Snow and flames

Easter break in Schwarzsee, at Urs and Franzi's holiday home by the black lake. The weather wasn't as warm as I'd hoped it would be (ok so the swaying palm trees and deck chairs were never really gonna have happened) but things have a way of working themselves out. Ste returned to his mountain boy roots, took out the axe, chopped some logs and built a crackling fire. The end result was, apart from a cozy and inviting living room, a rather evocative manly smell -to match the manly stubble from days of going unshaved- which was a foil to civilised company.

A walk in the snow inspired me to sculpt a snow-person ... though what that really meant in practice was that Ste huffed and puffed with the implementation while I stood by and made inane comments (eg. "What's the difference between a snowman and snow-woman? Snowballs!") while occasionally sticking my tongue out to taste some flakes (nothing like ice kachang though).

The end result was a stocky, albeit vertically-challenged snow midget, which I'm proud to say survived the subsequent storms (as well as unkind gibes from the neighbourhood midgets - children).

My desire to rock 'n roll to jukebox tunes was ambitious ... and after some half-baked attempts at jiggling and spinning (we didn't try any jumps and leaps), we re-evaluated the situation. And decided to stick to the shuffling waltz for the moment. Something that would keep me close to the ground without challenging my centre of gravity.

The canny Easter bunny -with its suspiciously familiar manly scent- got to work early on Sunday morning, stashing coloured eggs, chocolate and nougat around the house for our little hunt. In a concerted effort with Abhilasha, Munish and Sid, these were soon sniffed out ... and feasted on. A sweet complement to a relaxing long weekend away.

It's a bird, it's a plane ... it's ... it's ...

Pregnancy isn't merely a good back-breaker, it's also THE perfect ice-breaker. It helps to fill the remaining space in the elevator (what's left after I've lumbered in anyway) with merry conversation about the due date, baby's sex, etc. etc. Take for example my recent conversation with our Argentinian neighbour: we had never really spoken prior to that, but when she spotted my belly (the anti-elephant in the elevator), something clicked. I was treated to her birth stories -she has two boys- and loads of advice about preparing for birth. Some of it was useful, no doubt, but it was still a lot to take in on what would otherwise have been a short skip to the mailbox.

Ground floor, doors open. I smiled, nodded, and she continued, "... and that's why I think those birth preparation courses aren't very useful. They focus too much on the pain. That's not good. [elaborates on how her grandma had 7 kids in the days prior to drugs, and pain relief options, etc.] ... but you don't have to worry. You Asians have a way of dealing with pain, you do something special in your head [points to her temple], so I'm sure you'll be fine."

Eh, did I miss something there? Could it be that the entire Asian community has been hiding some secret, mind-lulling ohmmm technique from me ALL THIS TIME?!! What is it that I could do 'in my head' to facilitate a pain-free delivery ... return to my Zen meditative state? Surely she can't mean my uncanny knack for falling asleep in moving vehicles, my more prosaic self-defence mechanism ... but she seemed so certain, so convinced, that I too caught the urge to believe in my own innate mystical/super-hero potential.

***

What ten years of classical ballet training never instilled in me, the seven months of pregnancy have: the waddle. With toes turned outwards and heels pointing in, I swagger in a most alluring fashion -alluring if you're a half-blind drake that missed the last migration- in my (fat) catwoman suit, swinging my arms briskly to build up momentum as I prepare for take-off. I launch out of the elevator, glide swiftly down the stairs and out the door in the twinkle of an eye. Back with today's post in 2 minutes, flat.

Me at around 29-ish weeks (I've kind of lost track).

Half n Half

I broke it to Ste last night.

"I don't want a white baby."

He raised his hands -with those large, upturned white man palms- and gave an exaggerated shrug.

"Whoops! Maybe that's something you should've thought of before ... I think it might be a little too late now ... doncha think?"

"No no no. What I mean is that I want our kid to be half of you and half of me. I hope it doesn't come out looking only ... well ... white."

