Doesn’t this look like an inviting space to bring a child home to?  Or even to bring your mother home to?  Here is what her bed looks like.

The culprit is our kitchen, which was totally hip/cool fun looking and completely and utterly useless.  It didn’t have any drawers!  The fridge and freezer were tiny!!  There was no storage, and definitely no working space.  So we had to change it.  You know, because we have money burning in our pockets and plenty of time before the baby.  The irrational decisions we make.

Pedram, who is definitely the “nester” between us, somehow pulled together a contractor and redesigned the kitchen himself.  Which is hard, considering that we don’t have a car and all of the kitchen places are about an hour away and bringing home huge samples of tile on the bus is a great way to hurt your back before having a baby exercise.  He occasionally asked me questions, but then would see the blank look on my face and decided to continue this journey alone.

You would think that with my own father in construction, I would have a clue about the type of disruption that would occur.  But no, I thought I could just hide in my room and study like crazy while they did the kitchen.  I have two papers and a dissertation to get done, and I would like to get as much completely as possible before mid-June.

Mahsa:  I am going to write two papers in two days!

Contractor:  There will be minimal disruption.  No worries.

Mahsa’s brain: Ummmm…which button is the on switch?  Let’s youtube videos of animals and cry instead.

The very first day, when I sat down to unleash my genius, I realized that minimal disruption means sporatic electricity, no heat, and no plumbing.  Very very pregnant woman cannot go pee in her own house?  That is no good.

Mahsa’s bladder:  I know you think you shouldn’t have to pee because you haven’t had any water all day, but I stored some up from a week ago, and you really really need to pee…right now.  And again in 3 minutes.

Fun times.  Meanwhile, Rusby, who has never been allowed in our bedroom before, was forced to take up residence there because there is no other place in apartment to put down his bed.  The plumber, painter, tile guy etc loved him, because he is the best dog ever, and on top of that, he had access to our bedroom, with its plush carpeting and sunlight.

Rusby:  No more rules!  Life is good!

Unfortunately for him, all of the baby stuff arrived at the same time, and his ample kingdom was crammed with baby junk, and I am pretty sure that out of annoyance he went ahead and peed on everything.  And we probably deserved it.

So, what to do when brain is no-more-working and apartment is pee-ridden mess?  Go to Brussels of course!

We hopped on the fast train to get the hell out of claustrophobia land into the land of chocolate.  I got my haircut, we put on some cute outfits and went to Bahija’s wedding, which was wonderful in every way possible.  Reuniting with friends, laughing, and good lord the dessert buffet.  The DESSERT BUFFET is one thing that I think Belgians do better than anyone else in the world.  Nom nom nom.  More please, cause its a buffet.

It is always nice to go back to Brussels and to catch up with friends and eat some of our favorite foods and reconnect with our old home.  We spent some time in cabs and talked to people about how the city has changed and all the conveniences and inconveniences the changes have brought with it, and realized that our time there was very special and unique, like a snapshot of time, a photograph that can’t be replicated.  I mentioned to the group of friends how they have all changed so much, just like the city itself, and they accused me of the same, rubbing my enormous belly while labeling them as different.  Sighhhh…c’est vrai.

We even walked by Barnaby’s old apartment and I didn’t overreact or anything.  It was just an acknowledgement, followed by Pedram saying something like, “yeah, he was missed this weekend”, and that was it.

And then we came back to our current reality, which is not frites and gaufres and cobblestone streets, but dust and dirt and lots of moving stuff around.  The good news is, the kitchen is practically done.

And it looks amazing.  Hopefully it will be completely done before the little one arrives, but more importantly, before my mom arrives, cause I am pretty sure she will use it more than the baby.

The bad news is, the brain is still on hiatus.  Potentially still in Brussels.

Pedram and Lucy, however, have a bond that I don’t seem to have yet with her.  Eventhough they have only met once, they immediately hugged when seeing each other, which made me realize that maybe I should be hugging my doula.  So then I went to hug her, but it was a little awkward.

