Linzi woke at 7.55am with cramps. We called her mother at 8.15. We left for the hospital at 8.45, arrived at 9.00. Her waters broke in the car. Jack was born at 9.13 am…yes, 13 minutes after we arrived.
Everything is fine, and mummy and my boy are both home already (Sunday evening, 12 hours later).
Today has been an emotional rollercoaster, and I am drained in every way possible. We have a wonderful, beautiful, healthy baby boy. Thank God.
I’ll post properly soon. I can hardly type right now, so here’s some pics of Jack. We named him after Linzi’s father.
To you he probably looks like any other squishy newborn. That doesn’t matter; I love him with all my heart. Like when Erin was born, I couldn’t stop crying, but I don’t care.
I’m so happy.
- People that make questions out of statements. They do this by raising their voice at the end of a sentence? Fuck off back to the OC, assburglar.
- Drivers who don’t use their indicators. Is it really such a big fucking hassle to flick that little stick behind the steering wheel up or down? These pricks especially piss me off if Erin’s in the car and they do something dangerous, like cut in too close in front of me without warning. Before I know it I’m saying motherfucker and considering crashing into the fucking prick just out of spite, to show them they fucked with the wrong motorist. But then I remember that (a) Erin’s in the car and I’m kinda supposed to be keeping her safe and (b) besides, I’m not a fucking psychopath.
- People (generally women – sorry ladies) who insist on holding up a queue after their transaction has been completed by organising their purse/mobile phone/handbag/lipstick/dildo/whateverthefuck while still standing at the fucking cash register. What the fuck is wrong with these jizzgoblins? There’s a fucking queue, bee-atch. Sort your shit out over there somewhere.
- Banks and their associated administration procedures, all of which come at a cost directly incurred by each individual customer, ie you and I. I could spend all fucking day on this one, so I’m stopping now.
- People I work with who think what I do is pointless/a waste of time. Ever heard of Enron, fuckface? How about Worldcom? Tyco? Hey, I never said it was very interesting, but at least have the fucking common sense to acknowledge that Senator Sarbanes and Representative Oxley probably had more in mind when setting up these regulations than just pissing you off, you fucking arrogant, set-in-your-ways tosser.
That felt great. Cheers.
No baby. And no sex either, as if you care. Linzi’s nesting instinct is in overdrive too, so I’m doing loads of jobs around the house, garden, car, etc. Good thing I like doing this stuff, or we’d have been divorced ages ago…
Weather’s still cracking here. I love summer. I was a bit dubious when Linzi said she bought Erin blue clothes*, but she looks beautiful:
I still can’t believe I helped make someone so perfect. She knows all the words to “Twinkle, Twinkle” now and sometimes sings it to herself as she falls asleep. Someday I’ll play her Apache Rose Peacock by Red Hot Chili Peppers and let her hear their version of “Twinkle, Twinkle”.
Hope your weekend’s going well. Got the car back yesterday so if Linzi does go into labour, we’ll have transport. Which is always handy…
*I used to call Erin’s outfits “costumes”, until Linzi said that she’s a baby, not a circus performer.
And Linzi’s due to give birth any day now. Bad combo. Must remain supportive. Must not be cranky.
Up until I moved to Scotland, I used to cycle everywhere. You can’t live without a car over here though. Everything is so spread out. I’ve therefore become a lazy bastard, and haven’t cycled for over 4 years. Hence why I rejoined the gym recently.
Today’s scene: Gym, lunchtime, spinning class. If you’ve never experienced spinning…don’t. It is agony: pure, triple-distilled, concentrated agony. It is torture dressed up as exercise. You’re probably thinking, he’s just saying this because he’s overweight and out of shape, and you’d be right. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong though. Even the fit fuckers were clearly in distress and wobbling at the end of this class.
