The big event this week was my little sunbeam turning one. It’s been very hard to write a blog entry that wasn’t purely over sentimental boasting of how my wonderful little lad has turned out to be the most perfect, funny, sweet being in the universe so I’ve confined myself to keeping it in the first paragraph.
I actually had a very misguided conversation (argument) with the other half when we were at Three Tides (a wicked cool pub in Belfast, Maine attached to a brewery) about how the whole concept of birthdays was bullshit anyway and we are all blindly conforming to some guy’s idea of time. Why should I be a slave to the Gregorian calendar just because some scholars decided there should be roughly 30 days in a month and there should be twelve of them?
After letting me have a loud rant about being sick of listening to ‘the man’ and not being an autonomous drone anymore the other half amusedly pointed out the whole thing about the sun going round the earth determined the modern day calendar and that it’s based on irrefutable science.
In my defence I think the Maine free living, anarchic attitude is getting to me. And the chocolate martinis there are very strong.
Anyway, the past week we’ve again been half boat, half island which is still proving to involve lots of frantic packing and rushing for ferries. It’s only a matter of time before I forget the dog (please, please NOT the baby).
We spent one incredibly cold night on the boat which saw the other half being forcibly ejected from the freezing, floating palace to go find heated blankets and fan heaters with the threat of immediate divorce if the temperature didn’t rise above not-being-able-to-sit-on-the-toilet-seat-without-having-a-small-heart-attack by bedtime.
There definitely needs to be some kind of winterisation and extra heat source. The large gaps of fresh air and single pane windows are not going to cut it with a -15 gale screaming up the Passagassawakeag river (yes that’s actually it’s name and one of the reasons I love Maine as they have lots of the original names for places).
I want to shrink wrap, he wants a wood stove. Apparently we can’t do both as there could be some suffocation issue. We’ll see.
Another amusing little happening this week which I debated whether or not to include in this post (for the sake of both good taste and people thinking I’d lost the few marbles I once had) was taking re-possession of my umbilical cord.
Well, obviously not mine. A 37 year old umbilical cord would definitely be weird and even more definitely unpleasant.
After having an unmedicated home birth (the first on the island we live on in 30 years as I proudly tell anyone that will listen long enough), I had been ferreting around in the murky waters of natural parenting and heard lots of great things about placental encapsulation and it’s many alleged health benefits. Getting right in to the swing of living in Midcoast Maine and channeling my inner hippy (I was named after an Afro-American slave despite being very white so my parents can pipe down with any ‘oh God why is she eating her own afterbirth?’ comments as it’s clearly their fault), I had a local lass carry out the process of drying and grinding thus making it more palatable than whacking off chunks and eating in its raw state. This I was not prepared to do.
After reading more about ‘things hippies do with by-products of childbirth’ I saw a sweet suggestion for burying the umbilical cord under a tree. Being December in Maine you aren’t getting anything into the ground for love nor money so I asked aforementioned lass to ‘hang on’ to the cord until we could meet up and I could take it off her hands. As I was busy, new, deer-in-the-headlights Mum and her having her own baby shortly after, we never met and I sort of forgot about it.
Until I actually met her a month ago at a local baby group and this week she casually handed me a ziplock with a ‘glad to get this out of my freezer at last’. Not wanting to terrify any of the present Mummies I hurriedly stuffed it in to my nappy (diaper) bag and promptly forgot about it until that evening. I realise that not all of the people reading this will be as strong stomached as the company I keep so all I’ll say was on discovering it my husband was a little traumatised as it had defrosted, the ziplock had leaked and it was, to say the least, messy. Daddy Pig’s expression (scream) was “JesusFuckingChrist it’s like something from one of those really nasty Japanese horror films you like.” So it’s sitting in the freezer on the boat awaiting planting. Or maybe some kind of sea ritual.
So this week is Thanksgiving. I’m still not really used to it but am getting in to the swing of the nice message of being thankful for your blessings and the year’s harvest rather than the more controversial aspects or thinking as most Brits do that it’s just Americans eating the turkey on the wrong day.
I’m not sure yet if we’ll be spending it on the boat on or on the island but do know that after the last week of party/moving stress if the cooking is left to me we’ll be eating toast. Just as long as it not some miscellaneous meat product from the freezer…..