In the meeting, it was even more clear that I am the third wheel in this team.  They both pulled out their notebooks, she drawing diagrams, Pedram taking fast notes, and me wondering how many cookies I could eat without them noticing.  They chatted about the birth like two good friends, giggling with excitement, discussing hospitals and options and how cute the baby would be, etc.  And when they asked my opinion, I told them I felt like we were discussing another person, not me.  And they patted my hand in reassurance and continued with their plotting.

Don’t get me wrong, I am so happy that they get along so well.  They are indeed, my team, and I am really lucky that I will have both of them eagerly involved in the labor process.  Lucy has been amazing at presenting the entire process in a way that makes it seem manageable, not frightening.  But sometimes I feel a little out of the loop.

Perhaps it would help if I related it to a story, like Lord of the Rings.  (Pedram has never seen the movie or read the book – shock!).

I am totally Frodo Baggins, poor hapless little hobbit who somehow ends up with the ring.  The ring is the baby, which possesses great power.  It is lovely and perfect and I am carrying it toward the mission to drop it off at Mordor (clearly I am not planning on destroying my baby — don’t think about the end of the mission).

Pedram is totally Smeagol.  He is totally into the ring/baby, and is willing to help me through Middle Earth and all that, but has been completely transformed by the ring/baby, and once I delivery, will be reunited with ‘the precious’.

My Precious!

Perhaps that is not fair, as Pedram is much sweeter than Smeagol/Gollum.  Lets just say that he is the rest of the hobbits, and I am very very affectionate towards him.

I loves him.

Lucy is kinda like Gandalf, she will be guiding us and helping us out, and is more removed from ‘the precious’.  Plus, she has luxurious silky hair, just like Gandalf.  She’ll come and save the day like Gandalf did when the elves and everyone were getting their butts kicked by the Orcs.  And then there Aragorn, who is the king, and we’ll just say that is all the pain relief options available to me.

And so that is my team.  I am Frodo, a little naive about what is going on, but carrying the ring, hoping to make it to the other side with the help of my friends/Gandalf/Aragorn.  My mom will also hopefully be present, but it was decided last night that it might be best to put her in a different room and maybe drug her until the war/birth is over.

I do feel good about this, knowing that it will be a tough, but I am not alone.  I am reaching the stage in pregnancy where I do really need to start thinking about this, and yet I can’t seem to get my mind around it.  I can’t seem to visualize it, you know?  Someone else, perhaps, but I need to come to terms somehow, over the next two months, that the person that Lucy and Pedram are talking about, it is me.  I will be the person…you know…doing that…

Lord help us.

I didn’t do any reading about the healthcare system in the UK before this appointment, and since I was in denial about the whole pregnancy, I just figured it would be similar to Belgium, Luxembourg or Canada and nothing like the US.  Meaning it would be free, I would probably have to wait a bit longer, there would be more paperwork, etc.  And that the quality of care would be less, cause paying for care = better care, therefore free healthcare = not as good.  USA for the win!

So, back to last November.  We walked up to the GP office, and he told us we needed to see a midwife.  Which was fine by me, but I was curious when I would see a medical doctor.  And he told me…never.  The British system is much different than in Canada, or Belgium, or the US.  Basically, I never see a doctor, only midwives, who have more specialized training than midwives elsewhere.  Unless you have a special issue, pregnancy is only ‘treated’ by midwives.  The approach to pregnancy and labor is refreshingly different here — it is not seen as a medical condition, but rather as a natural development with support to guide you through it.  The pregnant woman is not considered ‘sick’ in any way, she is going through a process (like growing teeth!) and will have people available to make sure she goes through it safely.  I really really liked that assessment of pre-natal care.  It was comforting to hear pregnancy presented this way, and I felt confident with the midwife level of support, and knowing that if I needed it, I could get additional medical care.  I’ve heard about midwives from friends and imagined alot of womanly support and understanding, which sounded excellent.

