Timezones

It’s 10am. Or 4am. I’m not so sure anymore.

The gut is waking up.

The television is on and some over enthusiastic Chinese man is trying to convince me to pick up the phone and buy something that I can’t possibly live without at 4:30am. It seems dead of the night TV is the same on both sides of the Atlantic.

The gut has just hopped up from the bed thanks to a leg cramp.

ET’s belly made two significant ‘pops’ at 12 and 16 weeks, and it seems that now, at almost 19, it has popped a little more.

We can’t be certain if it is just rumbling intestines or not, but she has been feeling flutters and movements. Very noticeable when cycling, and settling when she has eaten.

The gut has just announced she thinks it’s awake. Not a bad way to start a holiday.

So that’s all three of us with our European body clocks, wide awake in Montreal at 5am.

Any Montreal Monday morning suggestions for me and the mutating mammy?

Priorities

I think I may have things a little arse-over-tit.

No thanks to IKEA and their oversized furniture, nor Ford and their undersized cars for that matter, this poor kid doesn't have any furniture, nor a floor to put it on. Don't mention painted walls or strollers, and he couldn't even sleep in a drawer because we just don't bloody have one.

I'm not going to panic, no sir, not even when I know it could take 8 weeks to deliver furniture and we are away for the next 2 weeks and before you know it you have a baby in a shoe box and a visit from child protection services. No, no panic.

Yet I've been disproportionately concerned about about the belly dweller's musical exposure, especially live.

I refuse to acknowledge the pub racket it had to put up with just 10 days post conception, and I'm not going to give Bono the satisfaction of being his first musical outing either. The way I see it, if he didn't have ears, it didn't count.
The child that is, not Bono. Bono has ears unfortunately, otherwise he couldn't wear those sunglasses.

Regardless, I forge on, and tonight the kid will feast his fledgling ears on the one and only Ray LaMontagne.

There's nothing that can kick start a holiday quite like an introverted manic depressive hermit who sings through a hole in his beard.

What I am really curious about is what will he hear in there, deep in the amniotic waters of ET's mutating gut? Guitar? trumpets? vocals? a Dutch audience who won't shut up?

From what I've read in those books, you can replicate what it sounds like for the wee thing...


Turn up the volume, click play, and put your head in the toilet.