Thoughts

My Hobby is Doll Making

Well, it’s not, actually. But I’m trying to felt one doll for Dori, so far it was fun, now the poor thing lays around the main bedroom window, half dead half alive and certainly rather creepy (limbless), because I seem to be incapable to push myself into felting it some feet and arms, so I can dress it.
I should, though. The boxes for Kuwait with most of the stuff we have will be shipped very soon, and I won’t have much things left to do. Also, I intended to finish the toy before departing, so Dori can have it matched with her felted purse, which she – I’m happy – likes and wears.

doll

The poor baby is sick now, crying her eyes out because of so much pain caused by epitympanitis and the doctor’s generous share of Paracetamol but nothing else for its management. I think a doll like that would make her a bit smilier, maybe even forget the pain for a little moment and have fun a bit around the bed.
She took over my half of it, completely ignoring her own basinet – clever girl, she knows where it’s comfy. I just pray that the inflammation will fade before Thursday, or we are so doomed on the plane. And all the passengers in the same cabin as well..

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Crabby Worries

Abu is in London now and I’m sitting in a living room, watching Dumbo with my daughter and avoiding the look at the side of the room, where a huge stack of empty cartoon boxes is waiting for me to take some action and fill them up with my books, clothes, hijabs, Dori’s toys and pyjamas and smug my felting needles somehow among the stuff so they won’t break – who has illusions about the gentle care of moving companies anyways. And, if it happens and they actually are gentle, the shipping through the air almost makes it certain that there will happen some accidental (or not) drop here and there, as what happened to my baby trolley. And yes, I still didn’t forgive Easy Jet the drop of my coach from plane on the ground instead of putting in on the moving trail. But hey, who am I to judge the probably miserably paid workers there, right?
Anyways, just simply trying to think of what to pack, what to throw and what to drag to PDSA charity shop (the things still in considerable condition) where I dropped in today to ask them if they would fancy some of our stuff which would be thrown on the street in the other case.
I’ve got lotsa stuff. I mean, loootsa. The difference between my dear husband and me packing is significant now and I strongly suspect that he doesn’t understand it. The thing is, he’s going back home. He can afford, up to certain point, to leave most of the things behind without much harm. I, on the other hand, am moving to new country. Somewhere else. Where I’ve never been before. So I have that urge to hang on even pretty silly things like mussels gathered at the sea or flower pots (with the flowers if possible) or the skimmer I’ve got from my mum when moving from Czech to Newcastle. Because these normally insignificant things are what creates my “home” at this time and taking as much known and homey with me makes me feel more cosy with all that circus.
Yes, I know I’m probably just oversensitive, but I can’t help it.

beach

I even tried to make my worries fade away by going to the sea today and looking around the beach for (yet another insignifficantly) random things which would catch my eye or lens of my camera. I found lotsa deep shells which I – of course – brought home with me because they would make such great hats and caps for felted dolls; I also found a glass marble washed out of the high tide among those big rocks at King Edward’s beach, and I was daring (read: stupid) enough to reach for it. Unfortunatelly for my poor finger there was also a guardian coming with the green piece of glass and snapped my finger pretty hard when trying to usurp it for himself. Small crabby crab, pincers sharp as razors though. My right hand ring finger is now decorated with a clean and deep paper cut, which was incredibly painy with the salty water of the sea, and even more when I added a bit to my blondiness and washed my hands with a hygienic gel, which badly enough contains alcohol for the sake of desinfection. Tiny open wounds for the win, this will annoy me for a bit.
After I came back half dead from my walk to pick up Dori, I offered her to go buy some girly pinky shoes, since her current ones are outta size already (or finally, she eventually wore them nearly 10 months, which is in the case of four years old kid indeed quite long – she seems to grow just time to time, though, and keep same size for really long in between her growth spurts). We went, we wandered through Eldon Square incapable to locate John Lewis’ children’s shoe department, we found it, we did buy shoes for me and her (mainly for the upcoming flight, soft and comfy for me, proper size and with opened tip for Dori), and at that point already really slowly clambered back to Mowbray Street.
I was up and running – literally – for nearly seven hours, but hey, it was fun.
Now just to win the stare down with these empty boxes here…

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In 5 Years?

