Rwanda – 30 January – 5 February 2010

By Brita Fernandez Schmidt

I am on my way to Rwanda for the first time, to see the work Women for Women International does there and to join a meeting of all the country directors from the countries where Women for Women International has programmes. When we arrive, I am immediately struck by the friendliness of everyone, from the passport control to the taxi driver. My first impression is that Rwanda is an absolutely beautiful country. Rwanda is apparently the country of a thousand hills, and it looks really hilly and is very green. It must be the cleanest and nicest place I have ever been. Apparently every month the president and everyone has a cleanup operation where they clean the streets and that is what it looks like, not a single piece of rubbish anywhere. You are not allowed to bring plastic bags into the country – one of my colleagues was carrying one and had to empty it, before leaving the airport. So I think to myself: it can be done – how amazing. There is a lot we could learn from this.

Right now I cannot imagine that Rwanda is also the site of one of the worst genocides in history – there are no signs of it at first sight. Later in the evening a few of us go for  walk and I wonder about security, but I am assured that Kigali is one of the safest cities in the world, and from what I could see this is true. I am wondering how this is possible? My colleague from the DRC explains that she thinks it is because Rwanda is very small country with 8 million inhabitants. Effective control is therefore easier. It is still something that baffles me.

The following day we start our meeting with all the country directors, the Global Leadership Team and Zainab. Our director from Sudan was unable to come, because the security situation in Southern Sudan is really tense – we have a security level coding system (green yellow red) for our programmes and Sudan right now is level red. This is largely due to the fact that Southern Sudan is trying to be independent and this is causing tension. Our country director from Afghanistan is also not here but that is due to visa issues.

But security is a big concern for many of our programmes. One of our offices in Northern Nigeria in Jos had to be closed because of security concerns. The house of one of our staff there was burnt down and she is now living in barracks. The South, where we also have offices are also dealing with security issues, mainly related to kidnapping and robbery – one of our director’s friend’s son is still being held hostage. Our country director from Iraq said that she never gives out her business card for fear what might happen if it ends up in the wrong hands and her name and address get known. The reality of what our country staff have to face on a daily basis is really overwhelming. Zainab puts it very clearly when she says that everything they do is against the odds, fighting against the system, it is swimming against the stream or running against the wind. It seems so important to me for all of us to always remember this. What Women for Women International does is very special, we do development in contexts where many other organisation will only do humanitarian work – but this comes at a huge risk and price that our country offices are willing to take. I am so impressed by the courage, determination and passion of the women who are leading our work in-country.

The next day we all go to the offices where women receive their Life-Skills training and we are allowed to attend one of the classes. I am in a class on reproductive health. There are about 15 women – a few are missing because they had to go to Open Day at school with their children. A few are pregnant, a few are there with their small babies. I estimate the age range to be between 18-55. When we go round and introduce each other, the majority of the women have a minimum of 4 children each. I cannot believe how young some of them are. It also really strikes me how many of them are single mothers, some have lost their husbands and others are separated. The lesson starts by going over the previous lesson, which covered the anatomy of the reproductive organs. The Life-Skills trainer has a fantastic plastic sheet with a very good and clear drawing. The women remember the last lesson well and participate actively. The content of this lessons focuses on pregnancy. Questions such as: How do you know when you are pregnant, what can you do to space your pregnancies and what contraceptive methods are available are discussed. There is a lot of giggling when the trainer shows them how a female condom works. But underneath there is a serious interest and concern. Concern about preventing HIV and AIDS, as well as having too many children. The women discuss amongst each other how to negotiate with their partners around safe sex. They share what contraception they use. The support they are giving to each other is tangible. I am really impressed by the clarity of the lesson and hope that my daughters, when they grow up, will have access to such information to keep them healthy and safe.

The trainers and staff at the office are all very friendly and committed to the work they are doing. They have created a safe haven for women, that is green and beautiful. Our country director in Rwanda talks about ‘enjoying the beauty of security’. This has stuck with me as something we simply take for granted, but security is the number one concern when you ask women in Afghanistan, Congo and Iraq. Therefore to gain security after conflict is consciously treasured.