I suppose it wouldn't be altogether impossible for the kid to be born with light eyes and fair hair. Though after the trial of a long drawn team event -LABOUR- I would hope that Kid would bear some of my physical attributes as well.

Then again, if Peanut's genetic cards are indeed drawn from Mom's deck, then It runs a good chance of having some other -perhaps curious- traits, aside from a healthy hue (and no, I do not mean jaundice):

[a] needing forceps during delivery because of big head;
[b] grossly fat (in an over-stuffed, Tierney's sausage way ... including the thick skin);
[c] having an insatiable appetite for plums (when semi solids come into the picture); and
[d] a strong inclination towards walking rather than crawling (so I've been told, though it doesn't quite square off with the inherent challenges posed by [b]).

Catch of the day

What the 'coast guard' does on a sunny Sunday on the languid Lake of Zurich ...

... just when I thought we'd stumbled upon a crime scene under investigation ...

Only to uncover this rather odd practice of trawling rusty bicycles from the Limmat. The deathly dangerous Mary Poppins types too.

UHU ... anyone there?

Setting:

A regular evening for the Couple on their sofa, in front of the almighty telly enjoying their pre-bedtime snack of homemade mango pudding and pandan chiffon cake. The Woman has a mug of hot chocolate balanced on her sizeable pregnant bump. The Man dusts rogue cake crumbs off his shirt; they fan out onto the sofa. He brushes them off the sofa, letting them scatter onto the floor. Wife makes a mental note to hoover between the cushions and under the sofa the next time she does the cleaning.

Husband: "How's Peany doing today?"

Wife gingerly lifts each layer of clothing of her tummy -the pullover ... the t-shirt ... the bella band- as if uncovering some strange and delicate fruit beneath (according to one pregnancy website, this week Peanut is comparable to the weight/size of a Chinese cabbage ... a pretty strange vegetable, an even stranger comparison). When all is bared, something catches Husband's eye.

-a beat-

He pokes her asymmetrically-stretched belly button with his index finger.

Male: "Bull's eye!"

Female (still breathless from the peeling routine): "Eee-yurh! I don't even dare touch my belly button ... the glue that keeps it sealed might come unstuck any day now. It already feels like Peany is having a go at it with a pneumatic drill ..."

Father-to-be: "Don't worry, it won't open up! 1975 was a good year - they made good navel glue then. And there were no rules about using toxic substances in those days, so I'm sure the chemicals were all heavy duty."

“Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?” (Robert Browning, in Andrea del Sarto, 1855)

I have phased out the care regime for the farthest of my physical extremities and will no longer attempt to trim or prod my pedicuticles. Pretty soon, even the trusty foot buffer will be retired as I have neither the energy nor suppleness for a sustained battle against dragon scales. Fortunately it's still a bit fresh outdoors to be wearing open-toed sandals or flip-flops: I'll only start offending people's sensitivities come end-May/June.

This is me at 27.5 weeks:

(jeans: from Ai-Leng in London; blouse: from Mom in Singapore; kukui nut lei: from Greg in Hawai'i AGES ago; artwork: by my graffiti-writing husband)

The underside of my increasingly rotund tummy has been the dark side of the moon for many weeks now. It is, indeed, where 'the sun don't shine' - mysterious, sometimes forgotten, and always damn itchy. I warned Ste against pointing at it, lest the mythical lunar rabbit/maiden takes a vengeful snip at his ear lobes.

This prime belly meat property remains within reach, but completely beyond my field of vision. Colonies of foreign organisms could set up entire space station complexes there and I wouldn't even know. Heck, they might already have planted some flags and parceled out large tracts behind my back (though technically, it is in front). Somewhat reassuringly, I haven't started pulling random biscuit crumbs or stationery into orbit yet. Now wouldn't that be a lark ...

I'll keep you posted. Till then - this is Zurich, over and out.