After all that reassurance, we made an appointment with the midwife and showed up to a children’s school, rather than a clinic.  That should have been my first clue that things were different.  I entered the room, and promptly started looking for a place to take off my pants.  Cause that is how things usually go.  But the midwife had me sit down, and looking around, I noticed that there are no medical equipment around.  We talked for 15 minutes, and then she sent us home.  This is how all my appointments have been — quick and conversational.

I never took off my pants.  In fact, throughout this pregnancy, I have never taken off my pants.  Other than occasionally peeing on a stick or taking my blood pressure, there is no other medical assessment.  There has been no cervical examination or any probing.  No one confirmed my pregnancy with a urine test or blood test or ultrasound.  No one has weighed me to see how much weight I am putting on. In my third trimester now, I have no idea what the position of my baby is, how big it might be.  No one has talked to me about swollen ankles, bloating, hormonal changes, diet, pre-eclampsia or its symptoms, or any other related pregnancy issues.

The midwife goes through her checklist of questions, writes some notes down, and then asks if we have any questions.  We stump our midwife with our questions everytime we visit — they are constantly asking us why we are interested in specific things.  They are perplexed at Pedram’s presence (most women come alone).  They ask Pedram if he is a scientist because of his questions.

There are many many questions they cannot answer, and instead they constantly try to reassure me that things will be fine.  But I am not asking because I am nervous or worried, I am asking because I am curious.  And would like to know.

When I ask:  ”should I be careful of what I eat?”,

She responded: “limit alcohol consumption to two units a week.  stay away from soft cheeses and raw eggs. Don’t worry about it, your baby is resilient.”

When I ask:  ”should I take any vitamins?”

She responded: “there is no need to if you are healthy.  Don’t worry about it, your baby will get its nutrients”

When I ask: “should I be careful about exercise?  The way I sleep?  The pain I feel here and here?”

Always: “don’t worry about it”

I completely understand the approach here — it is very laid back, very calm and reassuring and don’t worry, this is all natural, everything will be fine, etc.  But I quickly found out I don’t work well this way.  I work best when given all the information I need, especially from a professional in the field.  One who makes me feel confident about the process and the research.  One who will quote medical studies and explain to me exactly why folic acid is important for development, where I can get some from plants, and whether or not it makes sense to supplement with a vitamin.

For example, no one has talked to me about the birth process.  When I ask about it, they say “don’t worry, you have time.  Don’t even think about it, it will all be fine.  You will have a lovely baby”.  But that is not my worry.  I am curious about the process and the system.  And I have been told repeatedly not to worry about it.  At the same time, they ask me which hospital I would like to deliver at.  And when I ask the difference between the hospitals, I was told that they are the exact same.  Which is not true.  One has a neo-natal unit, one does not.  To me, that is a big difference.  To them, the fact that I think about this is a form of paranoia.

More than once Pedram has turned to me after an appointment and said, “wow, that was completely useless.”

In my first appointment, I made it clear that I had anxiety issues.  I was told this is common.  In my second appointment, I tried to explain how I am positive about a blood test, so it might not be necessary for me.  The midwife was perplexed, annoyed and dismissive.

I have been reading tons of literature — much of it focusing on how wrong the US process is — pregnancy is seen as a medical procedure, women have no choice, it is a business, etc.  And in alot of ways, the UK process is much better.  But I don’t feel like I am given much information and empowerment.  I feel almost pushed in the opposite direction, that pregnancy is completely natural and instinctive and that I don’t need to know more than that.  But I like medicine and science, and am aware that there are many complications involved in pregnancy, so why should it be so hard for me to learn as much as I would like about it?

Women can die due to complications in pregnancy.  Babies can die.  It is a reality, maybe not as evident in first world countries, but there are reasons for that.  Shouldn’t we know them?