The next day, our highlight is a visit to the newly acquired farm land in Karongi, where we run an organic commercially integrated farming initiative. The farm we are visiting is 24 hectares, which are shared among 1000 women, who graduated from our programme in 2009. We get there at lunch time and it is extremely hot. Many of the women are waiting for us. They normally work the land early in the morning and would not be there at this time. But they are excited to welcome us and show us the land that they are in the process of turning into their livelihood.

The land has never been farmed before and there is a lot of hard work getting it ready. We see a few seedling beds of chilli, which will be one of the five key crops that will be grown. Each crop has already got a market partner, so the women who will be growing the crop know that they will be able to sell them and make a living. There are two other farms in Rwanda and also one in Sudan. We are piloting this initiative to explore the potential of farming as a sustainable form of income. It is hard work, the tools the women have are simple, the conditions are basic, but in the context of their lives, this is progress. But I think to myself how important it is to always remember how hard women have to work to stand on their own feet. And yet, even here, in the sweltering heat, in the middle of green farmland, we dance. All the women are overwhelmed to be meeting Zainab, and talk about how Women for Women International has changed their lives.

The next day we visit the genocide memorial museum in Kigali. I had been waiting for this moment. I wanted to understand more about what had happened here, see it with my own eyes, understand the tragedy and the legacy it has left. No one I had met till now had talked about the genocide. No one talks about ethnicity, it is now forbidden by law to distinguish between Hutus and Tutsis.

The museum takes you on a journey, from the early days where the people of Rwanda lived peacefully together to the Belgian rule, which favoured the minority Tutsi tribe and suppressed the Hutus. When the Belgian left, this turned around and the Hutus started to rule and in turn oppress the Tutsis. Of course the history is much more complex than that. In the genocide that unfolded in 1994, 1 million people died, that is something like one in every eight people of the population. 37,000 children were left orphans. There are so many photos of children, women and men who were slaughtered – it is simply unbearable. It is difficult to understand – the mass graves in the museum grounds, the deep trauma and sadness of the place are in direct juxtaposition to the beauty and order of the surroundings. I wonder whether this is perhaps the way to overcome such horror and find reconciliation? What I ask myself is how and when will we know? Someone I met on the plane, who had lived in Kigali for the past 6 years and worked on the memorial, said that the peace and control was more fragile than it seemed and that much depended on Kigame’s (the current president) re-election this year. I don’t know, but I hope, I hope that Rwanda is making history as a country that has been able to introduce such significant changes that will provide the basis for lasting peace – the people deserve this.

And on my last day we attend a graduation ceremony of 120 women who have finished their year long training. The ceremony starts with a moving speech by one of the participants. She summarises what they have achieved over the past year. 99% of the women now sleep with mosquito nets – a live saving practice in a country that suffers from malaria. Over half the women have registered their marriages – hugely important for the protection of their rights. Many women marry under communal law and do not realise that their rights are not protected in the event of separation. By formally registering their marriages, this changes. Two thirds of the women have had an HIV/AIDS test, which can be life-saving in a country where the prevalence rate of 18-30 year olds is 20%. 54% of the women have received business skills training and the majority will now form cooperatives. Several women then introduce themselves and give their testimony.

There is Christine, who is part of a group of about 20 who have called themselves ‘Advising Eachother’. She says that before she started in the Women for Women programme she was in a bad condition. She had lost her parents during the genocide and her husband passed away after the genocide and she was left on her own with her very young children. The sponsorship funds she received through the Women for Women International sponsor helped her to set up her own business and earn enough money to send her children to school.

Brita and Rebecca

Rebecca talks about how she was left to look after her 3 children whilst her husband was in prison. She got very sick and everyone thought it was AIDS. She had little hope until she joint Women for Women International. The first sponsorship funds she received, she used to purchase her health insurance (2000 Rwandan Franc = $2) which allows her to access hospital care. Through the health awareness training she receives, she realises that she does not have AIDS, but that she had been suffering from malaria. Since using mosquito nets, she is no longer ill.

She holds a pack of letters in her hands and shows them to us – ‘these are the letters my sister Beth has sent to me’ – every month one letter. The letters are long and have photos. Rebecca tells us, how kind these letters are and how much they mean to her. She says: ‘My older sister and brothers were killed in the genocide, my sister was called Beth and now I have my sponsor sister, and she is called Beth also, Beth has become my sister, my family, she mean everything to me.’ The connection and the importance of this relationship beyond the money she receives is clearly a huge support and motivation to her. In my heart I make a promise to my sponsor sister in Bosnia to write to her every month. Rebecca says: ‘I will always keep these letters where there is no rain.’ I am so moved, it is hard to speak. The translator, who is one of the Life Skills trainers, sums it up when she says ‘They don’t want to feel it’s just a matter of money.’