Normally when I’ve worked out, I don’t feel it until the next morning. (When I say normally, what I really mean is: since I joined the gym three weeks ago). With spinning though, I already feel it, less than an hour after finishing the class. I’m gonna be walking like a cowboy by tomorrow. Pity I didn’t start this class last week – it would’ve gone well with my outfit.
At the start of the class, you get on the bike, strap those feet in, and turn up the resistance a little. Pedalling away you think, this isn’t so bad. Five minutes of this and you’re thinking, man, I must be fitter than I thought – I can handle this!
Then the instructor shouts “Okay, everybody’s gonna stand up and pump that body forward and back”…hmmm. This turns out to be do-able, but is pretty sore on the upper thighs. Sweat starts to pour. You fight to ignore your body’s warning signs as your muscles start to throb, reminding you that you’ve been far too indulgent for the past, um, ever.
Thankfully, this torture ends and you get to sit down on the bike and pedal normally. Or so you think. No…what actually happens is, as soon as you sit down the instructor starts counting down “Alright, 4…3…2…1…and back up!” and you repeat the process. Again. And again. And again. For 40 fucking minutes.
This horrible, horrible exercise builds to an agonising, brutal crescendo involving sprints (pedalling as fast as you can) with the resistance turned up to high, while standing in a position that doesn’t allow you to move your hips – this concentrates all your effort on your legs. End result is you almost collapsing off the bike, or at the very least having to sit back for a spell.
What makes it worse is that you can’t stop pedalling. The wheel and the pedals are on a fixed gear, so the pedals can’t move independent of the wheel like they do on a bike. In other words, no freewheeling. This means if you decide to stop suddenly, the pedals continue to rotate at full tilt, meaning your feet slip out and you get walloped in the shin by a high-speed pedal, or, as happened in my case, you look like the world’s oldest, fattest child learning to ride a bike and wobbling and jerking your body until you eventually slow the pedals down using the only weapon in your arsenal: your weight.
Still, I know I’ll be back next week*. I’m starting to notice the benefits of this . 🙂
*presuming I can walk.
Every so often I will click through the “Next Blog” button on the top right of the screen, to see what’s out there. Occasionally I find something interesting, but more often than not it’s shite. Even when you remove all the foreign language and business blogs, there’s still alot of shite.
I’m not saying my blog is anything special, but at least it has some content.
Two blogs in particular made me laugh just with the first line. One was called “Crime”. Subheader: “What is Crime?” This guy (or girl) then goes on to explain: “When you think of crime, you think someone is killing people, but it-“. I stopped there because I was laughing, and laughter at work is completely frowned upon.
The other blog was called “Natural Disasters” or some such. The first post was titled “Earthquakes”. Subheader: “What is an Earthquake?”. Made me wonder if this same person has set up hundreds of blogs on the most mundane shit you could ever wish to find. I was tempted to leave a comment telling him that Wikipedia has got it covered, but meh.
On both of these blogs, those entries were the only entries. The guys must’ve got bored, or realised that nobody would ever use these blogs as a point of reference in their research on crime or natural disasters. I was tempted to look at their other blogs (other nuggets of turd might include “Stones. What is a stone?” or “Forks. What is a fork?”) but I gave up.
I should get back to work.
My girl just sent me a gift of a trip to New York. She always knows how to make me smile. We met in America, and NYC and Wildwood, NJ have tons of great memories for us. We’re too broke (and pregnant) to travel for the foreseeable future, so this is the closest we’ll get to going back for a while…
Edit: Like my new template?
Linzi doesn’t know I’ve got a blog. I haven’t consciously been keeping it from her, but neither have I volunteered the fact that I’ve been using this corner of cyberspace to vent and rant and talk about us.
Now I feel weird about it, and I’m trying to figure out why. I haven’t written anything she’d be particularly surprised about.
When we first met, I used to write. A lot. I used to be much better than I am now. There’s no doubt about it, if you don’t practice, you get rusty. It’s not like riding a bike. I’ve spent the past five years working with and on terse technical documents, which has left very little room for adjectives and metaphors and pathetic fallacy.