Pregnancy has left me isolated as a woman — I can’t help but think how different everything would be if men had to be pregnant.  There is such peer pressure for women to prove themselves during pregnancy and labor — to show they can do it naturally, or that they don’t need medication.  Those who have elective c-sections are shamed by those who don’t, and vice versa.  To what extent will women go to in order to show they are in touch with their maternal side?  I support any woman’s quest to give birth however she wants, given of course, that she feels inspired and confident in her choice.  Not bullied.  This is not always apparent to me.  And in this way, the US systems and the UK system are painfully similar.

I do have anxiety issues, and the more control and information I have, the calmer I am — telling someone who has repeatedly mentioned her anxiety “don’t worry about it”, does not help.  I have actually had some face time with an obstetrician — once at a private ultrasound that Pedram and I paid for (he was out of town when the public one was scheduled, and I was freaking out going by myself, so we purchased one — which ended up paying for itself in advice).  That doctor gave us plenty of information, and patiently listened to our concerns, and most importantly, explained to us the answers of our questions.  He encouraged us to take pre-natal classes to help with my nerves, told us the differences between the hospitals in Brighton and was very reassuring.

The second time was while I was in LA, I tagged along for my sister’s post-op appointment, and actually scored another ultrasound and some quality time with a doctor.  Who, explained to me in detail about the difference in having a two vessel cord vs. a three vessel cord.  A question my midwife told me I shouldn’t worry about.

I should make it clear that ‘my’ midwife is a loose term, as I have seen more than 5 different midwives.  They are interchangeable, some more pleasant than others, but all have tried to reassure me by being incredibly short with me.  It is not at all the type of feminine care I was expecting, it is someone who is checking off a list each time I see her, and not making an effort beyond that.  I have been told that the midwives in Brighton are some of the best in England, and that their hands are tied by the National Health System in Britain.  Sadly, the NHS is currently cutting costs as a part of the country’s larger austerity measures, and in alot of ways, care is not improving for women, especially in their options.  Birth centers are being closed, and midwives are being overworked.

I am demanding, and I must be the most annoying patient ever.  But I feel like I have to be persistent in order to get a full picture of this process.  And why should I be apologetic about that?  It is my right.

There is a fourth-time pregnant mom in my yoga class, and I envy the amount of confidence and peacefulness she exudes — she is a resource of knowledge and understanding about all of the anxieties of a first-time mom.  She helped me acknowledge that there is a definite feeling of vulnerability as a pregnant women, which is not always calmed by ‘motherly intuition’ or’googling symptoms at 2am’.  She reassured that she felt many of the same feeling I have when she was pregnant the first time, including a disconnect from the midwives.  And although I appreciate the midwivery system of maternal healthcare here and their approach towards a pregnant woman, I don’t always feel supported.

Sadly, I would imagine that other women around the world may feel the same way.

He was just chilling there, soaking up some sun and enjoying the freshly cut grass.  I ran around the house, trying to find my camera, or my phone, or something to document it.  And Rusby, sensing there was something outside that had my attention, immediately started pacing in front of the door and barked a few times.  

But the fox, he didn’t care.  He just lounged for a little bit, taking some time to scratch himself.

I have seen foxes in the streets here before, and even in London.  They are, for the most part, pretty human shy and make themselves scarce whenever we are around.  And they really only come out at night.  But this one gave me about 10 minutes of viewing time in daylight.

I imagine my excitement is similar to how Pedram would feel to see a raccoon in Seattle — everyone there considers them pests, but they are still a novelty for him.  And I know Brightoners don’t always love foxes, but I found this one fascinating.  Look!  He does downward dog!!

Check out that tail!  I called my dad to tell him, and at first he thought perhaps I had seen a large cat.  But then I sent him a picture, and he called back to say that maybe this fox was sick, which is why it was so bold to be in our yard in the middle of the day.  But a little bit of internet research reassured me that he was okay.  