Rebecca showing her letters with photos from her sponsor Beth

That for me is the strength of Women for Women International’s mission and vision, the connections across huge distances and divides that bring women together to create better and more peaceful societies.

I leave Rwanda with my heart filled with hope, hope that Rwanda will surprise the world as a country that managed to overcome its horrible history, hope that Rwanda will be able to continue to develop itself as a country where everyone can live together peacefully and where sustainable development for women and men becomes a reality – I know that Women for Women International’s team in Rwanda will do their utmost best to make it happen.

We had a hectic week, followed by a semi-productive weekend. Rain and light snow—and a whole lot of mud—kept us inside for the most part. I was about 19 days behind on laundry, which meant that I spent a lot of time with Spray ‘n Wash and basket of clothes Saturday and Sunday.  I couldn’t really remember the last time I put much thought into meal planning for the upcoming week, so I devoted a bit of time there, too. For the most part, we are catching up—the fridge is stocked, errands are done and aside of a bit of gift shopping, things are relatively under control at home this week.

Work, however, is another story. Working in higher ed makes you think of the year by semester. You start in the fall, take winter break, resume in the spring, and tie things up over the summer. I do my best to focus my unit’s work in the spring and fall semesters, leaving December and part of January somewhat light.  The summers are open for program planning, project work, and of course, a couple of long vacations.

February, March and April are brutal. I know from experience that productivity is of the utmost importance, and yet often, extremely elusive, especially by 4 pm. I keep a task list organized by day, but find that six hours of meetings with only 20 or 30 minutes in between doesn’t lend itself well do doing much more than email. To move a project forward, I seem to require a chunk of time. (A Diet Coke and a quiet office don’t hurt either.) I usually find myself feeling frantically far behind.

It’s stressful, and unfortunately, I am not particularly good at leaving that stress at the office, which probably explains why I am equally far behind at come come most Saturdays.

I don’t know that I would change it, though. I love the pace that comes with working in communications. I love the ever-evolving and expanding priorities. I love the camaraderie that comes from working with a team through the details of major events and initiatives. I love how every day is completely different and often unexpected.

And, like Dagny has Mondays to look forward to, I have July.

I am sure it will be here soon…

This is a dish I have been making for years; it has gradually evolved from a hastily-thrown-together mishmash to serve when the house was suddenly filled with leftover hungover party guests – to its present form, which is made with love, and not with desperation. I am trying to think of ANY recipe which is better when made with desperation isntead of love, and can’t think of one. Any ideas? Send them to me!

Anyway…if I could move down to the gulf coast my gumbo would reach its final apotheosis of perfection, since what it REALLY needs, to be REALLY excellent, is a lot of fresh seafood. It would also help if I had access to genuine andouille sausages (there are some in Kroger that  dare call  themselves andouille, but that’s a load of bosh).

So, here’s what you need:

celery + onion + pepper = the “holy trinity” of cajun cooking – chopped. I usually use a mixture of sweet and hot pepper. I don’t care for bell pepper so much – for this, I like a mixture of poblano, anaheim, and cayenne.

fat of some sort: butter, olive oil, bacon drippings, a combination thereof.  Bacon drippings are great for flavor.

flour

chicken or fish broth or both – about 3 cups

white wine – about 3/4 cup

tomatoes, fresh or stewed - 1 medium sized tomato, diced, or 1/2 cup stewed, crushed with the hands.

parsley, a big handful, chopped

okra. And here, a digression dear to my heart: the word “gumbo” is derived from an African word meaning “okra” – so, if you don’t like okra, and think you can make this without okra, you will have to just call it something else.  Incidentally, the Hindee word for okra is “bindi” because it is sticky – like the little bindis Indian ladies wear on their foreheads. You can take a thin sliver of okra and stick it on your forehad and it will look like a pretty flower-shaped ornament.  But most of it, cut into 1-inch pieces for your gumbo.

sausage – preferably andouille. Otherwise, get something spicy or smoked or both. I sometimes use smoked kielbasa, sometimes the hot Italian sausage which is, unfortunately, the only really decent sausage I can get, around here. Cut your sausage into 1-inch pieces.

something fishy: catfish, cod, shrimp, lobster, langostino, crawfish. I think the ideal mixture is crawfish (we called them crawdads, growing up down south) and catfish.  Obviously, shrimp or crawfish or langostino can go in whole – cut cod or catfish into big cubes.

