February 11, 2018

Day eleven has turned to day fifty eight; my household decreases by one after this night turns to afternoon, trois heurs après-midi. My son is fifty eight days old; nothing and forever, all at once.

I wrote on her 红包 that her absence will be felt; I also wanted to ask her to be better to future grandmothers but left it unsaid; I hope it will be remembered in any case.

I’m waiting for ten minutes to pass for another pump cycle before I wait for sleep; I do not like my newer, (slightly) bigger breasts; I think well-endowedness is an impediment. I get the grouchiest at night; I do not know what my newnormal will be tomorrow, trois heurs après-midi.

In my mind is a party in which one old friend is delightfully received, but a glimpsed other is longed for. Driving home at night with orange streetlights for company and Spotify playing in the background. A welcomed heartache.

The after 3p.m. plan- feed him (hopefully the timing works), dump bedsheets and laundry and towels into the machine, pump. If the child is docile it will work.

Perhaps I should begin at 230. Oh, but 3 would work better. Life.

I have a friend who’s writing down memories of sadness, to analyse them with her pastor and later work on her relationship with her mother. I have stuff to work on with my mother too. Will I face the same unpleasant process one day?

I want to still recognise myself.



February 7, 2018


“Exclusive pumping provides the worst of both breast and formula feeding. Like breastfeeding, it is hard work, the mother’s breasts are constantly ‘in demand’ and the weight of responsibility… ; And like formula feeding, bottles still need to be steralized.”

(The alpha parent)

Edit: including this article too- https://socialweaver.co/knowledge-nuggets/5-things-I-wish-someone-had-told-me-about-breastfeeding?id=263



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Recipe in pictures

January 29, 2018

This isn’t coming out in order but ohwell.

Note: turn down fire when adding sauces.

If baby is crying

January 18, 2018

Is it time for milk? Yes- feed.

No- is he squirming about uncomfortably? Yes- try to get a burp out.

No- are his diapers soiled/ heavy? Yes- change.

No- is his stomach taut with wind? Yes- ruyi you.

No- I can’t think of anything else. If it’s 7pm, carry for the next few hours.

On chitchat, in 2008.

i read through a magazine today, the first one since i came. it’s a magazine because the centrefold had pretty dresses and shoes and sunnies scattered around, colours red orange green black with prices and where-to-get-it-froms. and i miss my dresses.

i miss warmth, heat, sun that makes me glad i’ve got the perfect dress on today and shines and i smile to myself as i walk down the bricked path towards the admin block under the shade of our stately trees. i miss my dresses, most of which are hanging clammy (such a horrible word to experience) and forlorn and (royally) taking up all the hanging space in my little two door(ed) wardrobe.
brackets parathesis curvy lines.

other things i have been doing-
friday nights have been the best so far. i tapao dinner and rush to catch the last number 18 to ramsey house, a wonderfully cosy sofay cafe place that masquerades and leads a double life; in the day it smells of coffee and business, other times it has our laughter and chitchat.

i’ve learnt the meaning of chitchat here; it’s an awful lot of words with the person who happens to be standing close by or who has walked up. chitchat means grabbing the first topic that comes to your mind and going from there, after the mandatory how was your days have been exchanged. i have learnt to ask in reply. there are a lot of smiles and nods in chitchat, not all of them worth that much. perhaps there’s a secret hope they hold- that by acting interested, there is a chance that feigned interest will turn real. perhaps. i don’t know these things. but chitchat is fine enough with icf people, i feel comfortable with them.

so we chit and chat till various times pass. last week it was ten, this past friday it was midnight. i get sent home, and check out what’s happening in dirty helen.

last week it was spontaneous wrestling in the lounge, where i jumped in and got thrown so much my piercing came unloose and slid off my eyebrow. i’m amazed, and thankful; amazed that the ball bearing could turn so many rounds against the carpet (where i was being tossed around) when all my daily attempts to remove it have failed, and thankful that it slipped off the way it did- it could have so easily caught on someone’s button hole and ripped out.
this week karaoke was still going on when i got back, so it was spirited yeowing of beach boy’s aruba, jamaica, ooh i wanna take ya and grease’s summer lovin’, had me a blast, all the way down to backstreet boy’s all you people can’t you see can’t you see and most horrendous of all is our memory of enthusiastically participating to HIT ME BABY one more time! accompanied with equally embarrassing hand actions. i suppose we had our own mambo night.

almost done.. did i write too much? just-
oh, a final question. how does skype work?