And I wasn’t going to disturb him, as he wasn’t doing anything suspicious or disturbing anything.  I just watched him do his thing for a few minutes, and then he yawned and was on his way.

It is sometimes hard to find nature here.  Real, unbridled nature, other than the sea.  There are some birds, but the seagulls seem like they have completely evolved to be a humanized species.  A professional gardener came by and told us that half of the plants in our yard are from New Zealand.  All the plants and trees are planted.  Everything seems adapted from its origins to fulfill some sort of human purpose.  And perhaps foxes in England are like raccoons in Seattle, they love the urban centers because we leave garbage for them neatly in bags on the street.  

But this one reminded me of the many documentaries I have seen about foxes on the National Geographic channel.  It is still somehow wild and instinctual, even in my backyard.

Anywho, yesterday we were roaming in the cool, hipper area of town and reflecting if we made the right choice.  And after a walk around the block, followed by the worst restaurant experience ever, and remembering the horrible carpeted bathroom (gross!) we were so excited to get back to our neck of the woods.

If anyone asks me when to visit Europe, I always say April and October, when the tourists are at bay and you seriously have a better chance of getting decent weather.  Point in case, I moved to Brighton in August but did not go swimming in the sea until October.  And although I haven’t been in yet this year, Rusby has already taken a few dips in the water.

All of our gardening is done, we have outdoor furniture, and it is warm.  I am even studying in the sun.

Come now.  Bring a swimsuit if you are daring.

“No problem,” replies the midwife.  She takes my blood while telling me stories.  I focus on breathing.

It is over.  She immediately loads up the shot, and approaches me.  I stand, instantly freaking out.  I am embarrassed, but I can’t help it.  I see the needle.  I can’t bring myself to sit down.  I walk around the room.  I try to calm myself down.

“I am sorry, I’ve always been like this,” I say, pacing.

“It is probably the fear of having British blood injected,” I try to joke.

“You’re going to be a mom now.  You can’t be a baby when you are having a baby,” she replies.

****

After a rough night of baby kicking, I wake up to sunshine and feel refreshed.  I say my prayers, and feeling inspired, decide to sing to the baby, who is calm for what feels like the first time in 12 hours.

One line in, I get a swift kick to the diaphragm, taking all the air out of my lungs and making me hunch over.

“Sorry little one.  Your mom’s singing voice is not that great.”

****

I snag a handicap seat on the bus, next to an elderly lady.  Immediately, her hands are all over my stomach.

“You are going to have a girl,” she tells me confidently.  She has had 5 children, three girls, two boys.

“Really?” I say excitedly.  ”You are the first person to tell me this!”

“Don’t worry,” she replies.  ”The next one will be a boy.”

****

I listen to the life story of another recent British immigrant, a young Romanian lawyer who is currently working 3 different cleaning jobs in Brighton.  I tell her I feel fortunate for all my blessings, eventhough I am going to raise a child so far away from my family.  She starts crying.

“I am so sorry for you, having a baby so far away from your mother and grandmother,” she tells me.

I try to comfort her.  ”Honestly, I am okay.  I am really really okay.”

****

A little girl runs up to Rusby in the park, asking if she can throw his ball for him.  I chat with her father, who tells me they are from London, and he pulled her out of school today so they could enjoy the good weather at the beach.

“She told me yesterday that she was the stupidest and ugliest girl in her class,” he tells me.  ”Those words literally broke my heart.  My boyfriend and I don’t know why she thinks this.”

“Girls,” he sighs, “they are so different, and I want to make sure we are doing things right.  We never had this issue with her older  brother.  I thought I would spend a day with her and let her know that she is the most beautiful, most capable person in the world.”

I burst into tears.  ”She is so lucky.  So lucky to have parents that care so much about her.  Don’t worry, as long as you are supportive, she will be fine,” I sniffle.

I lean back, showing my belly, to let him know that I am in the same boat.  I also fear failure as a parent.  He sucks in air through his teeth.