You can add chicken too, if you like, but I usually don’t. Dark meat is better though. Cubed.

You see how this recipe invites you to play around and add your own twist? It’s like jazz – improvise!

And here is how you make it:

1) Heat your fat of choice in a large, heavy saucepan – cast iron or enamel.

2) Make your darkened roux. Add 2 tbsp flour to the fat, keep on a low heat, stirring regularly. The flour, suspended in the fat, will slowly begin to brown. It should turn a rich coffee color – but not burn. Like this:

3) Add your Trinity. It will sizzle and steam and produce a delightful smell, sort of savory and sort like things frying and sort of starchy. This is the smell of gumbo starting up!

4) Once your vegetables have sweated a bit, and the darkened roux is really sticking to them, add your broth.  Let it simmer gently a bit, scrape the pan with your spoon so the roue thickens the broth, instead of sticking to the bottom.

5) Pour in the white wine

6) Add your sausage – and, if you choose to add chicken, add that too.

7) Add your okra. It will assist in the thickening process. And add tomatoes now, also.

After about ten minutes simmering, you can add your seafood. Then, put the lid on and let everything kind of hang out and chat and sort itself out a bit.

Or, you can wait a while and add the seafood a few minutes before you finish. The thing with fish, especially shrimp and the like, is that it needs to cook either very quickly and briefly – or for a long, slow, leisurely time. For gumbo, I recommend slow leisure. Drink a few beers while you are waiting; dance to some Hank Williams, Sr; go outside and shoot at a tin can with a .22.

9) Add parsley, and salt and pepper to taste. You notice that I didn’t mention cajun seasoning? That’s because it’s not necessary. The flavor comes from the vegetables, from the smoky roux, from the fish and sausage. If you have access to “file gumbo” – powdered sassafrass root – you can add that, with the trinity. But I keep hearing about how sassafrass isn’t good for you.

But be your own judge. I’m not going to try to tell you how to run your life. I’m going to crack a cold one and pretend it’s Louisiana and summertime – as I’ve said before, smoking temperatures and boiling humidity are heaven, for me.  If I’m not sweating like St Lawrence on a gridiron, I’m not happy.

After about 45 minutes of slow, cheerful simmering (covered), your gumbo is ready to be incorporated into your being. I usually serve it with a big scoop of fragrant arborio rice – but you can use plain long-grain rice, if that’s what you’ve got. Or pasta. Like I said – improvise!

No, it’s not Hallowe’en; I’m not time-traveling here or in denial about the fact that we’re in the dead of winter. But I do have several bags of erstwhile jack-o-lantern in the freezer. I roasted the bits of pumpkin that  Brendan and Dominic cut out, back when they were engaged upon their works of freakish vegetable art – along with a random pumpkin we never managed to transform into a front-porch ghoul. Then, I threw those roasted odds and ends in the freezer and forgot about them…until now.

Every Autumn I am mildly appalled by the fact that all across the nation, in front of houses and trailers and restaurants and funeral homes and stores, pumpkins are set out for decor…and then left to rot. People, that’s FOOD there. You don’t have to make pumpkin pie out of them, if you’re not keen on it. You can also make pumpkin curry, pumpkin risotto, pumpkin bread (or muffins, if that sort of thing turns you on) and sundry sorts of pumpkin soup or stew.

This particular pumpkin soup I owe entirely to my mother, who created it – or a version of it- thus opening a door of revelation: I now see the Nature of Pumpkin, and the Nature of Pumpkin is to be an incredibly versatile food, PLUS a great source of nutrition.  Look at all the goodness, in one mere cup of cooked pumpkin:

• Calcium – 37 mg
• Carbohydrate – 12 gm
• Dietary Fiber – 3 gm
• Folate – 21 mcg
• Iron – 1.4 mg
• Magnesium – 22 mg
• Niacin – 1 mg
• Potassium – 564 mg
• Protein – 2 grams
• Selenium – 0.50 mg
• Vitamin A – 2650 IU
• Vitamin C – 12 mg
• Vitamin E – 3 mg
• Zinc – 1 mg
• Calories – 49

But lest you think I am going to get all preachy and moralistic on you, let us move on to more pleasant and hedonistic thoughts.

