crooked house

(Having) Babies in Literature Series: Barbara Comyns' Our Spoons Came From Woolworth's

Here is the second part of the excerpt about Barbara Comyns' labour and delivery in a Depression-era London hospital, taken from her semi-autobiographical  Our Spoons Came From Woolworths. There is a note on the copyrights page that claims this chapter is true. (Could there really have been a "Doctor Wombat?")

   The next ward I went to had a toilet behind a curtain. There were other women in this ward and I did so hope I wouldn't disgrace myself again. As soon as the nurse left, I crawled behind the curtain. The pain was terrific now. It seemed like the end of the world, but I was determined not to make the bed dirty again. There was just this great agony and a white curtain and a shining brass rail.
   Suddenly it changed and I was on a kind of trolley. The next place I found myself was a brilliantly lighted room with two doctors and a nurse. As soon as I arrived in the room I could tell they were going to be kind. I was lifted off the trolley on to a very high kind of bed-table arrangement. I looked round the room and saw there were two little cots, and in one was a baby that had just been born. I could hear it making queer little noises.
   I explained to the nurse that I kept being sick all the time, but she didn't seem to mind. Every time I had a great pain she made me pull a twisted sheet that was fixed to the head of the bed in some way, and she would say, "Bear down, Mother." I tried to explain I wasn't a mother, but couldn't get it out. In between the pains they asked me questions so that they could fill even more forms.
   I looked for Doctor Wombat, but he wasn't there. I did not mind, because the doctors that were there seemed kind and so was the nurse except she kept hurrying me up. There was one dreadful thing -- they made me put my legs in kind of slings that must have been attached to the ceiling; besides being very uncomfortable it made me feel dreadfully shamed and exposed. People would not dream of doing such a thing to an animal. I think the ideal way to have a baby would be in a dark, quiet room, all alone and not hurried. Perhaps your husband would be just outside the door in case you felt lonely. When once the baby had arrived I would not mind how many nurses and doctors came in attendance.

(Having) Babies in Literature: Barbara Comyns' Our Spoons Came From Woolworth's

Last time I quoted Barbara Comyns' Our Spoons Came From Woolworths I mentioned that this story of a struggling mother and artist in Depression-era London is considered to be semi-autobiographical. A note on the copyright page states, "The only things that are true in this story are the wedding and Chapters 10, 11 and 12, and the poverty." Today's quote is pulled from Chapter 10 and is Comyns' account of the delivery of her first baby in a London hospital where her husband was expected to drop her off and then leave for the duration, as was usual for the time. (This just the first part of the excerpt -- I'll post the rest tomorrow evening.)

   I must have been in at least seven different wards and beds before the baby came. They kept me on the move all the time and the only thing I wanted was to be left alone in privacy. [...] I was taken to a nice, tiled bathroom and told to have a bath. [...] When the nurse left I made several attempts to get into the bath, but I was so doubled up I couldn't manage it, so I just took off the hateful clothes and made several wet marks on the cork mat with my hands to make it appear as if I had had a bath. The nurse came back and caught me in this deception. She said I was a dirty woman to be afraid of water, and stayed in the room while I crawled into the bath. I was getting very discouraged by this time.
   The next thing I can remember is walking behind a nurse and carrying my suitcase in my hand. We came to a room or ward with two nurses in it, and some rather high beds without sheets. There were not any people in the beds. I had to climb into one, and they asked me some questions and filled in forms. Every time I went into a new room this happened. When they had finished asking questions one of the nurses shaved me. This was a bit difficult, because the pains kept coming and it was difficult to keep still. When she had finished, she put very strong disinfectant on me. This smarted a lot, but it was almost a relief to have a different sort of pain. Then they gave me an enema, the first I had ever had, and it shamed me a lot, but the next thing they did was even worse -- a large dose of castor oil which made me dreadfully sick for hours.

Strange Anatomy of the Finger

Luke: Ow. My finger really hurts. I hurt my finger at gymnastics today.
David: Oh, what happened?
Luke: I fell down. It really hurts right here. (pointing) On the testicle.
David: ... Oh! You mean on the knuckle.

We've also recently had cause to discuss "the wrist of the foot."

Clothes for the Coming Apocal... I Mean, The New Baby

Don't worry, this isn't going to suddenly morph into a fashion blog or anything. (Or, no, wait. With my hormones this out of whack, who can tell what might happen? Excuse me while I go shave my head, fashion a dress out of bubble wrap --hmm, that material would be perfect for a high-concept line of maternity clothes and comfortable to boot -- and then sprawl artfully on the bathroom floor for a little while. ... Okay, I'm back.)

I just wanted to show off the first outfit I bought for the new baby that isn't a) a onesie or a pair of pajamas and b) pink, white, or cream. I bought it at the grocery store, for twelve bucks. For a few years now, the chain of grocery stores I frequent has offered this line of extremely cheap but somehow still attractive line of clothes called Joe, designed by the man who started Club Monaco. I have been coveting their clothes for baby girls the entire time. And now I'm afraid they're about to go bankrupt. Sigh. Anyway. Isn't it KEEYUTE?