Maybe… hehe. When I showed this creation from wool roving to my dearest husband, he, very mysteriously, didn’t seem to share my sense of humour – be it the grey strikes in his caricature hair or the fact I woke him up from an afternoon nap, he really didn’t like it so much as I did.
Well, maybe when he will wake up from his pink dreams, he might change his mind?
I don’t get so quickly along with the felting as I hoped to do, but in the end, the purpose was to keep busy while being – at least seemingly – productive, and since I majorly suck in cooking and cleaning and all the housewifing, why not to craft and pretend to be important, right?

Kuwaiti

The days (of our lives) in this place are counting down pretty quickly, hubby – who doesn’t appriciate my great sense of humour, I have to rub it again – is going to leave to London on Monday, to pick up our visas for Kuwait and than in just few days *pheeew*, we are somewhere else again.
The fact it got so close makes my sleep a bit rocky and I have nervous dreams about it, I mean, would you blame me? Moving when I was 22 was great adventure, moving three years later (and obviously 10 mental years since that point… wrinkles, wrinkles, where art thou?) is just a great deal of stress.
Maybe because we got a lot of stuff and we can’t really make it with one suitcase of 20 kg, maybe because I’m transforming into an old cat and hate changing places and paces and all that stuff around, maybe simply because moving to Britain was “eventually close” from Czech, but moving to Kuwait is “eventually far” geographically as ideologically.
I know, I should not have such a problem there being a Muslimah, but still. Weird place. Way too many unknowns.
Abood doesn’t really make it easier for me (or my thoughts), because he already assembled many boxes and started to pack his part of chaos in here, which really, really, reaaaally makes me tick like a timed bomb (or makes me wanna run around screaming and waving my limbs in the air as the flags… K’Naan, I blame you for this sentence). I am pretty known for packing earliest in about 24 hours before the plane leaves. makes me way more relaxed, and in the end more focused on what I should pack and what not.
Well, let’s hope this “move” will go well.

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Reading and Felting Through the Time

As the date for moving from country to country comes closer and closer, I get more and more anxious – together with my slow recovery from yet another tiny human being passing away, not really a pleasant combination for me neither for the peeps around me.
I re-found one of my hobbies from some time ago and that is reading till I drop. Abood was so good to supply me with enough crimi and suspense stories (because right now I’m mysteriously allergic on anything even remotely close to romance and Harlequines), and put up with my random outbursts of crying whenever the book finished and I found out that I have no other to read (that’s the pregnancy hormones fading and sorrow talking – quite unpredictable and dangerous, I might add). He eventually gave up and bought me a whole bunch, so I won’t run out of them for a moment. My reading speed in English is much, much slower than in Czech, where I was capable to crunch through one or two novels (of 400 pages each) in one day. Now it’s more like one book in two days, talking intensive reading. Casual reading speed and I’m up to four, five days per novel. Good. That means I won’t run outta books till we move to Kuwait, inshallah.
I also gave up on running around Newcastle in a vain try to stumble upon a carfts shop which will have any felting supplies, or at least know there’s a craft called felting. It took me several hours, many miles in my feet and a mild headache to realize it’s a pure waste of time (although also slightly therapeutic as I had a purpose and no need to think around) and I ordered them online. Some Merino wool tops, true fleece and few extremely sharp needles specially shaped for felting. I still lack finer needle which wasn’t in stock, but obviously it doesn’t really stop me in attempts to commit a suicide through stabbing my poor fingers uncountable times, eventually creating some furry ball or furry human-resembling statue. Lacking the needle for finishing moves, I can easily say: “It’s not my fault it looks so coarse, it’s the needle.” What will I do when the needles actually arrive, that is the question. Probably find another excuse. “I’m too sad to do it better,” or “I’m too stressed from moving to a desert country.”
serdce
postava
bebi
obrazek
Felting, especially for beginner, is rather time consuming and I find myself easily lost in repetitive stabbing, when I realize I should actually cook dinner and stop revenging myself on the poor shaved sheep. Reading is, as widely known, a time-killing hobby as well, so with these two on programme most of the day I am managing not to go loony, not to sadden way too much or make my hubby hate my whiny presence.