It doesn’t hurt that pumpkins grow almost of their own volition. We always get at least one vine coming out of the compost pile (in fact, I thought about calling this Compost Pumpkin Soup, but that just doesn’t sound appetizing, alas). But – so much deliciousness, for so little work!

So, here’s what you do, to make this delicious, creamy, spicy (in my case, extra spicy!  but that’s just a matter of taste) soup:

You will need:

2 tbsp butter (shh. Don’t tell my husband. He’s into being a lean mean Spartan fighting-machine, and thinks butter is not his friend. But it is. Butter is everyone’s friend)

1 medium onion, diced

2-5 cloves garlic, minced

1/4 c diced pepper (sweet or hot or a mixture thereof)

1/2 tsp ginger (powdered or fresh)

1 tsp paprika

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1 1/2 cup pumpkin

1 small potato, diced

1 c chicken broth

1 c milk or cream

2 c water

a pinch o’ salt

And, here’s what you do:

1) Melt butter in large sauce-pan or dutch oven.

2) Add onions, saute for about a minute. Add garlic, peppers, ginger, cinammon, and paprika. Saute about 3 minutes more.

3) Pour in some water. I recommend adding only about a cup now, because you can always dilute later, but thickening is harder – this way, you can control whether the soup is light and creamy, or thick and stew-like.

4) Add your big unwieldy hunk of pumpkin, happy because you don’t have to bother about chopping it up: it will just break down on its own.

5) Throw in your diced potato.

6) Simmer, simmer, simmer

7) After about 45 minutes, the pumpkin will have resolved itself into fine, pulpy little threads of golden goodness, and the taters will be lovely and soft and buttery. At this point, add your cream and salt to taste.

Garnish with parsley, if you like – or, alternatively, add a splash of coconut milk and a few leaves of cilantro.

9) Serve to your children, telling them that it’s made of the dried-up head of last year’s jack-o-lantern. Children are bloodthirsty creatures, and will enjoy this little hint of the macabre.

In college I had two really good friends. Both of them were named Rebecca. One I called Rebecca, the other Becky.

I met Becky my freshman year. We were in the same political science and chemistry class. Political science only had 6 students. It was taught by a crazy man who told us the US was on its way down and we should pick another country and make sure we knew the language so we could live there after her fall. His country of choice was Portugal. (This was 1994, I had no idea who our 43rd president would be so I didn’t take him very seriously.) However, it was chemistry class, in a lecture hall, where Becky first introduced herself. I was daydreaming, as usual, when she made her way over so I didn’t respond very enthusiastically. She walked away, thinking I was rude. She walked away, leaving me thinking I was rude. I made a point of speaking to her in class the next day and we spent the next year inseparable.

I met Rebecca my junior year. We had both moved into Lonis Hall, a singles dorm. We met through another girl. I remember the first time we had a conversation. I was working at the front desk and she stood on the other side of it and we talked for at least an hour, maybe more. She told me how much she wanted to have children, I told her about my minor in women’s studies (which she signed up for) and we spent the next two years inseparable. We even spent 7 weeks in Europe together.

These two girls, now women, and I have had our problems. We have spent time not speaking. But there was something in each of them that always drew me, and I always knew with each of them that the friendship was absolutely unconditional. I have always known they have my back, just as I would always have theirs. And I know it is their friendship that will get me through this difficult time in my life.  Everyone should be so fortunate to have a Rebecca, and I was lucky enough to get two.

Bec had moved past est and the people and life she had in Seattle and was back living in Detroit and working for EDS when she wrote me this undated letter. (Well, OK, March 11, but no year.) This came out of my big box of letters without an envelope, either. I’m going to put it at 1987, since she says I must be “going through a lot … with the wedding,” which must have been my wedding to Julie on May 9 that year.

She describes at length her relationship with her boyfriend, John, which she gives an outside survival chance of six months, because she wanted to stay focused on her career. If I’m not mistaken, this is the same John that she married and remains married to. I’m glad she’s not an oncologist.

I always enjoyed Bec’s warm and free association sense of humor. She was always very supportive of and genuine with me. We never stopped telling each other, “I love you,” even after we had long since stopped being romantically linked.