Linzi is continually on at me to get back to it. She’s convinced that I could be really good. Her confidence in me frightens me.
I’m afraid that if I tell her about it, she will see this blog as the first step to me starting again. And it isn’t.
Writing this actually helped me figure that out. Ker-azy.
Edit: What’s even more frightening is the possibility that I am like one of those deluded buckos from American Idol – you know, the ones with a comically tenuous grasp on reality, their confidence bolstered by family members who’re equally blinkered to their obvious inadequacies, to the point where you think they may be slightly brain-damaged – who thinks they’re good because a few close friends and family have given them words of praise, then BOOM! Simon Cowell comes in with a slap upside the head, giving them a much needed reality check.
Go ahead. Be my Simon. I’d rather find out sooner than later. 🙂
It’s 7 years tomorrow since I met Linzi. I love her more than food.
Just realised that I have been with her for more than a quarter of my life. And it has been fucking brilliant.
Tonight turned out to be surprisingly good. It was a close friend of Linzi’s surprise 30th party…with a Western theme. Ugh. I hate fancy dress in all its forms. Despite that, here I am, about eight hours ago:
That’s my baby I’m holding. Both of them.
So she’s really fucking snobby, this girl who’s hosting the party. That’s the main reason I was dreading it. I hate the awkwardness. And besides, it’s a faux-snobbiness. It’s a middle-class attempt at being upper-class.
Give me a party where I can walk in, grab a beer, and talk shit, and I’m happy. When it comes to air-kissing and selecting the Pinot Grigio over the Cabernet Sauvignon because its fruity dryness complements the Doritos, I’m fucking lost. I faced this evening with some trepidation because I figured that (a) there would be lots of people I didn’t know there and (b) they would all have their heads up their arses and have been raised in a world so far removed from mine that I would find nothing whatsoever in common with them.
There is some validity to my trepidation. I’ve been to parties at their house before which have ended up exactly like this. Vulgar flirting and even more blatant oneupmanship. If you’ve read American Psycho, picture the world inhabited by Pat Bateman – the superficiality and smiling duplicity of slick boys and girls who’ve never had too work too hard to get what they want.
Good news though. My worries were in vain. There was a good bunch of people at the party. Since it was Norman’s 30th, it was mostly his friends there, and since he is a really down-to-earth guy, most of his friends are pretty normal too. I got a bit drunk and had a generally good time. I didn’t make an arse of myself. I ogled all the saloon girls’ cleavage, and Linzi didn’t mind. If she wasn’t 9 months pregnant, she’d have been flashing it right along with the rest of them…
Well. Time for bed. Linzi just snapped me a few minutes ago, on the couch downstairs:
Reading about what’s going on in CP’s life today gave me a bit of perspective on how things are in my own. I have a tendency to start looking for problems in my life; if I am not worrying about something, I don’t feel right. This is one of the dumbest outlooks a person can have, but it’s just how I am. I work hard to not be like that, but in general, it’s difficult to reprogram someone if they’re set up a certain way.
If there’s nothing specific going on to piss me off/make me fret, I’ll jump to the abstract – what if Linzi dies during childbirth? What if I’m killed on the way to work? (No worries there, Linzi gets a big fat cheque if I cash my chips, haha.) What if Erin was abducted? All this sort of shit. I irritate myself when I do this. I want, so badly, to just be able to take life as it comes, be cool, laid-back, and all that bollocks. Instead, what I am is tense with the possibilities of what might go wrong.
Almost everything I do, I (unwittingly, mostly) put a negative spin on it. I sat two driving tests within a week of each other, passing the second time ’round, but what got to me was failing the first test. I mean, it’s not like my driving skills improved in any way within that week; most people would presume they got a tough tester first time around and would rejoice at having passed a week later. When I look at my wedding photos I wish I had lost more weight for the day. (Sure, the love and delight from that day is there too, but it’s like I will only let myself feel that after I’ve berated myself a little.)