“I am so not ready for her to have her period,” he says, staring at my stomach.  We both laugh.

****

I tell the elderly lady that I am getting off at the next stop.  She looks into my eyes for a long time.

“It feels like just yesterday I was pregnant.  It has all passed so quickly.  I remember it so well.”

I say goodbye.  She implores me, “Enjoy every minute of it.”

I am trying.  I really am trying.

Although the ones right outside Pedram’s parent’s place, they were cute.

2 – It is sunny!  People are wearing dresses!  I even shed my enormous coat and my big boots and showed off my belly.  My hope is that maybe, perhaps, now people will actually get up and give me their seat on the bus.  Not just the old chivilarous men and the handicapped elderly, but the able-bodied teens who could STOP TEXTING for one second and offer up the space to someone who needs it more.  Seriously.  I am taking photos of your laziness.  Shame.

3 – After only craving sour things, I’ve made brownies and cookies and biscotti this week.  And I somehow came across this Paula Deen recipe – holy cow, if I ever wanted to kill someone, this is how I would do it. Forget the dozen Krispy Kreme donuts as the base, skip straight to the stick of butter and one pound of sugar for the glaze to get the heart attack on track.  But there is also this one — a burger, topped with bacon, fried egg, and instead of buns, use donuts.

4 – Rusby and I now have the same sense of hearing and smell.  Which means we perk up whenever someone is near the door or anyone in the neighborhood is bbqing long before Pedram knows about it.  I feel like a superhero.  If only I could stop smelling all the things that make me want to gag.

5 – I know I haven’t written much about England and the lifestyle living here, but I feel the need to explain one thing that I never really anticipated living so close to the sea.  I was so excited to be by the water!  I was so delighted to smell the salt from our home!  Until…Seagulls.  They are maybe the most annoying birds in the world.

I am beginning to feel like I don’t like any birds.  The feeling might be mutual, as I have been pooped on twice already.  But the racket that comes from these crazy seagulls is absolutely horrible. “aark aark aark”, “he he he he”, “ahh! ah ahh ahh ahh ahh” they scream.  The cacophony begins at 5am.  The pigeons aren’t much better, neither with sound or their poop.  But the seagulls and I — I believe — we will never be friends.  Especially not in the springtime.

6 – On the other hand, tulips in the spring time.  So much sun in our house.  Come visit!

7 – This Sunday, while I made pancakes, Pedram played an old album that he brought back from Luxembourg.  It was Serge Gainsbourg, who I usually find delightful, but this entire album to me was….hilarious.  Like, really?  Did this really happen?  Perhaps in the 60s, but how is it possible to listen to it today and not die of laughter?  It is ridiculously cheesy.  Here is a little taste — an adorable treat called “Mambo, miam miam”

The best part was how hard Pedram tried to convince me that these songs are as good now as they were back then.  Including the one where he sings about his trip to New York City, and then lists off all the buildings in the city.  I. About. Died. of Laughter.  The music, the genre, the feeling, the beat, it is all from another generation, I don’t care how many French people still listen to it.

8 – I feel the need to make this list go to 10.  What does that say about me?  Is it only because it is paper-writing time and I am procrastinating?

9 – The “oh my goodness! there will be a child in our future” moment hasn’t hit this household, eventhough Pedram’s mom bought us a ton of baby clothes.  Which she washed and folded and I brought back with me and put immediately away to not be reminded that we need to buy a whole lot of other things.  Like beds and strollers and bottles (and a place for the clothes!  as opposed to under a towel hidden from view).  Instead, we bought a BBQ and outdoor furniture and I am shopping like crazy for a hammock.  Priorities.

10 – Pedram is currently away at a conference, giving a lecture on the perils of the planet or something.  But he got sick and currently doesn’t have a voice, so I am not sure exactly how he will do it.  Maybe he can mime the woes of land-use/land-cover change and climate?  Or put on a little Gainsbourg and do a dance for the crowd?  Because it is SOOOO relevant….