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I’ve Got Another Angel…

Podruhé za poslední půlrok se dostavila depka. Na ultrazvuku ve třinácti týdnech jsem se místo toho, jestli je mimi zdravé, dozvěděla zase jednou, že srdíčko nebije, miminko umřelo už před několika týdny a jen moje hloupé tělo si pořád jede podle svého. Tudíž, somaticky – hormonálně, fyzickou stavbou i vývojem jsem sice již ve čtvrtém měsíci těhotenství, leč pro nic za nic, jsem chodící hrobeček. Mám malé bříško odpovídající třetímu těhu ve třinácti týdnech, pořád trpím hroznými ranními nevolnostmi celý den, a hormony rozhodně neubývají. Prý se říká, že čím horší příznaky, tím lepší výsledek; nu, zdá se, že já jsem ta výjimka potvrzující pravidlo… De facto jsem začala zvracet kvůli všemu až v době, kdy baby už nežilo… Hloupý organismus mám, vskutku. Nebo tvrdohlavý, prostě se jede naostro, mimino nemimino, nezájem. Mé psychice to rozhodně nesvědčí.
Za čtyři dny jdu na kyretáž, děsím se jak celkové anestezie, tak výsledků histologie plodu, za jedno jsem nikdy nebyla v bezvědomí, řízeném či ne, zadruhé, že histologie klasicky nic neukáže a já se jen budu ptát, proč, proč zase, co se podělalo.

mourning

Představda mrtvolky ve mně mi vyvolává konstantní depku a nechuť sama k sobě, chlap hraje mrtvýho brouka a snaží se mne povzbudit k “síle”, rozuměj, abych neronila slzy, takže nepláču, abych manžela nerozrušovala svou ženskostí a zhrzenou mateřskostí, nemyslím, odmítám myslet a zabývám se čtením o plstění, o kterém jsem se momentálně rozhodla, že bude skvělý koníček “to keep busy”. Trpím konstantní migrénou ze zadržovaného úpění nad mou malou osobní tragédií a snažím se hyenisticky utěšit osudy lidí, kteří jsou na tom mnohem hůř než já, například děti nemají vůbec, já už dcerku přeci mám. K té se naopak začínám chovat více ochranitelsky, až se obávám, že skončím jako jedna z těch nenáviděných matek, co nenechají děcko ani nadechnout a vztahy mezi nimi končí letitou nenávistí a mlčením…
Abdullah musel odjet do Londýna kvůli ambasádě a pobude tam až do čtvrtka, dnes je úterý, v pátek brzy ráno musím být na RVI, Ward 40, nahlásit se k operaci. Jsem doma sama a stejně jako mně nechali čekat hodinu samotnou v prázdném nemocničním pokoji hned po tom, co mi řekli, že baby nežije, mám pocit, že se zcvoknu, jak přestanu psát, číst, hrát; prostě se zastavím a začnu myslet.
Tak snad již dvakrát bylo dost, a více andílků mít nebudu, vždyť bych to měla být já, kdo na ně čeká, ne oni na mě…

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Porodně asistenční

Paní Noreen, či lépe Mrs. Noreen Dlouhé-skotské-příjmení-co-si-nepamatuju, midwife, byla definitivně hladová, soudě dle zvuků, jež její útroby vydávaly na její návštěvě našeho bytu. Nabídla jsem jí snack i pití, obojí odmítla, tudíž na mne její případná smrt hladem nepadá – rozhodně jí to tedy nepřeju, je to pohodová a usměvavá dáma, stejně zmatená o řazení etnické příslušnosti pacientů jako já, neb na každém formuláři k vyplnění je Česko někde jinde. Během jedné registrace jsem se tak stala Evropankou jižní, severní, jinou i centrální, a jeden formulář Česko zařadil velmi logicky po boku Albánie (máme přeci toliko společného). S etnikem manžela problém nemají, valnou většinou je prostě “to další bílé maso”, plus jeden list ho dokonce popsal jakožto Blízkovýchodního. Hurá! Už jsme i na mapě. Tedy, etnické.
Vyptala se mne na adresy, ono etnikum, víru, diety, psychické problémy a zdravotní i jinou historii, což nám zabralo necelou hodinu sepsat; vycucla mi čtyři baňky krve (z toho se vzpamatovávám ještě teď, dvě hodiny poté, se značnou dávkou tekutin a cukru v krvi ve snaze vzít si ten litr červené zpět) a nechala mě na záchodě s velmi úzkou lahvičkou na moč – ženy ví, jak úzké tyhle lahvinky můžou být…
Odešla o něco hladovější po tom, co mi zabookovala sken na RVI*, bude měření alienka, kombinovaný test na Downa a větší abnormality, srdeční, spinální a další, o kterých snad lepší nevědět, neb by se jedna těhotná spíš zcvokla, kdyby všechno věděla.
Tak povinně držet pěsti, aby se nic nepotento, protože já opravdu nemám nervy na potento.
*Royal Victoria Infirmary

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