I can’t decide if I want to put my birth story online. On one hand it is such a major part of my life, I want to put it out there. On the other, it was a deeply personal experience, I’m not sure I want to share it with you, when in all likelihood, you won’t be sharing something as personal with me! So, I’m undecided for now.

However, what I will share is that it was not, absolutely not a nightmare, it left me able to see how orgasming through childbirth could be possible (I didn’t really get it before) and I’m really, truly looking forward to being in labour again.

What was a nightmare was being 42 weeks pregnant. That was really awful – for me. The fear of an induction was haunting. The 15, yes F-I-F-T-E-E-N times a day, during weeks 40, 41 and 42 either verbally or by email, I was asked if I’d a) had the baby. I hadn’t, obviously (well, I thought it was obvious, because I had I’d have probably, somehow let people know? Just perhaps?) or b) if I was feeling any contractions. I wasn’t and even if I was, it doesn’t mean baby is about to appear any second. And then there was c). We can’t forget c) did I know when the baby was coming? Unfortunately, my comp-uterine system had had to reboot and I’d missed that particular email.

Let’s not forget the advice:

- eat pineapple (didn’t they realise the markets in Paris had sold out of pineapple? That was me. I ate it all – and can never look at another pineapple again)
- eat curry (curry isn’t what you mean, it’s chili and for what it’s worth, I was adding hot chili sauce to almost every meal)
- walk (I was very much trying, but with legs the size and weight of sequoia trunks, it was rather difficult, not to mention painful)
- raspberry leaf tea (I was doing that, thanks very much)
- evening primsrose oil capsules applied to cervix (done)
-  jumping (yup, did that when I felt able and it wasn’t too painful)
- sitting on the toilet for hours, because it ‘opens everything up’ (thanks for that well meaning piece of advice offered freely in public, and with the best of intentions, I know, but there are some reasons that that is NOT a good idea, if you know why, you know and if you don’t, lucky you!).

There were more, I’ve just forgotten them.

But let’s not forget the best bit: the congratulations! Yes, I received a message along the lines of, “Wow, TG, I haven’t heard from you and it’s ages since your due date so you must have had Chicklet by now, so CONGRATULATIONS!”. Lovely, except I hadn’t.

I think that the last two weeks passed, and I’m not joking here, in inverse warp speed. Minutes and hours have never taken so long to tick. I’d fill my days with distractions, I’d do fun things and laugh with friends in the late summer days, but time just did not seem to move.

And the most infuriating part of it all though? Every single person who got in touch to ask me or offer advice (or their congratulations!), did it with the best of intentions. Nobody wanted to make me feel bad and I knew it at the time. I was just fed up, hormonal and maybe just a little, little bit emotional!

As for the passage of time, inverse warp speed has been replaced with “Full speed ahead!” – in a blink of an eye, it’s next week. This side of birth is definitely more fun!

It’s funny, we talk about parents and “their children”. We hear parents say, “my son” or “my daughter”.

I thought I couldn’t get used to refering to Chicklet as “my son” because it was surreal: I have a son!

And, quite honestly it is – in the most perfect of ways.

But that’s not why the words trip uneasily off my tongue. If someone were to ask me if I thought that Chicklet came from inside me, or if he was delivered by a stork, despite the fact that I’m still recovering from the pregnancy, labour and birth, I would have to say that I find the latter more plausible.

I don’t feel he is “mine”.

I feel he is his – and I’m just the luckiest person to be given guardianship of him.

Baby grouse has arrived. He’s gorgeous. He’s nearly three weeks old and has already a beautiful personality. I’ve no idea what people find boring about newborns, this one at least is cute to the nth..according to his parents!

I was just reading Girls Gone Child’s 2006 post about her boobs. It’s a funny old thing, as she points out, because those who have them, generally don’t want them and those who don’t, do. Until we finish school and then more important things in life take over. Except, if you have really big boobs, like around a G cup with a 30 inch band, they never really leave you alone.