What Having a Baby Sister Means to Luke

Friend, Acquaintance, or Total Stranger: Oh, you're going to have a new baby sister. That's exciting.
Luke (gleefully jumping up and down, grinning from ear to ear): Yes! It is! Because when we go to McDonald's, we'll have to ask for a boy AND a girl toy!

Three Months of Winter Down, One More (At Least) To Go

Our first snowstorm this winter happened on November 22. I know because I blogged it. Ever since then, there's been snow on the ground. Yesterday, three long months after winter started (and with at least another month to go), we finally took Luke tobogganing. While our grins were of the gritted teeth variety, Luke's were real.




I always take the camera on these once or twice (if-lucky-thrice) yearly winter sport outings so that when Luke's grown up, we'll have photographic "proof" that we weren't completely useless parents in the winter. "What on earth do you mean, I spent every winter huddled on the sofa, transferring ten pounds of chocolate from the box it came in to my hips and thighs? And let you pass the time watching bad television and playing completely inappropriate video games? Look! We went sledding! All the time! See?"

Heartwarming Parenting Moment: Ghetto Strawberry Rhubarb Tarts

Many of the women behind the parenting and craft blogs I like to read (see the lists in the sidebar on the left, you'll have to scroll down) are real Marthas. They thrift, they garden, they homeschool. They have beautifully decorated, spotlessly clean homes. They make things, like sweaters, dolls, cakes and even underwear, from scratch. And they take beautifully styled photographs of it all. Even Not Martha qualifies in my opinion as a Martha, at least compared to me. I'm afraid no matter how hard I try to be a Martha -- or pretend to try -- I am very much a Mary, sitting there at Jesus's feet painting her toenails or whatever it is she was doing. Maybe she was painting His toenails. He seemed a fan of foot care.

After Luke told me he was hungry for the tenth time today -- even after I'd sent him and his father off to Tim Horton's for a healthier meal than one I could provide given the contents of our cupboards today -- I decided to rouse myself from my stupour and involve the child in some wholesome kitchen action. Unfortunately, the best I could do was this:

Even Luke seemed to feel there was something a bit off. "Don't we need more 'gredients, Mama?" he kept asking. (Where'd he learn that? From television?) "No, honey," I said, busy documenting this heartwarming evidence of my maternal prowess. "Now smile for the camera, will you?"

This wooden grin was the best he was able to muster.

They're baking right now. And weirdly, they smell of fish. Must have something to do with the last time I used the oven -- to heat up some frozen fish fingers for dinner.

Luke Interprets the Radio News

We usually listen to CBC talk radio in the car. (Unless, of course, we're listening -- on repeat -- to tracks 1 and 4 from Fleetwood Mac's Rumours cd. If Luke had been alive at the time, he would've been a Bill Clinton supporter on the strength of his theme song alone.) The other day, the newscaster announced that Muammar Gaddafi is now chairman of the African Union. Luke heard the name as Abby Cadabby. As far as he is concerned, Abby Cadabby is the new chairman (chairfairygoddaughter?) of the African Union. I agree that she would've been a much better choice.

Hunting The Three Bears and Who Killed Bambi's Father?

Little Jake and the Three Bears is the tale of how a little boy hunts down one of the three bears for his fur. There's a whole series of Little Jake hunting books that appear to be available only from the Little Sportsman website.

But it's not all chest-beating and swagger. After Little Jake bags the bruin, he spends a contemplative moment thinking of what his warm rug has cost the bear, and thanks the animal for his sacrifice. He does a similar thing after he kills the King of the Forest, Bambi's father.

According to this article, Little Sportsman author Rob Jacobs wants to educate children about being responsible, ethical hunters and to preserve hunting for future generations, all while casting it in a positive light. Hmm. If so, he might want to steer clear of killing off characters beloved to children everywhere. What's next?  Paddington Goes to the Taxidermist? Frog and Toad are Stew? Deadtime for Frances?

Two Signs My Son Takes After Me

1.) Up here in Canada we have a chain of restaurants called Swiss Chalet. For American readers, they're kind of like a less-exotic Olive Garden -- less exotic because they serve roast chicken and ribs, not pseudo-Italian food. But the generic feeling is pretty much the same. There aren't a lot of options in our small town and Swiss Chalet is very much a family restaurant, which is why we frequent it as much as we do. They've got this jingle that goes "Fam-ly happens at Swiss Chalet..." Luke sings it like this, not a word of a lie: "Ennui happens at Swiss Chalet..."

2.) Luke and Grampa are playing one of Luke's elaborate games involving small toys. Suddenly, Luke throws aside the toy he's holding and sighs deeply. "Some of these games I've invented are really boring."