On the other hand, isn’t she a little bit sassy, acknowledging my impending wedding and then asking me for a date? (And then giving only her work number to call.)

University of Phoenix has a resource center in south Austin. I spend a lot of time here. My classes are online and I can attend class entirely from home, but I get bored of doing that. All I do is study these days and I want the change of scenery.

It was packed yesterday, Monday.  This is probably because that is the day of the week (in everyone’s class, regardless of program) when final weekly assignments are due. Mondays are therefore usually quieter than other days at the resource center; everyone is serious and busy.  However, not yesterday.

For some unfortunate reason, a loud fellow student chose the station right next to mine to plop herself down and have a loud cell phone conversation. It went on for several minutes and had nothing to do with schoolwork. She guffawed and talked and talked and guffawed. Even with my standard earplugs, I could hear her.

How can someone get anywhere in life thinking it is okay to make tremendous amounts of noise where people are studying? Everyone around her was giving her evil looks. I had to move to an entirely different station–far away. She seemed completely oblivious. She probably talks in the theater, too.

About 38 weeks

When I gave birth to Daniel I had a 30-hour labor that ended up in a C-Section (I will post his Birth Story sometime later). When I got pregnant with Rebecca I was determined to have a VBAC. I had an OB/GYN here in Atlanta who seemed to be happy to let me try for a natural birth. Rebecca was due on November 23, which was the Monday before Thanksgiving. The doctor told me that he would let me go until the due-date. However, at my 7-Months appointment, the doctor wanted to schedule my C-Section. As I was due right before Thanksgiving, he wanted to schedule the C-Section a week earlier. I was not happy with that! I got on one of my mothering boards and asked the ladies for their help in finding a different doctor. A few different women suggested going to see my current doctor. She has a wonderful practice, which includes a midwife with 27 years experience, and a Certified Nurse Practitioner who is always available to answer any questions.

About a month before I delivered Rebecca I started having horrible sciatica pain radiating into my left leg. The doctors could not do anything for it short of delivering my baby. We had a standing agreement with Stephen’s parents that they would come to Atlanta the weekend before my due date to help with Daniel. But when I was 37.5 weeks pregnant I was in so much pain each afternoon that I was afraid that I would not be able to take care of Daniel. We made the call to Shreveport and my in-laws were on the road in 2 days. It was such a relief! And I am so grateful to them for coming out for two whole weeks and taking such great care of Daniel.

When I went for my 38-week check-up on Wednesday, November the 11th, I was already dilated about 1.5cm and the doctor decided to strip my membranes. She told me to make the next week’s appointment but that she expected to see me in the delivery room before that. I really really hoped that she was right.

A little while before that, I read about an Italian restaurant in Marietta, GA that is famous for its Eggplant Parmesan and its effects on the pregnant women. Apparently, over 300 women went into labor within 48 hours of eating Eggplant Parmesan at that restaurant. They even have a wall of pictures of those babies So, of course, I had to go and try it out. Rebecca was not delivered within the 48 hours. She was delivered within 72 hours, so I am not getting the free meal or the t-shirt or to display Rebecca’s picture on the Baby Wall. BOOO!!!!

As the weekend rolled around, I was not very uncomfortable yet but I was ready to deliver, so when I started having some irregular contractions on Saturday, I made Stephen constantly walk with me. The contractions would get pretty strong and somewhat regular when I was walking, but would ease off and completely disappear if I were to sit or lay down. This continued the whole weekend and into Monday. When Stephen came home on Monday it was back to walking, walking and some more walking.  We walked till almost 11 o’clock and when we were getting ready to go to bed I noticed that my contractions were not disappearing. They were not very painful but they were strong and about 4 to 5 minutes apart. By the time it was 12:30am I realized that I was not going to be able to fall asleep. I called my doctor and she told me to go to the hospital. My contractions were not very painful and I was so scared of being sent home from the hospital. I went in and got admitted right away. When they checked me I was almost 4cm!!!

The hospital that I delivered Rebecca at is a brand new facility with huge rooms, jacuzzi tubs in the spacious bathrooms and baby care stations right in the delivery rooms so babies do not have to be taken anywhere right after delivery to be examined, weighted, measured, and given vaccines. It was awesome! So much better than St. Vincent’s in Manhattan where Daniel was born.