I had mine reduced in Egypt by a lovely surgeon, Dr Galil Greis. Not only was he a gentleman to deal with, he was also skillful with the knife. He cautioned me beforehand that there was a chance I would not be able to breastfeed and that if I could, there was no guarantee of the quantity. Well read-up on the surgical technique he was going to use, I understood the risks. Having had my neck in a collar a few months previously, following 10 years of funding the annual holidays of various chiropractors, osteopaths, massage therapists, physiotherapists and getting back muscles a bodybuilder could be proud of (unfortunately not their same lean body mass..), I had had enough and me, with a phobia of hospitals, went under the knife.

Waking up was the best feeling ever. The recovery was fairly straightforward, painful, but straightforward and I have not regretted it for a second. I didn’t actually know that there were men, other than the odd few, who REALLY DID look at women in the eyes before checking out their chest. It slowly dawned on me too that perhaps not every girl grew up with boys at school groping them. I discovered that when breasts were a more ‘normal’ size, there are less comments in the street (I don’t just mean in Egypt) and that they are considered ‘yours’ rather than there for general discussion or for random men, drunk or otherwise, to cop a feel of. I also became less of a ‘threat’ for some women who, it appeared, thought my boobs were out to take their man. Seriously. None of those realisations are reasons why I had the surgery: when you are used to being treated a certain way from the time you become womanly, whatever the age, how are you supposed to really believe that it’s not socially acceptable and not ‘normal’ for all these things to happen?! So, not the reasons behind the decision, but fab outcomes!

Fast forward a few years. I’ve now had my precious Chicklet. And he needs breastfeeding. Everybody has problems with breastfeeding: sore breasts, cracked nipples, delayed milk coming in, too much milk etc. It’s not easy for anybody and that’s before healing from a major physical experience and hormones are factored in. The breast reduction adds another layer to that: how do you know if you can or are making enough milk?

My poor chick suffered a fair bit when he was born. It was touch and go if we’d be able to take him home with us when we left because he was losing too much weight and fast. One night when he’d been screaming (note, not crying) the clinic down for about 5 hours we were told that he was so hungry and dehydrated that there was serious risk of his organs shutting down unless we gave him something. That something was, my mind held out the crossbones, formula.

Lying in bed, unable to get out, watching my little boy’s body being held by a plethora of nurses, sitting up on the big padded changing table in our room and my husband beside, feeding him 10ml of formula with a syringe at about 4am was utterly, utterly heartbreaking. I could barely see through my silent tears, but I couldn’t possibly look away and leave him. His little body was too precious and too young to have artificial stuff put in, especially by an artificial method (not that I know of a natural method!). It was for The Best, I was reassured. Even The Best didn’t reassure me. My baby didn’t feel reassured afterwards either; he screamed bloody murder for hours. It turned out, he was so much in need of food, that 10ml was effectively a mise en bouche. We had ‘opened his stomach’ as my husband put it.

In the morning a few more people who knew a thing or two about feeding after breast reduction were brought in and were shocked at how quickly he’d deteriorated. Even the La Leche League lady advised to “give him as much formula as he wants, don’t stop, just keep feeding him formula until he stops”. You know when LLL say something like that, you’ve got to do it!

Eventually, after a nerve wracking wait for the paediatrician on our last day, Chicklet had finally, finally gained some weight and we could take him home! Yay!

Then the fun and games really started. Chicklet needs me to make as much milk as possible AND make sure he’s getting enough calories, so he has formula to supplement breast milk. In order to maximise production, (aside from me eating fennel, drinking breastfeeding teas, taking homeopathic remedies, eating a lot of good stuff and taking it SUPER easy) Chicklet needs to be on the breast, sucking, as much as possible. It’s also best that he’s not fed from a bottle to avoid nipple confusion. That’s where the Lact-Aid comes in. This is what it looks like in the pack:

Taken from www.lact-aid.com

 Sexy, eh?

