” children early on, and enough of them, till biological instinct took over. Biggest, bestest joy of my life. Felix hung on in there against odds. Strong, healthy, on the upper centile.  Head screwed on. Heart in the right place. Of the most laid back temperament. Yet, I guess, you wouldn’t want to mess with the guy; other than at your peril.

Nineteen years later I still can’t believe my luck. Neither do I fathom why I omitted teaching him how to do the washing up. Recently I told him, and I will not forgive myself for this, one of the shittiest remarks you can make as a parent, that this abode is not a five star hotel with room service thrown in for good measure. Five? Make that six.

So I am Only, and I am an Eldest. What do you expect of me. Charity?

U

Fast forward

THOUGH SHALT NOT GOOGLE YOURSELF or the wrath of a telephone directory will be upon you.

There are three entries in “192″ as to my name: All the people, apart from one, I am supposed to have shared the same roof with are unknown to me. Just saying …

However, my move to Southampton has aged me considerably: According to the electoral roll they use to garner their misleading info I fall into the 65+ age group. Which doesn’t matter, except that I can not allow my father’s reputation to be smeared: He did NOT father a child at age 8 (he is now 73).  And my poor mother was 22 when I was born. What would that make her? Thus reputations are trashed.

U

Sidetracked

You know you are heading the wrong way when first thing you wake up (say 0530 GMT), after having attended to abolutions (is that how you spell brushing your teeth, having a shower etc.? Doesn’t seem to figure in the Paperback version of the Oxford dictionary – that’s English for you: For all you know you might be on the wrong page) you head for Ramana’s blog. He recommends a book recommended to him by Jean. You then find yourself reading forgettable reviews on Amazon. Now when I say “first thing” I do not wish to give Ramana a position in my life above his station. It’s just that he is reliable and with time zones in my mind I know he has been up and running for a while before I’ve towled my hair. I also know that Jean and BHB – though will have to verify this on my world map – are now getting ready for land of snooze. It really is all a bit much to keep track of.

Obviously Daphne is just round the corner, so I don’t need to bend my brain there. The one person timeless to me is – who else – Conrad. Con is the joker in my pack. His card either falls on the floor – unnoticed and searched for – or he pops up at the wrong moment. Try playing poker with no joker.

Not that I play poker. Since – as often observed by those who love and detest me – my face is a dead give away (I light up at a full house and look down in the mouth when I can’t work out what hand exactly I am holding) poker is not the game for me. You need to be poker faced to play poker. I bet Jean makes a good poker player if she were so inclined. Daphne – I don’t know. He might lead you up a gently winding path to surprise you. BHB is hopeless – as a poker player. Even worse than me. I don’t need to consider GM’s abilities in that sphere since she wouldn’t cut a pack with me anyway. Ashok, with a little discipline, will be an excellent poker player – as befits lawyers. Ramana is too kind to even entertain such diversion. Hope he’ll tell me otherwise. Looney – difficult. Have to reflect on him. Though have feeling he has a grip on his emotions. Which is all you need – apart from a pack of cards

Yes, sidetracked. Thanks for doing that which doesn’t come easy to me (inserting links), BHB. I do get sidetracked all the time. In fact it’s quite awful how many promises I make which I can’t follow through. I am basically all over the place. The sofa which I have now been marooned on for months and surroundings speak for themselves. I wake up in a sea of print, open books, loose pages of the Paperback Oxford English flying around, the phone running on empty batteries, and – worst case scenario – my son looking at me: “Are you alright, Mama?” Or offering me a slice of pizza.

Talking about spelling – and Daphne might be sympathetic: When FOS (father of son) and I decided to call it a day – and we both have stamina – he didn’t just give me a wormery. He actually – since I had the car that day – lugged home “The New Shorter Oxford”, Two Volumes, my birthday present. According to my kitchen scales have just verified each volume weighs at least 3 kgs. My scales will not stretch further than 3 kilos. So can’t be sure. At least that got me off the sofa.

U

14 Feb

Dearest sweetest Hearts,

Today is that day when we melt. Prescribed by the innoncent Saint Valentine. If he had known what legacy he’d leave to the greeting cards industry he’d had his name changed. Alas, we are victims of circumstance.

So, Happy Valentine to all you lost, found, lonely and celebrating hearts. Can I please have some browny points and/or a star in my booklet for good behaviour? Just wrote and then DELETED ghastly comment on GM and her red hot toyboys. I was kind to Con. Still, one cannot not be too careful so deleted him as well.

Other than that I clasp Daphne to my bosom. Closely followed by Looney, Jean and BHB. Hope my arm will stretch far enough to encircle Ramana’ s considerable waist. Ashok, like a monkey, may sit on my shoulder. Try and keep a balance, Ashok. Nick – well, for the moment I’ll keep him at arm’s length. Though he does have redeeming factors. gaelikaa – dear to my heart – is too far away. So that’s me flattened by Valentine. All I need now is a bottle of Dolce & Gabbana.

As you know, and veering off the heart for a moment, my sisters (and my brother) are given to naming their children at length. Apart from the Italians I can count a Sebastian and a Christopher amongst my nephews, and a Konstantin (yes, really). Julius had to make do with just six letters as did Chiara.  And then there is Valentin. Valentin is my youngest nephew. My youngest sister’s youngest son. The story how he came about is long, though not tedious. My mother assisted the birth. He is now, I don’t know, let’s say six or seven. How do people arrive at names? Why would you call your son Valentin? We never discuss names in the wider family now. Not since my father escaped near heart attack at one of his grandsons being christened ‘Benito’.  And before you Americans and English say anything: He is not shortened to Ben. In my country of origin we do not shorten. He is Benito. Basta. Hope my sisters won’t google anything that could lead them to me. I am dead to them already. But I’d be even deader. And never be deceived: Like gaelikaa, my youngest sister Cornelia looks like butter would most definitely melt in her sweet mouth. She is tough. Can’t believe it. Remembering that sweet little girl in my care.