Last weekend, Pedram and I went to visit friends in Lyon, France.  Justine and Mathieu had recently moved there (Chambery to be precise) from Montreal, where we had all been neighbors.  It was good to reconnect with them.  I also reconnected with my long lost buddy, their son, Inaki.  Here we are in Montreal back in May 2011

And here we are in March 2012.

If Pedram didn’t have one on the way, he probably would have stolen this one.

You’ve probably heard how French people do everything better, right?  There is a huge American boom about writing in detail how the French manage to do all the things Americans long to do, but with their great snobby I-don’t-really-care attitude and their well, frenchiness.  This past weekend I witnessed it all with my own eyes, and I can tell you — it is all true.

French women do eat everything and do not get fat (like the book). Justine is skinnier than I have ever seen her, including her pre-baby days.  Her secret?  French cuisine.  The girl eats bread, cheese, croissants, coffee, decadent and hearty meals, crepes, galettes, mousse, tartiflette, etc, etc.  And she is tiny.  I, on the other hand, gained considerable weight on that same diet over 4 days.  In fact, that weekend, I “popped”, meaning my baby is like me and probably doubled its size during the weekend.

And did you read all the hype about how French parents are better?  It is true.  They are not afraid to tell their kid “non!”, and then the kid listens.  And is respectful, and obedient.  And well mannered and behaved.  At the ripe age of 1, they learn to greet people when they first see them.  We would go to restaurants and I would observe the children there — they do not negotiate with their parents, they do not throw food, they do not complain about what they are offered, they act like adults.  French adults, which means they can turn up their nose to poorly cooked meal, or anything American, cause they believe they are superior to everyone else.  Vive la republique!

Lyon is the capital of food in the country that is the world capital of food, and to say that I learned a bit about food over the weekend is like saying I knew what it was like to be pregnant before I ever was.  The food culture there is superior — there is such pride and dedication to make an effort to reinvent meals, use premium quality products, and offer the best culinary experience possible.  On our first day, we went to the market, where we had a 20 minute discussion with the cheese monger about local cheese.  And I sampled cheeses so stinky and wonderful that one actually turned my tongue numb.  And it was fantastic.  In the words of Justine — “you can tell it is good because you can feel your heart beating in your gums”.  If you don’t eat anything in your lifetime that fits that description, then you haven’t lived.

Pedram was dying with giddiness the whole weekend.  It made me realize how much he misses continental Europe — his comments were consistently about how classy the people were, how comfortable the pace of life is, and how wonderful it is to get fresh bread.  Every day.  And not from a special baker, but any boulangerie.  Because they are all good.  And we don’t need to buy extra for tomorrow, because tomorrow we will go back to the corner boulangerie and buy fresh baguettes.  Every day.  A la francaise.

Food, companionship, adorable french babies, smelly cheeses and baguettes aside, the highlight was probably a quick excursion to French Alps, where we all relaxed and enjoyed France’s natural beauty, soaking in the sun and snow and the wonderful homemade jams from Justine’s mom, along with the fresh bread that we got that morning.  Cause you know, France.

Me:  Ugh…I have some back pain.  I wish I could sleep better.

Supermom #1:  Yeah, it only gets worse.  You are going to be enormous.  Huge.  You are still tiny.  Your spine will twist and contort into painful manuvers that will make you shriek in pain.  I hated being pregnant.  The last three months were so horrible.  Plus, the first three months were the worst.  So you are currently in the best place, enjoy it.  Really really ENJOY IT!  You must ENJOY it!

Also, forget sleep.  You will never sleep again.  Ever.  So ENJOY IT NOW!  Are you not enjoying it yet?

Me:  Labor sounds kinda scary, no?  Is there any way to be completely unconscious for it?

Supermom #2:  Don’t worry, it will be fine!!  Although hopefully you won’t have an experience like me — 52 hours of back labor and a 10 pound baby?  I wish I had a c-section, I couldn’t sit for weeks afterwards.  I couldn’t poop for 2 weeks, and when I did, it was worst than labor.