And this is what it looks like on:

Taken from www.lact-aid.com

So sexy, I wonder if I’ll ever be having children with my husband again…

Now, that pipe that goes to the nipple is very, very flexible. Imagine putting a wet strand of spaghetti in your baby’s mouth – and it has to go in straight. Then imagine doing it at night with minimal lighting, severely myopic and unable to find glasses with baby just wanting to EAT, MAMA! Remember, a wet strand of spaghetti… There have been a few f-bombs in our room at night. Of course, someone has to do the nighttime run to make the Lact-Aid up in the first place and the lactation consultant cleverly/kindly showed Papa how to do that..not Mama! “Making the Lact-Aid up” involves cleaning that slippery pipe…

I don’t know if I will ever be brave enough to breastfeed in public with it, especially in Paris where breastfeeding is still not socially all that acceptable, never mind with a plastic sack of milk around your neck and a pipe feeding the baby. Add in that it’s nearly impossible to do it without fully exposing the boob because of the spaghetti-pipe. Anyway, Chicklet is currently getting some natural milk alongside the not-so-natural stuff and so far is doing very well.

And that makes Mama Grouse very, very happy.

And that makes the House of Grouse a very relaxed place to be!

I love to watch people. How they walk, how they move, what they’re wearing and where they’re from have always fascinated me. Usually I just drink it all in and enjoy, rather like watching a film. Occasionally though, somebody surprises me (like intergalactic Grandma) and I’m shaken out of my reverie. This takes quite some doing as I have been consciously people watching for at least fifteen years, everywhere I’ve been.

I’m not sure if this man was a scout leader, something that only ocurred to me when I got the photo onto a bigger screen and saw the inverted triangle on his t-shirt and payed more attention to his hat.

Think about it though, what do you expect him to be wearing below the knees?

Think hard. Harder.

Here you go:

Now I BET you weren’t thinking of pink knee-high socks and orange shoes!

Righty ho, it’s a bit late, but isn’t this just superb?! “Yes, yes it’s the Eiffel Tower, so what?” I hear you say. Well, it’s made from BREAD! This was the window display at Poilane for Bastille Day. The tower was a good metre high.

Next to it was this:

Yes, that’s right, a bread carrousel!  And can you make out what the animals are?

An elephant and a horse! Wowee!

Poilane often have interesting windows, but this just blew me away!

Paris is not a fashion-forward city. Stylish, chic, classic, yes, but there are not enough risk-takers in the attire department to make it a trend-driver. This does not seem to differ whether people are in the older or younger generations: everybody dresses like their peers.

So look at the photo above. It’s taken in mid-July at around noon. Our Parisian lady moved deceptively quickly past my lunch companion and I. In a pillarbox red coat* and black berret, she already stood out – red is not a typical colour to see on a Parisian, especially a coat and more especially on a lady who is probably a grandmother, as they usually (read: always) opt for black or beige.

Sometimes all this sameness can get a bit boring.

So imagine our squeals of delight when we spotted her utterly fabulous intergalactic boots!

*I haven’t altered these pictures, they were taken with the iPhone in a hurry so a bit blurred, but the coat really was that bright!

A few days ago it was hot, very hot for Paris – bliss for me – so I went for a wander down some of the city’s less tread paths.

Ssssh! You don’t know I’m here.

I’m in hiding.

Somebody put a notice up in our apartment building recently announcing a “building party and bbq”. Excellent idea.

Are those things that are just announced? Perhaps there’s a core of people who all know each other and they decided and the rest of us are expected to attend.

Expected, because how on earth do you hide in your apartment pretending you’re not there? It’s not as if letting the phone ring will cut it – the party-goers can see the lights on!

I can’t enter or leave the building because the entrance hall and garden courtyard is the party location!

And why is it that I’m so terribly anti-social? First there’s the food: I can’t eat it (have you tried to have meat well-cooked in France? Pregnant women are also not allowed salad in France. Not much else to eat at a bbq!). Second there’s the wine: I can’t drink it. Third there’s the language: I can’t speak it well enough to socialise with people I don’t know but kind of have to see everyday. If I were to never meet them again, I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not exactly the case with neighbours. Which brings me to my fourth point: I don’t actually want to socialise with the horrifically noisy neighbours from the apartment below. It’s hard to avoid it because I have no real idea what they look like. If the father decided to shout in the aggressive, military manner he does every single evening to his four year old twin sons (who I’ve also never met), I would know who he was. If the mother decided to scream, as she does every second afternoon, I’d know immediately she’s someone to avoid. The chances of them showing their ‘home’ faces are rather slim – which is fine, I hear them often enough!