Yes, so that’s Valentine. Don’t drop tears into your sushi tonight.

U

Tonight Josephine

Gay acquaintance of gay friend (son has had with me and my grief over gay friend big time – he refuses to enter that discussion) is given to doing ‘vignettes’ on his blog. This is what gays do after they have tiedied the place, cooked you dinner, wiped your brow and fallen asleep over their freshly shaken Martini (one olive): Write vignettes. Usually on a Friday which is convenient for me since it reminds me of the Consortium.

Vignettes are stylish. And gay guys – on the whole – are stylish. I had to delete some of what I just wrote after my last sentence. Gays are sensitive. As an aside: It’s awful – considering state of my hand – how much I write and then delete. Such a waste.  Anyway I can do vignettes too even when my credentials are not gay. Oddly, and I reflect on this rarely,  Lesbians never make a pass at me. Maybe I frighten them. Maybe they think I was a MAN in a previous life. Or maybe they are just kind and recognize that a Lesbian making a pass at me would startle me.

Odder, and this might be of interest to Jean and Ramana, I had my cards (Tarrot) read in the foolish days before concentrating on being a mother. On recommendation of whacky friend (what do you expect of someone called Fiona working in financial services BEFORE the whole pension disaster blew up) I visited this woman. She was old then. Probably dead now. According to her I was a MAN in my previous life. English. Living in London. Spending my nights writing.  Working in some dour job during the day (that’s Kafka), but enjoying ballet and the arts in general. (I guess I did not have a housekeeper).

The woman was amazing. She knew things about me no one could have known. She had me right there and then when she named the YEAR my grandmother (most important woman in my life) had died. No one knows when my grandmother died (other than me and her children). So, yes, spooky. No matter. I am not sceptical. I trust. Life comes in my stride. And if someone knows when my grandmother died I will take them by their word. But, and some of you who have pondered on the subject of REINCARNATION, what is it to me that I was once a man (for all I know with a starving cat) spending his spare cash on the theatre and going to see the ballet?

Nothing. Because I can’t remember.

U

The three pees

I don’t know what is going on my inbox but it’s different. Participants who shall remain unnamed appear to have gotten themselves and elastic of their knickers into knots on finer details of the English language. That’s why it pays to be French. The French don’t give a toss that the English language is the most widely spoken in the world. And the only prepositions they care about are their own. That is the reason you will end your evening starving if you can’t even cobble enough French together to order fish and chips and a warm beer. On precuring zee key sil vous plait at la reception you may count yourself lucky to find the name of a foreign language teacher underneath the pillow of your bed.

Come to think of it I wonder how it’s possible for the French and Italians to share a border without world war IIIhundred being fought on a permanent basis. The Spanish had presence of mind to make their country large AND have the Pyrenees installed and Franco in place before opening their borders. As an aside: Obviously no one, of sound mind in a German speaking country, will name their child Adolf ; my poor father was aghast and hyperventilating when one of my sisters announced birth of  her no 3 son as Benito (that’s Mussolini for those who slept through their European history lessons). Let’s just say that it caused some crisis in the family which is nothing unsual. We do crisis very well; though appear to have lost our touch recently. Telephone wires ran hot over Benito (I think his middle name is Battista) till my mother  pointed out ( see above) that few people in the world will remember Mussolini’s first name. You have to hand it to the woman: That was  a master stroke. Tempers died down. The issue was diffused. Benito is now nearly nineteen and, to my knowledge, no one does know that Benito was Mussolini’s first name. So our family can all go to our graves in peace knowing there is no one the wiser as to our shame.

It doesn’t end there – how did I get onto names? No 2 of her sons was  named Leone. Which, like in Sweden, causes problems at the place where you register a birth. Leone is deemed to be femine which my sister, rightly, argued as ridiculous since Italians do call their men Andrea and we even have our own Rainer MARIA Ruelke. Except she does not live in Italy and anyway one does not mess with bureaucracy or Bureau CRAZY will mess with you. So Leone needed a second name to identify him as the male he was and still is. Don’t say his parents don’t have sense of humour  (my sister doesn’t); so, under duress, they decided on Ike. I am so lucky that I wasn’t made godmother to Leone. IKE? Can you imagine me standing there in front of the priest at the font  ”And I herewith christen you Leone Ike …”

By the way, BHB, like your first son, Leone too was born on a 11 September. That comes from your parents calling you Leone.

Am godmother to his brother Lorenzo. Was so hungover from night before - I prayed, literally, for my brain shrunken to size of a walnut to keep itself together long enough not to embarass friends, foe and family during the church service. It’s amazing: I looked at photos the other day and you would not believe – looking at me – that I was under duress. Neither does my memory stretch far enough to remember Lorenzo’s middle name. Who needs middle names anyway?

So by dint of one my sisters’ fancies four of her five children have distinctly Italian names. Which is tiring for them since, naturally, people will ask what the Italian connection is. None. That’s what. And there won’t be a Michelangelo. The days when I’d ask my mother on the phone, with trepidation: “Any news?” and she’d say “No, no one is pregnant” are over. Though I suppose various snips could be reversed.

U