I had to be hooked up to the monitors for the whole delivery because I was trying to have VBAC, but luckily the hospital is wireless and I could get up and walk around as much as I wanted. Stephen and I walked for almost 3 hours. I did not want my labor to slow down or stop completely necessitating a C-Section. I was determined to go natural. At about 6am I was 6cm and ready for my epidural and a nap. The anesthesiologist came in and let me lay on my side while he inserted the needle. It was so much easier for me to stay on my side during the procedure. The epidural was different this time, I was able to feel my legs and feet and move them a little bit. The bed was awesome, the nurse lowered the bottom part of it to let gravity help.

After epidural

I was able to rest and take a little nap so when I 12pm rolled around and I was fully dilated, I was well rested and ready to push. I started pushing at about 12:30 and 45 minutes later Rebecca showed up.

A minute after delivery

The doctor let Stephen cut the cord and put her right on my chest. It was so special! She stopped crying as soon as they put her on my chest. I actually got nervous that she was not breathing right but she was just content about being on my chest. When the nurse took Rebecca from me to examine and clean her up, Rebecca started crying again until she was returned to my arms. That happened almost every time somebody took her from me. It was so nice to feel so needed right away! Made me fall in love with her even more

Beautiful baby girl

Saturday 31st January 11am

How lovely to wake up and know I’ve got no more bloody cleaning to do. Seriously, was cleaning Peta’s flat until 9.30 last night and if I never smell bleach, or vomit, or vomit mingled with bleach again I’ll be happy. The flat was disgraceful; Jonny’s description of it as carnage really didn’t do it justice. The smell when we opened the door was painfully pungent, in fact we all kind of stood there retching for a while until our noses got acclimatised to the smell, much like a seasoned detective stumbling across a rotting corpse, well perhaps not that bad…though they have that mentholly stuff, we were going in unarmed, anyway you get my drift, it was bad. Real bad. Perhaps leaving it for so long was a teensy mistake. Ana was clearly pretty cross with me (I could tell that she was screwing because she gets this funny little frown crease between her eyes) but she’s still trying to make it up to me for being all loved up and sneaking around with Postroom Pete, so she kept her annoyance to muttering whilst flinging open the windows somewhat huffily. Whilst Ana helped Postroom Pete carry the ‘Sure?’ bar down to the van I went round to survey the damage. The top floor was the least messy. The “cloakroom” just needed clearing of Jonny’s clothes rails and I found that someone had left behind a gorgeous vintage, leather biker jacket, which was a bonus. The “garbage room” still housed two neatly labelled bins, the “recyclables” bin was completely empty and the “non-recyclables” bin contained a layer of something that had gone furry with mould and smelt revolting, the slightly carroty appearance and the fact that my stomach lurched as I caught a whiff of it made me suspect it was vomit. The toilet on this floor had not fared so well, someone had clearly drank far too much sangria and had just about made it to the toilet to throw up (or perhaps they’d gone to the garbage room first?) but had made a dramatic lurch for the loo en route as the wall was splattered with red wine vomit as was the floor surrounding the toilet and the pan itself. There was so much claret adorning the walls it looked like something out of a slasher movie. The toilet seat had mysteriously disappeared. The second floor was a bloody mess, someone had evidently had a pillow fight with some of the floor cushions, there were feathers and little foam beans everywhere and the floors were strewn with empty beer cans and plastic glasses, the fairy lights were looking limp and pathetic, half hanging off the window and had a pair of dirty knickers entwined in them and there was a used condom floating in the bubble lamp, buoyed up by its pitiful load. The lounge was by far the worst though, once we pulled the shimmery curtains down they revealed some very odd marks on the walls, the ice buckets were now housing water and a mixture of floating cans and glasses and all but one had large puddles around the bottom of them. Sand had been kicked out of the buckets and some of this had evidently mixed with the ice puddles to create a gritty mud that had been trodden everywhere. There were little burn marks all over the floor from dropped cigarettes, matches and sparklers and again the floor was strewn with plastic glasses, cans and bottles. In the kitchen the cocktail jugs were sticky and smelly with at least 10 of them housing mouldy fruit. One jug had been broken in the sink and more bottles and cans lay about. Full scale carnage.