Finally, point number five: Mr S is away tonight for work.

I’m a big, fat chicken and don’t want to face everybody in my faltering French (did I mention that one of our neighbours regularly corrects the grammar on announcements and notices put in the elevator?) alone.

Vasavasa

I recently discovered that there is a new gelateria in Paris called Vasavasa – Gelateria Siciliana. It is right on one of my main routes. My waist is screaming at me to find a new route. My tastebuds are in heaven!

Strawberry and lemon sorbets with gelato making machine in background.

All the gelato is handmade in the shop (from what I understand) and it tastes amazingly fresh. The shop is open until 11pm – from what I remember – so it is perfect for a post dinner walk and treat! It is also a great location for anyone visiting the Eiffel Tower (and who comes to Paris without doing that – ok, me before I moved here, but had I known that I could have great ice cream, that may have been different!) and/or for a cool dessert after picnicking by the Seine or in Champs de Mars.

Just before writing, I did a quick Google, to see if there is a website. It seems that there is..and it’s in Italian. And you know what I discovered? They have four branches in Italy (Milan and Turin)! Yes, folks, that means it’s eaten-in-Italy real gelato. To be honest, that’s not hugely important to me, because what I have had has all tasted fantastic, but it is nice to know.

What they serve...yum!

It’s also a pretty gelateria. That matters to some of us. Stainless steel, clean lines of marble and a (non-tacky) chandelier. More Parisian looking than a lot of Parisian places. That’s also a delight for some of us (probably the non-Parisians!).

Vasavasa Paris
34 Avenue de la Bourdonnais, 75007 Paris
Tel. 33147058430

On the map here (it shows it as being in the right place, but wrong side of road!).

Unfortunately, I have not been asked to write about Vasavasa. I am, however, completely open to tokens of gratitude from Vasavasa in any gelato form. Just sayin’.

Operation SBAM is underway. As the weather seems to be staying sunny, I’ve become secure in the knowledge that summer clothes will actually be useful. So I thought it a good idea to do some research (no point being an unfashionable non-minger).

I picked up a copy of the ultimate style bible: Vogue Paris. It seemed even more appropriate as it had a section on Greece, and being Vogue, what to wear in Greece – and I’m heading off there soon.

I wasn’t sure about the red dress as I can’t actually make much out from this photo. Not sure I’m really into pleasuring myself on an old discarded mattress (doesn’t Vogue Paris know about fleas and bedbugs?), so I flicked through for more fashion information.

Well, I guess there is a red theme. Ok, I can go on that. Perhaps I could stretch to a stop watch. But the Borat-come-Baywatch swimsuit: an absolute no go.

(The perfect skin and physical shape: let’s just not go there!).

For day wear, it seems I don’t need to bother about t-shirts, nor a bra..nor underwear? High waisted shorts that don’t do up? Well, I’m sure I won’t have a problem finding some of those! Phew – something I can be ‘on trend’ in.

But really, Greece is all about swimming. What am I going to wear in the water? Does Vogue Paris have any other suggestions? It seems they do.

Ummm..perhaps if I looked like that naked, I would think this the best trend ever – it’s probably the cheapest ever promoted by Vogue, anywhere in the world. But I don’t. Ok, so I give up on buying new swimming attire. I’m going to get my old one piece out and perhaps the ‘retro’, aka granny pants, bikini.

Next to swimming is: boats. What do I wear when I’m sailing on my Greek holiday?

WFT?! Are people in Greece just naked all the time? Is this what happens when your country has an economic crisis: people can’t afford clothes and then beautiful nudists flock there to pole dance on the water ?

(I hope they wash that sail frequently).

But no, hang on a second. It seems Vogue Paris is reaching out an olive branch to those of use who want a bit more coverage than a boat’s mast provides.

Yay! I think I could even make these myself from some random supermarket elastic and the old sheet I have waiting to be torn up for dusting rags.

Think I’ll go without the wedgie though.

All photos from Vogue Paris June/July 2011.