I’ve always considered myself distinctly average at everything I do. The exception to the rule is, of course, Erin, who is perfection personified, in Daddy’s eyes. Linzi says alot of it is to do with the way I was raised, not getting enough support and praise, but I tend to be hesitant about that. Blaming mam and dad is a cop-out, too easy to do. Everyone is into alleviating personal responsibility these days, nobody is willing to stick their fucking necks out and say, oh yeah, that’s probably my fault. I suppose I did go through a phase (most of my teens, ha) of thinking all my problems were because of other people, but I hope I’ve gotten a bit more perspective since then. Sure your parents mould you into what you are, but that’s no excuse not to try to better yourself if you can.
I got an A1 in Honours English in my Leaving Certificate. Leaving Cert exams are the last you take before going to University in Ireland. My English teacher was brilliant; inspirational. There were 5 A1’s and 7 A2’s in my class that year. Less than 2% of the country gets that grade in Honours English. In spite of this, my view was, it’s not such a big deal, look how many other guys got the same result. Happiness is always fleeting with me – it’s like some sort of perverse modesty, something in me saying, quit showboating and just get on with it, stop making a big deal of your good mood. The Vice-Principal of the school (who also taught me Irish for 5 years) – his mantra to me was “Proinsias*, you’ve got so much potential – use it!”. He said that to me for 5 whole years. He said it to my parents at parent-teacher meetings. I still plan to take him up on it. Some day.
I have ripped our whole house apart, made a kitchen into a bedroom, a bedroom into a kitchen. I have plumbed, wired, plastered, fixed, fitted, tiled, floored, painted, decked, and restored every room, by myself. Well, not quite by myself – Linzi’s dad was often at hand to dispense much-needed advice, but since he’s disabled, he’s not been able to muck in like I know he’d love to. Even when I finished the house, I had a flash of pride, then spent the rest of my time focussing on things I didn’t do quite well enough.
It’s not like I’m a perfectionist. It’s more that I have difficulty seeing things through. I’m great at starting things, but I often just get bored before I’ve produced the end product. This pervades my entire life. I can only write short stories; I lose the thread of the characters after a few pages. I spend a year or two excelling in a job, then get bored, wanting something new. My only consistency is my inconsistency. The only thing that’s constant is my love for my family and friends.
To counteract this foolishness, every so often I take stock of myself. I have a beautiful wife and daughter. I love them, and they love me right back. I have a well-paid job that, while it doesn’t thrill me, is not as insufferable as I know other people find theirs. I live in a nice house, in a decent area. I can provide for my family. I am (after 27 years) finally able to put a bit of money aside each month. My family are, for the most part, fit and healthy. Even though I’m far away, we see each other a few times a year. I have great friends back home. I don’t have alot of disposable income, but I manage. I’m in a lot of debt, but at least I can afford to pay it each month. I’m feeling like my beergut is showing, but I’m back at the gym. I have a new baby entering my life ANY DAY NOW!
In other words, I have got sweet F.A. to complain about, and I want to apologise to CP, and anyone else who has serious shit going on in their lives, for my pathetic self-absorbance. Instead of wasting my energy worrying about irrelevant nothings, I’m channeling all my cheery thoughts to you guys. Karma, etc.
Do you know the Pearl Jam song “I am mine”? There’s a line in it that goes “I know I was born, and I know that I’ll die – the in-between is mine”. I like that line. It screams possibility.
*Proinsias is my name in Irish. You say it “Prun-she-ass”.
I don’t really know CP too well (not at all, to tell the truth!), and it’s not as though I get alot of traffic, but if you do stumble across my blog, please go and visit her. She could do with whatever you have to give at the moment.
I dread to think what I would do if something happened to Erin, but it would be great to have the sort of support her friends are giving.