But you will be fine.  You’re going natural, right?  You have to go natural, home birth if possible.  Also, make sure the cord has stopped pulsating before you cut it.  You’ll be totallllly fine.

Me: The midwife keeps giving me breastfeeding videos, but I am too nervous to even watch.  I hear it can be painful.

Supermom #3:  Oh my goodness, it is the worst pain you will ever feel in your life.  It is as if the kid is gnawing at an open wound with salt-covered lips, and it is the worst torture in the world, knowing that it is going to happen over and over and over again.  But you HAVE to do it – breast is best!

Supermom #1:  Seriously, having a baby is the best thing in the world.  But before you have one, please please please ENJOY every part of your current baby-free life.  I have no regrets about having children, but I want to make sure you really enjoy your life before you have your first one.  Take a vacation, sleep in, go to the movies.  Please.  Do it for me.

Supermom #2:  The labor will go by so fast, you will not even remember anything.  Other than the scars and the stitches, or the fact that your husband has seen things he cannot unsee and will never look at you the same.  There is also the many hours of a pain so intense you ask for someone to murder you, and the mess afterwards, but otherwise, it is a blur. And as women we are built for this, so you have do it.  Natural.  It is the only way.

Supermom #3:  Just try breastfeeding and see how you feel.  I mean, you HAVE to do it for the first two months, which is the hardest time anyways.  Until they get teeth…but before you know it, a year is over!

I feel for the guy.  The problem is that Pedram is my only source of venting, so we have arranged for a good session of Mahsa complaining and pouting everynight.  I don’t like to complain to others (other than my sister), but feel very very comfortable doing it to Pedram, depositing all my angst and frustrations and fears and problems onto him.  We often have weeknight therapy sessions, in which afterwards I feel much better and he probably feels like, well, going to see a shrink.  Also, he gets to hear in vivid detail about my dreams, which probably entitles him to a few extra sessions of therapy, cause my dreams were always vivid and scary before, but now, they are straight out of a sci-fi thriller film.  I should write them down and sell them to Hollywood.

We still do not have any friends here, so really, he is all I have.  So when I am sick and need tissues and drugs in the middle of the night, Pedram runs to get them.  He cancels plans, he makes soup, he cleans the entire house, he runs back to the store because I need oranges.  And twenty minutes later, he goes back to the store because I actually want orange juice.

In the first trimester, I spent a great deal of time complaining about people, and the smells, and EWWW…is that garlic??  Take it away from me.  NOW! and I am claustrophobic, please do not get near me and can you stop making that noise, and please please please stop touching your face.  Because I am claustrophobic and you touching your face makes me want to die.  Also, I can’t stand the smell of our entire apartment.  Please fix it.

A few weeks ago, when I spotted raw chicken (EWWW!) and then proceed to vomit spicy red Indian curry sauce all over the bed, the carpet, his fresh pile of clean clothes, the wall, the bathroom and myself, he didn’t hesitate to clean up.  Actually, that is not true.  The scene was straight out of a horror film, so he took a minute to compose himself before asking me “how did you manage to spray everything but completely missed the toilet?”

Sleeping is becoming more difficult for me, regardless of how many pillows I prop in bed.  And when my ectopic heartbeat (a skipped beat which feels like someone is pounding on my chest) was freaking me out and preventing me from sleeping, I hurried us both to the Emergency room, where for 4 hours we waited for a doctor to see me. And tell us everything we already knew before sending us home at 3am.

The whining, the crying, the lack of sleep, the viruses, the endless cleaning, the vomit and its aftermath, it has been a tough 6 months for Mr. P.  I feel like things are going great, but he is slowly losing it.  But this is all great preparation for the wonderful joys of parenthood, right?

** at some point I am going to talk about the British health system and midwives, especially since someone specifically asked me about it.  Some day.