Ana and Postroom Pete helped to clear out the bar, clothes rails, cushions and to take down all of the lights and curtains. They also went around picking up all of the bottles and cans and piled them into the empty bin to take down to the recycling centre whilst I scrubbed out the empty, furry jugs ready for Ana to take back to the ‘Sure?’ offices. As if having my funky squoval manicure ruined by the relentless scrubbing of mouldy sangria wasn’t bad enough, Ana and Pete had to leave at lunchtime for some stupid meeting and no amount of tantrum throwing from me could prevent them from going, leaving me to tackle the vomit filled bin and bathroom. I decided that the best way to clean out the bin would be to drag it into the bath and hose it out with the shower head. This was a good plan until I hit the bin at an unforgiving angle and ended up being sprayed with ice cold water (I couldn’t use hot water as that seemed to ‘cook’ the vomit taking the smell from pungent to putrid and making me want to chunder for the 67^th time today) and mouldy carroty chunks. Prompting me to throw a teensy tiny hissy fit before realising there was no one there to see or care about my tantrum and I then decided to do the rest of the cleaning naked so as to not taint my beautiful 1950’s housewife garb any further. Once the bin was scrubbed and clean I tackled the abattoir-esque bathroom; after more heaving and lots of scrubbing it was clean and I resembled a dishevelled, slightly mental looking psychopath, perhaps Lady Macbeth given how the sangria sick had seemingly stained my hands (out, out damned sick). After the trauma of cleaning up the vomit fest I couldn’t stomach any more cleaning so retired for the day with a pizza and a film (not a slasher pic you won’t be surprised to hear). I got up bright and early on Friday and, after going to the hardware shop for a new toilet seat, once again donned my new (now distinctly grubby looking) work jeans, a pink checked shirt and my headscarf and set off upstairs to do yet more cleaning. I’d got the top two floors pretty darn immaculate when Jonny turned up with steaming cappuccinos and delicious pastries.

“If I’d realised it was fancy dress sweetheart I’d have made more of an effort” he said whilst kissing my slightly sweaty brow “I felt guilty for yesterday so I’m at your service ‘til this place is sparkling like a drag queens best pearlescent eye shadow”

I’d never been so pleased to see Jonny in my whole life and am pretty sure I was close to flinging myself onto him in tears, after I’d devoured my coffee and cakes we set about cleaning the lounge/diner. We scrubbed and polished,  I scrubbed the bizarre tribal graffiti/smear marks off the wall with a permanently suspicious look upon my face and we had to sand down the burn marks and put a new coat of varnish over the sanded patches (I say we, Jonny was mostly responsible for this, he’s surprisingly competent with a tool belt) and sprayed enough air freshener to melt a fairly substantial iceberg, though no matter how much we sprayed there was a stale smell kind of like a men’s toilet lingering in the lounge.

“I don’t know what it could be, we’ve scrubbed everything. Maybe it’s the curtains” I sniffed the dark velvety curtains “nope, nothing”

Jonny was sat against the wall where the bar was. “It’s stronger over here… I think it’s coming from…I reckon it’s your pineapple babe”

We both looked at my lovely antique ice bucket.

“How can my pineapple smell?”

We lifted the lid and both started to gag as the acrid smell of ammonia assaulted our delicate nostrils; once I’d got over the shock of the smell I looked down and saw a cloudy, mouldy yellow liquid that was unmistakably urine.

“There’s piss in my pineapple!!! Someone’s pissed in my precious pineapple! Why? Why would someone do that?! Dirty bastards”

Jonny was now rolling on the floor laughing whilst I felt close to tears once again. My beautiful pineapple, tainted, corrupted by mouldy piss.

“It’s not funny!!”

“It so is, babe. A pissy pineapple. Classic”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you should go and have a look in your bubble lamp, and then see if you’re still bloody laughing”

He was. Jonny found the floating Jonny very funny and proceeded to fish it out and chase me with it. Nice.

Once he’d bored of that he put his arm around me as we admired the tidy flat. “Sorry babe, but it was funny. Come on cheer up, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Ok, but you’re paying yeah?”

“Yeah, definitely. I’ll pay. With the £20 you owe me.”

“Huh?” Jonny threw the unused napkins at me then walked out towards the pub. Smug bastard.

Anyway, it’s all done, all clean, even my prized pineapple has been thoroughly disinfected (though I suspect it will be forever tainted) and now I’m going out for a well deserved leisurely brunch.

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